Work Text:
The couples danced and dazzled in the principal drawing room of Bridgerton House, moving gracefully in time with the music. Crystal chandeliers spilled a warm, golden light upon silken gowns, while laughter and conversation intertwined in the corners, each cluster seeming wholly absorbed in its own private world.
Miss Eloise Bridgerton lingered in one such corner, deftly avoiding the couples as they whirled across the floor. Unlike them, she had no partner.
She released a long, restrained sigh.
It was not as though she had expected to have one—or so she had always insisted to herself. She had thought as much for years and saw no reason to alter her opinion… or did she?
Eloise had come to accept that perhaps there would never exist anyone truly suitable for her—someone capable of fulfilling her extensive list of qualifications for the esteemed position of husband. Why, then, should she settle for less? Merely to appease the dictates of polite society, which deemed it little short of a crime for a lady of her standing to declare herself contentedly unmarried?
And yet, perhaps she resisted for a deeper reason: for the first time in many years, she felt alone.
For a long while, she had believed that as long as she enjoyed the companionship of Penelope or Benedict, all would be well. Perhaps that was why she had felt so wounded and betrayed when her brother resolved to marry the Lady in Silver. She knew she had been selfish and unfair, but feelings seldom bowed to reason.
She was immensely happy for Benedict—truly she was. Above all, she rejoiced that she could now call Sophie her sister, for there was nothing more comforting than having another woman of progressive sensibilities within the family. However, the fact that they spent most of their time at My Cottage, hours away from London, rendered maintaining their closeness terribly difficult for Eloise.
And Penelope—though still her dearest friend and residing just across the street—was now absorbed in her novel and her new life as a mother. They no longer shared as much time as they once had.
Cressida occasionally invited her to take tea, but her recent marriage and impending confinement left her with little leisure.
Fortunately, she had Hyacinth, with whom she had forged a closer and more cordial bond. Yet even her spirited sister had found fresh distractions among her friends—young ladies soon to make their debut. Eloise knew that, with the arrival of the next Season, her company would be still more scarce.
And so she found herself now: with no one to converse with at a ball hosted by her own sister-in-law, in her own home.
Her gaze drifted to the far end of the room, where Francesca and Michaela conversed animatedly with her mother. A gentle smile curved her lips. She felt happy for them as well. Fortunately, the Queen had shown extraordinary benevolence in allowing them to remain together, though the rest of society would neither know of it nor accept it.
It was hardly surprising. If the world could scarcely tolerate the marriage of an illegitimate daughter and former servant to a gentleman, how could it possibly accept the love and union of two women? Thankfully, secrets existed—and her family excelled at keeping them.
A small wedding was being planned; rather, a symbolic ceremony to celebrate their love. Benedict and Sophie had suggested holding it at My Cottage, and Michaela had insisted that Benedict himself should officiate.
Who would have thought it? Had anyone told her a year ago that her brother—who was himself drawn to men—would preside over the union of his sister with another woman, Eloise would have burst into laughter.
Yet the conclusion was inescapable: even Francesca had someone.
Heaven—and her mother—knew she had never been an ardent enthusiast of marriage. For three Seasons she had evaded that fate with admirable skill. However, she was no longer entirely certain she wished to continue doing so.
Upon honest reflection, the notion did not strike her as absurd. She had never repudiated love; after all, she had been raised in a family overflowing with it. She could not hide behind such an argument to avoid marriage. And though she despised the way young ladies regarded it as the sole aspiration of their lives, there was nothing inherently objectionable in it—provided it was contracted with someone who shared her political and personal ideals, and with whom she might forge a profound friendship beyond mere affection.
Thus, at the start of the Season, she had resolved to permit herself to be courted. Not by just anyone, of course. Her suitors were required to meet certain qualifications and, if possible, possess a measure of attractiveness. It was not her foremost priority, but neither did she intend to pretend it held no importance.
Accordingly, she allowed a pair of gentlemen to pay her their addresses. Some, to her own surprise, engaged her in stimulating conversations regarding the rights of women and espoused views more liberal than those commonly held by men of the ton.
And, without wishing to concede her mother the satisfaction of being right, she was obliged to admit that the experience had not been entirely disagreeable.
Yet none proved sufficient.
On three separate occasions, when a gentleman offered her marriage, the proposals invariably concluded in the same manner: money, estates, and titles.
