Chapter 2
February 1840
Brookevale Park
“The words on the page stared back at her, her only remaining company when others had fled.”
Adelaide, Chapter 18
Lady Noelle retrieved her knife from its target.
The custom-made bone handle and glinting steel were a tangible piece of power in her hands.
She’d wrestled with the feeling that everything was trivial while mourning in the English countryside for days on end and only her siblings and books for company.
But mastering a blade? She was no longer just an orphaned debutante or the least interesting or visually striking of her horde of siblings.
Noelle’s older brother Lawrence had gifted Noelle with a beautiful set of throwing knives with handles perfectly proportioned to her smaller hands.
He’d spent nearly every afternoon of the last eight weeks correcting her form in the afternoons, retrieving the knives for her and making her laugh.
God knew she needed the release for her frustration and a laugh or two.
She suspected he needed the distraction from the grief of losing their parents just as much.
“You had a little more speed behind that one, but aim a little more with your wrist next time.”
“Oh! Shall I just… aim it, then? Why didn’t I think of that?” she retorted, glaring at him with her hands on her hips.
Lawrence’s lips twitched like he was fighting back a smile as he retrieved the other two throwing knives for her to throw once more at the targets set up in the ballroom.
Their older brother Jasper complained about potentially marring the hardwood floors; but Noelle rather liked all of the imperfections and hidden markers that in a long lineage, someone might remember her or that she was here. Blast, that was maudlin; even for her.
Noelle rolled her shoulders, took a deep breath, and resumed her throwing stance.
When she wanted to focus on reaching her target, she envisioned a certain Viscount, blond of hair and eternally smirking.
She could feel his eyes on her, the calloused tips of his fingers teasing over hers on a church pew.
She could still hear the warmth and encouragement in his voice that day at the funeral feast.
You’ll need your strength.
And then she felt the dejection and disappointment after he didn’t write and he didn’t call while she was mourning the loss of both her parents only months apart.
Well, other than the crates that had shown up.
A crate of apple tarts. Boxes of bon bons.
Several tins of sugared pears. No note had been attached, but she knew who they were from.
Was she the fool for thinking their interactions at the funeral, after years of antagonism, had sparked the gifts?
She’d have settled for a familiar pen pal; but as was Fitz’s usual predilection, he’d chosen “Acts of Unwarranted Shopping” instead.
Had he meant to comfort her and gotten distracted by all the trappings of lordly life in London?
Neither boded positive tidings for her or for her hopes for the upcoming social season.
A whistle rent the air.
“Blimey!” Lawrence chuckled as he removed the knife that had rendered a tear- right in the middle of the target.
Moria, Noelle’s older sister, looked at her with a smirk and tilted her head.
Far too lovely for an average day in a dark blue dress, her hair pinned in a perfect coiffure.
Noelle didn’t have to look up to know that her sister didn’t have a hair or thread out of place, even though no one was around to see who really mattered.
“What made the difference that time, sister?” Moria asked, stringing a bow with a flecked arrow to shoot at another target.
“Something that vexed me,” Noelle said with a noncommittal shrug.
“Or…someone?” Olivia, the youngest and most unserious of the Pembrookes, helpfully supplied.
“Perhaps.”
Noelle crossed her arms at her chest. Olivia looked at her with narrowed eyes. Before she could probe further, as she was wont to do, a footman entered with a letter on a tray.
The satisfying slice of Noelle’s knife tore through the thick parchment of a letter bearing a familiar seal etched in golden wax.
Noelle spread her skirts and backed into a nearby chair.
She sucked in the words on the page like they might catch on fire before she could finish reading them.
Debutantes were not encouraged to have thoughts other than securing a titled husband, much less share them.
Queen Victoria encouraged her not to give up in every line of her letters.
“Should we be worried about her?” Olivia wondered aloud to no one in particular, twisting her red-gold braid between her fingers.
“She rarely even comes up for air when she’s like this. It’s like the pen has possession of her,” Moria said, depositing her bow in a resting place on a table at the back of the room.
“You are aware she can hear you, correct?” Jasper clarified, entering from the opposite end of the ballroom with a cup of tea and a saucer. Lawrence gave a small “ha” in response and stole a biscuit off of Jasper’s saucer.
Noelle ignored them to pick up her pen and scrawl a reply.
