When the young man smiled wider than the Thames, Thea suspected he had a fondness for baked goods. Either that or he’d caught sight of the painted nudes.
His next words illustrated how very wrong she was. “I’m right glad he found you, miss.”
He being Lord Tremayne?
Well, of course. Who else could the footman mean? But to be told so directly—that a servant was glad his master had “found” her?
It was…unexpected, unusual.
It was flattering to the point that flutters abounded in her belly as Thea situated herself at the angled writing desk. She used the familiar task of readying the quill as she contemplated just what to say.
How did one answer the first note from their new protector? (Dare she hope it was the first of several?)
More importantly, how did she respond to the man who’d spent his seed on her back in the most intimate of acts but who hadn’t spoken more than a paragraph to her all evening? And a paltry paragraph at that.
“Just reply to him as he addresses you,” the words were out before she’d thought them through, echoing a semblance of Sarah’s previous advice. “Same tone, same length.”
Aye, that should suffice.
Thirty minutes later, a significant portion of which she’d wasted staring at the blank sheet, Thea had finally managed to fill it in, not quite to capacity but close. She wafted the page through the air, encouraging the ink to dry.
Lord Tremayne,
I delight in finding common ground, for despite public opinion to the contrary, I do not find much to appreciate in Byron. Based on the works I’ve read, he’s overly dramatic for my tastes. Robert Burns, now, I adore and admit to a frisson (a small one, I assure you) of dismay at learning you hold no particular fondness for poetry. None at all? Are you quite certain? (I must clarify, you see, as it is something I find nearly incomprehensible.)
As to the volume you sent, I will treasure it always (are not gifts meant to be treasured?) though I will admit I am already in possession of this particular volume—and through no purchase of my own. I come to think mayhap Hatchards put it on sale?
Please, I beseech you, read the next few lines with your mind unfettered by past opinions:
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
Do these lines not speak to you? Are you not curious to know more? To learn the fate of this dear, wee beastie?
What of the incomparable Mr. William Shakespeare? Do you find anything in his work recommends itself to you? Oh, dear. I believe this must be a magical quill I employ for it has quite run away with my tongue. Do forgive me. (But here, I must interject: this new home I find myself situated in feels magical indeed. It is lovely. More serene than anywhere I’ve lived before. I do thank you, most sincerely. And will endeavor to please you in exchange.)
I anticipate tonight with a smile.
Dor Thea
“Same tone, same length?” Bah. Brevity had never been one of her particular talents.
Frowning at herself, Thea folded the paper and sealed it with wax and the generic stamp she’d found in the desk. “You’d better hope that during the reading of it he doesn’t nod off.”
Daniel laughed and laughed again.
The demure little chit had taken him to task! That would teach him to deride all poetry in one unwarranted swoop.
And serene? She found that garish abode serene?
Another chuckle escaped.
He checked his pocket watch. It was scarce after 2:00 p.m. Hours yet until dark. Hours yet until he could feast his starved eyes on her again and see whether she was truly as lovely as he recalled.
“Rum fogged, I am,” he muttered, reaching for another sheet.
Ah. I see now.
Like a pokered-up prig of a tutor, you’ve decided I shall admire poetic lines or else? Is that it?
As to the verses you so, ah, eloquently shared, might I put forth a request for future examples to be in English? My beastie-gibberish has fair run amok, you see. And the longer I attempt to decipher what causes your wee beastie’s breastie to panic, I fear my own crown office has been split asunder by a “murd’ring pattle” (what, pray, is a pattle, murdering or otherwise?).
No doubt, now you’ll be regretting the bargain we’ve made, your fair, fine breastie in a bickering brattle (though what the deuce that is, I haven’t a clue) over your benefactor’s lack of appreciation for lyrical, metrical prose. What can I do to redeem myself in your eyes?
Aha! Inspiration strikes…
He jumped up to scrounge his library. After a thorough search, he retrieved several leather-bound volumes from one of the topmost shelves. Volumes that sent dust motes dancing in the air when he dared blow on them. Volumes that protested when he opened the aged spines for the first time since inheriting the London house along with the title but that practically sang to him when he started reading…and searching…
Mayhap I should illustrate my tastes in poetic literature? If nothing else to set your concern to rest.
To borrow a bit from the glorious Bard himself…
HAMLET: Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
OPHELIA: No, my lord.
HAMLET: I mean, my head upon your lap?
OPHELIA: Ay, my lord.
HAMLET: Do you think I meant country matters?
OPHELIA: I think nothing, my lord.
HAMLET: That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.
OPHELIA: What is, my lord?
HAMLET: Nothing.
OPHELIA: You are merry, my lord.
Me? A merry lord? I confess it’s not something I’ve ever thought of myself—until just this moment. Perhaps it is your poetical prompting that makes it so.
Ergo, as
