The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

“I may be the heir at the moment, but I still have hopes that my uncle will marry and produce a child of his own and relieve me of the title. He’s getting on, but other men his age and older have begotten children. Now that he knows the title is set to go to me, I suspect he’ll be only too eager to procreate. I am not his favorite nephew, though I am the only one remaining. I imagine he has long hoped some French bullet or cannonball would take care of the problem for him. No, I won’t be calling upon my uncle. Beyond that, I have another errand that will take me to Oxfordshire. If there is anything I can do to further my cause, you’ll let me know?”

“Of course. What takes you to Oxfordshire? That’s as landlocked as can be.”

“I must visit the late Baron Richardson’s mother and his fiancée. I must repay a debt I owe.” He bowed and spun on his heel, wanting only to remove himself from the Admiralty so he could reassess.

All the way down the crowded hall, he met the eyes of those who stared at him, looking for any indication that his petition had found favor. He hoped his face gave away nothing.

Once outside, he settled his bicorn on his head, points fore and aft, and squared his shoulders. If the path to another command was blocked for the moment, he would have to face it. He must discharge his debt to Major Richardson. Perhaps by the time he accomplished the deed, a position aboard ship would have opened up for him.

Nearly a fortnight after the memorial service, Sophie hurried up the gravel drive, clutching a handful of condolence letters and cards close to her chest in an attempt to keep them dry. Rain, a few drops at first and then a deluge, plunged from dark-bellied clouds in a headlong dash to hurtle into the ground. The wind whipped and gusted, tearing at Sophie’s skirts as she gained the front steps.

Once inside the house, she flicked through the damp letters. Though she knew it was foolish, she couldn’t quell the futile hope that there would be a letter from Rich. It had been a habit for so long, waiting for Thursday, hearing the coach, hurrying to the front gate full of anticipation. How long would it take for the ingrained response to the weekly mail delivery to diminish?

Mamie came from the back of the house, over her arm a trug laden with flowers. “I’m glad I finished before the rain started. Mrs. Chapman is bringing a vase. Aren’t they beautiful? The scented stock is almost too strong, but I love it.” She set the basket on a side table. “I thought having something bright and happy in the house might cheer us up.”

Sophie forced a smile. “What a lovely thought.”

“Were there letters?” Mamie’s voice held hope too.

“Several from friends. A few from addresses I don’t recognize.” Somehow Sophie would summon the strength and will to answer them all. No one had told her that grief was so exhausting. Her body felt battered and her mind drained before she even got out of bed in the morning.

“Do you mind if I arrange flowers with you in the drawing room? I can take them to the kitchen if you’d like. I don’t want to disturb you.” Mamie took a few steps toward the rear door.

“Of course not. I’ll read the cards aloud while you work, and you can help me answer them.”

They spent a quiet hour responding to the letters until Mamie flagged.

“You go upstairs and rest, love. I’ll finish the last of these. There are only two, and I know both the senders.” Sophie returned a card to its envelope.

“You’re a dear. I don’t know what I would do without you here.” Mamie rose and touched the flowers she’d gathered, releasing the heady aroma of summer and sunshine even as the rain continued and the sun hid behind sullen clouds.

Sophie kept on with the writing, repeating the same phrases on the black-edged stationary. Thank you so much for your kind note. We cherish his memory and are grateful that you do as well. She had just replaced the stopper in the ink bottle and checked the condition of her quill when wheels crunching on the drive drew her attention.

Her shoulders drooped. Had the vicar decided to call? Or was it Marcus and Charlotte, come once more to convince her to move back to Haverly? Sweet as they were, she wouldn’t give in. Her place was at Primrose with Mamie. It was right, and she was at peace with her decision, if not with her circumstances.

Please pray the visitor wasn’t Mother. Sophie didn’t have the energy to deal with the dowager today. She often had to remind herself that Mother’s overbearing, pedantic nature came from a place of care and concern … and a wee bit of bossiness. If Mother didn’t care, she wouldn’t meddle. At least that was what Sophie told herself.

She parted the curtains and peered through the raindrop ribbons on the window glass.

A carriage and four entered the gate and headed up the drive. Her fingers curled on the drapes. Bags under a canvas cover were fastened atop the coach. Whoever it was, they had come a fair distance. Perhaps they were lost and needing directions?

Please, Lord, let this visit be brief. At least it was nearly teatime. Refreshments would help the visit pass more easily, and whoever it was could be on their way shortly thereafter.

Sophie hurried to the door. Primrose boasted no footman or butler. In an effort to keep expenses down while Rich was away, Mamie had not filled the post when the butler retired. They would have to be even more parsimonious in the coming days, though Sophie’s allowance from the Haverly estate would help. She kept their financial situation from Marcus’s notice, knowing