Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I t was impossible to settle. Amelia would take a seat and really, truly attempt to put her mind to something but each time she failed to make it stick. This morning she’d tried to read the household accounts but the numbers had slid through her mind like water. After that, she’d sat down with her housekeeper to discuss the meals for the week, but when Mrs Harris had suggested white soup for every meal and Amelia had agreed without thinking, they’d given up on it. Mrs Harris had rightly surmised that Amelia was not in her right mind and taken herself off muttering something about the follies of young women. And right now she’d taken a seat in her sitting room and not been able to eat any of the cakes on offer. This was how she knew the situation was critical.
It had been two full days since she had left Ash’s office and her mind had yet to form any coherent thoughts. Every time she tried to force herself to think on something else, she was back in his office, the smell of paper and leather and Ash surrounding her. His mouth on hers, his hands tracing her curves, her breathy moan as she’d run her hands across the width of his shoulders. She’d been longing to touch him there, to feel his strength for herself, and she’d shocked herself by how her body had reacted. Desire had curled in her belly, urging her to press closer, to find skin to touch and be touched. She’d wanted him and not in the half-formed way she had when she was a naive young woman, but as an adult who knew exactly what it meant. The desperate craving had frightened her. She remembered the last time she had felt that way and how she had tumbled effortlessly into love with the man she had always adored. She could not risk that again, could never allow herself to love Ash knowing what it had done to her when that love was taken from her.
But it was not only those fears that plagued her. When she wasn’t thinking about how Ash had made her feel she was thinking about all those unsent letters, their pages yellowing, their edges torn, not because they’d been sent but because they’d been tightly bound together and taken from place to place. It was that which tormented her, more so than the idea of the unfinished letters themselves. It could not have been easy for him to keep those pages with him, to pack them up again and again and transport them to wherever he was posted. She didn’t know much about war but she knew it wasn’t like sojourning to a country house where you could pack several trunks of your belongings. Conditions had been hard and yet he had taken those letters with him as if they were something precious. Continuing to do so long after she had stopped writing to him and years after he must have known she’d married someone else. It had her rethinking their past and wondering, which was very dangerous. It was one thing for her to desire him but quite another to let her heart become involved once more. Her heart was foolish and was not to be trusted. It might make her long to marry him, and she’d sworn off that recourse long ago.
But whispered her mind, Ash is not Mortram. He would not try to control you. Marriage to him would be different…so very, very different .
She heaved a great sigh. It was these unguarded thoughts that were going to get her into trouble.
Amelia glared at the tray of cakes on the table in front of her as if they were to blame for the thoughts that were constantly swirling around her head. For something that normally held such appeal to her, she had no interest in picking one up. Instead, she stood, making her way to the window and looking down at the street below. A governess walked past with two of her charges, hurrying them along when they started to dawdle. Amelia watched them until they were out of sight and then glanced around for something else to occupy her but there was nobody to see. She looked to the door, willing Sienna to come bounding through it, giving Amelia something to think about, something other than Ash, but the door remained closed, the house silent.
She huffed in frustration and decided to head to her office. It had been her father’s when she was younger, the space masculine and forbidden. She had taken the space over when she had returned to the house after Mortram’s death, selling the one they’d lived in close by as soon as she was able. The servants were used to her spending time in there. She would read over the papers and see if any further investment opportunities sprung to mind. Obviously not because that would give her an excuse to see Ash, but because it was of interest to her. Just because she saw something didn’t mean she had to act on it; nor did it mean that she would have to draw Ash’s attention to it. She growled with frustration. She was thinking of Ash again. It was very irritating how almost every action she took reminded her in some way of him. Getting dressed in the morning and she remembered how much he used to love her in green; eating lunch she thought about a picnic they had once taken at Easton Hall the summer after his first year at university; talking to Sienna and she was transported back to the carriage ride when he had shown interest in talking to her sister. It was disconcerting to discover just how much thoughts of him were becoming a part of the fabric of her life.
Her office was as deathly quiet as the rest of the house but at least the papers had been arranged on a side table for her. Hopefully, she would become immersed in their contents and have a few hours’ blessed relief from thinking about Ash.
She was almost to her desk when she spotted the day’s mail. She carried it over to her desk, flicking through the letters. There was one from her sister and another from her sister-in-law, an invitation to a ball and another to an intimate soiree, but it was the one at the bottom of the pile that had her stopping in her tracks. The writing was as familiar as her own but why would Ash be sending her missives? As far as she knew he was still in London and living at the other end of the same avenue as she was. He could send word to her if he had any questions about their investments. This, though—this felt like a letter. She discarded the rest of the pile, took a seat and pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope.
London, June 1816
Dear Amelia,
The weather has turned even colder this morning, making a mockery of the word summer . I heard Mrs Chapman, my erstwhile housekeeper, complaining to the butler that several of her toes have frozen right off. An alarming development, I’m sure you will agree. Where have they gone? Are they in her bed or will I discover them left in various rooms? The dining room, perhaps?
I suggested she light a fire in her private parlour, but from the look she gave me, I may as well have suggested she leave the house and promptly murder five children. I think she would prefer to live without the correct amount of appendages than in comfort.
Do you ever feel that those who work for you think you are witless? I feel certain that your servants have more respect for your personage than mine do for me. Perhaps you could teach me the way of it.
