“Frightfully warm day for a walk, is it not?” he eventually said, after having paid the chairmen and watched them leave.
Cecilia thought this was an unusual way to start the conversation, as he had not, in fact, been walking. Thankfully he didn’t wait for a reply but, turning to address Sophie, continued: “Miss Lattimore, I have something to discuss in private with Miss Foster, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”
He let his sentence trail off as he looked at her expectantly, and Sophie wondered what he expected her to do to facilitate his privacy with Cecilia. They were standing in the middle of Milsom Street; where did he expect her to go? Was she supposed to walk off and leave her cousin with him, and then be left to walk alone herself? Finally she just replied, “I do not mind if you speak to Miss Foster.”
This appeared to satisfy him, as he offered Cecilia his arm and began to walk with her, and Sophie followed them, a pace or two behind.
“Miss Foster,” he said, in a conspiratorial tone Sophie imagined he thought was lowered, but since he fairly yelled every time he spoke, what he said was still perfectly audible to Sophie and anyone else within ten feet. “I imagine you heard my cousin eloped with Maitland. As distasteful as that is for a woman of her age,” he said with a slight shudder, “it actually made me think about doing something similar. And Miss Foster—or Cecily, if I may be so bold—”
“Cecilia,” Cecilia corrected him.
“What?”
“My name is Cecilia,” she said.
“And you may call me Court,” he told her. “Celia, my darling, my aunt would never consent to our marriage, so we’ll just have to make a dash to the border.”
“I am sorry, Lord Courtney—”
“Court,” he reminded her.
“Um, Court, you do me great honor,” she began again, “but I’m afraid we would not suit.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, my dear Celia, I don’t care if you had whooping cough at twelve and your great-uncle was a yeoman farmer. You suit me down to the ground,” he said. “I’d show you right now how well we suit if your pesky cousin wasn’t so close by.” He looked over his shoulder at Sophie as he said this, who felt she’d heard more than enough and came forward.
“Lord Courtney, Cecilia is not running off to Gretna Green with you, so you’ll have to find some other young woman to delight with your attentions.”
He looked Sophie up and down. “I’m sure you’d like that,” he said, winking salaciously at her.
Sophie and Cecilia locked arms and began walking away from Lord Courtney.
“I won’t ask you again—this is your only chance!” he yelled after them. “Cecily!”
* * *
The Foster ladies had decided to extend their visit to Bath and made plans to stay until after Sophie’s wedding, as they were situated so close to Newbrooke and the wedding was being held in the parish church there, and Sophie couldn’t very well stay in Bath without them. The engagement announcement had been printed in the papers, the first of the banns was read that Sunday, and a wedding date was set for the following month. Sophie frequently found herself wondering if it was all really happening, and thanked God that Mr. Maitland had jilted her all those years ago. She found it so strange the incident she had considered the most tragic and ruinous of her life she now considered a great blessing, and she realized just how limited her perspective—and any person’s—really was.
Such considerations made her more determined than ever not to interfere in her cousin’s romance, because who was to say whether, with the benefit of hindsight, Cecilia or even Mr. Hartwell might one day congratulate themselves on the wisdom of their parting when they had.
Though Cecilia was obviously very depressed over Mr. Hartwell’s absence, she put forth her best efforts to act cheerful, even though Sophie realized it probably made Cecilia conscious of her own loss when she participated in Sophie and Edmund’s engagement festivities. Still, Sophie told herself again and again, she could not, would not, get involved.
And she most definitely would not write Mr. Hartwell a letter.
* * *
However, someone else took it upon themselves to write to him, and a month after his departure from Bath he returned, much to the surprise of the inhabitants of number 4 Rivers Street.
Sophie’s wedding was in three days and the ladies had just returned from a trip to Newbrooke, so had made no plans for the evening but were sitting together in the drawing room. The clock had just struck nine and they were certainly not expecting callers, but Mr. Hartwell burst into the room even before Jonas could announce him and quickly ran over to Cecilia, throwing himself at her feet and grabbing her hand.
“Cecilia! Thank God! I was afraid I would be too late!”
Jonas appeared in the doorway and looked at Mrs. Foster as if to ask should he throw Mr. Hartwell out, but Mrs. Foster gave a little shake of her head and Jonas withdrew.
