Dear Cecy,
I hope this letter finds you and the children well. I congratulate you on having dealt exceedingly well with your prowler. Indeed, you have almost convinced me not to be alarmed on your behalf. But only almost! Do take care, Cecy!
Forgive me. I know you do.
Thomas is not yet home from his venture to Waycross. Thus, I have yet to tell him of the intrusion into his study. Nor has Thomas yet seen the letter James wrote him, for it arrived in the post after he departed. I do hope it contains nothing of vital importance.
Thomas has also missed his mother’s latest letter. Lady Sylvia is in her usual fine health and spirits, busy as ever providing good counsel to the league of her old friends—most recently, the proprietor of Ragueneau’s pastry shop in the Rue St. Honoré.
Lady Sylvia helped Ragueneau rid his kitchens of a spell that soured the milk and turned butter rancid the moment it arrived in the place. Ragueneau had suspected a competitor of casting the spell to ruin his business, but no such thing. Ragueneau’s son, Lady Sylvia discovered, had devised a spell to keep pastry cream from ever curdling. This spell, as so many seem to, had unexpected consequences. After a few false starts, Lady Sylvia was able to refine the pastry-cream spell to prevent any further ill effects. Even Ragueneau concedes the resulting pastries surpass all previous efforts. His gratitude to Lady Sylvia has been expressed in chocolate éclairs.
I am sorry to report I have made no progress at all in fathoming the mystery of Georgy’s visit to us. For all her sudden professions of fondness for the simple country life, from the moment of her debut, she has been happiest in London. Of all times to choose to rusticate herself, the beginning of the London Season is about the least likely.
To think I used to fault Georgy for being a watering pot. I would give a good deal for her to go off on one of her tearful flights just now, for when she cried, I could nearly always get her to tell me what was troubling her. These days, unless she is being disagreeable to the servants, she is as stoic as a soldier.
Georgy being Georgy, she is in her very best looks. Pale silence has always suited her best, I fear. The only time she smiles is when she is talking with Edward. Indeed, when she is talking with Edward there are moments when Georgy looks only a little more than six years old herself.
Perhaps I refine too much upon Georgy’s abrupt arrival. Perhaps there is no mystery about it. Perhaps it is only that she had a whim to see Thomas and me, precisely as Georgy insists.
Yet, consider. Georgy refuses all social engagements, neither paying calls nor receiving any. She waits for the post with such fidelity, I could set the clock by her, yet she seems relieved rather than disappointed when she receives no letters. Strangest of all, she devotes hours to reading the scandal sheets and even the newspapers. It is most unlike her.
What of Georgy’s husband, you ask? I wish I could tell you. His name has not crossed her lips. No message has come to her from him, nor (to the best of my knowledge) has she posted even a line of correspondence to him. The only assurance I could wrest from Georgy (and only after I reminded her at some length that it is the duty of sisters to protect one another) is that he has not mistreated her in any way. Georgy is not afraid of him, I swear, but she is afraid of something. I think she’s hiding here, Cecy.
Georgy has made me promise to keep her presence here in strictest confidence. Of course I will do so, but I made her grant me an exception in your case. I cannot imagine that anyone would ask you Georgy’s whereabouts, but you will be in London soon, and you may well encounter some unlooked-for social circumstance there. So please do bear it in mind that Georgy is not really here at all. I know you will handle matters far more adroitly than I would, so we trust you with this secret.
Believe that I will write the moment I learn anything else pertinent to the matter. Or indeed, the moment I learn anything pertinent to anything. Writing to you is the one spot of civilization in a daily routine dominated by wailing children, muddy shoes, and wet dogs.
With all the usual best wishes and even more affection,
Kate