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

on the stenciled name. Major Richard Richardson, Royal Marines. And in small letters beneath his name, Baron, in parentheses.

“If I’m going to move forward with my life, I need to lay to rest my past.” She whispered the words. “I need to say goodbye.”

She fetched the key from the reticule in her bedside table and returned to the trunk. The lock stuck for a moment, then snicked open.

When she raised the lid, a musty, foreign smell emerged. The contents were a jumble, but that should be expected, considering how far the sea chest had come. She lifted out a red tunic with the high blue collar, trimmed in white. She held the cloth to her nose, hoping to catch a hint of Rich’s scent.

But it had been too long stored. It smelled of must.

Sophie laid the uniform aside and drew out first one tall boot, then a second. And a sword, a canteen, a lantern. At the bottom was a bundle of books lashed together with a leather strap, and Rich’s wooden traveling desk.

She ran her hand across the scarred and battered top. How many places had this desk gone? It had been Rich’s when a boy at school, then a Royal Marine, and finally a patient in the hospital in Portugal.

The latch was tiny and loose, and she had no trouble opening the lid. A cut-glass ink bottle, quills, and even an ink pen with a metal nib were fastened by loops to the underside of the lid, and when raised into place, stood upright before the writing surface.

The blotter was a collage of ink spots, blotches, and lines. “Rich Richardson” had been carved into the writing surface with a boyish hand. She touched the name briefly.

Seeing his things brought an ache, but not unbearable. Not the crashing grief of before. A longing to see him again, but not soul-crushing agony and an inability to imagine life going on without him.

“What would you tell me, Rich? What would you say to me if I asked for your blessing for what I’ve done, marrying Charles and wanting him now to be more than a convenient, absent husband? Would you feel betrayed? Angry? I wish I could speak to you for just a few moments.”

At that thought, her eyes burned and her throat tightened.

She opened the drawer where the stationary was kept, and two things lay there. A wallet and an envelope.

The wallet was empty, cracked leather that had dried out from disuse. But the envelope bore her name in Rich’s familiar hand.

Her hands trembled, and she set the desk on the rug, took the envelope, and moved to the window seat. For long moments, she held the letter to her chest, overwhelmed with love and loss.

Finally, she opened the pages.

Dearest Sophie,

This is the letter I should have sent you right away when I awoke in this hospital. I should have sent it when I first realized I was not going to recover from this wound. Each day I feel more of myself slipping away, and I know now that I will not be able to keep my promises to you.

How I long to walk with you again in the back garden at Primrose in the setting sun. I long to smell your lemon verbena perfume even above the riot of pansies and peonies. How I wish I could hold your hand, touch your cheek, or let your silky hair slip through my fingers.

Above all, I wish I could hold you against my heart one last time.”

Sophie paused to let fat tears drip down her cheeks. She dug for her handkerchief in her sleeve, not wanting her tears to mar the handwriting.

There is so much I need to say to you, heart’s darling, and this letter cannot hold it all, but I must try.

I will rest easily knowing Mamie is in your care. You have loved her as a mother, and you honor her. I will always be grateful for your generous heart.

Though I have no desire to burden you with anything more than what you have taken on already, there is one thing I would ask of you when you receive word of my passing. It might come hard to you at first, but I am trusting that generous, big, giving heart of yours to come through in the end.

The favor I beg of you involves my friend Charles Wyvern.

I plan to ask him to come see you when he returns to England. To tell you what happened to me, and that I loved you with my very last breath.

But when he comes, he is going to be in great pain. Physical pain, possibly, because he was wounded in the same battle where I was shot, and he is still recovering, lying in the cot next to mine. He’s asleep even now and does not know I am writing to you. He improves daily, and he will soon be discharged.

But more than his physical pain, Charles is going to be suffering, because he feels responsible for the injury that has led to my coming death. He is taking a burden upon himself that he doesn’t deserve. He was not at fault, and it is I who should apologize to him. If I had been thorough in my duty, he never would have suffered that saber wound. I have tried to tell him, but he does not believe me. Make him understand. Absolve him of the guilt he doesn’t owe to me or to anyone.

Sophie, darling, I know it is a tremendous thing to ask, but for me, and eventually for yourself, I beg you to be generous with Charles. He is a man of integrity, and he feels great responsibility, especially to his crew. While he may seem remote at first, it is just that he is wary when making friends, cautious in his dealings with others. I am going to ask him to come to you to deliver my belongings and to tell you in person how much you