by Fanny Finch
Julia gathered the letters up and put them back in the drawer where she had hidden them.
Could it be?
She was open to the possibility of being wrong. But there was only one man springing to mind.
Mr. Carson.
He had arrived in Bath right as the letters had started to arrive. He was charming to her now, in a way that he hadn’t been when she had last seen him.
The letters must have been giving him confidence.
He had mentioned at dinner parties that he was taking on a lot more responsibility from his father. He was set to inherit a title and a large estate. His younger sister had been brought to Bath so that she might learn to not be so flirtatious, as she was in London.
He was a former pupil of her father’s. He had mentioned once that he had enjoyed the cooking there. And he did not get on with his mother—everyone knew that.
Julia found herself… oddly disappointed, thinking that it was him.
He was charming to her in person, it was true. He was an excellent dancer, that as well.
He was not quite handsome, but he had a pleasant face. She enjoyed looking at him. His face was the sort that made you relaxed to gaze upon.
Yet she could not help but find herself torn between hoping it was him in order to end the mystery and being disappointed if it did turn out to be him.
She could not place her finger on why exactly she would be disappointed.
Mr. Carson was a lovely man. She had enjoyed spending time with him at dinners and balls. He was rich and titled and young. There was no reason why she should not be happy to marry him.
Her parents would certainly be pleased. Father had always enjoyed his company as his pupil. He thought highly of the younger man. And to have their daughter marrying a man of such wealth and stature—how could any parent not rejoice?
She would have to find out for certain, of course. Test him in some way and see if he slipped up.
While the gentleman had kept his identity a secret she could not imagine that he would lie to her if she confronted him in some way on the matter. The question of his identity had become almost something for him to tease her about. Not quite, but almost.
And he had said numerous times how he respected her intelligence. He would not say so and then do her the disservice of lying to her if she queried him in person.
Besides, did he not want her to discover him? In the end? Was not his original plan for her to fall for him so that when she learned who he was she would love him no matter what?
That of course brought up the rather prickly matter of whether or not she did love him.
Julia resolved to handle that later. It was not as important as finding out who he was.
She must find a way to test Mr. Carson. She would go through the letters and select a few little facts. Innocuous but specific enough that it could only be her letter writer who answered those questions in that way.
Yes. That should do.
But through it all, she still could not put her finger on why she hoped it was not Mr. Carson.
Chapter Twelve
James was well in over his head.
He could admit that, at least. He was well and truly in deep water.
The writing and correspondence had gone on for weeks now. And he was no closer to revealing his identity now than he had been at the start of this entire thing.
The worst part was how Miss Weston tried to work out his identity. He saw her little tricks and he did his best to avoid them but he knew that he had to have let a few things slip. It was only natural.
He spent half of his time panicking that she would figure out who he was and fly into a rage at him. That she would accuse him of disrespecting their years of friendship by not telling her who he was at once. That she would reject him and declare him far too much like a brother for her to ever see him in a romantic light.
The other half of the time, he had to admit, he was enraptured.
She was much gentler and much harder on herself in the letters than she ever was in person. The witty banter was there as always but there was a vulnerability that he didn’t usually get to see.
He honestly doubted that anyone usually got to see it. Miss Weston, he was realizing, put on rather a mask to the world.
Given how often in her letters she spoke of her parents he suspected that it was because she felt she had to be strong for them. She was the only of their children who had not been stillborn or miscarried.
It was not something oft spoken of in polite society. But he had heard the stories when he was younger. Miss Weston’s many siblings, God rest their souls, had broken her parents’ hearts with their inability to live.
She was quite the miracle for them. And now they were sick and wanted nothing more than to see her wed and set up for life.
No wonder she felt she must be gay. That she must be the belle of the ball. If one is a miracle, and if all of the hopes of a parent ride upon one’s shoulders… there must be a certain feeling of obligation to be popular and desired.
As if to prove that one had earned the right to all their parents’ affections. Earned the right to be the only one who had lived.
He clung to her letters with all the fervor of a man at sea, far away from his homeland and his loved ones. He loved them too much to give them up. Even as he lived in dread of the day when she discovered who he was.
And every day it became more and more likely that she would discover that it was him. They were sharing too much of each other in these letters for her not to.
Sometimes, he hoped that she would figure it out. If only so that this whole thing could end and he could stop feeling caught in the middle.
But that would mean that this intimacy would have to be given up.
It was not an intimacy of romance. Or at least not of ardent, physical romance. It was an intimacy of hearts. He told her things that he could not find it in himself to tell anyone else.
He spoke of his fears about his brother. About his frustrations with his father. About how he was disappointed in his mother, still, even after she was dead. And how he felt that it was a failure on his part that he still could not forgive her.
