Dear Daniel,

I truly hope you are doing well. It is not quite easy to tell since your last letter had been four years ago. If you ever received mine, I hope they never bothered you. I have sent you many letters since your last, but this would be the last.

Please know that I do not hold it against you, but I also hope you don't hold this letter against me. Since that night you did not show up in your play, I have always wondered why. You said you had an urgent matter to attend to, and although I was curious, I never pressed. After all, I am just a friend. And I was your friend, yes?

But you stopped talking about your life in the theater. You stopped telling me about the dirty curtains and how they made you sneeze whenever they closed. You started asking questions instead. About my life in Abberton, the animals in the courtyard, and everything mundane. I even told you about the goose that chased Gale and me around. I told you about my new teacher in Parlton. And I even dared send you my drawings of a wedding dress I designed. I told you about my suitors, hoping you would share a bit more.

It was only when your letters came less and less that I realized you asked the questions simply so I could not ask mine. And I reached the conclusion that perhaps you no longer find our correspondence worthy of interest.

Wherever you are, Daniel, I hope you are living the life you want. Someday, should we ever meet again, I hope to be the one to ask the questions. I hope to hear exciting stories of travels and crazy plays.

This letter shall be addressed to your villa in Picadilly where my many letters had been sent. It has remained empty, but I was told you still own it.

Very truly yours,

Simone

***

She sent Daniel Cavendish her first letter when she was sixteen.

They wrote to each other for two years since then until she was eighteen.

His last letter was six years ago when she was nineteen, a year after they last saw each other in Picadilly and never showed up in his play.

She sent her last letter two years ago when she turned twenty-three, after having not heard from him for four years.

Nine years. It had been nine years since she met him. She had been young and childish and hopeful.

Now, at twenty-five, she was a lady.

"A spinster," Gale said with a gesture of his hand at her. "That's what you are, cousin, if you continue to lock yourself inside this bloody room."

Simone looked at him wryly. Her hair was not entirely curly, but the ones at the side of her face were, and they were a mess. "What do you want me to do, Gale? Go out and marry the first man I meet?"

"I would not go as far as that, Sisi," Gale said, walking closer, hands in his pockets. He looked around her workshop, a room connected to hers which their grandfather ordered to be transformed the very day Simone made her first dress. The sewing machine he procured for her from England was still the same one she sat behind every day. "Well, at least you open the windows," Gale murmured before veering back to the subject of her apparent marital condition. "What I'm saying is that you might consider dressing up and come down to greet the three gentlemen waiting for you in the parlor."

"I already told Susan to relay that I'm indisposed."

"Sisi, I told them you're not indisposed before you sent the maid," Gale said. "Come down."

"I don't want to."

"Their flowers are wilting."

"Don't be absurd."

"And they're all waiting there looking like they're at a bloody funeral, the funeral being mine because I have to entertain them in awkward one-word sentences."

"Ask Lydia to entertain them. They might realize she's a far better prospect than I."

Gale rolled his eyes. "Lydia is with the Prophets."

"That's a sad thing then. Send them home. And thank them for the flowers for me."

"Sisi," Gale whined. "What will they think of me? I told them you're—" He was not able to finish his sentence because Simone was suddenly on her feet, grabbing her shawl, and out the door. "What are you going to do?"

She did not answer, already walking down the corridor, along the veranda, and down straight into the parlor, surprising the three gentlemen inside. The flowers in their hands were far from wilting, but the petals sprinkled the floor at their feet, an obvious sign of their impatience which did not show on their bright faces when they recognized her. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said with a smile, walking over to collect the flowers, saying thank you to each one, dropping a word of praise for the lilies and daisies (some with less petals), before facing them with her most charming smile.

In the doorway, Gale was already holding the door. "I would have enjoyed your attentions, gentlemen, but Gale must have forgotten when I told everyone over supper yesterday that I have commitments today. "I'm actually on my way out."

"Then allow me to escort you, Miss Priest," said one of them, the son of one of her former tutor, whose name she could never get right, just like his father's teachings.

"I'm afraid I already have a companion," she solemnly said. "Perhaps some other day. I'm truly sorry, gentlemen," she added. "Have a good day."

Turning on her heels, she met Gale with the smile still pasted on her lips. He rolled his eyes and dramatically swung his arm to the side for the gentlemen to leave. She went straight to the kitchen and handed the flowers to one of the maids.

"I'm quite busy today, Gale," she said when she turned around and found her cousin stalking toward her with a frown. "I have a dress to complete for Miss Burke."

"What's going on?" Price asked from the stair's second landing.

"Good morning, brother!" she greeted.

"She just shooed away three suitors with a bloody obvious lie!" Gale said.

"Again?" Damon asked from behind. His curly hair was almost black, damp with sweat as he strode toward them with riding gloves in one hand. His thick brow furrowed at Simone. "I'm sure they're not as short as the last ones. I saw them dragging their feet across the courtyard just now."

