Miss Lattimore's Letter

by Suzanne Allain

  “Congratulate me on . . . what?”

  “I do realize he hasn’t yet formally requested your hand, but it is fairly obvious he means to court you in earnest, and I know your dear parents would have been pleased to see you settled so well.”

  “And he’s so handsome, cousin! Not that that’s important, of course,” Cecilia finished a trifle disconsolately, remembering that her new beau was nothing to brag about in that regard.

  “Handsome is as handsome does,” Mrs. Foster pronounced, though Sophie did not understand how this was pertinent to the discussion at hand.

  “I am not on the verge of an engagement, Aunt Foster. I do not know why you should believe that I am.”

  “Why, if you are not, then I find your behavior rather fast, to say the least. I was forced to give Lady Smallpeace an inkling of the matter when she wondered who it was that you were walking with.”

  “Aunt Foster, I wish you would not spread gossip about me and Mr. Maitland, or indeed, about me and any other gentleman. I have no knowledge of Mr. Maitland’s intentions, and it is not the thing to be bragging about a conquest before it is made!”

  This was too much for Mrs. Foster, who had never heard any criticism from her niece and was highly affronted that Sophie dared to offer it now. “Who are you, young lady, to counsel me on appropriate behavior? I think you have forgotten your place in this household. Perhaps you should go to your room and meditate upon it.”

  Sophie stifled any reply she desired to make, stood up regally, and marched from the room. As she passed Cecilia she saw how very distressed her young cousin was. But Sophie could not bring herself to smile reassuringly at her, she was so upset herself.

  * * *

  An hour or so later Cecilia knocked on the door of Sophie’s chamber before slipping inside. She found her cousin lying on the bed, though she was not sleeping. Cecilia sat down on the edge of the bed beside her.

  “Sophie, I am so sorry, but I know my mother meant it for the best. She and I both believed you and Mr. Maitland to have an understanding, he looks at you so warmly. Indeed, he appears to have worn the willow for you for many years.”

  “While he was married to another woman and she was bearing his children?” Sophie asked sarcastically.

  Cecilia flushed and looked away. “I admit I do not quite understand. He appears to have a regard for you, but as you said, he did marry elsewhere. Were you too young when he knew you before?”

  Sophie sighed and sat up in bed. “No, it is I who must apologize. If I had explained my history with Mr. Maitland, perhaps my aunt would not have assumed what she did. But really, I do not understand him clearly myself.”

  Sophie paused, and Cecilia waited without speaking for her to continue, even when the silence seemed to stretch on a little too long. Cecilia was beginning to realize there was something painful about her cousin’s past dealings with Mr. Maitland, and she did not want to distress her any further by saying something she ought not.

  “I was your age; I had just turned eighteen, when he came to visit my father, whom he had met when they both worked for the East India Company. I had recently come out and I was moderately popular. Of course, I didn’t have a grand London debut like you, but at local assemblies and private balls my dance card was always full, and there was one young man in particular. He wasn’t dashing or romantic, but we were friends and there was the possibility of something more . . . when Mr. Maitland showed up.

  “And Mr. Maitland was dashing and romantic, so I quickly forgot about this other young man and spent all of my time with him instead. Rides in his curricle, supper dances; we paired off whenever possible and flirted enthusiastically with each other, while managing to stay within the bounds of propriety. It was very obvious he was courting me, and the neighborhood considered it just a matter of time before our engagement was announced. As did I.”

  Sophie smiled self-deprecatingly. “Instead of announcing his engagement to me, he left the neighborhood altogether before announcing his betrothal to another young woman. I only heard of it through a mutual acquaintance; he hadn’t the decency to tell me himself. My father wanted to go after him and take him to task, but I begged him to let it rest, as I felt it would only stir up more talk if he were to pursue Mr. Maitland. And I was worried, too, that it might result in a duel, and Papa would get injured or even killed. How could I live with myself if my silly folly, fancying Mr. Maitland was in love with me, resulted in another person’s injury or death? It was not worth it. But I found that whatever popularity I’d enjoyed before Mr. Maitland’s arrival completely dissipated at his departure. It was widely rumored that I’d jilted him, and my behavior, which would have been perfectly acceptable if our engagement had been announced, was considered fast indeed when undertaken with a man betrothed to a different lady.

