Page 3 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

“Lord no! I mean to surprise him. And once we have you settled in the house, he cannot very well turn you away—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is, if you will be so good as to come with me to Hertfordshire for two weeks. I am to stay at Pershing Hall. My brother is there all alone now, but I do try to visit as frequently as I can and it is quite unexceptionable for me to bring a guest.”

Sylvia’s heart was thundering madly. It was a physical pain in her chest, the likes of which she had not felt in years. “Lady Harker—”

“Oh please, call me Julia!”

“Julia. You must see that I cannot accept your invitation.”

“Why ever not? Your employer tells me that you have never taken a holiday and she has already agreed I might take you away with me for as long as a month. And it is not as if you will be alone with my brother. I will be present in the house and, in a fortnight, my husband will join me there. It will be quite respectable, I assure you.”

Sylvia could only imagine the reception she would receive from Sebastian after all of these years. To arrive uninvited at his home, poor as a church mouse and tainted by the scandal of her father’s suicide? As if she were a beggar seeking favor from him? “I cannot,” she said again. “I simply cannot. It would be too painful for me. Pray do not ask me again, ma’am.”

Lady Harker’s face crumpled. “But you cannot refuse me, Miss Stafford! You are the only hope for my brother to get well!”

“No, ma’am.” Sylvia rose from her chair on unsteady legs. “You are mistaken. Your brother does not care for me.”

Lady Harker leapt up. “But the lock of hair—”

“A token, nothing more. Many soldiers keep such, I understand.”

“No. No. I will not believe it. I have come all this way. I beg you, Miss Stafford. If the lock of hair brings him comfort, only think what you might do if you were to come in person.” She clasped Sylvia’s hand. “You do not have to marry him. I should never have said that. It is only my foolish fancy. But do come. Please. Just to see him. If he shouts at you or threatens you, I shall have my coach convey you straight back to London.” Tears were rising in her eyes. “Do come,” she begged. “If things do not change for my brother soon, I fear he will do something stupid.”

The words went through Sylvia like an electric current. “Something stupid? What do you mean?”

“Oh, but you must know what I mean, Miss Stafford. You must know.”

Sylvia shook her head in disbelief. Her own father’s suicide was a wound that would never fully heal. The very idea that Sebastian would be considering a similar course was too horrible to contemplate. She had cared for him so deeply once. Only the passage of time had numbed the pain and hurt left after he had gone away and forgotten her. “Has he threatened to do himself harm?” she asked.

“No,” Lady Harker admitted slowly. “Though he does keep his pistol out in his room. I have seen it lying near his bedside. He has kept it there this whole year. It is awfully upsetting. And my husband says I should not be upset at the moment. I am in an interesting condition, you see, and if something were to happen to my brother…”

The last of Sylvia’s defenses crumbled. No matter how cruelly Sebastian had treated her in the past, he did not deserve to be suffering in such a dreadful manner. No one did. If her presence could alleviate even a fraction of his pain, she must go to him. It would be hardhearted to continue refusing. Far worse, it would be cowardly. “Very well,” she said.

Lady Harker’s mouth curved into a wobbly smile. “Do you mean you will come?”

“Yes. I will come away with you. If…If you truly believe it will help him.”

Lady Harker flung her arms around Sylvia in an impulsive embrace. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. You will not be sorry. I promise you.”

Sylvia heard Lady Harker’s tearful exclamations as if she were standing somewhere far outside of her body. She heard herself agreeing to go with Lady Harker that very day. Agreeing to pack her things so they might leave immediately. Lady Harker summoned Mrs. Dinwiddy and the two of them briefly conversed as well.

“A little holiday with some of your old friends,” Mrs. Dinwiddy said to Sylvia, smiling. “You must take the month, Miss Stafford. I insist upon it.”

Before she knew it, Sylvia was in her small upstairs bedroom, carefully packing her things into a well-worn carpetbag.

Only then did she come to her senses, a swell of panic building in her chest, threatening to suffocate her.

She was not a coward. She had handled everything these last two years with grace and dignity. All the slights, the cruel remarks, and even the cut direct from Penelope Mainwaring, a girl whom she had once considered to be her best friend in the whole world. But now, the very idea of seeing Sebastian Conrad again frightened her to the marrow of her bones.

She had loved him. She could admit that to herself without rancor. She had loved him and she had thought, for a very little while, that he had loved her. He had never said so, of course. Neither had he made her any promises. But he had sought her out at every ball, managed to cross her path whenever she was out walking or riding, and even, on two occasions, miraculously appeared at Hatchard’s book shop when she needed to reach a book from a shelf that was too high.

Then, after that last night in the garden, he had gone. Suddenly. Ordered back to India to assist in suppressing the rebellion of 1857. He had never responded to her letters. And he had never written to her in return. Not even a brief note of condolence a year later when her father died. She had simply never heard from him again. For a time, she had even feared that he was dead, but his name was not listed in any of the newspaper reports that she read so obsessively.

Eventually, she had come to grips with the fact that he had forgotten her. It had taken a long while, but she was content again. Happy in her position. Happy in her life. She had remade herself into someone stronger. Someone who could not be hurt again. Or so she hoped. She had never had to put it to the test—until now.

Was he truly so badly scarred? And in so much pain? She hated to imagine it. And she hated herself for wanting so badly to go to him, to comfort him and lend him aid.