A sealed letter had arrived for her a week after she’d spoken with the Queen at the graveside following her mother’s funeral, the last conversation with a friend before entering the isolation of mourning except…
no, she wouldn’t quite call Fitz a “friend.”
Especially when she’d put her throwing knife so squarely through his imaginary chest.
Would a “friend” have sought to regain her trust only to turn his back on her during a mourning period?
Would a “friend” have touched her in such an unscripted and familiar a manner as he had?
Surely not. And if not, what did one call such a person?
Still, she had never expected that her conversation with the young queen would have left such an impression.
Lady Noelle had carried that first letter in her skirt pocket for days, not fully believing in her good fortune.
And then Noelle wrote back, and the letters kept coming.
It had been 14 months and 2 weeks since the first letter arrived.
Noelle looked up from her pen to glance around.
The relentless chill of a February afternoon whispered through the windows of the converted ballroom, two of her sisters hovered around her now pretending to be engaged in some pastime,
and her eldest brother was reading-pretending to read- the book she’d put in his hands earlier when she’d found his pacing in front of the windows to be tiresome.
She had once thought it did not get more idyllic than her country home and having her siblings gathered together in one space; but it was a scene she seemed destined to repeat.
It had lost its luster. She now felt the edges of her environment were tinged in gray that was slowly permeating the one place that had always provided her with peace.
Well, the one place other than the library and her father’s folly.
While she’d been cloaked in mourning in the English countryside, the thought had hammered itself into her consciousness: no one was ever going to read the story that Lady Noelle Pembrooke was writing. Still, she couldn’t have stopped if she tried.
And she had tried. She’d thrown on her cloak, gone on rides or long walks.
But in every ancient oak or painting with eyes that held secrets, in each time-ravaged stone structure and unsecured shingle or headstone, inspiration awaited her.
Even in the late hours of the night or when her ink supply ran low or her elder brother sent her worried glances, she kept writing.
“I have to finish.” The words hammered in her mind. In a few months, the season would commence in London and she’d make her debut; either as a hopeful authoress or as a young lady open to marriage proposals like a prized cow at an auction.
“Are you writing your manuscript or penning a reply to your mysterious correspondent?” Olivia asked, near desperate for a reason to converse as she bit on her nails.
Noelle gave her a suspicious glance before she asked, “Why does it matter to you?”
Olivia didn’t shrink from the question. “Because it does.”
Noelle sat up straighter, preparing to answer; but before she could, Moria interrupted. “Do you think it’s her who’s writing to you…The Queen of England?” Moria questioned, looking up from the piano keys in front of her where she practiced a complex piece of music without a single misstep.
Noelle could never admit to her sister whether she’d aroused any misgivings, so she pulled at a thread instead. “Does it bother you that much that I’ve been corresponding with her?”
At the note of irritation in Noelle’s voice, Jasper slammed shut the book he was reading with a forcible sigh. “Ladies,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Can we avoid an argument today? I’m growing weary of the angst in this room.”
“Then leave,” Moria shot back.
“Stay,” Olivia said, reaching to grasp his hand. “I find your presence soothing, Jasper.” And she gave him one of those smiles that Noelle found impossible not to adore.
Noelle felt Jasper’s stoic gaze before he turned to Moria. “Stop baiting her.”
The oldest of the younger three sisters, and notably the haughtiest, Moria opened her mouth to protest but seemed to think better of it. A rare occurrence.
“I’ll make sure the footmen deliver your post when you’re ready,” Jasper said to Noelle, a soft and tentative smile lighting his face. Something about its warm protectiveness reminded her of their mother.
Her mother, at least, had always encouraged her to write and had insisted on being her first reader.
Her mother, who had given her a stack of lovely, jasmine-scented paper as a gift one Christmas that Noelle had hoarded like treasure, especially after her passing.
Noelle held onto those pages until they no longer smelled like her.
It was then Noelle had decided her mother would not have wanted them to sit empty in the back of her drawer, and she’d started writing.
For good or ill. Wherever it took her, at least the words wouldn’t stay locked inside her.
In contrast, Jasper was always doing things to show her what his heart wanted to but couldn't iterate. Noelle gifted him a warm smile in return. He exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath for a biting retort from her like Moria’s.