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Unfolding the sheet of paper, I angled my body away from the window so the sunlight might shine upon the letter.
My darling Lissy—
I do hope you are enjoying your time at Chelton, and I am eager to see the glorious building myself. I have heard it is the most beautiful estate in all of the Lake District from no less than five sources since your marriage occurred, but it is no wonder that you would have such a great house when your husband is possessed of six thousand a year. I can hardly credit it, but the fact remains undisputed. It is a balm to know that you will always be cared for.
I paused and lowered the paper slightly, my brow puckering. That number rang with familiarity. Six thousand a year? I had once claimed that I did not require such an income—and my mother responded that I would prefer books to pounds in that quantity. She was not wrong, and it hit me with a sudden realization that the man Mrs. Overton must have been telling Mama about during the Hutton ball was James. My James.
I had declared that I had no interest in that sum of money. Looking about the ornate drawing room now, my opinion held strong. If I had been listening closer to Mrs. Overton’s gossip—had I heard James’s surname in that conversation—would I have chosen a different outcome after we were found together? Would I have opted for escaping to Jane’s house in Scotland unwed and shrouded in scandal?
James was beginning to possess my heart, but his estate and its requirements of me were far more than I had anticipated, and given the chance to remove myself from this, I did not know what I would do.
I brought the letter into the light again, faintly aware of the voices returning to the drawing room.
It is with the deepest regret that I have written to tell you that your father and I must put off our visit for a little time. Mrs. Hutton has invited us to her house party, and we have decided to attend it on our way to Chelton. It will break up the journey nicely, but it does not begin until the twenty-third of this month, so I am afraid we will not arrive in time for your ball.
You know how dearly your father loves to fish. Mr. Hutton is known to provide a fair bit of game, and the fish in his lake are always plentiful. Surely you can forgive us for indulging in this bit of fun for your father. He has sacrificed so much for us during the Season attending all the functions he did not wish to attend that I cannot refuse him this treat.
You might expect our arrival near the twelfth of July.
All my love,
Your devoted Mama
I lowered the letter again with a sigh. Devoted was perhaps a bit of a stretch. Currently I felt neglect more keenly than devotion. Lady Edith, Henry, and James entered the room, and I faced them.
“Do you have a lake nearby, James? Or any good fishing at all?”
“Yes,” he said at once, his eyes brightening.
I realized my mistake and cursed my thoughtless tongue.
“Would you enjoy that pastime?” he asked.
“No, I was only thinking . . . when my father comes, be sure he does not learn of it.” My pettiness felt like a thick, discomfiting blanket, and I shoved away the filthiness crawling over my skin. I hurried to amend my words, softening them with a smile. “For he will surely beg to be out there day after day if he knows.”
“Consider it noted,” James said, though he seemed to realize that there was more to my odd request than I’d let on.
Lady Edith sat in the seat she had previously occupied and had taken up her embroidery, Henry beside her with a book. James crossed toward me, his dark brow wrinkled. “What has happened?”
I shook my head and tried to deliver a smile as though I was not hollowed and made more lonely by my parents’ negligence. I hoped they’d missed me enough by now to wish to see me straight away, but it only appeared that they’d been freed of my constraining presence instead. “It is nothing. My parents are postponing their visit by nearly a month. We will be graced with their presence in July.”
“I am sorry.”
“It is not your doing. It is only that . . .” I gazed into his earnest, green-brown gaze and swallowed my words. I could not admit to this man that the life he’d given me was overwhelming. How could I hurt or offend someone who tried so consistently to please me?
When he’d mildly complained about the ardent misses vying for his attention on the night we met, I’d had no idea that he’d been the object of such gossip and attention for his money—I’d assumed the young ladies were after him because he was so handsome. His assumption that I had been attempting to entrap him that evening made perfect sense now, along with his mention that the entire ton was bound to believe it of me.
He was a wealthy, handsome gentleman who had attended the Season with the intent to find a wife. I could not, now, tell him how deeply I did not fit into his life or how I’d depended on my mama’s guidance to find my way here.
James’s concerned gaze seemed to grow more worried, so I settled for a different truth. “I miss my parents.”
“Of course you do.” He reached for my hand and rubbed his thumb along the back of it, and I wondered if he knew he rubbed my old candle wax burn. Was it a coincidence, or merely the natural location where his thumb fell? I could not help but think of our quiet dance in the dim library each time he touched me in this way, and I wondered if he recalled the same moment.
Mrs. Prescott came into the dining room, stealing our attention.
“Yes?” Lady Edith asked.
“There is some trouble with the maid, ma’am. The one who was found in Master Benedict’s room.”
