Page 56 of Love At First Fright
I know you said you would rather throw all your stitching into the lake than come to another tea party in the village, but I beg you, do not leave me alone with the vipers. You know how much I dislike the gossiping. No one will let me forget that incident at the pleasure gardens last year, and if they bring it up one more time, you shall have to restrain me from throwing a cucumber sandwich in their faces.
Rosemary found herself stifling a laugh. This was a new side to the quiet, somewhat restrained Cecilia she had met. A side that, in all likelihood, no one but Juliet got to see. She felt bad about snooping, but how else was she meant to make these ghosts kiss and make up (literally) if she didn’t have more information? The letter continued:
My brother has invited Lord Davenport to dinner, what an utter bore. He doesn’t read novels, Juliet, and you know how I feel about people who do not read. Please come, this is the third time I am begging, so you can tell how truly desperate I am. There is nothing I like more than sitting in the corner of a room with you, dearest Juliet, and watching the world go by.
Ever your affectionate friend,
Cecilia
P.S. Duchess has given birth to a litter of three puppies. Two are sandy brown, as she and the Duke are, but the third is white and black spotted, so I suspect our Duchess has been rather unfaithful to dear Duke. I tell you all this to recommend the trip to you further, and to give you no reason for disagreeing to come.
Following this letter from Cecilia, there was a note in Juliet’s swirling hand, in the journal.
I cannot believe that C used puppy bribery on me, again. As I write this, she is asleep on my lap. I have named her Precious, for that is what she is to me. I am going to write to C and tell her to never invite me to a tea party at the parsonage again.
The shawl is finally finished. Yes, diary, the very one I have been working on for three months now. I stitched it with roses, blue to match Ceci’s eyes. I hope she likes it. It shan’t trouble me if she wears it or not, for it was a simple gift. I shall give it to her after church on Sunday.
The next page was stuffed with another letter in what Rosemary now recognised as Cecilia’s scrawl. It was hard to tell how much time had passed since the shawl, since there were no other diary entries.
Dearest J,
I apologise for making you dance with Lord D, but he rather coerced me into it. I know he’s a bit of a fortune hunter, and granted, all his talk of horses and hounds is a trifle boorish, but do I not also talk about horses and hounds to you constantly?
But that is not why I am writing—I have good news. I was at the shop in Hallowton this morning, and they had the novel in. The one we heard Lady Marsh talking about after church. The one “By a Lady.” I purchased it immediately. I wonder, do you think it is someone we know?
Believe me always your loving friend,
Cecilia
P.S. Tell me to come and visit soon, when you are not near, I find I miss you greatly.
Juliet’s next diary segment was smudged, almost as if she’d been rushing to get the words out.
That woman. That insufferable woman. How can she say that I would ever tire of her talking to me about her hounds, or the ponies? I told her, in no uncertain terms, that she may talk to me about whatever she likes and I would never tire of it.
When we were in church yesterday, I found my attention wandering, as it does sometimes. I have to be careful, if Papa sees my attention stray even a little, he spends all of Sunday evening reading to me from Fordyce’s sermons.
Still, when we stood to sing a hymn, I watched the back of C’s head. My lips may have formed the words of the song, but all I thought about was that day last summer, when we were caught in the rainstorm riding Clover and Tip. We hid in that strange, old barn for hours. Her always neat hair came loose, and her dress was soaked through. I confess, diary, I think about that day often.
I am yet to see her in the shawl, though I suppose it is not appropriate wear for either balls or church, the only places we have seen each other recently. Do you think she wears it, diary? I know I said I did not mind but I find myself rather in need of knowing.
The next letter was dated a few days after the previous diary entry.
Dearest Juliet,
As you no doubt saw, I wear the shawl constantly. So much so that I am afraid dear Bridget must pull it out from under my pillow at night to darn it. We did not get to speak as much as I wished yesterday, stuck aswe were with my sister-in-law’s presence. I did not tell you, though perhaps it would have been impolite to speak of it in polite company, that when you drink sherry it makes your lips turn as pink as raspberries. I don’t say this to insult you, only that it makes you far too pretty for your own good.
Next week, at the Duchess’s ball, I shall persuade the butler to allow us some, and I shall steal you off into the library.
Always yours,
C.
After that, one final diary entry.
I have been praying a lot this past month, but all my prayers are full of her. Am I losing my mind? Dear Ceci was wearing that green dress, the one that makes her look so very lovely, at the Summerton ball. She danced with the Viscount, and Lord D.
I waited until the dance was over, and I pulled her out into the garden, and bade her dance with me. We have held each other many times, of course. But this was different. Her touch, her hands in mine, felt blasphemous. I held her ungloved hand in mine, and with her finger, she traced my sherry-pink lips. Am I so weak to fall so easily, or have I been falling for a long time? I felt, in that moment, that I needed her lips on mine more than I needed air.