  “The invitations dried up, and no one asked me to dance at the few assemblies I did attend. It was less painful to stop going out, especially once my father’s health began to deteriorate. So I became what you see: a spinster content to sit in the shadows, her one grand love tainted by scandal.”

  Cecilia sat for a moment more in silence, stunned by what she’d heard. “Cousin, I wonder that you did not slap his face or give him the cut direct upon seeing him again.”

  Sophie smiled. “I wonder the same. I was so taken aback, and then he was asking me to dance like nothing had happened, and I did not want to stir up that old gossip.” She shrugged. “And I still cannot help wondering if there is some explanation that would excuse him, and I am very eager to hear it. Especially since I have been accustomed to thinking of him as my lost love these past ten years.”

  “I’m not sure anything could excuse him,” Cecilia said, and Sophie remembered what it was like to be eighteen and feel such righteous indignation.

  “It is not entirely his fault. He’s probably not even aware of how I was treated after he left. And it’s very easy to see things from one’s own point of view. Perhaps he thought it no more than a trifling flirtation and doesn’t feel he wronged me at all.”

  “But to lead you on in such a manner—”

  “Yes, that is what I cannot entirely excuse. Perhaps I imagined his feelings for me, but he had to have known I believed myself in love with him. I was too unsophisticated to hide it. And I was only eighteen, while he was six-and-twenty. Certainly old enough to recognize he’d turned a silly young girl’s head.”

  “And are you still in love with him?” Cecilia asked.

  Sophie considered for a moment. “I do not know what it is I feel, exactly, but there is still something significant between us. I don’t understand what it is, I can’t put a name to it, only that it’s as if I feel a sort of . . . ache when he is near me. And I am scared that he will break my heart again.”

  “But . . . what if he does want to marry you this time?”

  Sophie got up from the bed and walked to the window. It had begun to rain, a quick afternoon storm, but the sun was somehow still shining. A sunshower. If she were superstitious perhaps she could read something into it, but she was not, and she had enough difficulties trying to figure out her life as it was, without throwing weather phenomena into the mix. “I do not know,” Sophie said, just when Cecilia was beginning to think she was not going to answer her question. “I wish I could say I would refuse him, but I just don’t know. He would be offering me all the things I’ve missed out on: marriage, children, a home.” Sophie turned back to face Cecilia. “I do not mean to complain; your mother was kind to take me in, and I’m truly, truly grateful. But it’s a precarious and insecure existence being dependent on others for the very roof over one’s head, and while I have a place to live, I don’t feel as if I have a home. And as a single woman of no fortune I have very little prospect of ever having one of my own. Marriage would give me that, at least.”

  Cecilia felt as if she were seeing her cousin for the first time. To think that Sop
hie had lived with them for six years and Cecilia had never known she felt this way. She jumped up from the bed and ran to hug her. “Cousin, I am so sorry. I promise you that things will change. We are your family and you do have a home with us.”

  They were both crying a little, and smiling, too, and Sophie felt as if she were a sunshower. When she’d gathered her composure, she said: “Cecilia, your case is totally different from mine, but you can still benefit from my mistakes. Please do not feel as if you have to rush into anything. If I hadn’t been so quick to imagine myself in love with Mr. Maitland, I would have not opened myself up to such disappointment and humiliation. You have financial security and a happy home. You do not need to marry, and you can certainly take your time deciding if and whom you will marry.”

  Cecilia nodded but wouldn’t quite meet her cousin’s eyes, and Sophie realized she probably did not want to accept advice from an impoverished spinster who had just announced she lived a fruitless existence.

  “What will you do about Mr. Maitland?” Cecilia asked.

  “I will be much more circumspect than I was the first time. It was very distressing to hear your mother saying some of the same things that were said of me ten years ago, and I refuse to open myself up to censure again. I will make it very plain to him that I will not be trifled with.”