Miss Weston had proven herself to be a remarkable and nonjudgmental listener. She would ask clarifying questions sometimes if she needed to better understand something. Occasionally she would try to present an idea from the point of view of the person he was complaining of.
But for the most part she was sympathetic. Understanding. Thoughtful. Supportive.
He had loved her for her liveliness. For her intelligence. For her beauty. Now he loved her also for her understanding heart. For how well she listened and supported him. For her surprising and sweet and vulnerable heart that lurked underneath.
If he was being honest, and he tried to be in most things even as he remained a coward in this… Miss Weston was the person to whom he was now the closest.
His brother was a close second. But with his brother being far out at sea it was difficult to converse with him as easily and as readily as he could Miss Weston.
And Miss Weston was not family. There were things he could tell her about his family that he did not dare speak of to his brother. He could be honest with her without fear of hurting anyone’s feelings or stepping upon anyone’s toes and it was wonderful. Freeing, even.
He would have to give all of that up if she knew who he was. Unless, of course, she decided that she could love him after all and she married him.
James was not altogether confident about that.
She seemed to hold him in great affection, that was true. At least through the letters.
But what if she was picturing someone else when she wrote? What if she imagined another man and was disappointed to learn that it was him?
And while she teased him and was thoughtful and supportive in the letters—that did not quite equal love.
It would be improper to give a love declaration by letter. He was not expecting such a thing from her. But
surely she would show a bit more to him of her affection if she was in love with him, wouldn’t she?
It could be that, at the end of the day, she loved the mystery of the letters more than the man. It could be that she saw him as a place to unburden herself and that was what she valued in him, rather than his personality.
He had thought when he embarked on this correspondence that it would clear things up. That it would make things easier between them. More open and honest.
Instead it had only muddied the waters.
At least before he had known where he stood and what her thoughts had been. It had been as though they were standing on opposite banks of a river. They were separated but the water was clear and the course certain.
Now they had both stepped into the river, and they were closer. But the water was dark and muddy, and he knew not what pitfalls lurked beneath as he tried to reach her.
It did not help that Mr. Carson was continuing his play.
He was not so bold about it that people were openly speculating. But James had noticed that other possible suitors had quickly faded into the background.
The other gentlemen had noticed that Mr. Carson was truly making a play for Miss Weston. He would endeavor to sit near her at dinner and to be her partner at bridge. He was always first on her dance card. Although he was not so bold as to ask for a second dance.
Seeing a rich, titled, charming gentleman going after the notoriously witty and picky Miss Weston? The other men had seen how things lay and had faded into the background.
Some of them were probably waiting for Mr. Carson to misstep and for Miss Weston to reject him summarily. But most of them had decided not to wait and were moving onto greener pastures.
And why should they not? They had only been attracted to Miss Weston. They were not in love with her.
James was unsure what to do about the matter. Miss Weston was not openly encouraging the man. But nor was she discouraging him.
She had to know what Mr. Carson was doing. She was not a stupid woman. He had seen her neatly do away with the men in the past who had tried to court her. She could do the same to Mr. Carson if she wanted to.
Yet she almost seemed to be sizing the man up. Why? What for?
Perhaps she was keeping him as a backup option should things fall through with her letter writer. James could not blame her for that.
She still did not know who he was. He could disappear, so to speak, any time that he wanted. He could stop writing her and she would have no way of knowing what had happened.
It was only sensible that in a case like that a woman would keep the charming titled man in front of her as a second option. Marriage was a woman’s career, her insurance, her livelihood.
But could Mr. Carson take chief place in her affections? Despite the letters that she exchanged with James?
Mr. Carson hid nothing from her, after all. He was right in front of her eyes. He was not the one who had to struggle to speak to her plainly even through the written word.
She was not in love with him at the moment. Miss Weston had never been good at hiding her emotions and James had known her for years. If she was in love with Mr. Carson then James was sure that he would be able to tell.
But she could become so. She could fall in love with him. Things were not set yet.
James was going to see the both of them tonight. There was another dinner that Miss Weston and her mother were hosting.
Mrs. Weston had not said much to him since their initial talks about him making a play for her daughter. He could often feel her piercing gaze on him at dinners and balls.
He knew that she was still silently egging him on. Hoping that he would do something.
It was why she kept agreeing to host these dinners, he was certain. Despite her health and how much they drained her energy.
Hosting the dinner allowed her to control the guest list. Not that he seriously thought that Miss Weston would leave him off of any guest list. But he was certain that was why Mrs. Weston was still hosting parties.
James could not help but feel as though he was letting her down by not wooing her daughter. He was wooing her, of course, but not in a way that Mrs. Weston knew of. And he hardly thought that it was in the way that she would want him to woo Miss Weston.