The rest of my family have vacated the house for two days to visit an aunt, and so I find myself alone. Or at least as alone as a man can be when he is surrounded by servants. Still, I doubt my butler will ask me what I think of blue bonnets, which Mary and Isabel seemed to think was of absolute importance and for which I could formulate no reply. I fear they also think me witless.
With all these people casting aspersions on my character, I fear a drink might be in order, but alas, it is not yet midday. Do you have an opinion on the correct colour of bonnet? If so, I would be obliged if you could inform me so that I might pass the point of view off as my own.
The discussion that was both heated and lengthy was as to whether pale blue drains the colour from skin or not, if that helps make your decision.
Do you plan on going to the Dartmouth Ball next Thursday? I am hoping to attend and, should you be there, I should be grateful if you could save me a waltz. I do not believe we finished our last one and I should like to try again.
Yours,
Ash
Amelia read the letter once, twice and then again. She put it down on her lap and then picked it up to read it once more. A letter. From Ash. Ash had sent her a letter. It wasn’t a love letter. It was a snippet from his day, a few amusing anecdotes designed to entertain and make her smile. It was more precious than any letter she’d ever received, even those she had received from him while he was at university. She should read it one final time and then put it to one side and forget about it because to reply would be to invite the start of a correspondence, which was of course ridiculous. Not only did they live very close to one another and therefore did not need to write, but also it was something a courting couple might do and they were not one of those. However…
She read the letter again. It was friendly rather than flirtatious and it did contain several questions. Not to reply at all would be rude and snub what was clearly a peace offering.
Without dwelling on it too much she pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write. She would reply to him but to ask questions of her own was inviting a back-and-forth in which she did not wish to engage.
London, June 1816
Dear Ash,
The weather has taken a dreadful turn; this summer has been most lacking in sunshine. When I leave the house I must do so bundled up in several layers. It is most disheartening to take a shopping trip in what feels like several layers of blankets.
My housekeeper is Mrs Harris. Do you remember her? She was my maid when I became a young woman and came with me when I married. When Lord Mortram’s housekeeper left to live with her sister in Devon, I promptly gave Mrs Harris the role and she has stayed with me ever since.
She is one of my dearest friends, but even so, I fear that she becomes exasperated with me, too. I could not decide on this week’s menu, you see, and I left her muttering about foolishness. That we are of an age did not seem to occur to her.
You may have to give Mrs Chapman up for a lost cause, because I do not know how the master of the house befriends his housekeeper without her becoming suspicious of his motives. However, if you wish not to be treated with such obvious disdain from her, may I suggest a pleasant greeting first thing in the morning?
Which of your sisters was interested in the blue bonnet? I believe that blue would bring out the colour of Mary’s eyes and be an asset to her. For Isabel, I would suggest a green one over the blue, as it will suit her skin tone.
If the girls would like to come over for tea with Sienna and me, I am sure that Sienna would have enough advice on dresses and other adornments to last for the first few seasons. She is a veritable expert on all things fashionable and has saved me from myself on numerous occasions.
I do plan to attend the Dartmouth Ball and will happily save you a dance.
Yours,
Amelia Washbrook
London, June 1816
Dear Amelia,
Your advice on the colour of bonnet was very well received eventually. I say eventually because at first I believe my sisters thought their brother had been replaced by a creature from another planet and couldn’t understand how I had suddenly formed a viewpoint on the matter. However, once Mary was in a blue bonnet and Isabel in a green one they were amazed by my fashion advice because I was absolutely correct.
After some further discussion, they got me to admit that I had not formed this opinion by myself. I told them of your kind offer to have them round for tea and they are both keen to take you up on that overture. They remember you very fondly, but I am loath to inform you that the greatest appeal is to have a conversation with Sienna.
Apparently, they have great regard for her sense of fashion and are very keen to rekindle their friendship. Do feel free to rescind your offer if you feel they might annoy Sienna. Although I should warn you that they will be suitably devastated. This is not to blackmail you, you understand, but to illustrate the high regard in which they view Sienna.
Further to your direction to deepen my connection with my servant, I tried to befriend Mrs Chapman this morning. I thought that wishing her a good morning and asking after her health was suitably amiable and not at all threatening. However, after I made my enquiry, she glared at me intently and clenched her duster as if wishing it was a sharp object that she could throw at my head.
I fear I have made an enemy for life. I think she may prefer it if I pretend she does not exist, or perhaps she would prefer it if I did not exist. Whatever the case, I am not sure I am brave enough to continue on my current course. I believe facing an army of angry Frenchmen would be preferable.
A dance, Lady Mortram? I believe I requested a waltz.
Yours,
Ash
London, June 1816
Dear Ash,
Sienna was thrilled to have your sisters over for tea yesterday afternoon. I must say they were a delight. I enjoyed Isabel’s impression of you trying to converse with Mrs Chapman very much indeed, although I do hope both you and she are exaggerating your housekeeper’s dislike for you. I am sure you can have done nothing so bad as to be met with such displeasure.
Having said how much I enjoyed their company, it was quite quickly apparent that my contributions to the conversation about fashion were not as well regarded as Sienna’s. At seven and twenty, I appear to be too ancient to have valid opinions on what is currently à la mode. I shall bear my descent into old age with grace and dignity.
As to the ball… What happens, dear sir, if I save a waltz for you only to find that you are fashionably late? I cannot be seen standing on the sidelines. People will think I am no longer wildly popular. A man has to arrive at a ball early in order to achieve such a privilege.
Yours,
Amelia
Melia,
I shall arrive at the start, then.
Ash