Eloise was not naïve. She understood the importance of such matters and knew that, beyond the shelter of her family, marriage was little more than a commercial arrangement. Still, it made her feel like a cow about to be auctioned, her worth dependent solely upon the quality of her meat and the productivity of her milk.
She knew that, for many women of the ton, marriage represented freedom and independence from their families. But was it truly so? Ought she not to obtain something more than a title, a fortune that did not belong to her, and a renewed wardrobe? Was there not, in all of England, a man capable of offering her something more?
“Bored, sister?”
Eloise turned with a start at the sudden sound of Anthony’s voice. The viscount regarded her with a faint smile, holding a glass of champagne with impeccable composure.
“As everyone appears to have someone with whom to converse, I suppose I am.”
Anthony nodded in understanding.
To her own surprise, Eloise had grown rather close to her brother since returning permanently to the family home. With Benedict absent the greater part of the time, Anthony had shown himself more benevolent and understanding toward her—and she, in turn, toward him. On more than one occasion, she had been grateful for his timely interventions, rescuing her from an importunate suitor or any gentleman incapable of comprehending a refusal, whether at breakfast in Bridgerton House or at a ball.
She did not relish the notion of requiring a man to rescue her; nevertheless, she did not object to her brother reminding certain gentlemen who was head of the family—something she herself could never do. Though she had to admit, she found it exceedingly entertaining to watch them blanch before the wrath of Viscount Bridgerton.
“Which is a sign that Kate has done a magnificent job,” Eloise observed, her gaze sweeping the ballroom. “Everyone appears to be enjoying themselves.”
“I shall inform her at the conclusion of the evening.”
A comfortable, fleeting silence settled between them.
“No promising suitors this evening?” Anthony inquired with interest.
Eloise offered a wry smile.
“No. I believe I have already frightened away all the good ones.”
She attempted to jest, but the spark of humor failed to reach her eyes.
“Well, I am always prepared to compile another list of candidates suited to your requirements,” he replied lightly. “As we shall retire to the country at the end of the Season, I am certain you might make the acquaintance of a few interesting gentlemen.”
Eloise nodded at the suggestion. It had taken her time to understand that Anthony desired only the best for her—not that she should marry merely for social convenience. She had met enough young debutantes whose brothers did not share the same inclination to protect an unmarried sister to know she was among the fortunate few.
Besides, there was some truth in it. What sort of woman—presumably independent—would she be if she depended upon her elder brother’s income for the remainder of her life?
“I would not have it sound as though I were pressuring you. I merely—”
“You wish what is best for me. I understand, truly,” Eloise interrupted gently.
Anthony inclined his head, pleased.
“There are moments—perhaps such as this—when I wish to be less your father and more your brother,” he confessed.
His words stirred a warm sensation within Eloise’s chest.
“Thank you for assisting me this Season. And I am sorry if you must endure one of our mother’s complaints later.”
Anthony chuckled.
“I believe Kate shall know how to manage that.”
Eloise smiled and nodded.
“You know…” he continued after a brief pause, “we might always find someone who requires less preliminary courtship. Someone with whom you could simply determine whether he meets your expectations of a husband.”
Eloise arched a brow, intrigued.
“Find someone? Do you mean to arrange a marriage for me?”
The notion hardly aligned with her concept of freedom. For an instant, she felt once more like livestock on display.
“No, not at all,” Anthony replied serenely. “I know that would run counter to your wishes. But what if you were to arrange it yourself?”
Eloise frowned, perplexed.
“Perhaps you forget where we are, brother, but I doubt any gentleman would wish to negotiate such matters with me personally. Are not those agreements conducted between men?”
Anthony nodded, conceding the point.
“Perhaps. But one never knows. You might find someone.”
At that moment, Kate’s voice called to him from the far end of the ballroom. With a brief inclination of his head, Anthony took his leave and disappeared into the crowd.
And once again, Eloise found herself alone.
Her gaze wandered absently across the room.
And then she saw him.
Him.
Sir Phillip Crane.
He stood in a corner, surrounded by a cluster of pretentious debutantes who, with visible desperation, attempted to engage the unfortunate gentleman in pleasant conversation. Judging by his expression, he appeared very much like a man on his way to the gallows.
Eloise laughed to herself.