"There's nothing wrong with them," she snapped.

"Then it's you?"

"I would not say so," Price said, bounding down the stairs. "The old man wants to see you," he told Damon. "No, he's in the garden," he added when Damon started for the stairs. When he reached Simone, he waited until Damon was gone before he patted her cheek and said, "It's not you, Sisi, it's that bloke you've been waiting for."

"I'm not waiting for him."

"You can just ask Web again, you know," Gale said. "He might have heard something. He would not mind you asking."

"Web doesn't know where he is and if we ask again, he said he'll burn us.," Price wryly said. "And even if he wouldn't mind," he pointed his thumb over his shoulder, "Damon would. He was never fond of the idea that Sisi's been in correspondence with an actor." His face softened when he looked at her again. "Tell us—Are you still waiting for the man?"

"No."

"You always run down to meet the post, Sisi. Do you still write him letters?"

She sighed. "No, my last letter was two years ago—I told you. I'm just waiting, not obsessed. There's nothing wrong with waiting for a friend's reply."

"His letters had stopped coming five years ago—"

"Six."

"Precisely. Waiting for another one is preposterous."

"I'm not waiting for him," she groaned. "Not to marry him. Goodness. Do you think me naive? I'm not waiting for him." Her eyes jumped between men. "Am I being clear?"

"Yes. Honest? Not quite," Gale said. "But," he said, grabbing her hand and looping her arm around his, "We don't care."

"Because we have someone in mind for you," Price conspiratorially added, hooking her other arm around his.

"Who?" she wryly asked. The last time they tried to introduce her to a gentleman, it was a friend from Butler whose eyes would not meet hers because they were busy looking at others.

"The duke."

"The duke of what?"

"Dafield," Gale said, breaking into a grin. "He'll be gracing the Hutchinson Ball this weekend."

"Surely a duke would not bother attending a small-town ball."

"Oh, but he is because Lady Hutchinson has three young ladies," Price said. "All of them just slightly more charming than you and Lydia."

"Then he must be already eyeing one of them. Why are we even talking about this?"

"Because we don't like the Hutchinsons, Sisi," Price said. "Remember what Lady Hutchinson called the old man?"

"The old man, just like you did."

"He's our grandfather. Of course, I can call him that. No matter, you know how she has made our lives miserable—during functions, the church, even a simple walk in the park."

"You're being dramatic. She never made us feel miserable—"

"Just agree for once, Sisi," Gale said.

"I don't want any part of this plan," she said, breaking away from their hold. "You're both insane."

"You'll be a duchess," Price said.

"I care not."

"You're attending the ball with us."

She whirled around and faced them. "Why are you being desperate that I find a match?"

"Because the old man is dying, and he wants great-grandchildren. And you want a husband. You've said so many times."

"Of course, I want to be married. Just not with the men you throw in my direction at every turn. I'm quite certain you have not missed the obvious," she told them, "but you can also give the old man great-grandchildren." She pointed her finger at them. "And don't you dare tell me it's because you're men and you get to decide when to marry."

They gasped. "We never said anything about any gender being—"

"You once said it," she told Price, pushing a path between them.

They tailed her to the stairs. "That was years ago, Sisi, and I've long regretted it. The scar between my eyes is proof of that!"

Simone was about to say something about the scar not being visible enough when she stopped, spotting Damon and their grandfather walking in from the garden. "Grandpapa," she begged, "please tell them I'm not attending the Hutchinson Ball."

Their grandfather, now eighty-seven, smiled at her and said, "Of course, you are. We all are."

"But we don't like the Hutchinsons! Remember what Lady Hutchinson called you? And the many times they made our lives miserable—during functions, the church, even a simple walk in the park!" she desperately said.

"Of course, we don't like the Hutchinsons. But we like their guest," the earl said.

Her eyes widened. "Grandpapa, you cannot be utterly serious!"

"What's wrong? You always wanted to marry. None of your suitors seem to meet your standards. Perhaps it's time to step up and aim higher, eh? A duke is quite high up there."

"And he may have warts all over. Or—or a terrible man who would not respect me and make my life miserable. He might not even allow me to visit—" She stopped when she saw Damon's reprimanding look.

With a groan, she turned to the stairs and climbed in silent resignation. There was no backing out of this. She had tried that many times before. Price and Gale followed, telling her about all the good reasons she would want to be a duchess.

"We'll make certain you keep your rights and wishes. You can choose to live wherever you like, Sisi. You can build the manor in the woods you've always wanted, have as many servants as you want. Perhaps even own your own dress shop in town and Harry and Web would not even lift a finger against it because they could not—not if you're a duchess!" By the time they reached the second landing, she was convinced.

A dress shop. A manor in the woods.

A duchess. She, Simone Priest, a duchess.

Well, why not?