Page 13 of A Secret Correspondence
“Three weeks.”
“Not very much time, no?”
“I was not given much notice, but I know you are capable of great things. Shall we begin?”
“I will do what I can.”
Lady Faversham paused. Marguerite worried she would lean closer again, for she could only hold her breath for so long. Instead, she glanced down at the open books, admiring the fashion plates there. “You can manage it. I know this. If you are hoping for a higher payment, I will see what can be done.”
That was not Marguerite’s intent, but it was only fair if the woman wanted her items rushed. “We can discuss that with delivery dates. First, we must choose the gowns.” She moved to the side of the table and pushed over another book. “Allow me to point out this lovely ball gown with a unique trimming.”
After three hours,one tea break, and a plethora of decisions and measurements, Lady Faversham had designed the three gowns she wanted made before her visitors arrived. Over the course of the visit, Marguerite discovered the group consisted of Lady Faversham’s young cousins, whom she felt the need to prove herself to. Those cousins were bringing an assortment of French friends, people who had fled France, likely coming from noble stock but now penniless, if Marguerite had to guess.
She didn’t know much about the current state of French nobility within England, but she imagined Lady Faversham esteemed these guests far more than their status warranted.
Tugging her bag higher on her arm, Marguerite slowed her steps, delighting in the breeze. The weather would soon grow cold, and she knew her time outside was limited. But she had a letter to leave her anonymous friend and she was going to take her time, enjoying the walk to do so.
There was one person on the earth she could be completely honest with. One man knew the entirety of her history before he had dropped her on Mrs. Gladstone’s doorstep as a young girl of eight—Paul. Even still, she hated to burden him with hercomplaints when he was happily settled and safe. While she did occasionally write to her late father’s friend, she did so sparingly. On that fateful day when Marguerite had dropped Paul’s letter in the mud while crossing through the kissing gate, she had not even finished addressing it. She had not been sure she would post the letter—which had been a blessing, as she’d begun to greatly fear it had fallen into the wrong hands.
That was the last time Marguerite wrote of the despair she sometimes felt, the loneliness that set her apart from others. She was content with her situation, but that did not mean she did not value friendships or desire them. The people of Harewood were kind, but she had not found deep companionships yet.
At least, not outside of her correspondent.
At one time, Paul had been the only person who could understand her pain. Now she looked forward to passing the notes with her friend, with someone she could be honest with, who shared their deepest thoughts without reservations. He did not need to know the details of her troubled past to hear her thoughts now and reply in kind. She valued his insights, and while they spoke in generalities, she often received valuable advice from him.
Marguerite scanned the surrounding path and trees as she reached the kissing gate to ensure no one was coming. She looked over her shoulder while she passed through, and when she felt comfortably alone, she removed the loose rock and took out the letter, sliding it into her bag. She’d already written a silly note telling him of the debacle with Claude, so she left the letter behind and wedged the rock back in place.
Birdsong filled the sky overhead, and sunshine bore down upon her. In moments such as these, Marguerite believed her secret correspondent to be a blessing sent from Heaven. For how else could she explain the answer to such loneliness?
He had wanted to meet her a few months ago, but that wasnot wise. There were no good outcomes to such a meeting. A man with such practiced handwriting was educated, and the only educated men in Harewood were either far above her station or married.
Neither of which Marguerite would ever consider a relationship with. As a widowed modiste, she needed to be cautious about the people she conversed with in public. Maintaining a relationship through letters was the best course of action. It was the safest.
The rest of her walk passed quickly, her steps sure and swift as she eagerly anticipated reading the letter. She could have broken the seal right away but feared coming upon the man himself and being discovered.
Marguerite let herself into her shop and locked the door behind her, the bell ringing overhead. Dropping her bag on the counter, she broke the seal and crossed into her small sitting room, pushing open her drapes with a startled yelp to find Claude sitting on the windowsill.
Relief flooded her. She unbolted the window and pushed it open. “Come inside, you reckless creature. Where have you been?”
Claude made no noise, jumping to the floor and pressing herself along Marguerite’s ankles.
“You caused quite the disturbance last night. I feared Mr. Harding would require recompense for the injuries he sustained, but he appears too polite a gentleman for that.”
Claude crossed to her bowl and lapped at the water.
Marguerite lowered herself on the end of her sofa and unfolded the letter, settling in. The familiar looping letters did something silly to her heartbeat, sending it into a quick rhythm.
My dear friend?—
You may not credit it, but I have been therecipient of a good deal of adventure of late. It all started with a bit of pity for myself, if I am being honest. There are things I would like to accomplish, and I haven’t. So as I was riding home from a friend’s house the other night, I was wallowing in my own self-doubts. You know the feelings; I know you do. We’ve spoken of the unfairness of wanting something just out of reach.
Well, there I was, pitying my lamentable situation, unable to see beyond my own woes, when a cat?—
Marguerite lowered the paper, ice running through her veins. Surely that was not happening. The clock ticked on the wall five times while dread pooled in her stomach.
She sat in a moment of denial, where she knew if she put down the paper and didn’t continue to read, she wouldn’t confirm what she suspected.
No. That wasn’t true, was it? The last sentence she read was already condemning enough.