Sir Phillip Crane was one of the few men with whom she had discovered she could sustain a truly engaging conversation—even when the subject revolved around plants. To her own astonishment, she had found botany and horticulture to be fascinating. Who would have thought it?
She had also spoken to him of her feminist ideas and political views, and he had listened with genuine attention.
She had learned of Marina’s death toward the close of the previous Season, only weeks after the wedding of Benedict and Sophie, and had felt profoundly saddened by the news. She had not known Marina well, but she was convinced it was unjust for one so young to die so soon. Colin and Penelope had been kind enough to visit Romney Hall, offer their support, and meet the little ones—who were, in truth, his nieces and nephews.
She knew his marriage had been merely an arrangement to spare Marina’s children the stigma of illegitimacy. She admired that he had accepted such a responsibility without hesitation, rather than allowing his brother’s dishonor to fall upon the young woman. Yet she also understood the sorrow he must feel in not knowing how to console two children scarcely five years of age.
She still remembered losing her own father at a similar age. For that reason, she empathized deeply with his grief.
To the gentleman’s misfortune, ladies of the ton rarely displayed sensitivity toward the death of a wife. It had not taken them long to insist that it was time for him to remarry—for the sake of the children.
Thus, after innumerable pressures from society, Sir Phillip had been dragged into that endless parade of balls and debutantes, much against his will.
Eloise considered it a stroke of genuine fortune to encounter him under such circumstances. They were both pursuing an objective and could relax in one another’s company without fear of abandoning rigid social conventions.
Perhaps it was precipitate—even somewhat improper—to admit it, but she believed they had become good friends.
And, as any good friend would, it was her duty to rescue him at that precise moment from the ladies who circled him like wolves stalking their prey.
Phillip seemed to notice her approach. He discreetly composed himself and, after offering his apologies to the young ladies, advanced toward her until they met halfway.
“Miss Bridgerton,” he greeted, clasping his hands behind his back and adopting an impeccably erect posture.
“Sir Phillip,” she replied with a slight inclination of her head.
“I must thank you for rescuing me from such dreadful circumstances,” he murmured softly, taking care that none of the ladies overheard him.
Eloise let out a soft laugh.
“I am always at your service,” she replied, executing an exaggerated military bow.
Phillip smiled.
“May I fetch you a glass of lemonade? Your throat must be parched.”
How could it be parched when she had scarcely held a single worthwhile conversation all evening—and that with her brother? Nevertheless, Eloise feared the opportunity to speak with him might vanish should she refuse.
“It would be my pleasure.”
Together, they made their way toward the refreshments table in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable.
Eloise was not entirely certain why she found it so difficult to begin a conversation with him in such a setting. Perhaps she felt intimidated by the notion of a hundred watchful eyes observing them and misconstruing their closeness.
With their drinks in hand, they paused to observe the ballroom and its guests.
“Tell me,” she began curiously, “have you already found the future Lady Crane? Was that why you were so eager to escape the throng of ladies?”
Phillip frowned before taking a generous sip of his lemonade.
“Not in the least. I have spoken with most of those present, and I do not believe any courtship is likely to arise.”
“What a pity,” Eloise replied, sipping delicately. “I had hoped that at least one of us might achieve our objective this Season.”
“Eager for matrimony, Miss Bridgerton?” he asked, turning fully toward her.
Eloise laughed at the implication.
“Not in the least. I merely hoped this ordeal might prove worthwhile.”
Phillip nodded, understanding her point.
“But allow me to assist you,” she continued with renewed enthusiasm. “Perhaps we may yet find you suitable candidates.”
She had proven herself a capable matchmaker in the past; after all, she had helped Posy. Who knew? She might prove of service to Sir Phillip as well.
“I do not believe it will be of much use,” he replied gently, attempting to temper her enthusiasm.
Eloise paid no heed to the objection and began surveying the room in search of eligible ladies.
“What of Miss Pembroke? She is well read and fluent in several languages, and, as I understand it, possesses considerable knowledge of horticulture.”
“She lacks empathy—even toward children—and regards science as a passing amusement rather than a vocation.”
“And we cannot have that,” Eloise concluded, understanding at once. “And Lady Arabella? I have heard she is interested in natural philosophy and experimentation, and that she delights in reading and intellectual debate.”
