Page 72 of West End Earl
Truth be told, I haven’t slept well since the last time we were together. As much as the memory brings me pain, I have to admit that you were perfect in your execution of revenge. Just like during our countless fencing matches, your attack was effective, focused, and brutal. You’re remarkable, but then I knew that.
I knew that, and I still made a hash of us.
Because of my misplaced confidence in my own ability to juggle the world—at the expense of our relationship, I’ve lost you forever.
I’m never mailing this—
Phee stopped reading. The paper’s crinkled lines told a story of being crumpled into a ball. If he’d thrown this away after writing it as a sort of personal journal entry, then she didn’t have any place reading it.
And yet.
Dear Phee.
This letter belonged to her. Whether or not he’d meant to mail it, she held it in her hands now.
I’m never mailing this, so I can speak freely. The Wilhelmina finally arrived in port this week. Crew is in good spirits, but the cargo is a complete loss. I find myself identifying with the ship as I deal with distraught investors—my father being chief among them. Like the Wilhelmina, I’m alive, but empty.
I love you. That wasn’t a lie. I think I’ve loved you since that night in your old room, watching the firelight play across your features, terrified for you. Unfortunately, I’m still terrified for you. Nelson’s connections with your uncle’s ruffians report that Milton has gone silent. I could write you another letter, updating you on the report, but what would I say? “I’m sorry I ruined us, but I love you, and even though your uncle is not making any additional threats, his silence is telling?”
So, I say nothing, and I wait, and I hope that where you are, the halls ring with your laughter, and there’s a pillow that smells like you. I wish it rested beside mine.
A tear snaked down Phee’s cheek before she dashed it away.
Damn the man. And damn whoever had gone against his wishes and mailed a letter she was never supposed to read.
Despite the vicious thoughts, Phee carefully smoothed the paper, then refolded it.
Outside her bedroom window, cool air carried the loamy smell of green earth and the tang of salt spray from the sea that crashed at the base of the cliff where the house perched.
The chair in this ray of sunshine had become Phee’s favorite place in the house. Each night the low rhythm of the waves lulled her to sleep through this window. In the mornings, Phee drank her coffee in this chair, and every day offered a different view. Sometimes fog rolled in and she listened to the gulls cry. Other mornings brought brilliant early sun sparkling off the water.
When they’d arrived at the house, they’d sent the servants back to London, then hired their own staff from the town. Providing immediate employment in a rural place like Olread Cove not only met their needs but quickly ingratiated them with the locals.
The villagers had no reason to believe they weren’t the Widow Hardwick and her cousin by marriage Miss Fiona Hardwick. Emma wanted to keep whispers to a minimum, so she’d left her honorific behind in Mayfair.
Now they’d settle into a quiet life until the baby came, then Emma would decide what she wanted to do next. Phee had promised to stay through the birth before choosing where she’d go. Watching the sea each day, as breathtaking as it was, only reinforced her desire to not spend a great deal of time on a boat. The Continent might be the place for her, instead of America.
Phee turned from the open window, searching for the wrap she’d discarded earlier. A flash of blue caught her eye from under the book she’d read that morning. After slinging the dark wool over her shoulders, Phee tugged on a pair of kidskin gloves and went downstairs. “I’m going on a walk,” she called to whoever might be listening. Emma, the cook, and the maid had been in the kitchen the last time she’d checked.
Salt air slapped Phee’s cheeks as she pulled the heavy wood-plank door closed behind her. She gave the iron handle an extra yank to ensure it stayed closed, as the door sometimes stuck in the doorjamb and didn’t latch properly after a day of rain.
Tugging on her bonnet as she walked, she tied the ribbons under her chin. Truth be told, she missed the hats she used to wear with male clothing. A bonnet covered her baby-duck-fluff hair, which resisted all efforts of taming as it grew, but it still seemed like playing dress-up. Wearing a dress felt more natural now, but the bonnets? Not so much.
The favorite walking path she’d found wound around the top edge of the cliff, then led down a rocky slope to the beach where Phee collected shells and colorful glass worn smooth by the water. No doubt the breeze would ensure any wisps of hair uncovered by her bonnet stayed vertical for the rest of the day, but this restlessness within her surpassed vanity.
Gravel shifted beneath her feet as she deliberately lengthened her stride, walking as she had when she’d been living her brother’s life. Emma had been working with Phee to change her walk, but for a moment, Phee wanted the familiar. The easy.
Cal’s letter had been simultaneously hurtful and beautiful. Bad luck that she’d get that missive today of all days. She’d thought she was ready to leave the past behind, and then Cal’s penmanship had snagged her calm into a tangle, and now she wasn’t sure she could do the one thing on her agenda.
Phee had to send the death notice to theTimes. The final piece of letting Adam go. Her steps quickened until she ran, heading toward the cliff edge as if chased by a literal ghost instead of a figurative one.
Adam had been gone for over a decade, yet sending a letter to theTimesfelt like a death of another kind. She and Emma had decided, after their visit to the gravestone outside the Arcotts’ home, that Adam deserved a headstone. A marker with his name, commemorating his life, short as it had been. Even if the death date was wrong, Adam’s name belonged in stone next to the other in Warford, beside the vicarage. To those in London who cared, Adam Hardwick would die tragically young, which was nothing but the truth.
A tear wet her cheek, although Phee didn’t remember crying again. She dashed at it, inadvertently wiping her face with the letter from Cal, which was still clutched in her hand. Holding the paper to her nose, she tried to catch a whiff of his spicy gingerbread scent, like he’d confessed to searching for sandalwood on his pillow.
No such luck. For some reason, that brought another tear to her eye.
Cal’s sweet letter, pretty apology, and declarations of love were for Ophelia.
