“And when will you return?”
Clara considered.
“When you have learned to manage your household without frightening the maids.”
He groaned.
“Then I may never see you again.”
She laughed.
Then, before he could anticipate it, she rose upon her toes and kissed his cheek.
It was brief.
Perfectly innocent.
And entirely devastating.
Julian stood motionless.
Clara stepped back.
“Goodbye, Julian.”
He looked at her.
“Goodbye, Clara.”
She entered the carriage.
The door closed.
The horses moved forward.
Julian watched until the carriage disappeared beyond the gate.
Then he turned toward the house.
Mr. Pembroke stood upon the steps.
The butler examined his master.
“Your Grace.”
Julian sighed.
“Yes, Pembroke?”
“Shall I arrange for the morning correspondence to be brought to your study?”
Julian looked toward the empty drive.
“Yes.”
He paused.
“And Pembroke?”
“Your Grace?”
“If a letter arrives from Miss Langley, I should like it brought to me immediately.”
The butler bowed.
“Very good, sir.”
Julian took two steps.
Then stopped.
“Regardless of the hour.”
A faint smile appeared upon Pembroke's face.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Their letters began three days later.
At first, they were cautious.
Julian described the estate repairs.
Clara reported upon her visit to relatives in Bath.
He asked whether she had enjoyed the journey.
She complained about the weather.
He mentioned a book he had been reading.
She disagreed with his opinion of its heroine.
Within a fortnight, their correspondence had become the most important part of both their days.
Julian wrote about Matthew.
He confessed his regret at having misunderstood his brother for so many years.
He described the difficult process of correcting the estate accounts and the painful discovery that several people he had trusted had been aware of irregularities without reporting them.
Clara wrote about her mother.
She described the orchard as it had been in her childhood, the smell of apples in September, the little paths between the trees, and the afternoons spent reading beneath their branches.
She admitted that she had wept when she learned the oldest tree had fallen.
Julian did not attempt to reassure her that the loss was insignificant.
He wrote instead that grief was entitled to its proper place.
It was one of the first letters Clara read with tears in her eyes.
They argued about agricultural improvements.
They discussed politics, books, and the treatment of returning soldiers.
Clara questioned Julian's fondness for hunting.
Julian objected to her habit of remaining awake past midnight reading.
She informed him that his objection was unreasonable.
He replied that he had begun to regard that word as a term of affection.
Their letters grew longer.
And gradually, without either intending it, they became something very close to love letters.
On Christmas Eve, Julian received a parcel.
Inside lay a small cushion embroidered with dark blue thread.
Upon it were the words:
AN UNBEARABLE WOMAN.
He stared at the cushion.
Then began laughing.
He laughed so loudly that Lady Honoria appeared at the door, convinced something extraordinary had happened.
Julian showed it to her.
She examined the embroidery.
Then sighed.