“She is also exceedingly arrogant and holds in contempt those she deems intellectually inferior. I desire a wife of intelligence, but not one who believes herself superior to others on account of it.”
Eloise nodded once more, deep in thought.
At last, she believed she had found the ideal candidate.
“And what of Miss Harcourt? She possesses a profound passion for flowers. She is well educated, has a generous dowry,” she added, turning toward him, “and, from what I have heard from her sisters, greatly admires your work.”
Phillip smiled indulgently.
“But she is excessively dependent and easily influenced. I do not wish for a wife incapable of sustaining an opinion of her own. Besides, according to her sisters, she is terribly jealous of any interest that does not include her.” He took a sip of his drink. “And she is a dreadful dancer.”
Eloise sighed in frustration.
“And what of you? What do you seek in a suitor?”
“I have a list, in fact,” she confessed with composure.
Phillip arched a brow, feigning offense.
“And you choose to inform me of it only now? Pray, what does it contain?”
“My essential requirements are quite simple: he must respect my political ideals, though he need not share them. There must exist mutual intellectual respect. He must be capable of debating with me without taking offense. Preferably, I should like to reside outside London. He must maintain a cordial relationship with my family… and he must have no debts, grave scandals, or irresponsible habits.”
Phillip smiled lightly.
“Well, that is hardly asking too much.”
“I might have added more,” Eloise admitted, “but I feared appearing excessively pretentious.”
Phillip chuckled.
“In that case, perhaps I may assist you as well,” he suggested.
Eloise let out an amused huff.
“I doubt it greatly, but I shall appreciate the attempt.”
Phillip smiled with a triumphant air and began scrutinizing the room, just as she had done before.
“What do you think of Lord Montague? A marquess of learning, educated at Oxford. I have heard he champions reformist thought.”
“He is also a libertine and regards feminist ideas as mere eccentricities,” Eloise corrected him. “I have already conversed with him at a few balls. It was a most unfortunate experience.”
“And Lord Julian Sinclair? He is an advocate of female education and enjoys a spirited debate.”
Eloise frowned.
“But he is socially awkward, and I do not desire a husband who would cause me embarrassment. Moreover, he is incapable of making practical decisions and yields to social disapproval. A man who believes in women’s equality is of little use to me if he lacks the courage to defend it.”
Phillip nodded in understanding.
“What of Mr. Frederick Langley? He is not of the nobility, but he is wealthy, and I am certain your family would not object. He supports social reform and female education; he is a learned gentleman and”—he added with a strategic smile—“finances printing presses and political pamphlets.”
“But he is obsessed with wealth and social advancement and harbours a measure of resentment toward the aristocracy,” Eloise replied, taking a sip of her drink. “Moreover, my brother claims he is a compulsive gambler. And that bodes ill indeed, should I find myself shackled to a marriage burdened with debts.”
Phillip nodded with a conspiratorial smile.
“Certainly, you would not wish him to squander your dowry on a pair of wagers.”
Eloise nodded firmly.
“You see? We are always in agreement.”
They both laughed and clinked their glasses in a lighthearted toast.
“It is a pity that neither of us is likely to succeed this Season,” Phillip remarked.
“Perhaps we ought to reconsider our expectations, if no one can fulfil them.”
Phillip inclined his head.
“In any case, my sole requirement is that she be a lady of good education and reputation, and capable of being a good mother to my children.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I believe several of the ladies we mentioned earlier may be restored to your list.”
They both laughed at the notion.
“And you? What would be your principal requirement?” he asked.
Eloise paused for a moment before replying.
“Freedom.”
Phillip regarded her with keen attention.
“That he permit me to think and express myself as I choose; that he grant me personal autonomy. I desire a companion, not a master.”
Phillip nodded, his expression filled with understanding.
“And nothing more?”
“We have already established that lofty expectations have yielded no results,” she replied with a faint smile.
“I understand, but would you not dare to ask for more? Is there nothing you truly wish to gain from marriage?” he insisted with sincerity.
Eloise hesitated.
“What I desire and what is available rarely coincide.”
“I should think freedom is something any man ought to offer you.”
Eloise laughed softly.
“Then you ought to inform the gentlemen in this room, for none of them appear to know it.”
Phillip felt a pang of sadness.
After a moment’s silence, Eloise spoke again.
“To study.”
Phillip turned to her, puzzled.
