Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  Cecilia, who was sitting out a dance by her cousin’s side, asked wonderingly, “Who in the world is Mr. Beswick?”

  Before Sophie could respond, Mrs. Pratt piped up. “What a coincidence. Your cousin asked about that same gentleman just last month.”

  Cecilia looked at her cousin in surprise. “Really? What brought him to your notice, Sophie?”

  Sophie found herself at a loss for words. She had never anticipated anyone asking her such a question and had no idea how to respond. She was not very skilled at dissembling, and it became fairly obvious to her audience that they’d stumbled upon some mystery when her eyes grew large before she averted her gaze entirely. “Idle curiosity,” she finally replied.

  Cecilia was palpably skeptical. Forgetting they were not alone, she incautiously said, “Lucy told me that someone wrote a letter to Lord Fitzwalter—”

  “Cecilia, I do believe Mr. Hartwell is approaching,” Sophie interrupted.

  “Nonsense, he’s dancing a reel with Miss Tibbits,” Mrs. Pratt said shortly. “Continue, young lady. What is this about a letter to Lord Fitzwalter?”

  Cecilia suddenly realized the danger of revealing her bosom friend’s confidences in the presence of a notorious gossip. “Oh, it was nothing of interest. Merely a note of congratulations on their engagement.” Cecilia, who was much more skilled at prevaricating than her older cousin and, though a decade younger, had far more practice, refused to succumb to Mrs. Pratt’s probing and was happy to escape for a set with the most undistinguished gentleman she’d danced with yet.

  * * *

  Later, in the carriage, Cecilia turned to her cousin. “It was you who wrote the letter, was it not?”

  Sophie, who could not tell a lie—or at least not very believably—nodded. “But please, Cecilia, do not tell anyone.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sophie. Lucy and Lord Fitzwalter consider you did them a great favor.”

  Sophie could not but feel heartened that her decision to take action had been the right one and that she was receiving commendation for it. It had been so long since anyone had listened to, or even sought, her opinion. She had felt almost invisible these last six years she’d lived with her aunt after the death of her father. Cecilia was the only one who had granted her the least bit of notice or affection, but it was of the careless sort, as Cecilia was not all that interested in an older spinster cousin.

  But now Cecilia was looking at Sophie with grudging respect and approval, as if some heretofore unknown talent she possessed had been revealed.

  “I suppose it would do no harm for you to tell Lucy I wrote the letter,” Sophie said, after a short time spent contemplating the matter.

  Cecilia looked surprised that Sophie would think it was even open for debate. “But of course I shall tell her. She has been positively beside herself with curiosity since Lord Fitzwalter told her of it. And really, she has every reason to be grateful. If you had not written to him, Lord Fitzwalter would have been lost to her forever. But Cousin, people are saying you wrote in your letter that Priscilla Hammond was in love with a different gentleman. How did you know about Miss Hammond and Mr. Beswick?”

  2

  Sir Edmund sipped his weak punch and wondered why he’d come. He always felt uncomfortable at these affairs. He was careful to smile at none of the ladies who peered at him hopefully over their fans, and finally decided to get more of the flavorless punch, as it would at least remove him from the dancing.

  Not that Sir Edmund didn’t enjoy dancing. It had been a favorite diversion, once upon a time.

  Lord Fitzwalter hailed him as he entered the refreshment room, and Sir Edmund walked over to speak to him, pleased to see someone he knew.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” Sir Edmund said, once greetings had been exchanged.

  “Indeed they are. You see before you the most fortunate of men.”

  Fitz certainly looked happy, but the last time Sir Edmund had seen him Fitz was paying court to Miss Hammond, so Sir Edmund was justifiably confused at his friend’s engagement to an entirely different woman. “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with your betrothed,” Sir Edmund said, hoping this would prompt Fitz to offer an explanation for the change, as he had to realize Sir Edmund was acquainted with Miss Hammond, as Fitz was the one who had introduced them.

