A Lady of Letters

by Andrea Pickens

  Augusta shifted uncomfortably in her seat, drawing another glare from Lady Farnum. Her father did not seem as upset that she chose to spend her time in the library reading and studying. Nor had Edwin. Her brother had encouraged her to use her mind, sharing his books and his tutor's ideas with her. She found she had to blink back a tear on recalling the countless hours they had spent discussing Voltaire or the radical notions of Mr. Jefferson. And it was not as if he was some dull dog, without a spark of mischief to leaven his keen intellect. He had possessed a wicked sense of humor—his comments on the hapless Miss Dulcett would no doubt have had her drawing even more censure from her mother.

  Lord, she missed him.

  The singing finally warbled to an end and refreshments were announced. Marianne was immediately surrounded by several young gentlemen who had never shown the slightest interest in music before. Seeing that her mother was already engaged in a comfortable coze with a few of her old friends, including the formidable Lady Sefton, Augusta rose to mingle with the rest of the guests. She took up a glass of lemonade and drifted toward the french doors leading to the garden, her brow furrowing as she pondered how to turn the evening to some use in continuing her investigation. There were very few people here she knew past a nodding acquaintance, and certainly none with whom she could have any plausible reason to bring up mention of the six gentlemen she wished to know more about....

  "I suggest you pay attention to your surroundings while handling such a lethal substance," came a low voice from over her shoulder.

  The result, naturally, was that several drops sloshed over the hem of her gown. She did not need to turn around to identify the speaker. To her chagrin, she felt her cheeks begin to turn a dull red.

  "Your waistcoat may count itself avenged, sir."

  "I should like to inform it of the fact, but alas, it has suffered an early demise due the injuries sustained during your unprovoked attack."

  "Hardly unprovoked," she countered, trying hard not to show her amusement. The man did have the dry sort of humor that she appreciated best. It reminded her of.... She forced such thoughts aside and her eyes strayed down to the small stain. "That was not well done of you, sir."

  "Ah, but then you already know I am sadly lacking in character." His hand came around her elbow and propelled her through the open doors. "You look as though you could use a breath of fresh air." He slanted a sideways look her face. "A trifle warm inside?"

  "No, I find that music always transports me to great emotion," she said through gritted teeth.

  He chuckled. "Yes, like the impulse to do bodily harm—this time on a more vocal object than a waistcoat."

  Augusta turned to study a bower of climbing roses in order to hide her grudging smile. "I doubt you have brought me out on the terrace to discuss murder—either that of a cherished item of your wardrobe or that of the daughter of our host."

  Sheffield took a step closer. "Well, you have to admit that she deserves to be throttled."

  Why was it that the heat in her cheeks was refusing to fade, she wondered? In fact, his physical presence was making her a bit warm all over. "She is not well endowed with talent, I grant you."

  "None whatsoever," he replied. "However the chit is well endowed in other ways."

  Augusta hoped her face was not as burning as it felt. "Your credentials as a music critic may be suspect, but you are obviously an expert on that sort of thing," she said with some asperity. "Now kindly step aside and allow me to return inside. And please cease attempting to humiliate me for whatever wrongs you feel you have suffered. I have told you, I am sorry for slaying your waistcoat and sorry for my sharp words of the other night, but somehow I doubt the wound to your pride will prove mortal."

  Sheffield didn't move. "You think I am trying to humiliate you?"

  "Why else would you seek me out? I am hardly... endowed with any of the attributes that would attract a man such as yourself. As you yourself said, I am clumsy, old and ill-tempered." She paused a fraction. "And the bodice of my gown does not threaten to split its seams every time I take a breath."

  The earl regarded the swell of her breasts. "No, but there appears to be nothing to criticize on that account," he murmured.

  "Insufferable lout," she said under her breath as she tried to push past him.

  His hand once again was on her elbow, his head close to her ear. "Come now, Miss Hadley, did your brother never tease you?"

  She froze. Then without warning her hand came hard across his cheek. "How dare you speak of my brother, you indolent wastrel. He was worth a hundred of your sort—" To her mortification, her voice broke and several tears spilled from her eyes. Her mother's earlier carping, the mounting frustration with how to further her investigation and the sudden pang of longing for her older sibling had rubbed her nerves raw, making his playful banter feel like a knife cutting across an open wound. "Oh... damnation," she muttered, brushing roughly at her cheeks with the sleeve of her gown.

  Ignoring the red welt spreading across his face, Sheffield took a heavy silk handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her without a word. There were a few moments of awkward silence before he finally spoke. "I imagine you miss him terribly," he said softly.