Mr. Hartwell did look half-crazed, and the ladies would have been surprised by his sudden appearance anyway, as they thought him in Derbyshire, but all were shocked even further by the sight of the normally placid Mr. Hartwell in the grip of such strong emotion. Nor was he dressed for a social call; he was still in his traveling clothes, and it appeared as if he had come directly there upon his arrival in town.
“Too late?” Cecilia asked, and Sophie noticed she did not withdraw her hand from his but let go of her sewing to offer him her other hand as well.
“I had no idea—why did you not tell me? Cecilia, my love!” he said incoherently, before suddenly pulling her to his chest in a tight embrace.
Mrs. Foster’s eyes were nearly popping out of her head, and Sophie was quite shocked as well, as she had never seen such behavior in a polite drawing room (though she and Sir Edmund had grown quite adept at finding other, more private locations for very similar behavior since their betrothal). Still, she did not think Edmund would ever attempt to embrace her in the presence of her relations, nor did she desire him to.
“Mr. Hartwell!” Mrs. Foster said, her ringing tones bringing him to an awareness of what he was doing.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Foster, but I was told—” He looked at Cecilia again and, as if he could not prevent himself from touching her, clasped her cheek in his hand. “You are pale, my love. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”
And Sophie finally realized what it was he’d been told and could have laughed at the result of her aunt’s little fib, if it were not obvious that Mr. Hartwell had been deeply pained by it.
Cecilia had obviously reached the same conclusion as Sophie. “Laurence,” she said in a soft voice, before lightly kissing the hand that held her face, “I am fine. I am perfectly healthy. It is just a rumor. You have nothing to fear.”
And Mr. Hartwell took a deep, shuddering breath before drawing Cecilia back into his arms and kissing her as if his life depended on it.
Sophie and Mrs. Foster exchanged a look and then, by mutual unspoken consent, left the drawing room.
The couple who were kissing on the sofa did not even notice their departure, but eventually they broke apart long enough to offer each other explanations and avowals.
“I was so stupid; how can you bear to have anything to do with me?” Cecilia asked.
“Don’t say such things about yourself! You’re just young; I shouldn’t have been so impatient with you. You can take all the time you need,” he told her, as he continued to press kisses upon her. Which had the effect of making Cecilia think that waiting longer than necessary to marry was a terrible waste of time indeed.
“It is just—I met you first, instead of last, you see,” Cecilia said, trying to explain her wretched folly in taking so long to recognize his worth. And with this incoherent explanation Laurence Hartwell was perfectly satisfied, and indeed, he had no right to complain of his beloved’s lack of eloquence, because he was making absol
utely no sense himself.
* * *
It was a sunny day in September when Sophie Lattimore took Sir Edmund Winslow to wedded husband. Cecilia was the one bridesmaid and, as a newly engaged woman soon to marry the man she loved, looked almost as radiant as the bride.
But no woman could outshine Sophie that day. She was wearing an original design by Priscilla Beswick, a white satin slip with an overskirt of lamé shot through with silver threads, and she literally sparkled. She wore no cap or bonnet, but an aigrette of pearls pulled her hair back from her forehead, and white roses that Edmund had given her were placed here and there in her dark curls. The scent wafted up to Edmund as he stood by her side at the altar, and he was reminded of a stolen kiss taken in a garden bower and formed the resolve to kiss the new Lady Winslow in the same spot as soon as it could be arranged.
When the vicar came to the part of the service that stated holy matrimony was not to be taken “wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites,” Edmund winked at Sophie and she had to suppress a giggle. She would have laughed outright if she had seen how her aunt glared at Mr. Hartwell, who had been under constant surveillance since his overly affectionate behavior when he thought Cecilia was dying. The poor couple were allowed very little privacy, and Cecilia, who had once been so hesitant to marry Laurence Hartwell, was now suggesting he purchase a special license so they did not have to wait for the banns to be called.
Lord Fitzwalter was Sir Edmund’s best man, and Charles and Priscilla Beswick were also in attendance, and they all stayed for the wedding breakfast held at Newbrooke after the ceremony. Everyone was in the best of spirits (even before imbibing them), and once the cake was cut, Lord Fitzwalter began the toasting by suggesting they all drink to the bride.
