Chapter 22
Days had passed since Peter’s departure from Crawford Hall, yet Lavinia could not shake the heaviness that lingered in her heart. She had spent many hours after he left staring out at the road where his carriage had disappeared, unable to reconcile her emotions.
A part of her wished she had been brave enough to say goodbye, to at least acknowledge him, but the hurt had been too strong. He had left without a word after she had bared her soul to him, and she felt a mix of guilt and resentment.
Perhaps it was a defense mechanism to ignore him, to pretend his absence would eventually heal the wounds he had unknowingly deepened. But the more she tried to push him out of her mind, the harder it became.
And so, as the days went on, Lavinia sought comfort in something else—her friends.
Seated at her writing desk, she carefully penned a letter to one of her dearest friends in the north.
The soft scratching of the quill on the paper was a welcome distraction from the turmoil in her heart.
It had been too long since she had written to her circle of friends, and now more than ever, she needed the company of their thoughts, even if only through letters.
She dipped the quill back into the inkpot and resumed writing.
Dearest Sophie,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has been quite some time since we last corresponded, and I must admit, I find myself longing for our lively discussions once more.
Life at Crawford Hall has been uneventful, though my thoughts have been anything but.
There is much I would like to share, but I fear some matters are too delicate for mere ink and paper.
Perhaps we can discuss them at length when we next meet.
Lavinia paused, staring at the words on the page.
She debated whether to write about Peter, about the way her heart ached every time she thought of him.
But it was too raw, too complicated to put into words just yet.
Instead, she finished the letter with lighter topics, like the latest gossip in their circle and the details of an upcoming gathering.
After signing her name with a flourish, she set the letter aside to dry. She had several others to write. She reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, her mind wandering to Madeline.
Madeline had left the estate with her mother shortly after Peter’s departure, and though their friendship had only deepened during her stay, Lavinia found herself thinking of the young woman often.
They had exchanged letters since Madeline’s return home, the ease of their conversations continuing on paper. Lavinia found comfort in her words, a reminder that not everything in her world had to be complicated.
As Lavinia began a new letter to Madeline, she felt a strange sense of calm wash over her.
Madeline’s letters had been filled with cheer and curiosity, inquiring about Lavinia’s days and the happenings at the estate.
In return, Lavinia kept her replies light, avoiding any mention of the storm raging in her heart.
Dear Madeline,
I trust you and your dear mother have settled back in the cottage without trouble. It seems strange now without your company here at Crawford Hall. Your presence was such a joy, and I must say I find myself missing our walks in the gardens.
She smiled to herself as she wrote. Madeline had a way of brightening any room she entered, and Lavinia appreciated that about her. In many ways, she envied Madeline’s ability to remain unburdened by the weight of emotions that she carried so heavily.
Nothing much has changed since your departure, save for the quiet that now fills the halls. Mother has taken to organizing yet another party, as is her way. Father, as always, remains his steady self, though…
She paused and held her quill aloft as she pondered how to finish that statement.
Father wants me to get married soon, but before he could tell me the name of the man who asked for my hand, he was called away to deal with business in London.
Lavinia sighed. It sounded nonsensical when she pieced the thoughts together.
For one long, tense moment almost a week ago, she had dared to hope that Peter had asked for her father’s permission to marry her, but that was a ludicrous notion.
If Peter wanted to marry me, he wouldn’t have waited for my father to share the details. He would have proposed to me right then and there. The Duke of Pemberton is a man of action.
Lavinia did not write down any of that, of course. She merely told Madeline that all was well, that her father was in London, and that she hoped he would return soon.
As she signed the letter, she felt a pang of guilt for not confiding more in her new friend.
But how could she? Madeline was Peter’s sister, after all.
She could not very well talk about the way her feelings for him had left her unsettled and riddled with uncertainty.
It would not be fair to burden Madeline with that knowledge.
With a sigh, Lavinia sealed both letters and set them aside for the messenger to send.
For now, writing would have to be enough.
It was a way to release the thoughts swirling in her mind without exposing too much of her true feelings.
The solitude of the estate had given her ample time to reflect, but reflection only brought her back to the same unresolved question: what was she to do about Peter?
She rose from her desk, smoothing her dress as she wandered toward the window. She gazed out over the vast grounds, at the same path she had watched Peter’s carriage disappear down only days ago.
How had it come to this, that a man who had once been a mere figure in the periphery of her life had now become the center of her thoughts?
She had always prided herself on her independence, on her ability to remain detached from the expectations of society and love. But Peter had changed that.
She sighed, pressing her fingertips lightly against the cool glass. Perhaps time would help her sort through the maelstrom of emotions inside her. Or perhaps, she thought with a twinge of bitterness, time would only make it worse.
Either way, she knew that the letters she sent today were just a temporary distraction. And soon, she would have to face the truth of her feelings for Peter. But until then, she would wait, and she would write.