The next day I wrote to Mr. Frances Belmont
about his book with my questions and thoughts on his cynical piece about my faith. However I thought it best not to disclose my last name instead going by my cousin's name, Miss Stanton, as to know him better as a person rather than my own father and depending how unfruitful our meeting turned out to be I could cut off ties without anything to keep us together.

"Would you post this for me please?" I asked the staff from my aunt's home but sat impatiently waiting for a response the minute my letter left on his way to Mr. Belmont.

How long would he take to respond? I almost guarded the door myself hoping to get my hands on the response. I ate dinner looking at the door where the staff went in and out but not with a post for me, or a calling card.

Nothing.

"You are playing that piano quite vigorously," my aunt noted.

"It's Mozart, he wrote for the intensity of the soul," I replied back.

"And why is yours so intense? Could Sir Crawford have caused such a stir in yours?"

"Sir Crawford?" I chuckled sarcastically, "he is all too simplistic to arise any interest in me."

"How can you talk so ill of someone so pleasant as him?"

"It's not ill to call someone simple, you take offense for me seeing him as he is when in fact I wish I were as simple as him. To be so set, not to wonder, argue nor question, it would make life much less complicated, better perhaps. I see oblivion as a great advantage. One I do dearly wish I had been afforded!" I finished the piece still in rage of my mother's words.

"Is it the piano's fault?"

"No, I should be in bed, goodnight aunt."

"Goodnight niece."

Almost a week went by without me ever hearing about my letter from Mr. Frances Belmont and filled with offense at his lack of a letter I began to think this was the handiwork of that editor who put on airs telling me not to write to the author.

For what reason could Mr. Thornton have to rush over to Belmont's house immediately after giving me the adresss?

What a snob of an editor he was! He meant to warn Belmont about me no doubt, clouding whatever inclination he might have had to respond me. Ah, I would have his head if I could!

In no time I was already at the press trying to question him for myself.

"I'm here to see Mr. Thornton," I told the secretary at the printing press.

"I will see if he is in Miss?"

"Stanton, please." I said and when she opened the door to his office I saw a glimpse of his shoe on the desk.

"Miss Stanton?" The secretary came back to me.

"Yes?"

"My apologies but he is not present at the moment."

"Oh of course, thank you."

I got up imagining myself storming into his office and shouting at him for sending me off while lying to my face!

Insolent liar!

Instead I walked away and came to a different door.

I knocked on Frances Belmont door almost dropping a sweat from how quickly I made it from one place to the other. Though I had no idea how ready I was to meet my father I jumped in without looking, nothing would hold me back.

"I've got no sugar to spare and you... are not my neighbor." Mr. Belmont said when he opened the door expecting somebody else.

"I'm afraid not," was all I could say at first.

"And who are you looking for?"

I could've said my father but I had long agreed to myself I would not.

"I believe you may be Mr. Frances Belmont."

"Nobody has called me by my full name over a decade, and who are you?"

"Miss Stanton," I lied to him about my name.

"Miss Stanton from the letter?"

"Yes."

"Ah do come in."

"Thank you."

The manners he displayed was a surprise to my expectations of grunts and displeasure just the same as Mr. Thornton but I did not find it in him, yet anyways. So I nodded and gladly walked into his humble London home.

"I'm sure I have your letter somewhere in here." He said looking for it and I noticed the lack of light, space, organization and his worn out clothes.

"You read it then?"

"Yes I did."

"Did you hate it?"

"No and I did begin to write one back but other tasks derailed me from putting enough time to give satisfactory answers. Your letter was far too smart for just a thank you."

"Oh..." I was taken by surprise of the compliment coming from him and he seemed to genuinely mean it without sarcasm.

"Would you like some tea? We could forgo the writing and engage the thoughts and questions you wrote about." He offered me a seat.

"Yes I'd like that." I nodded and took a seat and he put a kettle to boil the water for the tea.

"And some bread?" He offered.

"Thank you but just the tea will do sir," I said with my nervous feet wiggling under my dress. I was wide eyed to see him so up close. This was my... oh Dear God the word seemed unreal just about now. This was who my mother saw in me?

"So Miss Stanton how did you even manage to find my book? I thought they had all been put out of circulation."

"Um yes, I found it in a pile in the back of a bookstore."

"Ah that makes more sense," he chuckled, "and you should be satisfied yourself."

"Satisfied? Why?"

"Your letter, to be able to make your mind known with such clarity of detail and reason, it is a gift if I may say so."

"A gift?"

I almost choked at the flattery as neither one of my parents had this gift, leaving me to draw the conclusion that this gift could have only come from the man making me tea right now.

"Are you a writer?" He asked me.

"No, not in any form or prose."

"If this is how you express yourself without trying then what could you achieve if you did try?" He set the tea down in front of us and the truth almost slipped out.

"Well um maybe I could perhaps change your mind on the subject?"

"Is that why you wrote? To convert me?"

"No but you must see how flawed it is, you place every blame on a higher power who placed all the power in our hands. Free will, or as the Americans say, the right to the pursuit of happiness."

"Quoting the Declaration of Independence from your own country, you are a bold one."

"Not as bold as you are to challenge my favorite book."

"Thank you," he nodded before drinking his tea.

We both sipped our teas and although I expected him to be just an intolerable as the editor I found something more settling about his nature. Maybe it was resignation? Peace? Confidence? I was unsure but he was far more likable than I could have foreseen. Far too likeable for someone who I loathed for seducing my mother. Yet our conversation did not give way for me to dislike him.

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No part, character, names, plot, setting, conflict or resolution, point of view, theme or symbolism of this story may be replicated.

Copyright: All Rights Reserved to A. Sena Gomes.