  “That must be remedied, though you will have to meet her later. She’s dancing at the moment. With Ludlow,” Fitz said, nodding in that direction. Sir Edmund followed his gaze, curious to see the femme fatale who had stolen his friend’s heart. He saw a very demure-looking girl who, while pretty enough, couldn’t hold a candle to Priscilla Hammond. But then Miss Barrett seemed to sense their attention and glanced over at Fitz. And she smiled so sweetly and lovingly at him that Sir Edmund immediately realized how wrong he was in thinking Priscilla Hammond the more attractive choice.

  Fitz shook his head in amazement. “I still cannot believe how things worked out.”

  “Since you’ve raised the subject, I find myself curious as to how this engagement did come about. Rumor had it you were courting an entirely different young lady.”

  “Rumor was correct in this instance. If it were not for the unselfish benevolence of an anonymous lady, I would have probably found myself betrothed to the wrong person altogether.” Fitz hurried to add, “Of course, Miss Hammond is a lovely young woman and Beswick is to be congratulated, but Lucy . . .”

  Fitz sighed and smiled in a manner Sir Edmund felt was a trifle inane, but then chided himself for being uncharitable. He probably only felt that way because he was envious of his friend’s good fortune.

  “An anonymous lady?” he prompted Fitzwalter.

  “Well, her letter was anonymous, but she is not any longer.” As even Fitz, in his deliriously happy state, realized this speech was annoyingly incoherent, he began at the beginning, telling his friend the details of Miss Lattimore’s letter.

  Sir Edmund listened with rapt attention, only interrupting his friend once to ask if he might be permitted to call on him and read the letter for himself. Fitz surprised him by saying he was carrying it on his person and removed it from his waistcoat pocket, handing it to his friend.

  It was not a long letter, and Sir Edmund read it fairly quickly, before reading it a second time, more slowly. Fitz, who was impatient to sing the praises of his fiancée, bided his time while Sir Edmund examined the letter, but as soon as Sir Edmund handed it back to him Fitz began eagerly recounting how correct Miss Lattimore was in her assessment of Lucy’s “pure and tender heart.” He also told Sir Edmund how surprised he’d been to learn of Lucy’s feelings for him, as he’d always been fond of her but thought she viewed him as an older brother. And while Sir Edmund listened politely as Fitz gushed about Lucy, he soon displayed where his real interest lay.

  “Who is Miss Lattimore?” he asked.

  * * *

  That was the question of the evening, though it took Sophie a few hours to realize her name was on nearly everyone’s lips. She was holding up a wall, watching the dancing and tapping her feet under her skirts, when she began to notice more and more glances in her direction. Still, she was too modest to assume she was their object of attention, and kept looking to either side of her, expecting to find someone or something of interest. The only thing she found, and it was not the least bit interesting, was that the ubiquitous Mrs. Pratt was napping and had begun to snore.

  And then Mr. Dodd asked her to dance, a request she politely refused. She had to admit to herself that for once she was happy to be sitting amongst the wallflowers, as Mr. Dodd smelled unpleasantly of garlic and his teeth reminded her of a neighbor’s donkey that had bitten her when she was a child.

  But then another gentleman stepped forward, and another, and eventually Mrs. Pratt was awakened by the unusual activity and began making impertinent remarks and encouraging Sophie to accept various invitations. Sophi
e, who could bear no more, told the most recent gentleman who had requested a dance that she must find her cousin and left her seat to scurry across the room to where Cecilia stood speaking with her friends.

  But when Sophie drew near to the group she felt extremely awkward and ill at ease, as they all stopped talking and turned to look at her upon her approach.

  “I beg your pardon; I’ve interrupted your conversation. Pray continue,” she said to Lord Fitzwalter, who had paused mid-sentence.

  “Miss Lattimore! We are well met,” Lord Fitzwalter said, his tone of voice expressing nothing but delight. Lucy Barrett was at his side, and she, too, looked pleased to see Sophie. And then the gentleman at Lord Fitzwalter’s other side looked her way.

