A full week had passed since the staged fall—long enough for the pain in Mary's ankle to dull into something manageable, and long enough for her restless heart to ache for something far more urgent.
Every morning, she glanced out the window by the east hallway, watching the mail carriage rumble up the drive with its crisp brown bags and polished seal.
And finally, one morning, as Martha the maid handed her a small stack of letters, she saw it.
A pale blue envelope with soft cursive handwriting—neat, elegant, but personal.
The return name simply read:
Miss Lily Everwood, London.
Mary's heart fluttered.
She slipped it into her sleeve without hesitation and excused herself to her room, ignoring her mother's chatter about rose arrangements for the postponed ceremony.
Once alone, she closed the door, locked it, and tore the envelope open with trembling fingers.
Inside, the letter smelled faintly of smoke and perfume—the way Isabelle always did.
Dearest Mary,
Or should I say... my lovely willow girl?
I've read your note a dozen times. I hid it between the pages of an old songbook no one ever touches anymore. That's where this letter will go, too, once it's finished—so don't ever stop writing. It's the only warmth I carry with me lately.
London is loud again. The clubs are smokier, the men smell of whiskey and want, and the stage lights are too bright when you don't have someone in the crowd to make it worth it. I sing, but it feels different now. Like my voice is chasing someone instead of performing.
I miss you.
Not just your smile. Not just your hands.
I miss the sound of your laugh when you mock Thomas's oat-fed horses. I miss your questions. Your silences. Even the fear in your eyes—it was honest, and so rare.
You once asked me why I remembered you.
Because you were the only soft thing in a world that hardened too fast.
Promise me you'll write soon.
Even if you can't say everything out loud, write it.
Let me carry it with me.
Yours—
Lily.
P.S. If you ever come to London, wear blue. The color you wore when you first looked at me like I mattered.
Mary pressed the letter to her lips, tears stinging her eyes.
She read it three more times before tucking it carefully inside the back of her piano sheet book, beneath Moonlight Sonata—the one she pretended to play when guests visited.
Just then—a knock on the door.
Lady Whitmore entered, holding a small embroidery hoop. "You received post this morning?"
Mary blinked. "Yes, Mama."
Her mother glanced toward the desk. "From whom?"
Mary hesitated, then smiled. "From Lily Everwood. My old noble friend. She's from a fine family in Kensington."
Lady Whitmore arched a brow. "Lily Everwood?"
"Yes," Mary replied sweetly, "she's giving me… advice. On how to be a better wife. She's already married to a viscount."
Her mother lit up at once. "How marvelous! And thoughtful of her."
"She's very traditional," Mary added, biting back a grin, "Said I should speak less, smile more, and always remember men are terribly sensitive creatures."
Lady Whitmore actually laughed. "She's not wrong."
Mary gave an exaggerated nod. "I'll take her wisdom seriously."
As her mother turned to leave, Mary's fingers drifted back to the letter beneath the piano book.
She wasn't just hiding love now.
She was preserving it.
And piece by piece, she was finding her way toward something truer than any noble match could offer.