As far as Mrs. Weston knew, he had taken her suggestion and her endorsement and had done nothing with them. He must have seemed a coward to her. Or perhaps callous. He was not sure which was worse.
Perhaps he should tell Miss Weston tonight. He could even picture in his mind’s eye how he would do it.
He would linger behind the other guests after the dinner. He would approach her…
What would he say? Something that would ensure that she knew that he was the letter writer.
My little raven. He could call her that. Surely nobody else had even thought to call her by that name.
He had thought of her that way for some time. Her dark hair, her strong eyebrows, her playful incorrigible nature. Her personality and her looks together had reminded him of that inquisitive bird, too smart for its own good.
She had seemed to enjoy that nickname. She would do what she could in the letters to draw it out of him.
That would be what he would call her.
My little raven, he would say—and then he need not say anything more, surely? That must be all that it would take, wouldn’t it?
She would know, then. And she could reject him and choose Mr. Carson or someone else. Or she could accept him.
James already mourned the lack of the intimacy to which he had grown so accustomed. To whom would he speak when he had troubles? Fears? When he needed encouragement?
If she did choose Mr. Carson—he could only hope that the man would be up to the task of comforting her. Supporting her. That he would see that Miss Weston needed to be bolstered as well. That there was more to her than her pretty face and pretty words.
It was in this mindset that he went to the dinner at the Weston residence.
He was greeted at the door, to his surprise, not by Miss Weston but by her mother.
“Mrs. Weston.” He bowed to her. “A pleasure, as always.”
He glanced about behind her and saw that Miss Weston was already in conversation. With Mr. Carson.
James did his best to swallow the bitter taste in his throat.
“Mr. Norwich.” Mrs. Weston gave a put-upon sigh. “I hope that you will do something at last,” she said in a stern but much quieter tone.
“Why, do you not favor Mr. Carson?”
“You know who I favor. There is nothing wrong with him but I daresay my daughter can do better.”
“It is flattering that after all this time when I have done nothing to earn her you still think that I deserve her.”
“I am not holding my breath, Mr. Norwich. I have learned that is a useless folly to do when you are depending upon a man. But I had hoped that as his courtship of her grew that you would see reason and make a play for her.”
“Trust me, madam, I shall,” he blurted out.
Now that he had said it, of course, there was no going back.
Mrs. Weston smiled proudly at him. “I am glad to hear it. I have given her only another lecture this morning about choosing a man. But she is in a queer sort of mood this evening.”
James could sense it as well. Even though he could not hear her, there was something about the way that Miss Weston was holding herself as she spoke to Mr. Carson. Something in the energy around her.
He was not sure what it was. Determination? Perhaps. But what did she have to be determined about?
He accepted a glass from the servant as other dinner guests trickled in. It did not surprise him when Mr. Carson was once again placed near Miss Weston. She had to be engineering that. Her mother’s look of disapproval spoke volumes.
All through dinner, he could see her and Mr. Carson exchanging glances. They seemed to be sizing one another up. What on earth was going on?
James thought that he w
ould find out in the next letter. He hid his identity but Miss Weston did not and so she often told him how her days went.
She had even mentioned him to himself. Mr. Norwich was in fine form tonight. A wittier man I have never met. He is the best at insulting me and making me laugh at it. For I know that he does not truly mean it.
Miss Weston at least seemed to have a high opinion of him, judging by her letters. She harbored no attraction to him. Or if she did, she had never mentioned it in her letters.
But she spoke of him as an intelligent man whose counsel she depended upon. That had flattered him. Even if it was not what he had been hoping for.
Although, he supposed it would be bad form to tell your romantic correspondent that you were attracted to another man.
James watched as the dinner progressed, and Miss Weston and Mr. Carson seemed to be in their strange stalemate.
He knew what the gleam in Miss Weston’s eye was. He had known her for far too long to not recognize it.
For as long as he had known her, Miss Weston had been a meddler. She would not sit idly by and do nothing while others around her needed assistance.
This could be seen in a positive light. She was always trying to help those less fortunate than she. But it also meant that she would get involved in the lives of her friends.
It was why he had not been surprised when she had burst into his house in order to give Captain Trentworth a proper dressing-down.
She had some sort of scheme up her sleeve tonight. James was sure of it. But what could it be?
She could not possibly be thinking to convince Mr. Carson to ask her to marry him. That was simply ridiculous. He had not yet been bold enough for her to have a hope of such a thing.
And James did like to think that she was not so unsatisfied with her mystery correspondent that she wished to marry another man without any warning.
Then what on earth could she have up her sleeve? What could be making the cogs turn in that clever and meddlesome mind of hers?
James realized that he had lost the thread of conversation at his end of the table and focused back in on it. It would not do to be rude no matter how curious he was.