  “Sir Edmund Winslow, may I present Miss Lattimore,” Lord Fitzwalter said, and Sir Edmund bowed to her.

  Sophie quickly debated whether she should curtsy or merely bob her head before she did drop into a curtsy, while telling herself not to dip too low as if Sir Edmund were royalty. Really, her thoughts were in such a whirl she barely knew what she was doing, but she recovered somewhat when she made herself turn her gaze from Sir Edmund and focus on Lord Fitzwalter instead.

  “Sir Edmund had just expressed a wish to make your acquaintance, Miss Lattimore, so your arrival is quite timely,” Lord Fitzwalter said.

  Sir Edmund frowned at Lord Fitzwalter before turning back to Sophie and forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Indeed, I am pleased to meet someone so highly regarded by my friend,” he said.

  Sophie tentatively smiled back, and Sir Edmund’s expression relaxed somewhat. Sophie thought perhaps he was annoyed to have Lord Fitzwalter proclaim him eager to meet her, but she was fully aware if he had expressed such a wish it had to have been an offhand remark, made from politeness or curiosity. She knew better than to imagine he had more than a fleeting interest in her, unfortunately.

  Lord Fitzwalter spoke again, this time to mention a dinner party he was planning in honor of his engagement that he hoped Sophie would attend. Sophie accepted gratefully, as this was the first invitation directed specifically to her that she could remember since she had come to live with her aunt. Any social event she attended she did so only on sufferance, a necessary but unwanted presence, her cousin or aunt being the real recipient of the invitation.

  However, Sophie soon found that things had changed.

  * * *

  Invitations for Sophie flooded the small town house in Leicester Square, and with each one Sophie’s stature seemed to rise in the eyes of her aunt and cousin. Her aunt had never been cruel to her, but as Sophie was the daughter of her husband’s sister and no blood relation of her own, she had made it very plain that Sophie could never expect more than a roof over her head and a seat at her table. Sophie had a small allowance left to her by her father, but it was only enough to cover the barest of essentials, and without her aunt’s charity, grudging as it was, she’d be in sore straits indeed. So even though Sophie prayed for her aunt Foster each day, thanking God for her aunt’s generosity in taking her in, the words came much more readily and sincerely when her aunt looked at Sophie with a smile rather than a frown.

  Sophie’s relationship with her cousin had also improved, but she was unsure if this was something to rejoice over or bemoan. Cecilia would now visit Sophie’s bedchamber almost every night before bed, desirous of knowing her opinion of her suitors. As it was Sophie’s opinion that Cecilia should wait a good deal longer before contemplating marriage, she found the conversations about each beau’s merits and deficits a trifle tedious, but she was grateful that her cousin at least sought her counsel. And she was even more grateful that Cecilia, who had heretofore left Sophie to dress herself, had offered her the services of her maid Betsy to assist with her hair.

  Sophie gladly left off the alterations in her attire that she had made so as to appear as inconspicuous as possible and mute any natural attractions she possessed. She had begun doing so at the start of the London season when she’d taken on her role as chaperone, in an attempt to make her status more obvious. Though her aunt had not explicitly told her what to wear, she had told Sophie how imperative it was that she present a “mature appearance, in keeping with her age and position.” But now that her aunt was encouraging Sophie to accept invitations on her own behalf and not as Cecilia’s unacknowledged escort, Sophie put all of her caps in a drawer and stopped covering her shoulders and décolletage with shawls and lace fichus. Thus, her aunt and cousin began to wonder if she had always been as handsome as she now appeared and they had not noticed, or if her newfound popularity was causing a latent bloom.

  Cecilia took after her mother, tall and fair-haired with blue eyes, while Sophie was slighter with dark hair and gray eyes. Cecilia had always thought her cousin, older and smaller as she was, to be the quintessential old maid, long past any prospect of attracting a gentleman’s notice. It was to Cecilia’s credit that she felt pleased rather than threatened by her belated discovery of Sophie’s attributes.

