With a clinking of our glasses, I endured the date that His Grace had arranged for the two of us. Watercress sandwiches paired with thinly sliced meats, as well as a pound cake made for a pleasant surprise, which was enough to justify my being there. As our accompaniment drew to a close, His Grace began to drone on about the increasing business of his schedule, lamenting how he wished to rather spend more of his time with me. I secretly took delight in the prospect that he would soon be too busy to see me, and worked hard to stifle the crack of a smile. Though in truth I desired for the coming days to last, I assured him that our separation would be brief. I regret that the latter proved to be true.
In the days following our picnic, His Grace wasted no time in waiting to be reunited. Utilizing the aid of Rebecca, he sent letters upon letters in his absence, making me dreadfully aware of his infatuation. Much to my repulse, the contents of his writing were reminiscent of his monologue from our previous dinner. He recounted sweet nothings of my features, the joy that was to be had in our marriage, and how ‘wounded’ he felt that we wouldn’t be spending the day in person and instead through penmanship. Reading every one of them felt increasingly nauseating, leading me to wonder to what end did he make such a fuss as to handwrite them each night. I neglected to ever send a reply to any of his letters though, as unlike the ladies that might fawn over His Grace, I took no pleasure in receiving them. Soon, Rebecca’s knock at my door became synonymous with reminders of him, and I grew resentful of each envelope set upon my desk.
As a pile began to form one night, I plotted to rid myself of them altogether and considered the least conspicuous method in disposing of them. Although I’d have been wise to spend this time conceiving plans to address the threat of His Lordship, I became rather engrossed in my quest to purge his nuisance. Hunched over my desk, my eyes draw towards the flickering of a candle. Its flame tempts me to burn away his every last word and I embrace the idea wholeheartedly. Careful to not burn myself, I patiently lower the corner of each letter into the lit candle. As fire threatens to catch, I make certain that the night’s breeze won’t blow it out and instead, merely carry the smoke out before raising suspicion. As the flame makes its way across the envelope, I become weary of its encroach on my hand. I try holding it upside down, presuming that might deter it from singing my fingertips, but that doesn’t do much to quell the threat of being burned. More fearful than strategic, I set the remaining part of the letter atop the candle, allowing the wick to finish it off.
I watch as ash pollutes the pool of melted wax, spreading its charcoal gray throughout. Peering up at the state of my room’s atmosphere, most of the smoke seems to have drifted out without incident. Turning my gaze back towards the pile of five days worth of love letters, I consider the simplicity of repeating the process. Though this first attempt was with minor drawbacks, it was at least successful. Working up my courage, I make the decision to burn the rest. Having laid them out neatly in a row, I grew eager with each envelope’s cremation. At last, my desk would be at peace from any reminder of His Grace, just as it had been before. My escapade closed with casting out what little ashy remains piled along the candle’s tray and succumbing to a night’s rest. Closing my eyes, I felt lighter knowing his sweet nothings had been swiftly discarded, and he was none the wiser. Good riddance.
Shortly after my wake, both handmaids enter with a pushcart, and Adela offers to tend to the needs of my morning ritual. Obliging to her request, I shuffle over to my vanity, sitting in wait as they make their entry. In Rebecca’s follow close behind Adela, I feel myself grow leery of her hand as it reaches for her apron’s pocket. Her habit heralded yet another of His Grace’s sweet nothings and she would soon hand it over for me to read.
“My Lady,” Rebecca said, revealing the envelope, “It is another letter from His Grace.” Turning to face her, I offer an outstretched palm.
“Thank you,” I say delicately, reluctant in my acceptance. The paper crinkles in my grasp as I collect it from her.
“Of course,” she replies, with a bow. Adela then reveals to my breakfast, and proceeds with combing my hair. Meanwhile, Rebecca goes to work sorting through my armoire and eventually comes across a dark violet dress, sophisticated in spite of the ruffles along its trim. Soon, I was fastened into my corset. Rebecca was just finishing the overlays of my gown when she started to remark about the handful of letters she’s delivered this past week. “If you don’t mind my saying, My Lady, it would seem quite thoughtful of His Grace to have written to you.” Though I consider her attempt at conversation hails from a place of goodwill, she is sorely mistaken in her impression of the future duke.