  * * *

  But Sophie found those words easier to say than to act upon. Mr. Maitland was once again everywhere she was, and she found it difficult to strike a balance between showing disinterested friendliness and encouraging his suit. He appeared to be courting her even more assiduously than he had the first time, and it did feel as if he was sincere in his affection for her. Sophie began to believe he had loved her ten years ago but had been tempted by his deceased wife’s fortune into making a much more advantageous marriage. Perhaps the wise thing would be to do as Cecilia advised and cut his acquaintance completely, but a part of her was still tempted. She had loved him once and had desired above all things to be his wife, and here she was being given a second chance. Would it not be foolish of her to throw away such an opportunity and return to her prior empty existence as a poor relation?

  Though it was true that her situation in her aunt’s home had improved and continued to do so. Cecilia had spoken with her mother, and while Mrs. Foster would never be truly affectionate toward Sophie—it was just not in her nature—Sophie’s story had stirred her aunt’s compassion. If Mrs. Foster understood nothing else, she understood how a lady’s entire future was tied up in her ability to marry and marry well. And it was no secret that a gentleman could toy with a young woman’s affections, ruin her reputation, and suffer no ill effects of his own. So while Mrs. Foster would never deign to apologize to her niece, she did refrain from any more discussion of her niece’s suitor, in public or private.

  Sophie eventually decided her best course of action would be to follow the advice she herself had given Sir Edmund when he’d asked how he could get to know a young lady without raising unfulfilled expectations. Sophie decided that she would not pair off with Mr. Maitland like she had when she was young and foolish, but instead only spend time with him when in the company of others. She was aided in this endeavor by an unexpected ally: Mrs. Priscilla Beswick.

  Mrs. Beswick seemed to pop up whenever Sophie and Mr. Maitland were together, and though Mr. Maitland refrained from giving her as much attention as he did Sophie, Priscilla certainly appeared to delight in the attention he did give her. Sophie was eventually forced to conclude that Priscilla, who had gloried in being the Toast of the Town, was not content to give up that title in exchange for that of “Mrs. Beswick.”

  Sophie was not given long to wonder why Priscilla Beswick had come to Bath, for she soon paid her promised call on Sophie, finding her at home alone. Cecilia and Mrs. Foster had gone to the Pump Room to meet Lady Smallpeace, Lord Courtney, and Lady Mary, but Sophie had decided she’d had enough of the Noble Nitwits (as she referred to them in her thoughts) and preferred to stay home and read.

  She reluctantly put her book away when Priscilla was announced and got up from her seat to shake hands with her before inviting her to sit and offering her some refreshments.

  Once the servant had left the room, Priscilla turned to Sophie, a serious expression on her face. “I must admit, Miss Lattimore, I came on purpose because I wanted to speak to you in private. When I did not see you in the Pump Room with the Fosters, I hoped I might find you alone.”

  Sophie found this pronouncement somewhat alarming. She could not think of any reason Priscilla Beswick might desire to speak with her privately, other than to berate her for interfering in her affairs. So she just smiled as encouragingly as she was able and hoped it was not to be a long visit.

  “You must wonder why I desired to speak with you, but I beg you to answer my questions before I answer yours. How did you know, as you wrote in your letter to Lord Fitzwalter, that I had an attachment to a different gentleman? Do you have occult powers, perhaps? Because not even our most intimate of friends were privy to our secret.”

  Sophie realized she should have expected this question. It must truly be a mystery to Priscilla how someone she was barely acquainted with could have known about her personal affairs. “I must apologize, Mrs. Beswick. It probably seems a horrible invasion of privacy that I discovered your secret. It was unintentional, I assure you, and I told no one other than Lord Fitzwalter. And even then, I did not tell him the name of the gentleman—”

  “I do realize that, Miss Lattimore. Lord Fitzwalter read me the letter. Or, at least, he read me the portion that applied to me.” Priscilla got up from her seat and began to pace the room. “He was very kind. He mentioned that he would accept my word over that of an anonymous letter-writer. But I found that when he asked me directly if I had already given my heart to someone, I could not lie to him.” Priscilla grimaced. “Though I later wondered if I should have.”