“To Sophie, Lady Winslow, we wish for you all that you deserve: the happiest of marriages with an affectionate, generous, and indulgent husband,” Fitzwalter said, nodding and winking at Sir Edmund, “good friends, and excellent health! To Lady Winslow!”
“To Lady Cupid! To Sophie!” the guests shouted. And Sophie, looking around the room at the faces of her dear friends, family, and her beloved husband, was so very glad she had written that letter.
* * *
London, Thursday (April 10, 1817)
Lord Fitzwalter,
Please forgive my impudence in writing to you; I would not have taken such a task upon myself if I did not think it was of the utmost importance and could have a direct bearing upon your future happiness.
It is common knowledge in London society that you have been courting Miss Priscilla Hammond, and while she seems an admirable young lady, I have reason to believe that she is in love with another gentleman and that they have made promises to each other. It also appears that her mother has been strongly encouraging her to accept your addresses because of the title and estate you hold. On the other hand, it has also come to my attention that Miss Lucy Barrett, the sister of one of your dear friends, is truly and sincerely enamored of you, and has chosen you based on nothing other than the leadings of a pure and tender heart, untainted by any mercenary motives or considerations of social rank. She loves you for yourself alone, and it is my opinion that each of us could desire nothing more than to find that person who believes us as wonderful as we aspire to be. Since I myself have no likelihood of finding such a precious gift, it pains me all the more to see one who has it within his grasp fail to obtain it. It is for this reason that I have written you this letter.
Your sincere well-wisher,
An anonymous lady
Acknowledgments
I don’t know if you all remember the year 2020, but it was a dark time to write a light, romantic comedy. I found it creatively challenging for many reasons, but it was especially difficult having to stay inside my tiny house (which seemed to get smaller as the months wore on) day in and day out, with no trips to the locations I was writing about, or even to a local coffee shop, to do research and gather inspiration.
So, I’d like to thank my husband Jonathan for being a great person with whom to be stuck inside during a global pandemic, as well as a terrific cook. If I hadn’t already dedicated my last book to him, this one would have been dedicated to him as well.
Thanks also to my editor, Kate Seaver, for being such a pleasant and lovely person, as well as having great suggestions; and my agent, Stefanie Lieberman, who is always so responsive, knowledgeable, and helpful. Stefanie and Kate also had much to contend with during 2020 but remained professional, patient, and cooperative. Thank you, Kate and Stefanie!
I also greatly appreciate the help of Kirsten Elliott, who arranged for me to get a digital copy of her book: No Swinging on Sundays: The Story of Bath’s Lost Pleasure Gardens. Although I was unable to travel physically to Bath while writing this novel, her meticulously researched book took me there—and to Sydney Gardens in particular—as well as taking me back in time.
Finally, to the sisters I mentioned in my dedication: Charlotte, who arranged for a virtual celebration of my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary while under lockdown, and Vicky, who checks in on me every day and helps me care for our parents; thank you for always being awesome and supportive sisters. And to my other sisters, who may not be physically related to me but whom I love just as much: Kimberly, Walsta, Wanyda, Deniece, De, Michelle, Amber, Marianne, Denise, Tammy, Karrie, Nakia, Nekia, Keren, Rongmei, Ryann, Summer, Jen, Jan, Genevieve, Melissa, Carol, Rachel, Tiffany, Melinda, Pam, Debi, Leslie, Kayshauna, and Alesheia: I’m so grateful for you all! And I know there’s probably someone super special I didn’t include, so just insert your name here: ___________. I have so many supportive, loving, beautiful friends. I am truly blessed. (A special thanks to Alison, too, for being one of the first to read Miss Lattimore’s Letter and for sharing your impressions with me. It’s a good thing you liked it!)
Photo by Jonathan Allain
Suzanne Allain is a screenwriter who lived in New York and Beijing before returning to her hometown of Tallahassee, Florida, where she lives with her husband. She makes frequent visits to Los Angeles for work, but one of her most memorable trips was to London to see her script Mr. Malcolm’s List: Overture being filmed.
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Miss Lattimore's Letter Page 20
