Page 78 of The Gentleman's Confession
He nodded, running his thumbs over the smooth porcelain of his cup.
“Have a good chat with your friends before you leave and tell them what is on your mind.”
Her wisdom was to be respected. She could see there was more to the conversation than he was letting on. He would do his best to reassure her. “Easily done, Mama. I plan to meet a few of my friends this afternoon in fact.” Not the women ... and especially not Jemma. The men had made him agree to meet them after his picnic with Mrs. Fortescue. They had said they wanted to commiserate with him—no one had predicted she would make the highest bid—but he wondered if they really wanted to laugh at every ridiculous part of his experience.
But as soon as he finished chatting with his friends, he would be gone. He didn’t plan to say goodbye to anyone else. He glanced at his undrunk tea, unable to find his appetite or even rally his thirst. He just needed time to sort himself out. He would write another book to purge his heart and return after a few months with his feelings in check. It wasn’t a solid plan but a desperate one.
y
Jemma tucked Miles’s book into her reticule, not wanting to be far from it. Last night, her world had shifted again, but this morning, with the sun streaming through the window, she felt hopeful. After thanking Lord and Lady Felcroft again, as well as Tom and Cassandra, for caring for her so well, she joined Mrs. Manning and Lisette in the carriage home.
Lisette had not made a formal announcement about her engagement yet. Mr. Bentley had said they wanted a few days to talk among themselves before sharing the news with everyone. Jemma wondered if they did not speak of it out of courtesy to her—to give her time to make a plan before everyone bombarded her with their sympathies and questions. Jemma would not allow such silliness to persist, but for this morning, she let it be. Indeed, there was a great deal to think about.
Once in her room, she collapsed on her bed. The short trip hadn’t tired her, but her head still throbbed. And more than this, she was lost in her thoughts.
“Pardon me, miss,” a maid said from the door.
Jemma sat up. “What is it?”
“A stack of letters has collected for you in the past few days. Mr. Manning kept it until you were well enough to sort through it. Would you like me to bring it to you now?”
Mail? For her? Most of her correspondence usually came from the Rebels when they were apart. Who could be writing to her? Maybe it was an answer from the magazine! Just the distraction she needed. “I can take it now. Thank you.”
Instead of handing her a few letters, the maid returned with an entire sack.
“All of those are for me?”
The maid nodded.
Jemma directed her to the small writing desk. The maid poured the contents onto her desk.
“What in the world?” Jemma picked up the first one and studied her name across the front. “That will be all, thank you.”
The maid left her alone with her gigantic pile of mysterious letters. Jemma’s curiosity could wait no longer. She took her file and sliced open the first seal. Bank notes fell out. She touched the money—not a small sum—before directing her attention back to the letter. She could hardly believe it. The money was for the Greek refugees!
Letter after letter, the money piled up.
And several mentioned why.
In response to Mr. Miles Jackson and his efforts to support the tragedy in Chios Island, we send this money to the care of Miss Jemma Fielding, as requested.
She was not usually so emotional, but once again, she was crying. The Greek people were going to receive thousands of pounds of relief money. Even a pragmatic person could see how incredibly touching this gift was.
“Miles, you deserve someone far better.” She sank back in her chair and covered her mouth with her hand. She did not know how long she stayed there, staring in awe at the unfolded papers.
A knock sounded, and the maid was back with another letter in her hand. “This just arrived for you, miss.”
How many people did Miles know? And they all must love him tremendously to respond with such generosity.
She accepted the letter and returned to her desk. When she unfolded this one, however, the contents were not what she’d expected. Folded inside was a single news sheet—the gossip column. Someone had taken the time to circle the most humorous and outrageous tidbits, nothing scurrilous or vulgar or even life-changing in the gossip but just a few humorous lines to make her smile—just as she liked.
Lord Greene blackballed thirteen times from being admitted to Brooks Gentleman’s club, only for his friends to discover he had sabotaged himself because he preferred his own company best.
She laughed and read another.
Lord Bergren found dead in his house. Deceased for more than six months, and yet his wife never knew it. She was still spoon feeding him broth and porridge every morning.
“No ... it cannot be true!” Jemma shook her head and read another.
