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Thomas,

You know by now that you are dear to me, or at least the version of you in my imagination who is reading these letters as they pile up in my desk drawer knows it.

How pathetic that a man of my standing, a man of my upbringing, could not make it even three days without writing one of these missives to someone I am too cowardly to say all this to in real life.

And yet I still write, and I do so because there is something I’ve grown to suspect over the last week or so outside of the obvious interest in the relationship between Charles and Ida.

I told you that at the end of a fortnight, I would come to London to get you no matter what.

I meant it, and as I was making preparations to leave tomorrow, Rudolph joined me.

Thinking nothing of it, I assumed he was merely bored when he let me know that he thought it prudent if I stayed at Ashford Hall, considering how much remains to be done for the ball.

At first, I thought he was saying it out of concern for how busy I am bound to be.

Taking four days out of my schedule to come and get you from London is four days less I have to devote to planning, and yet the idea of spending that time alone with you seemed a worthy distraction.

I was prepared to let Rudolph down easily, inform him that I wanted nothing more than to take a break from the estate and be the first person to get to see you, and yet he told me that he was asking if he could go get you because you had asked him to do so.

I was struck by a sudden misery, so severe and so overwhelming that I thought I might be sick, and realized for the first time since beginning these letters that perhaps you had never had any interest in me, that I had misinterpreted our last meeting.

That perhaps you liked Rudolph better.

As a man who had loved Rudolph terribly before, I knew how easy it was to fall for him.

I had offered to get you, and in turn, you had turned to Rudolph to save you from that fate.

I agreed to let him and hoped against hope that I had concealed my disappointment, but as I write this I am finding myself more distressed than I thought I would be.

I deserve it, I think, for not recognizing until the last moment that I liked you as much as I did, but it still stings.

However, it’s for the best. Rudolph is a good man and will no doubt make an exceptional lover, something I could not promise myself.

I have put on hold my designs for the ball and any thought of confession to you; my feelings will have to be kept in these letters, hidden away.

I cannot justify to myself the cost of letting you love me when you have someone who would be better.

I’m sorry for the wall I will have erected by the time you return.

Just know that I’ve done so because the idea of allowing you to love me when there is someone far more suited to endeavors of the heart is far more selfish than I can ever be.

Perhaps that itself is selfish, but I trust Rudolph with your heart more than I trust myself.