An Independent Miss by Becca St. John Page A

your
relentless teasing?”
    “Precisely. You robbed me of an
opportunity!” He slapped Andover on the back.
    “Do you mind telling me what you
mean by ‘the depth of her’?”
    “Are you daft? I am going to sit
back and let this unravel right in front of you.”
    “Don’t.” Andover fought the panic
Thomas inspired. “The last thing I need is any more chaos. Forewarn me if there
is going to be drama.”
    “Nothing you can’t cope with, my
friend. And remember, the medicine that doesn’t kill you will save you.”
    “Good God, Redmond, that’s a poor
choice of phrase.”
    “Not so poor as you might think.”
    ****
    After a warm bath and a cup of
chamomile tea, Felicity tossed about in a fitful sleep. The edge of waking
filled with images of Andover surrounded by beautiful women and her aunt
chiding, “What did you expect? It is the way of the world, Cissy, you best get
used to it.”
    Worse, pages flew from her
journals, only to be caught in the maws of a great device that chewed them up
and spit them out in millions of pieces.
    “Enough!” She jolted awake,
blinked, then blinked again. On the pillow, next to her head, was a single
rose, its heady perfume a calming scent after the fright of her dreams.
    She didn’t move to pick it up or to
look more closely, just blinked and studied it, as though that single bloom was
just another aspect of her dream.
    It was from him, of course. He
would know just how to disarm a lady. To get his own way. She had enough
brothers to understand that.
    There was a small card. She rolled
onto her back and pulled the note from the envelope. His handwriting, strong
and secure, wielded the same seductive power as his voice.
    Felicity, my dearest,
tell me what you want.
    Tell me your dreams.
    I will reach the stars
to give them to you. Yours, Andover.
    Make yesterday today. That was her
dream.
    She moved to the window seat and
remained standing there, the note still in her hands. Considerate it was of the
weather to be cranky and dismal this afternoon. Too miserable for anyone to
walk in the garden. She could sit by the window, all alone, and lick her wounds
without the risk of someone watching her from below.
    She should be working on her
journals, adding in the mix she made for Adele Smith, but the burden of
disappointment weighed her down. She needed to map out a future for herself, a
future as foreign as the other side of the world.
    Perhaps not just yet.
    Later, tomorrow, or the next day.
Just not now.
    The door creaked, announcing a
sneaky intruder. Too bad for them, it was privacy Felicity craved. She turned
away, more fully facing the window, hiding in plain sight.
    “Cissy,” a quiet voice prodded.
    “Beatrice?” Felicity whipped
around, stumbled in her rush to her cousin. Their embrace brought the tears
right back to Felicity’s eyes. Drat it, she did not want to cry.
    “Oh, Cissy! Whatever has happened?
Everyone was so glum.”
    “Never mind that.” Felicity swiped
at her eyes. “I’m just so excited to see you. It has been a worry, your delay.
Thank goodness you have arrived!”
    “We tried desperately to get here
for Easter, but lost a wheel and then no one would fix it because it was
Saturday, and then Sunday and Easter and all and—” she stopped to catch
her breath. “Oh Cissy, you must tell me. Something terrible has happened, I can
tell. Aunt Elizabeth had tears in her eyes, you have as well, please don’t say
nothing is wrong. I shan’t believe it, I refuse!”
    “It is awful, Bea, truly awful, and
I don’t know where to start.”
    In the process of untying her
bonnet strings, Bea stilled. “Someone died?”
    It felt as if she had, Felicity
thought. “No. That might have been better. But that is not the case.”
    “Oh Cis,” Bea tossed her bonnet on
a chair, grabbed Felicity’s arm and plunked her back in the window seat, as she
worked the buttons of her spencer. “I will ring for tea, for I am positively
parched.”
    Ever practical, she