AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I suppose that would be wise.” Matthew picked up the teacup and raised it to his lips. He had never been fond of mint tea until recently when he found himself in want of its calming properties.
“Might I suggest a short walk in the garden, Your Grace?” Glover picked up the letter that Matthew had just written.
“I still have much to do but I will consider it,” he replied. “Please post that for London immediately.”
“At once.” Glover bowed and left.
Matthew swiveled his chair to face the tall window behind his desk which overlooked an immaculate garden. Dee loved beautiful landscapes and gardens, and he had never failed to think of her every time he saw a garden. Now, he wondered if she was even alive.
She never replied to the letter he had sent her giving her his name, and he sent several more over the course of three months with no response. At the time, he assumed she no longer wished to correspond with him and complained to both Glover and his dear friend, Albert Kingsley for days, much to their dismay. But after eight months, he began to fear that something had happened to her.
His mood darkened from the hollowness her silence had created in his life, and his father’s deteriorating melancholy pushed him to purchase a commission and leave England to join Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. He was wounded in the Battle of Vitoria and was forced to retire from the military, but he did not return to England until he received news of his father’s death five months ago.
Matthew was now the Duke of Stormwood, and nothing in his life was as it should be because his dreams were lost. He thought he would find a letter from Dee upon his return but all he received were condolences and felicitations from vague acquaintances of his father’s past.
Gulping down the rest of his tea, he turned away from the window, his thoughts more tempestuous than before, and set the cup down before opening the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a stack of letters, loosened the twine binding them, removed a letter from the bottom—the last one Dee had sent him—and unfolded it.
My dear James,
I feel as though you have the power to perceive my thoughts from wherever you are, for I was thinking of seeing you moments before your letter arrived.
Yes, James, I would love to meet you one day. I wish to see the face that has only been shown to me in my dreams, behold the eyes of the friend I found under the most unlikely of circumstances and feel the satisfaction of finally completing a journey.
I love the pressed blue daisy you sent me, and I have placed it between the pages of my favorite book so that I may think of you every time I open it.
Now, regarding your suggestion to eat fish so I can learn to like it, there are not enough elephants in Africa to make me do it. My father eats kippers some mornings for breakfast, and I always smell them before I reach the morning room. No, James, I will never eat fish! I confess that I do enjoy this pleasant little debate we are having even though I am not fond of below-water delicacies.
I eagerly await your response and your next preposterous suggestion, my dear friend.
Yours truly,
Dee.
Mathew placed the letter on his desk and started to reach for the one on top of the stack but stopped.I should not read anymore,he thought.It would only make matters more difficult.He grunted. Heedless of his advice, he picked up the letter, but then a knock came at his study door.
“Come in,” he called.
His butler, McGill, appeared. “You have a caller, Your Grace. It is the Baron Crawford.”
“Show him to the salon. I will join him shortly,” Matthew instructed, putting the letters away. It was time to conduct business, and not wallow in reveries of has-beens.
He stepped out of his study, taking note of the bustling around him as the servants made final preparations for tonight’s ball. He was hosting for the first time since his return on Albert and Glover’s suggestion to reacquaint with society and present himself as the Duke of Stormwood. Suggestion? More like coercion.
“Crawford,” he said as he walked into the salon.
Crawford rose, bowing and smiling. “Stormwood. The castle looks splendid. I have never understood why you do not host balls more often. It should be a regular occurrence. ”
“We shall see.” Matthew sat in a chair near the fireplace and Crawford retook his seat.
“I imagine you know why I am here, Stormwood,” Crawford said with creased brows. “The loss our business is suffering is most alarming.”
“Yes, I know,” Matthew sighed, “and I am investigating the reason for the loss.” His father had managed Stormwood’s properties very well and invested in several other ventures. Matthew had been tasked with the management of fabric trading, which Crawford had invested in, and he had neglected those duties before he left to join the campaign against Napoleon. Upon his return, he discovered unexplained losses that he was now inspecting.
Crawford scowled. “When do you expect to know the cause of our problems?”
“I cannot say,” Matthew said simply. He suspected that someone was embezzling but he was yet to know who. He did not tell Crawford for it could be anyone, and displaying his suspicions so openly may only encourage the perpetrator to slip away. “I will inform you the instant I learn something.”
Crawford grumbled. “I might be forced to withdraw my investment if this persists.”
