Page 1 of Sophia’s Letter (Ladies of Munro #1)

January 1814

T he letter arrived on a Monday. It had not been a good day. Mondays never were. After all these years, the memory of that fateful day had still not faded into merciful oblivion. At the thought, Sophia’s breathing tightened, the black silk of her bodice rising and falling in quick, shallow beats.

“Are you all right, miss?” Katie was always on alert. Sophia depended on her for the simplest things, and Katie was sharp enough to anticipate her needs. “Shall I get the smelling salts?” she asked, already reaching for them on the side table.

Sophia waved away the proffered help with an irritable hand. “I’m fine, Katie. Don’t fuss.” But her lady’s maid still hovered. Sophia concentrated, sucking in a satisfying lungful of air. “See?” She added a thin smile. “I can manage.”

She was rewarded with the girl’s reluctant withdrawal to a nearby chair. A few more steady breaths and Katie’s worry would subside. Sophia appreciated her vigilance, but there were times when she wished it weren’t necessary.

She lay back against the arm of the chaise lounge and let her gaze fall across the room to the view outside. The sun blazed upon the snow. It was perfect weather for a walk. She imagined how the frozen path would crunch underfoot and the air would erupt with shrieks of laughter from an inevitable snowball fight.

That was denied her now. No more romping. Not in snow or autumn leaves. Not in fields of spring flowers or among the buzzing of summer insects. It had been that way for a long time. Even a slow stroll could bring on a bout of coughing and wheezing. And then Father would lay down the law, forbidding her to even sit outside among the shrubbery, lest she should catch a chill.

Mama would have found a compromise that made everyone happy.

But Mama was no more.

Sophia turned her head back to the tray of correspondence on her lap. She did not want to dwell on loss. The anxious thoughts would infiltrate her weakened body and make Katie leap from her chair again. At least her mind was still capable. Poetry and letters— they would fill her day. And soon, one of her siblings would look in on her. She really should not complain. There was much to be thankful for.

She spread her letters out upon the tray, her eyes searching for the writing of an unfamiliar hand. Letters from friends could wait. What she wanted most was to hear from a publisher. Papa had arranged for a book of her poems to be printed as a gift for her last birthday. And, to her delight, all the copies had been sold. But that had been Papa’s doing, and at his expense. She wanted to succeed on her own merit. She ached for the recognition of the establishment, for her writing to win the approval of her literary peers.

As if in answer to her much-repeated prayer, she spotted the very thing—her name and address printed in a neat, precise hand she had not seen before. Sophia sucked in her breath, causing Katie’s head to jerk up from her sewing. Sophia ignored her, snatching up the letter with eager hands. It had no formal stamp, so it was impossible to tell the name of the publisher at a glance. She pried the wax seal from the folded page and looked for the signature at the bottom.

Tobias Mannerly. She did not know a Tobias Mannerly. Perhaps he was a clerk writing on behalf of another. Well, he would say as much in his introductions. Her eyes flicked to the top of the page and she searched the opening paragraph for a name. But there was none. She caught the occasional word. Passionate. Incomparable.

These were not the formal words of a publisher. Indeed, these were not words that had ever been directed at her in any capacity. There must be some mistake.

She forced her racing thoughts to slow and dragged her focus back to begin the letter anew.

“ My dear Miss Grant ,” it began. Well, that was predictable enough. And then, with a few more strokes of the quill, it was no longer so. Sophie’s eyes grew wide as they took in the strange words.

“ It is impossible to stay my hand from this page. You must be told at once. Your poems are the work of a master wordsmith. They declare themselves—and you through them—with such passionate elegance that I am loath to praise them, lest I do them an injustice with my own feeble eloquence. How other poets must hide in shame for claiming the same stage as you—you with your incomparable skill! Oh, goddess of poetry, I am your willing acolyte! ”

Sophia pressed the letter firmly back on her lap. Goodness! So much intimate prose from a stranger! What sort of man wrote such lush admiration to a woman he had not met? Surely the gentleman must know how unseemly his attention would appear?

Her brows drew together suspiciously. Was it a joke? She thought of Henry’s friends at Cambridge who loved a bit of mischief. No, it couldn’t be. Her brother might tease her good-naturedly when he came home for the holidays, but he would not let his friends make a mockery of her. Besides, her family knew what her writing meant to her. They would never let it be the subject of banter, let alone a prank.

She had a good mind to crumple up the page and throw it on the fire. Mr. Mannerly could not expect a different fate for his audacious sentiments. It was just as well Papa was not home. What would he say to such a letter? Hmph . No doubt he would think she had somehow encouraged it. There were bound to be strong words—from his side, at least. He would never tolerate her having an admirer. It was bad enough that she corresponded with academics. But at least he knew them to be old, bespectacled, and—most importantly—married. This letter—she blushed at the very thought of it—embodied a youthful vigor he would never approve of.

