Page 44

A Young Lady’s Bold Letter

L ater that afternoon

Although she had marveled at the statuary and flower-topped columns at the Temple of Luxor, Helen couldn’t shake the sensation that something was wrong.

Tom hadn’t said a single word to her after their kiss behind the statues. He had, in fact, gone out of his way to avoid her ever since their return to the hotel.

Perhaps he simply couldn’t abide being in the company of Bradley, for she had agreed to look after the toddler while her parents took a walk along the river.

Given his penchant to either stand in one place and gawk or run willy-nilly with no regard for his safety, Helen had opted to keep him on her hip as she made her way to the parlor, hoping his nappy wouldn’t dampen her skirts.

By the time they returned to their hotel for dinner, she was at her wit’s end.

Her mother had been happy to take Bradley from her, and Mahmood’s daughter had been ready to change his nappy and put him down for an afternoon nap once they went down to spend time in the shaded gardens before dinner.

While others headed to the gardens, Helen changed into a different gown but remained in her room.

Fighting back tears, she sat at the room’s small escritoire.

Pulling a sheet of parchment from her stationery box, she considered what to say before she dipped a quill into the ink pot and began to write.

Dear Thomas,

I write to you because my every attempt to speak with you has been interrupted, and I find myself experiencing a sort of frustration that I fear might erupt at a most inopportune time or in an inappropriate place.

From our brief time together at the Morganfield ball, I was left with the impression that you liked me. That you might even feel affection for me.

Your kisses both then and today would certainly suggest your regard was more than a passing fancy.

Perhaps time and distance had caused your regard to fade, or perhaps there is another who has taken my place in your thoughts, for your behavior towards me this past fortnight has been most bewildering.

I know you watch me, for I catch you doing so.

Sometimes you seem ready to say something and other times you seem almost disgusted by the very sight of me.

Your hasty departure earlier today was most unsettling.

i feel as if one of those awful mummies has cursed us.

What, pray tell, has happened?

Have I done something (of which I am unaware) that has caused you to regret our words that night? I ask again—is there another who has replaced me in your thoughts?

I am prepared for whatever is your answer. I will be sorry if I have fallen out of your favor, but I know in my heart that I have done nothing (knowingly) to earn your disregard.

Could you see to meeting with me in private? To face me and tell me how you truly feel, so that we may proceed without the awkwardness that has become so apparent that even my father has begun to wonder?

Tonight, after everyone is abed, at say eleven o’clock, come to my bedchamber. You needn’t knock—I shall leave the door unbarred so that we may discuss our situation in private.

If you do not come, I will assume you are no longer interested in courting me. Yes, I will suffer for a time, for I have held you in my heart ever since that night, but I will also know it is better to know your thoughts than to wonder what I have done wrong.

Sincerely,

Helen

As she reread her letter, the words written in her even penmanship, Helen began to question what she was doing.

Cornering Thomas Forster. Forcing him to face her.

If he showed up at her door, they would finally have the opportunity to talk—or rather whisper—to determine his thoughts on their future.

If he didn’t show up, she would know his regard for her had indeed changed to one of indifference, and she would simply be forced to stop thinking about him.

She would be forced to endure another Season in London.

Forced into a marriage with a widower or a young buck for whom she had no feelings at all.

A loveless marriage.

A tear streaked down her cheek at the thought of spending the rest of her life like that. Living with someone but feeling alone.

Perhaps there would be children she could love. Perhaps that would be enough. But after growing up with parents who openly displayed their affection—or at least didn’t do a very good job of hiding it—she could hardly imagine a relationship so different for herself.

The tear fell from her cheek and landed at the bottom of her letter, blurring the ‘en’ at the end of her name.

“Hel,” she whispered. Well, that certainly felt appropriate at the moment.

She lifted the parchment and gently blew on it before carefully folding it into an envelope. Taking up the quill, she wrote “The Honorable Thomas Forster” on the outside and set it aside.

Pulling a hanky from her pocket, she dabbed at her cheek and let out the sob she had been attempting to stifle.

Now was not the time for tears.

Tonight she would have her answer.

One way or the other.

Her gaze darted to the window, and she hurried to look out on the gardens below.

Her parents were lounging at a small metal table, her father’s head bent as he wrote of his latest findings in his journal.

A sheet of parchment separate from his book displayed a drawing he had done of a hibiscus bloom, a nearby bush filled with the rose-red flowers.

At the other small table, Diana, Randy, Thomas, and David were playing a game of whist. The earl and countess were nowhere to be seen, but Helen knew Barbara wished to spend the afternoon shopping.

This was her chance.

She stepped out of her bedchamber and hurried to the other side of the hotel’s open courtyard, counting the doors until she reached the one she had seen Tom come out of that morning.

Trying the handle, she was relieved when it easily opened.

Once inside, she glanced about, nervous because she wasn’t sure where the best place would be to leave her note.

In the middle of the floor, as if it had been shoved under the door? Atop the bureau? On the bed?

She glanced at the small bed. Like hers, it was shoved against one wall and was surrounded by a fine netting that hung from the ceiling. The edges of the netting were draped open to show the bed had been made up by a servant.

After placing the letter on the middle of the pillow, Helen hurried out the door, carefully closing it behind her before she headed for the stairs.

She wasn’t aware she was being watched as she exited the hotel to join the others in the gardens.