Letters for Phoebe by Sally Britton Page 0,30

near they had exchanged letters almost weekly.

“My parents are still trying to find a wealthy husband for me, but I am not interested in a mercenary marriage. I am still hoping for a love match. But things have grown much more complicated lately, what with…” Her voice trailed away, and her eyes lost focus.

A twist of worry made Phoebe lean forward. “With what?”

Daphne shook her head and a bright smile reappeared upon her face. “Nothing. I am certain everything will come to rights in the end.” Phoebe nearly pressed her, but Daphne continued speaking. “Do tell me more about you, Phoebe. In your letter you made it sound like there was something rather particular you wished to discuss.”

“There is.” Phoebe chewed her bottom lip a moment, carefully watching Daphne. “Let us settle in with our refreshment first.” She led the way into the room. Her friend remained silent while Phoebe poured out for them. It was only after the two of them were seated that Phoebe tried to work out how to begin.

Her friend appeared as calm as ever, sipping her tea and waiting patiently. While Phoebe had always been the one with a plan, Daphne had always provided a quiet and steady presence, usually with a smile upon her face. She had always been easy to confide in. But this confession bordered on scandalous.

“As you know, I have decided I must find a husband this Season. Someone suitable to my tastes, equal to my family in status.”

“And someone you love,” Daphne put in quickly. “As we all promised.”

Phoebe looked away, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. “At this point, I think we ought to agree that promise we made was very well and good for children. But as we are all adults now, and with varying situations in Society as in life, we must be more realistic.”

Daphne sighed and set down her tea. “A year ago, I might have rejected that idea outright. But London has a way of making one doubt her own mind. Why is it that love is so difficult to find?”

Considering that Daphne had always seemed the one most determined to keep the promise they had made, Phoebe’s heart ached for her friend’s discovery that reality was not so romantic as they had dreamed it. Perhaps they would all come to that conclusion, in time. She studied her friend, trying to smile past her concerns. “I will continue to hope for the best for you, Daphne.”

Her friend returned the gentle expression. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

Phoebe pulled in a careful breath. “What I wish to tell you is that in my pursuit of a suitor, I started to receive notes from a stranger. Someone who wishes to remain anonymous. But he has helped me more than once by informing me of things I had no way of knowing, and saving me from making mistakes by courting the wrong gentlemen.”

Daphne blinked. “What do you mean, a stranger is writing you letters? How? And are you certain the stranger is a he?”

“I am. You can tell by his writing. And by the way he says things. Here. See for yourself.” She reached under the couch and plucked the letter from the basket, handing it directly to Daphne.

Her friend gave her an odd look, then hurried to read the letter. Phoebe watched for a reaction, desperate to know how her friend interpreted the words penned by the unknown gentleman who had promised to help Phoebe.

When Daphne lowered the letter to her lap, she looked at Phoebe with wide eyes. “Honestly, reading this, it sounds as though the writer rather admires you and wishes to court you himself.”

The relief which flooded Phoebe’s mind caused a light laugh to escape her. “Oh, I am glad you think so. That is what I thought, too, when I read it. But then I was so worried—”

“Phoebe.” Daphne stopped her, though her voice was hesitant. “You know nothing about him. He might be fifty years old with twelve children. He might even already be married.”

The tightness returned to Phoebe’s chest. “Yes. I had thought of that. I wondered if I ought to ask him, but then I think he would know what I suspected, or he would be insulted.” Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back, most unladylike, on the couch. “But he writes such charming letters. And every time I receive one, I cannot help but feel some excitement.” Indeed, she could feel herself blushing