“I should like to study further—philosophy, politics, history… and many other subjects,” she confessed, almost bashfully. “It is an absurd requirement, for no gentleman here would permit it.”
“I believe it an excellent one,” he replied firmly. “And the gentlemen in this room are fools if they fail to perceive the potential you possess.”
Eloise smiled, a delicate blush colouring her cheeks.
“Even so, that would not alter their opinions.”
She averted her gaze, though he noticed at once.
“In that case, it is a profound pity.”
Eloise looked at him, confused.
“Why?”
“Because I should grant it to you without hesitation.”
The air between them seemed to grow heavier, and Eloise realized she had nearly forgotten to breathe.
Could he…? No, it could not be.
A whirlwind of thoughts raced through her mind. She was convinced he merely intended to be courteous, sparing her from believing her wish a ridiculous fancy. But what if he did not?
Phillip pleased her. He was one of the few men with whom she could converse without succumbing to boredom, and during those past weeks they had forged a sincere friendship. Yet would that connection change, were their circumstances to shift?
Eloise was uncertain what was right.
Thus, she did all she could to break their shared gaze, withdrawing into herself and avoiding his eyes.
“I believe I ought to retire. My mother must be searching for me,” she excused herself, taking a slight step back.
Phillip did the same.
“That is most probable.”
Eloise turned to depart.
Then Phillip’s voice reached her.
“I still await your critique of Erasmus Darwin’s book. I thought we might debate it.”
Eloise turned back to him with an amused smile.
“Will you be here next week?”
Phillip shook his head.
“In that case, you must expect a letter from me at Romney Hall.”
Phillip smiled.
“I shall await it with the greatest anticipation.”
Eloise blushed once more and took her leave.
She hoped to reach home soon, that she might commit her thoughts on botany and nature to paper. She wished for the words to flow with the same freedom as their conversations.
She did not write to please him.
And she was certain he did not desire that of her.
It was something she loved about him.
Loved…
No.
She esteemed him.
It was something she esteemed in him.
Eloise did not lie when she claimed she loved weddings. Francesca and Michaela’s had been a truly beautiful affair, and it saddened her to think that such celebrations might not be repeated for a long while. Though, of course, perhaps she herself might be the next to marry. The notion would place her in a vastly different role; instead of delighting in the festivities as a guest, she would be trembling with nerves before the altar.
The carriage was only minutes away from Bridgerton House. It had been a long afternoon, followed by an equally exhausting journey, and Eloise wished for nothing more than to rest her head upon her pillow and sleep until Hazel drew back the curtains the following morning.
“Is everything well? You seem distracted.” Her mother’s voice drew her from her thoughts.
Eloise merely looked at her and nodded gently.
“Only a little tired.”
“Not just today,” Hyacinth interjected from her side. She had spent the last half hour asleep upon Eloise’s shoulder, and Eloise had not even noticed when she awoke.
“Your sister is right,” Violet added. “You have been distracted since Kate’s ball.”
“It is nothing, I assure you.”
She fervently wished the carriage were not moving so swiftly; otherwise, she might have seriously considered leaping from it.
“Is it because of Sir Phillip?” Hyacinth asked mischievously.
Eloise’s eyes nearly sprang from their sockets. She cast her younger sister a withering glare.
“What about Sir Phillip?” Violet inquired, her interest barely concealed.
“The gentleman with the plants?” Gregory asked with curiosity.
That settled it—she would leap from the carriage… and drag Hyacinth with her.
“Nothing,” Eloise replied quickly, attempting to dismiss the matter.
“Has he not yet answered your letter, sister?”
Now she would throw Hyacinth from the carriage without the slightest hesitation.
“A letter?” Violet arched a brow with unmistakable intrigue.
Eloise endeavoured to adopt a careless tone.
“We have merely exchanged correspondence over the past few weeks. About books—nothing important or remotely scandalous. You may rest easy.”
Violet studied her closely, uncertain whether to believe her.
“I promise you it is nothing of consequence. We are simply good friends,” Eloise declared, already weary of the unexpected interrogation. “And I assure you, the next letter that arrives shall be delivered to you, so that you may confirm it contains nothing objectionable.”
Violet attempted to relax.
“I thank you, but I trust you. And perhaps”—she added with a playful smile—“you might invite him to take tea the next time he visits London.”
