8:24 a.m.
The hearty breakfast consumed (between the three of them once Thea persuaded the couple to join her), Thea slipped into place at her writing desk and readied her quill, letting the anticipation mount. She couldn’t wait to read the remaining missive from Lord Tremayne.
She opened the For Tomorrow page and, after smoothing the creases with a palm that tingled as it came into such close proximity to his words, began to read.
Thea—
Never fear that anything you care to impart would be unwelcome. As to poetry by your own hand? I am agog with impatience to read what shall no doubt be a sublime and impressive effort. Write on, fair one…
Pertaining to the barmaid comparison you so indelicately suggested—put those pesky one-syllable B’s to bed (or perhaps let me escort you there instead?) for you’re much too refined to ever be considered thus.
I pray you have fond memories of last evening.
I await with breath bated (and mouth longingly recalling your taste—I hope) for your entertaining reply.
He’d signed it “T”, casually, as though they truly were friends.
It was but a moment before Thea’s quill was soaring across a fresh page.
For shame! Talk of escorting me to bed, tut-tut. (Though I must be shameful as well for I think of the same—with a frequency I might find alarming had you not mentioned it first.) For double shame: mentioning—and before it even occurred—what your mouth did last night, where it ventured.
Really, Lord Tremayne!
With naught but a parenthetical aside, you whisk me upstairs and beneath the mirror, my limbs quivering so that one would think I am cold. Alas, no. You heat my insides to sweltering with the bold strokes of your pen (and your tongue) but I shall endeavor to cool myself off.
Quickly now.
There. I’ve raised the window so the invigorating breeze can blow hither and thither my overheated yearnings. Yearnings that only deepen as memories (yes, I confess to many where last evening is concerned) besiege my brain, rendering me—
“Aaaaa-chooo!” As the wind turned frigid, the unexpected sneeze caught her off guard.
Ack! Rain droplets pelt the sill and now the floor and—
8:41 a.m.
When a second sneeze followed the first, she hurriedly closed the window, coming back to her chair and seeing with dismay three ink blotches caused by renegade rain, as well as how much of the page she’d taken up—with lurid flirting!
What would her mother say?
She’d be pleased pink you’ve found someone to be yourself with and you know it.
“But such a naughty self?” Thea whispered, blotting the worst of the mess from the page. “Who knew?”
There now. I’ve ceased allowing the rain into the room and onto the page, and now I must cease my chatter. Else how will I ever complete this missive during daylight hours?
You state without equivocation (I feel compelled to remind you) that you would like to be privy to my early compositionary efforts. Please bear in mind, they came to the fore shortly after I celebrated my ninth birthday.
And so, my lord, due solely to your encouragement, I shall mitigate my pending embarrassment and share my poetical talents, minimal though they are:
Drip. Drip. Drip it goes.
All day long, it grows…
The pile, the dripping,
Gluey, sticky pile…from his nose.
A sonnet (or is it an ode?) dedicated to Mr. Freshley of the Dripping Nose.
Thea (who will hurriedly blow hers and hope she’s not given you a dislike for her magical quill—or her taste in literature)
8:53 a.m.
She sat.
8:56 a.m.
And sat some more.
9:02 a.m.
Prowled across the room. Looked out into the empty hallway, scowled at the stairs leading down to the footmanless kitchen. Scowled again toward the closed front door. She returned to her drawing room and sat down again.
9:04 a.m.
She waited. Contemplated. Huffed a hearty sigh. Drank a delicious cup of the rapidly cooling tea.
9:11 a.m.
She stood and crossed the room again (twelve times to be precise). Then her posterior greeted the chair once more where she cogitated further on exactly what to do with her reply.
For once, there was no one waiting in the wings to deliver it. No exuberant, button-eating youth ready to speed it to its recipient. No stern-faced, kind-hearted man reaching out to receive it in person.
Nay, there was simply one lone (and swiftly growing frustrated) “virgin” mistress wondering what the deuce she should do.
9:18 a.m.
Her foot tapped a jittery tattoo upon the rug. Her fingers drummed upon the sealed note—and with sufficient agitation to rattle the desktop. Her breath heaved forth like an angry horse blowing steam.
9:41 a.m.
“Hummmmmmmmmmmm.”
Drat. Only thirteen seconds.
9:42 a.m.
Deep breath. “Hummmmmmmmmmmmmm.”
Better. Seventeen this time.
9:43 a.m.
Here we go. “Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-egck! Eeegkk!!”
Knock. “Why, Miss Thea, you’re turning blue! Here now, borrow one of my shawls. And I’ll warm ye some more tea.”
9:50 a.m.
9:51 a.m.
Did she smell peaches?
9:52 a.m.
9:53 a.m.
9:54 a.m.
Had she ever checked a clock as frequently?
9:55 a.m.
Hated contraptions.
9:56 a.m.
She should have dismantled this one an hour ago.
9:57 a.m.
Well now.
Just what the devil should she do with her note?
9:58 a.m.
Ball it up and have a snack with her tea?
By 10:07 a.m. Thea had swallowed her nerves and snatched up her letter and marched down to the kitchen to inquire whether Mr. Samuels had Lord Tremayne’s direction.
“I have an inklin’ of his neighborhood but not an exact address,” he’d told her. “Before movin’ in, we dealt with the agency and his man of affairs, Miss Thea, not his lordship directly. I could inquire, run round to the agency and—”
“Nay. That isn’t necessary,” she responded, reached for a peach scone hot from the oven, and furtively crept back to her writing desk (perhaps there were unspotted raindrops she could scrub from the rug or the wall).
By 10:26 a.m. Thea had also declined Mr. Samuels’ offer of inquiring via his lordship’s man of affairs. She’d paced the room another twelve times (times twenty), and watched the clock tick with wretched slowness.
She’d also declined another pot of tea, another scone, and feeling sorry for herself.
Self-pity would never do!
Of course Lord Tremayne would send Buttons by soon. Last eve, he’d seemed as eager as she