  Of course, Cecilia and Mrs. Foster’s pleasure was not entirely, or even primarily, on Sophie’s behalf. Both could not help but reflect on how Sophie’s sudden social success could benefit them.

  The Fosters occupied a position on the fringes of high society, and while they were solidly genteel and distantly related to more than half-a-dozen respectable and even noble families, their fortune was modest, something that both ladies planned to remedy by Cecilia’s imminent marriage to a gentleman of fortune. She had at least attracted one such suitor since her debut, Mr. Hartwell, but he was only a plain mister and it was early days yet. (And Cecilia considered him somewhat dull and unexciting.) It was her aunt Foster’s hope that through Sophie’s increased social activity Cecilia would be exposed to even more eligible gentlemen than her modest come-out had afforded her the opportunity to meet thus far. And if there was an aging widower or a respectable clergyman willing to marry Sophie, well, that would only be to the good, taking her off of her aunt’s hands.

  Since there was not even the remotest possibility that Sophie would make a match superior to that of her younger cousin, it was just as well that this vexatious thought did not enter into her relations’ conjectures.

  * * *

  Sophie, who had wondered why she had caught the fancy of London society, was not left to wonder long. Those who sought her company usually did not come to the point straightaway, pretending instead an interest in her friendship or company, but it was eventually made clear that they thought Sophie had some unique talent for matchmaking and wished to secure her services for themselves. She even discovered from her cousin that she’d earned the sobriquet “Lady Cupid.”

  Sophie was able to politely put off most of those who desired her assistance, as they were usually too diffident to pursue the matter, but she was genuinely astounded when she found Sir Edmund was one of that number.

  She had seen him at Lord Fitzwalter’s dinner party, though they had had no opportunity to converse beyond the barest civilities. But she found herself very shortly thereafter in company with him again on an excursion to Strawberry Hill.

  The outing had been planned and executed by Lord Fitzwalter, who wanted everyone to share in his happiness and so was hosting more activities than he ever had before. The weather matched his mood, as it was a beautiful June day, sunny with a refreshing breeze. After a tour of the house, the party picnicked on the grounds on the banks of the Thames. Sophie had never visited Strawberry Hill, the house and gardens designed by Horace Walpole, the famous Gothic novelist, and she had never before been on a picnic, either. At least, not a picnic such as this, in the company of other ladies and gentlemen. After lunch she walked the paths lined by rosebushes full of buds and blooms and felt such joy, along with a conviction that this was to be the summer of her life, her season to blossom. Then she laughed inwardly at herself. She had felt this way once before when she was Cecilia’s age, and had discovered herself to be sadl
y mistaken. She should know better than to hope for too much, or to trust her own frequently self-delusory instincts.

  She didn’t even trust herself as far as her attraction to Sir Edmund was concerned. She really knew nothing of him beyond his handsome appearance, and Sophie had learned the hard way that a man’s good looks, far from being a measure of his character, were indicative of nothing more than a happy accident of birth. And even if Sir Edmund were a man of sterling character, there was very little hope he would be interested in an impoverished spinster like herself.

  Still, when he appeared at her side as she walked, she could not completely control her quiver of excitement at his presence. But when she discovered his true purpose in seeking her out, she tried to console herself with the knowledge that things had occurred precisely as she had foretold and that she had been a wise woman to temper her expectations.

  The conversation was casual at first, Sir Edmund merely inquiring which part of the country she’d come from and asking about the length of her acquaintance with Lord Fitzwalter and Lucy Barrett. But then he introduced the subject he’d apparently approached her to discuss. “I have heard that you played a part in bringing about this engagement.”

  “Perhaps a small part,” Sophie replied, not wanting to sound boastful but knowing it would look like false modesty if she denied it when Lord Fitzwalter apparently was telling any- and everyone.

  “Have you always had a talent for this sort of thing? How did you know the two couples would suit?”