  Augusta nodded and steadied herself with a deep breath. "He was the very best of men," she said simply. "He was wise, funny and kind. He encouraged me to pursue what interested me, no matter what anyone else thought, and he was always there whenever I needed advice." She broke off and turned to stare out at the darkened garden, arms folded tightly across her chest. Even to Marianne she had never admitted the depth of her sense of loss, yet here she had just blurted out her most private feelings to a man she did not even like, much less esteem. Her jaw set in embarrassment and anger at letting his words cause her to reveal so vulnerable a part of herself. The Earl must be smugly satisfied to have discovered that she was naught but another silly female, and one prone to turning into a watering pot at that.

  Her shoulders hunched, waiting for the inevitable sarcastic reply.

  "It is entirely understandable that you feel his loss so keenly," he said quietly. "Edwin was indeed all that was good. One could not ask for a more loyal or compassionate friend. His quick thinking extricated my younger brother from a youthful indiscretion that could have had dire consequences, and for that alone I shall always be grateful." He cleared his throat. "I wrote to your father on hearing of his death, but when I learned you were his sister, I wished to express my condolences to you as well for your loss." There was another slight pause. "That, Miss Hadley, is the reason why I have sought out your presence, not for any other purpose."

  Augusta stared at him in mute surprise.

  "Though you may find it hard to believe, your brother and I considered each other friends," he continued. "We enjoyed each other's company—.

  "I find that hard to believe. Edwin did not drink to excess or risk his fortune on a turn of the cards or seduce other men's wives," she snapped, covering her shock and confusion over his unexpected revelation by lashing out at him again.

  His lips compressed. "For one who is wont to rake another person over the coals for passing hasty judgements, you are remarkably stubborn in clinging to your own prejudices. But since that is evidently the case, I shall endeavor not inflict my unworthy company on you again, as it is obviously distasteful to you."

  Color flamed in Augusta's face, this time from shame, not anger.

  "However," he added stiffly. "If you ever find yourself in need of advice, you may always free to come to me."

  "I cannot imagine that ever happening, sir," she replied haltingly, keeping her eyes averted from his. "Nonetheless, I... thank you. It is a most generous offer."

  "Augusta?" Marianne's slender form was silhouetted against the brightly lit room. along with that of one of her many admirers. "Do you wish to join Mr. Collingworth and me for supper? Jamie has arrived as well."

  "Yes, I shall be happy to come," she answered. Her fingers fumbled awkwardly with the
white silk square before thrusting it back in the earl's hand. "I had best go in." She drew in a ragged breath. "I am sorry. We simply don't seem to rub together well." The corners of her mouth came up in an attempt at a smile. "Nothing but sparks between us, I'm afraid. So perhaps it is for the better that we avoid each other's presence."

  Sheffield's expression was inscrutable as he inclined his head a fraction. "As you wish, Miss Hadley."

  She looked as if to speak again, then merely swallowed hard before turning and walking quickly back inside.

  It was some time later before the Earl left off standing on the stone terrace and made an early departure from the festivities.

  Augusta's spirits ebbed even lower as she watched the Earl take his leave. On reflection, she couldn't help but feel her behavior had been nothing short of shameful. His overture of sympathy had been—quite literally— thrown back in face. She cringed at the very thought of what she had done. No matter what his faults or peccadilloes, he had not deserved such shabby treatment at her hands.

  She bit her lip, wondering what had come over her of late. It was not like her to be so unfair. Though she tried to tell herself that the Earl had shown himself to be arrogant, rude and puffed up with a sense of his own importance, she had to admit that he was also humorous, clever and thoughtful. How many men would have taken such a slap and vile insult without falling into a paroxysm of outrage? Yet he had simply handed her his handkerchief, followed by more comforting words, as if he had somehow understood that her actions had more to do with her own wrenching grief than anything he had said or done.

  And what had she done but strike out again, hurling yet more unwarranted aspersions on his character? She swallowed hard, wishing she could rid herself of the sour taste in her mouth. He had been right—she was as guilty as the worst gossips and tattlemongers of the ton, basing her judgement of him on sketchy rumor and hearsay, then refusing to see any of the subtle hues beneath the bold strokes of black on white. All the things she had heard might be true, but did they really paint a true picture of the man? Her lips pursed. It wasn't likely she would ever know, since she doubted she would ever exchange a private word with him again.

  But what she did know was that she had never felt more disappointed in herself....

  "Gus," whispered Marianne rather loudly. Her tone indicated it was not merely the second repetition.

  Augusta's eyes jerked up from her plate of untouched lobster patties.

  "Mr. Collingworth was asking whether you had read the latest offering from the Minerva Press."

  "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I was woolgathering." She forced her attention back to the lively conversation taking place, ignoring the pinch of concern on her sister's face.

  It was with great relief that Augusta heard her mother's announcement a short while later that she was tired and wished to return home instead of taking up a seat at whist tables. The carriage was ordered and the wheels had barely started rolling over the cobblestones before a rhythm of bubbly snores, well lubricated by several glasses of champagne, indicated that Lady Farnum had fallen asleep.

  Marianne regarded the rigid set of Augusta's jaw in the flickering light. "What's wrong, Gus?"