Eloise was about to protest, but her mother continued:
“As friends, I am certain any conversation or literary debate would be far more agreeable in person.”
Eloise chose to ignore the suggestion and resolved to remain silent for the remainder of the journey, while her younger siblings exchanged knowing glances and Violet smiled to herself.
The carriage continued its progress beneath the soft glow of the London night, and Eloise, gazing through the window, could not help but wonder whether Sir Phillip’s next letter would arrive before she gathered the courage to reply to it.
Once at home, Eloise bid her brother, sister and mother good night before retiring to her chamber. Hazel would arrive shortly to assist her in changing and preparing for bed.
Her gaze drifted toward her writing desk, now empty, devoid of letters to read, and a sudden ache pressed upon her heart.
A knock at the door distracted her.
“Come in.”
John’s face appeared cautiously from the other side.
“Miss Eloise, my apologies for the disturbance.” He glanced up and down the corridor before retrieving something concealed within the folds of his livery. “This arrived this morning, and I was instructed that, under no circumstances, it was to be read by anyone else by mistake.”
Eloise stepped forward and took the letter.
Sir Phillip.
At last, he had replied.
She frowned, intrigued by his sudden need to keep their correspondence secret.
Was he now ashamed of writing to her?
Had he met another lady in the country and feared she might discover his letters?
Perhaps her fervent feminism had been too evident and had driven him away.
“Thank you, John.”
The young footman nodded respectfully and withdrew.
Eloise seated herself upon the edge of her bed. After studying the delicate penmanship for a few moments, she drew a steady breath and opened the letter.
Romney Hall, Kent
Dear Miss Bridgerton,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and serenity. Not a day has passed since my departure from London in which I have not recalled, with sincere appreciation, our conversations, whose intelligence and candour continue to afford me both comfort and admiration—in memory as well as in your letters.
Pray forgive my delay in responding to your last correspondence. I longed to continue our exchange on politics; however, in recent days a matter of the utmost importance has arisen, and I was uncertain how best to address it with you.
I venture to write to you today with a request which, I fear, may appear improper; nevertheless, the honesty that has always distinguished our friendship encourages me to speak with frankness. Should you deem, upon reading these lines, that I have committed an imprudence, I beg you to accept my most humble apologies in advance and to discard this letter without hesitation. Your silence shall serve as a sufficient reply.
Throughout this Season, your company has been a true relief amidst the bustle of society. To share my concerns with you, and to hear yours in return, has been a privilege I hold in the highest esteem. I must confess that, in the comfort of our mutual confidence, we have both overlooked the most evident solution to our circumstances. Only after our farewell did I fully comprehend how singularly compatible our aspirations and needs truly are.
Miss Bridgerton, I write to ask whether you would consider accepting my hand in marriage.
I dare not promise you a passion most ardent; yet I can offer a life founded upon respect and the utmost sincerity. At Romney Hall, you will find a comfortable and dignified home, as well as the independence and tranquillity so rarely afforded by London society—and which I know you desire. You shall have at your disposal my library, my greenhouses, and every resource I possess, so that you may continue to cultivate your intellect, the growth of which it would be my greatest pleasure to witness. Nothing would honour me more than to see you devote yourself to study and express your ideas with the freedom you so richly deserve.
I must also speak to you with candour regarding my children, who require a kind yet firm guide. I seek not merely a wife, but a lady whose intelligence and nobility of spirit might provide them with affection, guidance, and example. I am convinced that no woman would be more worthy of so delicate a responsibility than yourself.
For my part, I should find in your company a cherished friend, a wise counsellor, and an equal in understanding—qualities I value above all others. I believe, with humility, that we might offer one another that which fate has thus far denied us separately: purpose, stability, and respect.
Nevertheless, I beg you not to feel obliged to accept this proposal. Should your answer be in the negative, your esteem will remain to me an incalculable honour, and I shall preserve the utmost silence and gratitude for your friendship. I likewise entreat your forgiveness if I have exceeded the bounds of propriety in presenting such a proposal by letter.
I remain, as ever, entirely at your disposal, and shall await your reply with the greatest consideration and respect.
Your most obedient and sincere servant,
Sir Phillip Crane
Eloise remained motionless, the letter trembling lightly in her hands.
“Good heavens…”
Had he… just proposed marriage?
To her?
By letter?
Perhaps… she ought not to allow her mother to read it.