  Sophie began an incoherent apology, but Priscilla motioned her to silence. “You need not apologize. I must admit I was angered by your interference, but I was able to forgive you when I recognized it to be my Christian duty to do so.” Sophie couldn’t help feeling this was not the most comprehensive of absolutions. “But I must know,” Priscilla continued, “how did you discover the truth about me and Charles? It is driving me mad not knowing. When Lord Fitzwalter first approached me he did not know who authored the letter, either, so I thought I was doomed to live in ignorance. But then a London friend wrote to me and told me that you had done it and I just had to know how you found out.”

  Sophie was embarrassed to have to confess and wished she could think of some way to paint her behavior in a more glamorous light. “I was an unseen witness to an episode between you and Mr. Beswick at a ball. I had gone out onto a balcony for some fresh air, and you also came out and launched into speech before I could make my presence known. And then you disappeared just as quickly.”

  “Oh, dear,” Priscilla said, turning red in embarrassment. “I know which incident you refer to; Charles only attended one ball during my London season, but I cannot remember exactly what words we exchanged. I guess I should count myself fortunate that you did not repeat the conversation to anyone.”

  “Of course I would never do that! And I would not have taken it upon myself to write that letter had I not been aware of Miss Barrett’s partiality for Lord Fitzwalter, and that your attachment to him did not appear to be as strong. Though perhaps I was mistaken?” Sophie asked, as she realized, from her own experience, that public observation was not always the best indicator of personal feelings, and she was starting to regret having involved herself in the entire affair.

  “No, you were correct in your assumption that my feelings for Charles were stronger than my feelings for Lord Fitzwalter. But”—and Priscilla quickly crossed the room to throw herself on the sofa next to Sophie and grab her hands—“Miss Lattimore, mightn’t I have been mistaken in my feelings? I thoug
ht it was an answer to a prayer, that letter, allowing me to honestly admit my attachment and follow my heart, but what if my heart was mistaken? What if my greatest happiness did not lie with Charles, as I thought, but with Lord Fitzwalter?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I may have destroyed any future happiness I once thought to possess.”

  And then tears welled up in those crystalline green eyes that were staring so soulfully and mournfully at Sophie.

  Sophie felt that this might possibly be the most awkward and uncomfortable moment she had ever experienced. Her hands, growing damp with perspiration, were clutched in Priscilla Beswick’s, who sat far too close, peering into Sophie’s eyes as if in search of answers that Sophie knew she did not possess. And yet she felt she could not be the first to move away, as Priscilla could very well interpret that as a rejection of her and the confidences she was sharing. So Sophie spent an interminable length of time in exquisite discomfort, in such enforced proximity that she could smell the kippers Priscilla had apparently eaten for breakfast, and wondered that Priscilla did not feel uncomfortable herself. Finally, at long last, Priscilla drew back, and Sophie took the opportunity to inch away even further while Priscilla was busy wiping her eyes dry with her handkerchief.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Lattimore,” Priscilla said, having composed herself. “I did not mean to give vent to my emotions as I did.”

  Sophie wished fervently that she had not but was beginning to wonder if Priscilla enjoyed enacting dramatic scenes. Sophie thought it strange that such a beautiful young woman felt so starved for attention that she must seek it out at every opportunity, but this appeared to be the case. Still, Priscilla seemed genuinely distressed, and Sophie reflected that she had no choice but to try to assist her, as it was entirely her own fault for involving herself in Priscilla’s affairs in the first place.

  Priscilla proceeded to explain to Sophie that she and Charles Beswick had known each other all of their lives, but it wasn’t until Charles had returned home from school and seen Priscilla (nearly) all grown up that things took a turn for the romantic. But it appeared that Charles’ idea of romance did not match that of Priscilla’s, as she told Sophie in comprehensive detail.