  Augusta shifted against the squabs so that her face was nearly hidden in the shadows.

  "You were out on the terrace with Lord Sheffield for rather a long time," ventured her sister. "People were beginning to remark on it. He did not... do anything to upset you, did he? I cannot imagine that even he would be so reckless as to—"

  "There was nothing untoward about Lord Sheffield's behavior," she said tightly. After a moment she added, "It is my own that is deserving of censure."

  Marianne looked puzzled. "Whatever can you mean?"

  Augusta hesitated. How could she begin to explain her feelings? Her sister sailed through life, content to deal with the swirls and eddies on the surface waters without ever delving into the murky depths below. It was not to say Marianne was shallow—far from it—just that she preferred to turn her cheeks to the sun, steering away from all hint of storm. Augusta found it much more difficult to navigate such a smooth course. Somehow she was always falling overboard into the waves and chop.

  A sigh escaped her lips. There was much she could share with her sister, but there was also much that was best left unsaid.

  "It's not important," she finally answered. "The two of us simply do not get along, and I'm afraid I was frightfully rude again—though this time the lemonade ended up on me rather than him."

  Marianne still appeared perturbed. "I don't understand. The two of you don't even know each other—what could you possibly be quarreling about?"

  She winced inwardly at the unintentional jab. "As I said, nothing of import. And it won't happen again. We have agreed it is best to stay out of each other's path, so that's an end to it." The way she turned to stare out the small paned window made it clear that she also wished the conversation to be at an end.

  Her sister took the hint and lapsed into her own private thoughts.

  Augusta kept her eyes on the vague shapes and shadows that were ghosting past. Sometimes her emotions were as hard to decipher, she mused, and as quixotic as the mist swirling up from the river. It was strange how one moment everything could seem sharp and clear, only to dissolve from view in the next instant.

  She longed to voice such thoughts to someone who might understand what she meant.

  Edwin would have understood. But now? Her mouth quirked in an odd little smile. Why, the only person she knew who might catch the drift of her reflections was the anonymous Tinder. His last few letters had revealed a man—she was sure he was a man— of surprising sensitivity as well as sharp intellect. He had even set down in paper a few personal musings of his own.

  Her expression softened. The hints at weariness and opportunities wasted that he had let drop led her to believe he must be quite advanced in years. It was a shame, for she had certainly encountered no other gentlemen who sparked even the slightest interest for her, while he... he intrigued her.

  Then she forced a harsh laugh at herself. What a notion! That was just like her, to fashion a pen and paper romance in her head because she was incapable of having one with a flesh and blood gentleman. The fellow was probably eighty and squinted. She gave another inward laugh. It wasn't as if she were contemplating getting legshackled to the gentleman, merely sharing some of her private thoughts. He had been willing to bare a part of himself. Perhaps she should consider doing the same. It would be such a help to be able to voice her doubts and fears to someone else. What possible harm was there in that? After all, she never meant to reveal her true identity.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ".... And now that we have come to as close to an agreement as we are ever likely to achieve on the matter, I shall turn my pen to some of the more personal issues that your last letter raised. Be assured, my friend, that I am both honored and pleased that you feel you may unburden yourself of some of your most private hopes and fears without fear of censure or ridicule. I think I have come to know you well enough these past few weeks to understand the certain restlessness of spirit beneath your keen intellect. Perhaps it is because those of us who question the nature of things around them are dismayed at finding there are few absolute answers. But I urge you not to become disheartened by the enormity of what you cannot affect. It grieves me to read your admission that sometimes the morning seems too bleak to bother rising for, that you feel too keenly all the ills in the world, including yourself. I know that is not so! You have a sharp mind and more of a sense of right and wrong than you care to admit. Instead of feeling angry at yourself for lost opportunity, find something that heats your blood, and I daresay you will discover it is boredom, not lack of ability, that has you feeling blue-deviled. You should know that you are not alone in your thoughts. I, too, find myself confused at times, unable to sift through the chaff of my own doubts and fears to find the kernels of real substance. Why, just the other evening, as I was returning home from a ce
rtain festivity...."

  Sheffield poured himself another brandy and returned to his comfortable leather chair by the fire. Light winked off the facet of the cut crystal glass like the bright sparks from the crackling logs. His spirits felt equally ignited. He had been right to trust his instincts and confide in his anonymous friend. It was truly amazing what a few wise words of encouragement from a kindred spirit could do.

  His eyes strayed to the sheaf of papers spread over his desk. He now had the courage to put the finishing touches on what he had been working on for the past two weeks. It had been a strange sensation at first, devoting his energies to books and pamphlets rather than the mindless amusements he was used to. But now the idea of spending an evening in the heady company of philosophers and reformers instead of with his usual cronies—whose idea of a thought-provoking discussion would be debating whether a good claret was preferable to champagne—had become as intoxicating as the copious amounts of spirits he had been in the habit of imbibing.