The three sisters sat down and put their heads together to compose the letter. There was much rewriting and rephrasing and many tearful objections from Milly at the bluntness of the missive. But as Zoë pointed out, “Your mama does not understand subtlety, Milly.”
And when her objections became too much, Zoë turned to her in frustration, saying, “So you want to marry the spider now, do you? Fine. We’ll throw this letter into the fire and you can write to your Thaddeus and tell him to go back to Sheffield, forget about you and find some braver girl to marry.”
Which stopped the objections, if not the tears, in mid-flow.
The final letter read:
Dear Mama
I am sorry to Distress you, but I cannot and will not marry the Marquess of Blenkinsop. I am very Grateful for all you have done on my behalf, but I cannot be happy with that man.
I have met Another, and he has offered me Marriage. He is a most respectable young man, with a Handsome Fortune, but no Title. Most importantly, he Loves me and I love him. When you see me next I will be married. I am sorry that you will miss my wedding, but you have given me No Choice.
Mama, whenever we have met with the marquess, he has talked more to you than to me. I believe he Likes you Very Much. And, Mama, you are still a Young and very Attractive woman.
Lady Tarrant was almost Forty when she gave birth to Lord Tarrant’s dear little son and heir, and she’s now expecting a second child. You are several years younger than she. You could give the marquess the child he wants. And you would be a Marchioness, which surely is Better than being the Mother of one.
Don’t bother to look for me. I am safe, staying with sympathetic friends.
I am sorry to part like this. I love you, Mama, but forcing me to marry the marquess against my will has driven me to this Desperate and Unhappy Course.
Your loving daughter,
Milly
They all heaved a sigh of relief when Milly copied the final version out in a fair hand—albeit with numeroustearstained blotches—but as Clarissa pointed out, “Her mother should know she hasn’t made this decision easily.”
Once sealed and addressed, Izzy took it to hand to Matteo, who would arrange to have it delivered to Mrs. Harrington by some anonymous and untraceable person.
Once that was done, Zoë’s thoughts returned to the question of Reynard. Or, as she supposed she should learn to call him, Lord Foxton.
“You’d better invite the poor man to call on you at my place,” Izzy told Zoë later that evening.
“What do you mean, ‘poor man’?” Zoë began, but Izzy just laughed.
“I think half drowning him will give him enough pause for thought. Whatever he did, I suspect you’ve punished him enough. He clearly wants to talk with you, and is obviously anxious to make amends. And if you don’t mind me saying so, little sister, you don’t seem exactly indifferent to him, either, so hadn’t you better get it over and done with?”
Zoë sighed. She was right. She’d been thinking about what Reynard—Lord Foxton—had told her about the paintings so far. She still had doubts, but she should at least let him finish. “Very well. What about tomorrow at two?”
“Perfect. Now write him a note—no,Ishall write him a note inviting him to call at two tomorrow. I shan’t mention your name at all. If he can’t work it out, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“Deserve me?” Zoë was inclined to be indignant. “What makes you think this is anything to do with…with whatever it is you think it is?” She couldn’t bring herself to name it. Her sisters were making too many assumptions as it was. They practically had her walking down the aisle already, and she hadn’t yet made up her mind whether she believed a word he said, let alone any feelings she might have for him. Or not.
Izzy just smiled and patted her cheek. “We shall see, won’t we?”
“I starteddoing it after I left the army,” Reynard told her. He’d arrived at Izzy and Leo’s house promptly at two and was shown into the smaller of the sitting rooms, where a fire was crackling cozily. Zoë had awaited his arrival, pacing back and forth until she heard the front doorbell ring, upon which she threw herself into an armchair, snatched up a magazine and was languidly turning pages when he entered.
“A friend of mine had the idea of trying to retrieve the collection of a family he knew, one of the grand families whose home was destroyed in the Revolution. They’d escaped with their lives, but not much else, and many years later when they found one of their paintings for sale in a French gallery, it occurred to my friend that there might be more remaining. The looting was mostly done by the local peasantry. So he suggested the plan to me.
“I thought it a worthy pursuit. I had planned to just wander through Italy, going where the breeze took me, painting whatever I felt like—Italy is a glorious source of artistic inspiration—but he talked me into joining him in France. He’s the fellow I mentioned who got married recently, whose bride wasn’t interested in becoming a vagabond with him.”
She nodded.
“And it worked. We were able to retrieve several of the paintings that the family of my friend had owned. They were delighted. And the people who owned them were only too pleased to have their own portraits instead. And since then, we’ve done it in several places and retrieved a number of valuable paintings.”
She nodded slowly. It made sense. And she knew how she’d felt seeing that painting with her mother and uncle and grandparents. It wasn’t just about money; it was about feelings.
He continued. “So for several years I lived the life of avagabond artist, doing something I enjoyed and felt was worthwhile. Nothing suited me better. Then, when I inherited my father’s title and responsibilities, I was most disheartened.”