Sophia’s private rant pulled up short. She glanced down at the offending sheet with new eyes. Papa would not like her to have it. And Papa ruled her life. She was not like Adriana, who spoke to him with unflinching boldness. Sophia hated confrontation. Illness and sorrow had taken the fight out of her completely. But she had been something of a fireball in her childhood years. Now she missed the way her high spirits had made her feel alive.

A tiny thrill ran through her.

Perhaps, after all, she should keep the letter, though its contents may be so much nonsense. Just having such a taboo possession would be a…a secret rebellion. Knowing she owned something that would infuriate her father—without the consequences of his anger—was oddly exhilarating.

In fact, she decided—with a bravado that could only come from her father’s absence from the house—she would read the entire letter. It would be amusing. And, now that she had made up her mind that Mr. Tobias Mannerly could not be taken seriously, she might even enjoy the excessive flattery. It was not every day a woman was called a goddess .

A furtive glance toward the corner of the room told her Katie’s attention was on her sewing. Good. She was a loyal companion, but the master of the house might frighten the truth from her. Better if she knew nothing to tell.

The page felt strangely warm to the touch when Sophia picked it up once more, as if the heat of its author’s fervor had been embossed upon the lines written there. Her cheeks flushed. She hesitated, her fingertips reaching involuntarily to touch her skin. It must be glowing. As long as Katie assumed it was the effect of the fire in the hearth, she was safe.

A delicious wave of subterfuge washed over her. She was getting away with something. It was only a small intrigue, but it was her very own, and she hugged it to herself.

Once more, she beheld the words that pulsed like a fever upon the page. This time, she drank them in—heady with the ardor of their author. And when she again reached the phrase “willing acolyte,” she pressed on, ready to hear the rest.

“ If you will but let me study at your feet, I would have you teach me the mystery of your muse. I have no gift for words myself, but words themselves are all that consume the hours in my day. What a privilege it would be to speak with one who has captured the wildness of thought and harnessed it without taming it, turning it to your will without breaking its raw spirit! You are, I am certain to my very core, a being with an essence most glorious. No language—not even yours—can possibly capture all that is you.

It would be my most profound honor to hear your thoughts on the great poets of history, for who can better understand them than one of their own? If you will permit me, I would ask to attend upon you at a day and hour of your choosing. I can offer little in return but my sincere thanks and what small insight I have gleaned from my devotion to books.

I await your reply with but a small pretense at patience.

Your humble servant,

Tobias Mannerly ”

Sophia felt the rosy warmth drain from her face. He wanted to meet her! No, no, no, no! That must never happen! It was too terrible a notion to even consider! Not only would Papa be wild with vexation at the thought of it, but she could not bear to be seen. Mr. Mannerly thought her to be a glorious thing. He was clearly exaggerating in an effort to compliment her. But, even allowing for this fact, his expectations were completely at odds with reality. What would he think when he came upon her, pale and thin, and bound to her sofa? Though his effusive flattery was pure fantasy, it was a fantasy she rather wanted to cling to.

He must be discouraged from any notion of meeting. That much was certain.

She hesitated. New, unbidden feelings had begun to stir in her breast. As long as she kept him at a distance…perhaps…perhaps she need not dissuade him from writing again. Sophia touched the page gingerly, its contents electrifying her fingertips. Still, it was only a letter, wasn’t it? She corresponded with several gentlemen on the topics of classical languages and the art of writing. Why should she not do so with Mr. Mannerly? She could insist that they stick to matters of literary interest.

Having made up her mind, she drew a new sheet to the center of the tray and dipped her quill into the ink. She would keep it short and formal. A few sentences would do. The quill scratched rapidly across the page, filling line after line and then ceasing abruptly. With the ink still wet, she shifted the page aside to dry and took up the original letter. She turned it over, looking for the address.

Newcliffe Hall.

That couldn’t be right. Newcliffe Hall was home to the Earl of Carthige. He was famously reclusive. Tobias Mannerly was unlikely to be a visitor there. But he could scarcely be a servant—not if he could write so well and had the means to satisfy his thirst for books. He was enough of a somebody to believe that her father would permit him entry to their home and access to his daughter. But who, nay, what was he?

Adriana would know. She flitted about in society, much to their father’s disgust. Her world was not limited to four walls and a maidservant. Sophia would find a way to ask her sister about Mr. Mannerly. And she would do so without divulging her secret letter.

Once again, her heart began to race, but it was a pleasant sort of thumping, like the galloping of a horse, free of constraint, with distant, unknown fields opening up before her. And, for the first time in many years, a Monday was filled with promise.

*

The old library was cold. It was a reminder that the room had never been intended as a library in the first place. It was on the wrong side of the house for a start, leaving the ancient pages exposed to damp and mold.

