Chapter Twenty-One
“I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger.
'No, and if he were I would burn my library.” – Much Ado about Nothing, William Shakespeare.
“The morning post, your lordship,” Richards said. By the apologetic, miserable tone in his voice, Graham knew exactly what he would find.
Sure enough, there were several of his own letters lying on the silver platter proffered to him, all directed to Ursula.
None of them had been opened.
“Thank you, Richards,” Graham murmured. The butler shot him a quick, sympathetic look, and retreated from the breakfast room.
At first, Graham had been sure that Ursula would return. After watching the Worths’ carriage roll away, he’d returned to the house to wait. His mother had vanished, probably having wisely retired to her rooms.
The afternoon had ticked on, and there was no sign of Ursula. Graham sent the first letter to her then, a brief note requesting to know what the matter was and whether she intended to come home that night. The letter had been returned promptly, unopened.
Shocked, he had sent another, then another, then another. All were returned one by one.
I don’t understand, he’d thought, over and over again. What did I do wrong? What mistake have I made?
He wracked his brains but could think of nothing. That worried him more than anything. If he knew what he had done, he could tackle the problem, but not to know…
Oh, heavens. What a mess this all is.
The evening had slipped away with no sign of Ursula.
Graham had fallen asleep on the chair in his study, in front of the fire, and was woken sometime around one o’ clock by Morrison, who cajoled him upstairs and into bed.
It hardly mattered, because Graham rose at the crack of dawn the following morning and descended to pace his study and write more letters.
The very same letters which had just been returned without being read. Idly, Graham snapped the seal on one and unfolded it, reading briefly through what he had written.