“No. Jane is not cold. I hope you don't mind me saying, Mr. Fox, you’re something of a poet with your words. I approve. And you're a bit chatty, aren't you?”
Mr. Fox blushed. “Mr. Wolfe says I should not talk so much. Poetic or not,hedoes not approve. My apologies, my lord. I will refrain from speaking now. And the rest of the days of our association. Which I hope is long and fruitful. Bother. I do tend to speak too much and too often. Oh no. I’ve done it again. I’m doing it. I’ll stop. Now.”
George laughed, a full-belly sound. It was damned good to have a friendly soul at hand. “Do not hold your peace because of me. I rather like my mornings filled with chatter.”
Mr. Fox brightened. “We are a perfect pair then, my lord.”
“I must concur.” Jane had not only found him a valet; Jane had found him the perfect valet.
“Done, my lord.” Mr. Fox stepped back and admired George’s reflection in the looking glass. “What do you think? Did I perform to your expectations?”
“Perfectly so, Mr. Fox. I’ll leave you to familiarize yourself with my things.” He needed to find Jane and thank her.
The hallway was quiet. He’d break his fast as he waited for Jane to rise and join the waking. If only she waked beside him.
Patience, he counseled himself. All in good time.
“Oh, my lord.”
George swung around to find Mr. Fox striding toward him, a letter in his outstretched hand. “This came for you this morning.”
George took the epistle. “Thank you.” Another letter. So soon? It could not bode well. The paper burned holes in his fingers, though he held it but lightly, only touching it enough so it would not drop.
He entered the breakfast room, but it was not empty as he had expected. Jane sat at the long table, staring out the window on the other side of the room. She was turned so her back and neck were open to his view. Her red shawl slipped down her shoulders revealing the modest green gown. Mr. Fox had been right. She was like a winter garden, red and green and hardy, a survivor in harsh conditions. No wilting summer rose, his Jane.
“Good morning,” he said in a voice that did not sound like his.
She turned, her face breaking into a radiant smile. “I am going to announce my decision this morning. What do you think?”
Perhaps it was no ill omen. Perhaps Martha wrote to give him more good news. If he opened it, he would know. But what if knowing dashed all his recently grown hope? What if these were his last moments with it? He drank in the sight of Jane as he sat next to her, her hair up in a loose coil of some sort, a rogue lock nestled about her neck like the jewelry he hoped one day to place there.
He set the letter on the table before him while she busied herself pouring him a cup of coffee, streaming a rich cream into it, and giving it a stir. Just as he liked.Shewas just as he liked.
He lifted her hands away from the cups and saucers and spoons and to his lips.
Her smile grew as he placed a gentle kiss there.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you think? I am trying to be brave. Do you approve?” Pink rose in her cheeks.
“I think… I’ve received a letter from Martha.” He released her hand.
She settled it in her lap. “Good news, I hope.”
“I’ve not opened it yet.”
Her brows pulled together. “But why not? Are you afraid it’s bad news?”
He bit his tongue.
Footsteps in the hall, then grins in the doorway.
Mr. Dour, Mr. Newburton, and Mr. Quillsby spilled into the room one after the other. Did they sleep in some sort of suitor barracks together? A stable for matrimonial candidates?
Jane lifted a hand in greeting. “Good morning!”
They greeted her similarly and busied themselves with breaking their fast. George barely heard or saw them. The stark white of the letter swallowed all he viewed. The sound paper makes when it is unfolded lived in his ears, and deeper than these, the remembered echoes of his uncle’s cries. Years and years of his uncle’s howls.
Unable to resist any longer, George picked off the sealing wax and unfolded the letter.