Many of the shelves were empty now. He was grateful that his uncle had listened to him, agreeing to move the collection to a warmer position better suited to preserving such precious works. Edmund Stopford was a man of culture, but his father before him had sought prey rather than prose, spending his time hunting all manner of quarry—including poachers. The family’s vast collection of books had been relegated to this obscure corner of the house, miraculously surviving a generation of stubborn disinterest.

Edmund Stopford, the latest Earl of Carthige, was a learned man and a great disappointment to his father. Ultimately, he had offered the final insult by having no heir, leaving his younger brother, a foppish man even more despised by their father than studious Edmund, to one day inherit the title and estate.

There had been a daughter too. Not that it mattered. Tobias was her son, a well-bred gentleman with no great fortune. His Uncle Edmund had recognized a kindred spirit and taken him under his wing. Thus, for the past several months, Tobias had found himself carting armloads of long-forgotten books into his uncle’s comfortable study, where the two men would devour the contents, catalogue the volumes, and re-home them in the new library.

Today, however, Tobias lingered among the drafty shelves of the old library, uncomfortable as it was. He wanted a few minutes to himself before setting to work on the next batch of books. In his hands, he held a letter—one he was both eager and nervous to open. She had written back. Regardless of what the letter said, it would be in her own hand, and her words addressed solely to him.

His uncle had warned him not to expect too much. The Grant family did not welcome strangers into their circle. Merely writing to her, uninvited, had been a risk. His uncle had told him as much. But Tobias, as usual, had rushed in where angels feared to tread. An invitation to their home was unlikely to be forthcoming. But Tobias had insisted on asking. What did he have to lose? If there was even the remotest chance that he might speak with the genius behind that sublime poetry… Well, he could but hope.

His hands shook a little as he opened the single page, his heart pounding in his ears. A few lines swam into focus. Oh, so very few! This did not bode well.

Dear Sir,

She had not even addressed him by name. Hope no longer supported him, and he sank into a nearby chair.

I thank you for your generous praise, though I fear it is not deserved. Perhaps, since you are so well-read, you would be willing to offer me helpful criticism, so that I may strive to earn the accolades you have heaped upon me. Correspondence of this nature would be most welcome.

Yours faithfully,

Sophia Grant

Tobias stared blankly at the page. She had completely misunderstood him. What possible criticism could he offer? Her writing was perfection!

Could he have offended her in some way? Why else would her reply be so starched? Where, in all his lavish praise, could she have felt slighted?

He had done it again—created distance where he sought connection. All his years at Harrow and Cambridge had taught him everything about Greek, Latin, and French, but nothing about women. They were an obscure subject that he seemed quite unable to master. His uncle was no help to him in this regard, being something of a hermit when not forced to attend Parliament.

His hapless attempt at communicating his intentions had driven Miss Sophia Grant into hiding. Where had he failed? He tried to remember his words, every single one of them admiring and sincere. Line upon line of full-throated…

Oh. Oh dear.

He had come on too strong. He had said absolutely everything he was thinking. It had been too much.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. She had drawn a line in the sand, and rightly so. He must have sounded like some drooling puppy. What an awful first impression he had made! He had only wanted to make her understand how masterful her writing was, what a gift it was to their generation.

Instead, she sought criticism. That was all very well. All great artists wanted to hone their craft. But what was he—a simple lover of beautiful words—supposed to add that she had not already thought of? And yet, if he hoped to correspond with her, that was the requirement.

He could not waste such a precious opportunity. Any communication with the talented Miss Grant should be grabbed with both hands. Although… er …perhaps grabbed somewhat more lightly this time.

There were no writing tools in this chilly mausoleum of a room. Taking the woeful letter up to his chambers, he set about his reply. It did not come to him immediately. As he pondered the right thing to say, he chewed upon the end of the quill, a habit that had driven his masters at Harrow to distraction.

Minutes passed and no inspiration came to him. But he must say something . Unconvinced that his current attempt would fare better than his last, he penned the best response he could manage.

Dear Miss Grant,

The task you have assigned me is unenviable. How am I to judge your writing when I am no writer myself? It would be the height of hubris. And if, as a reader, I am to say where you are lacking, I can only declare that there are too few of your works and I am unsatisfied to have nothing new of yours to savor.

Perhaps you would consider sharing with me a new project in the making? I might have useful advice where your thoughts are not yet fully cemented and your words not yet polished to perfection. As for your published works, I fear it is too late. Nothing can be done for them but to admire them unreservedly.

Yours most sincerely,

Tobias Mannerly

The letter was passed to the footman to be delivered with the utmost urgency. If Miss Grant were kind, she would reply this day still and put him out of his misery. She must surely be kind. He did not imagine someone who wrote so exquisitely could be anything but an angel.

But he had been wrong before.