“Quite,” I smile with widened eyes, “Though, I’m not certain ‘thoughtful’ would be the best term to describe him.”
“Oh,” Rebecca pauses, curious, “What might be preferable?”
“Well,” I suggest slyly, reaching for the letter opener, “Perhaps he is more accurately described as calculated, seen as how I wouldn’t assume sending a drove of love letters is very considerate.”
“Ah, well,” Rebecca answers, with a wavering certainty, “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped my boundaries.” She starts a retreat for the mattress to busy herself with the task of bedding.
“Of course not, Rebecca,” I console, puncturing the envelope, “It wasn’t you who wrote each painstaking letter–that fault alone lies with His Grace.”
“Certainly,” Rebecca agrees, fluffing my pillows. Tearing through the letter’s lip, I set the knife aside. I slip my fingers into the envelope, and lift out yet another poorly timed note. I shoot a blinded glare at the ink penmanship before pinching the top of the page with either hand. The drawn out sound of my tearing it in half alerts my handmaids of my disdain. “My Lady,” Rebecca perks up, stunned by my response. “What might you be doing–if you don’t mind my asking, that is?” she quickly clarifies.
“Hmm?” I retort aloofly, rising from my seat, “I’m merely doing what any lady would have done had she received a letter from the likes of His Grace.”
“Yes, of course,” she concurs, “but might you in the bare least consider his effort?” Her eyes follow my stride towards my desk candle. I go to light the wick, but Rebecca continues. “Perhaps he means to surprise you, My Lady?” she offers, oddly torn by my motion to burn the letter. Lowering the paper halves, the letter begins giving way to smoke. “My Lady, please,” she insists, almost as though she was trying to warn me. I look back at her discerningly as a flame threatens to catch. “Ah,” she answers, now uncomfortable to have caught my attention, “I merely mean to suggest it may serve you to give it a glance.” Pulling the torn page away from the candle, I address her.
“You say it might serve me?” I inquire, curious as to what information she’s been withholding. Adela silently peers up from the pushcart at Rebecca and I, watching the interrogation unfold. “How might that be, Rebecca?” She parts her lips to speak, but it seems indecision holds her tongue. Narrowing my eyes at her, I lower my gaze back to the papers, which now have traces of ash that line their burnt edges. I hold either half together and skim the contents of his letter for whatever might explain her behavior. As the realization of my error sets in, my expression mirrors that of Rebecca’s, and I too am at a loss for words. Careful in my approach around the bed, I glance back at the door.
“Rebecca,” I say in a stern whisper, “Where is he, now?”
“He should be on his way here, My Lady,” she whispers, apologetic in her tone.
“Alright, then I–” A knock at the door reverberates through our hushed exchange. I look instinctively at Adela, who appears cautious as she awaits my given instruction. “Adela,” I affirm, speaking at a volume that would be considered normal to any passerby, “You may answer that.” As she concedes to my request, I begin my anxious glance around my room, desperate for a place to conceal the torn letter. Throw it out the window? Crumble it? Someone might find it. My bed? The mattress- yes, I can stuff it under my mattress. “Excuse me, Rebecca,” I offer quietly, negligent as I shove the pieces past her.
“Good morning, Lady Avalor.” I frantically set my hands at my side, trying to disguise the fact that they previously weren’t. In the corner of my eye, a gray smudge stains the bottom of the tucked in sheet.
“Good morning, Lord Nikkolas,” I greet, with a crude smile. Adela stands to hold up the door for His Grace. He stands at the edge of my room, with his hands clasped in front of him. His arrival was foretold in his recent letter, only having been made clear to me mere moments ago by Rebecca. She must have been let in on it prior, likely some would-be spectator in his unwelcome surprise.
“May I come in?” he asks.
“Of course.”
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