Page 14 of A Secret Correspondence
—appeared as though a specter meant to haunt us and spooked my horse. I will not provide all the details, as I will surely bore you, but suffice it to say I fell on my back more than once, it was well after midnight, and I feel too old to be put through such physical torment as that.
Marguerite drew in a tremulous breath and lowered theletter onto her lap. Her hands were shaky as she reached for Claude, who obliged her by leaping onto the sofa and curling into the cushion beside her. An image of Mr. Harding’s smile as he stroked the cat in her shop filled her mind.Hewas her friend? The man she had been writing to these last eight months? The man she had unburdened her deepest thoughts to?
Hefelt as lonely as she did? Marguerite could hardly credit it.
She found it difficult to breathe. Mr. Harding was not married, so Marguerite had measured his character accurately in that regard, but he was wholly ineligible. The man was far above her in station. Worlds apart. He attended balls and routs and parties, while Marguerite made the gowns for the women he danced with.
At least she could bury this knowledge as she had done so many other things. She was well versed in keeping secrets. What was one more? As much as she had enjoyed their friendship, it was safer to end it now than allow it to continue, anyway. Developing a rapport had been harmless in the beginning, but it must be?—
Oh no. Marguerite gasped, standing so quickly she startled her cat into a yelp. She had written about Claude in the letter she had left today in the wall. It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned her cat, of course, but this time she spoke of Claude’s frustrating propensity for disappearing at inopportune times. She had never mentioned the cat by name before. Surely Mr. Harding would be intelligent enough to make the connection after everything they had endured together over the last few days.
She shoved the letter into a drawer without finishing it and hurried to tie her bonnet on as she left the shop. Marguerite needed to reach the kissing gate before Mr. Harding did, or her secret would be out.
And that was not an option.
Chapter Five
Something was wrong. It had been weeks since Samuel last left a note for his friend, and he had not received a single letter since. He had begun to check it every day—sometimes twice—and asking generally about any women who might be ill or off visiting family.
His curiosity would soon draw notice if he wasn’t careful. He was certainly becoming obsessed.
“I’ve drawn up a list,” Mother said, setting a sheet of paper on the breakfast table beside him before taking her seat.
Samuel dipped toast in his egg and took a bite. Perhaps if he did not look at the paper, he would not be forced to endure the rest of the conversation. He chewed slowly, swallowing as the silence stretched on.
Finally, his good breeding rose to the surface. “A list for what, Mother?”
“Eligible young women who might be invited to Lady Faversham’s events this week. We have the dinner on Saturday, cards on Tuesday, and a ball Friday next. Three opportunities to secure a possible match.” She poured her tea, then directed her gaze at the paper sitting on the table between them. “If any of thoseladies are in attendance, they bring with them enough fortune to settle your father’s debts and restore our security.”
Samuel wanted to do anything but look at the list. He wanted another letter, was desperate for one. Now that he had gone without for a length of time—tasting the lack of correspondence and how it felt to live without that connection—he utterly hated it.
The door to the breakfast room opened again and Father entered, grumbling a greeting before taking a seat on the far side of the table. It did not take a long study to note the pallor of his skin and dark circles beneath his eyes. Were they a result of late nights wrestling with concern for the situation he had put his family in, or from additional card games and digging their hole deeper into the ground?
Samuel dropped his toast on his plate with a ping. His appetite had fled, chased by his father’s shifty gaze.
“Tea, darling?” Mother asked.
“Yes,” Father said.
Mother poured. “I’ve just given Samuel the list. We’re discussing the options now. I think Penelope Dillbright is an excellent option. A little older than your tastes run, Samuel, but quite refined.”
Samuel needed a drink. He glanced at his tea and debated adding something stronger to fortify him for this conversation, but it was early enough that the birds were singing their morning songs. He hadsomestandards.
“The James chit is young and pretty,” Father said around a bite of toast.
“She’s not on the list,” Mother said. “I’m uncertain about the state of their finances, but I heard they reduced their joints of beef purchases. If they are economizing, we ought not to consider her.”
Gads. Mother had taken to market gossip now? She was truly becoming desperate.
Samuel felt torn between the duty he had as a son and what he owed himself. Where did his wishes fall?
“Isabella Farrow is on the list?” Father verified.
“Of course. She recently came into a tidy sum. In fact,” Mother paused, reaching for a slice of ham and placing it on her plate, “I think she has been with her mother this last fortnight seeing to the business in Bath.”
Samuel straightened in his seat. He shifted the paper, reading over the names. “Do I know Miss Farrow?”
“Cousin to the Kimballs. She lives in Locksley, but she’s often with Miss Kimball. You met her at Miss Kimball’s ball last year, did you not?”
