My, but you ask many questions. Here are the answers in order:
I’ve no clue as to the artists’ well-being. They’ve left, and the next time they arrive like a plague of locusts, I shall not be in residence.
I don’t care one way or another for alliteration, though it’s clear you are particularly fond of it. A young poet once composed a poem in my honor entirely of words beginning with P. I’ll let you decide whether or not it was any good. And no, you do not have to read it to make a judgment. So do not ask. When I did not immediately praise the work, the poet wrenched it from my hands and tossed it in the fire.
Hm. Am I lucky?
Two bedrooms sounds fine, indeed. What need have we of hundreds of rooms? Unless it’s to house the artists you promise to evict.
Maggie stood and read the letter aloud, pacing across the room and back again. “I’m just as ridiculous as he.” He made her feel light and worry-free and the letter reflected that. But she did have a worry he could lay to rest. If she could convince him to do so. She sat and set pen to paper once more.
I fear I’ve spent my words unwisely. You tease me into playfulness so easily. But I must confess, I’ve been wondering about one of your secrets. I know you said not to expect a full revelation of yourself to me, but I am curious. Have you ever been in love?
Shall we play our game once more? A secret for a secret. I’ll go first.
I thought I was in love before. Twice before. I became engaged to marry both men.
And you? What ladies have you hidden in your past? Or present?
Sincerely,
Lady Maggie Bromley
* * *
Tobias made it partly through the letter before he slapped his leg and laughed, raising a tumbler of scotch to the bear head mounted on the wall of his study. He’d found it in an old curiosity shop and taken a shine to it. “Sebastian, old friend, I do believe I’ve lucked out. It’s not every day a man finds himself compromised by a peach of a lady. I think we suit well indeed. Oh, don’t grumble at me like that, you old bear. You’ll like her. Whether or not she likes you is another matter. You are smelling a bit musty these days.” He took a sip of his drink and read the rest of the letter. His muscles went slack and he lifted a serious gaze toward the bear. “Engaged? And to who is what I’d like to know!” Tobias strode to his desk and sat down with a plop, sharpened a pen, dipped it in ink, and set it to paper.
Maggie, dearest,
Alliteration is grand. Do not ask me to explain. I could sooner explain the mysteries of my own heart. I venture to say your poor poet’s poem was alliteratively arresting, a poem to be proud of, a literary landmark for the ages. And burned! I mourn.
I ignore your question about luck. You tease me, but I will not let youwoundme.
Most importantly, you must know … we’re moving. Or rather,I’mmoving. You cannot move from someplace you’ve never lived. But youwilllive in the new house. With me, of course. Sans artists, though, you’ll be happy to know. I found, in the end, they simply would not leave, and it became imperative to secure new lodgings for us in order to avoid permanent roommates of a most undesirable kind.
For you, at least. I’ve never minded them so very much. The artists are pests, but they have their uses, too. I’ll miss having new paintings for the walls every month. And freshly embroidered cushions for the furniture. One industrious soul even painted the furniture fresh weekly. The green week I enjoyed. The black week I did not.
There is one artist you will not be able to rid yourself of. Me.
Are you furious with me yet? I’ve rambled on almost incoherently and not once mentioned the question that burns in my brain. Who, dearest Mags, were you engaged to? And do you still think yourself in love with either fellow?
And where do they live? And what is their weakness, besides you, of course?
Three weeks,
Tobias
He sanded it and reread it. He’d saved the point he truly wanted to address for very last. Engaged twice before?! And she thought the blackmail would shock him. This took years off his life. She’d notice, of course, that he’d not answered her question.Have you ever been in love?His chest tightened. Her letter confessed all to him, and she deserved a confession in return, but he had never talked about Celia with a single soul. Perhaps she would not notice the omission.
* * *
Maggie sat on the stone bench in the dying garden and laughed until the birds flew away in fright. Halfway through the letter, he had not yet mentioned what she really wished to know, though. She finished reading then folded it carefully and slipped it in the pocket of her spencer.
He’d avoided answering her question.
She stood and paced back and forth, kicking a pebble that rolled across her path. She stomped her foot. “No. I’ll not let him.”
Leaving the birds to peace and quiet, she marched inside and to the first desk she knew held letter-writing materials. Sitting with a stiff back and even stiffer spirit, she wrote a matter-of-fact and focused response.
