Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

A t a ball the next Wednesday, Minnie watched from the periphery as Miss Sinclair glided through the crowd, the embodiment of poise and charm. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Whitehall standing just a few feet to her left, his gaze intent upon Miss Sinclair as if drawn by some unseen force.

"Who could have written such stirring words?" he mused aloud to the man beside him, unaware that the author stood but a few paces away.

"Perhaps a lady of deep sentiment and hidden fire," Lord Billingsley suggested, and after a moment both men laughed.

"Any ‘lady' with hidden fire wouldn't be so coy as to write a letter." Whitehall shifted on his feet and continued to watch the crowd. "And any lady who truly admired me as she wrote wouldn't dare put the words on paper, at the risk of being exposed."

"Still, I must admit to some small envy at your receiving such a letter. I wish someone felt that way about me," Billingsley admitted.

Minnie clinched her jaw and kept quiet. While she was pleased that Whitehall had appreciated what she wrote, she was even more delighted that Miss Sinclair's ploy wouldn't earn his love. She should be kind and hope that he finds happiness and love with someone, whether it be her or some other lucky woman, but she couldn't wish that joy on Miss Sinclair. The woman was too selfish, too undeserving of a good man like him.

He deserved better.

The woman in question glided up to the two men just as the musicians ended the current set of dances. "Lord Whitehall, you haven't forgotten our dance, have you?" Miss Sinclair asked brightly.

"Of course not, I was just about to come find you," he said.

Miss Sinclair giggled loudly. She led the men in small talk while waiting for the next song to begin, then held her hand out to Whitehall, who offered his arm and led her to the area cleared for the dancers.

Retreating further into the shadows, Minnie clutched her hands tightly together. She observed their dance, the way Whitehall leaned in to whisper something that made Miss Sinclair's eyes sparkle with triumph. If she hadn't heard his opinion just minutes before, Minnie would assume the seeds she had sown with her words had taken root in fertile ground, blossoming into something she could never claim as her own.

A thought suddenly hit her. What if Miss Sinclair had added her name to the letter, or on the envelope?

"Are you unwell, Miss Minerva?" a concerned older woman inquired as she paused in her stroll about the room.

"Merely fatigued from the evening's exertions," she replied.

"Such a tender soul," the woman murmured as Minnie excused herself from the spot.

As she retreated to a secluded alcove, the murmurs of the crowd grew distant. Try as she might, she couldn't keep her gaze from following Whitehall and Miss Sinclair on the dance floor. They suited each other physically, his height making hers less noticeable, their hair color almost the same shade of brown. Miss Sinclair must have a substantial supply of witty adages because her dance partner laughed each time they drew close enough to exchange a bit of conversation. If she didn't know better, Minnie would assume she was witness to a growing fondness between the pair.

She wasn't the only one to make such an observation. After the set of dances ended and Whitehall escorted Miss Sinclair to her mother's side, he joined his friend, Lord Paul Arness, who stood near where Minnie still lurked. Unseen, she became privy to their private discourse.

"Whitehall, your pursuit of Miss Sinclair is most unexpected," Lord Paul remarked, his tone light yet probing. "Is there something between the two of you?"

Whitehall released a sigh. "It's not affection that compels me, but rather curiosity. I received an unsigned letter from an admirer, you see. I'm certain it was nothing more than a silly prank, for I can't think of any woman who holds such a strong regard for me. Still, the idea holds a certain allure, a puzzle to be solved. Could the woman be among us tonight?"

"You'll have to speak to every woman here to find out," Lord Paul said with a wink. "I don't envy you. I only talk to those my mother throws in my path."

Minnie's heart raced at the idea he might truly wish to meet the author of her letter. Would he hunt her out?

"Indeed," Whitehall mused, "but one must be careful not to mistake stillness for depth."

"Quite so," Lord Paul agreed, as they drifted away, leaving behind the echo of their laughter.

Minnie pressed a hand to her fluttering heart, each beat a reproach against her ribcage. She was the still water, overlooked and underestimated. The hurt swelled within her, a tide of humiliation that threatened to breach the dam of her composure. She was caught between the roles of creator and creation, the author of a love letter that sang of passion and wit, yet deemed unworthy of the affections they inspired because of her unwillingness to speak up.

In the solitude of the alcove, Minnie confronted a truth more painful than any scorn. She was invisible not only to society but to the very man who occupied her tenderest musings. With a resolve as fragile as lace, she stepped back into the light of the ballroom, the specter of her dashed hopes trailing silently in her wake.

Minnie moved like a ghost through the throngs of dancers, her gown's hem whispering across the polished floor, its fabric the palest blue of twilight. The soft silk brushed against her arms, a tactile reminder of the barrier between her own world of solitude and the one filled with vivacious laughter and lively conversation that vibrated around her.

The opulent room, with its high ceilings adorned with gilded moldings, seemed to shrink as she made her way to the quiet corner where her sisters stood with their mother. CeCe caught her eye, concern etching her brow beneath neatly coiffed curls. Bella's lips were pressed into a thin line, her fan fluttering more rapidly than the wings of a caged sparrow. Both appeared to sense the tumult behind Minnie's demure facade.

"Are you quite well, dear sister?" CeCe inquired, her voice laced with worry.

"Merely fatigued," Minnie replied, betraying none of the tempest within. She forced a smile, though it felt as if she were stitching a grin on a cloth doll—pretty, yet void of warmth.

Minnie focused on the golden glow of candlelight dancing across the room, casting shadows that seemed to flicker with secrets of their own. The musicians' melody wove through the air, a tapestry of sound that should have soothed her. Instead, each note was a stinging reminder of the letter—the outpouring of her soul now ensnared in Miss Sinclair's perfidious web.

The truth of the situation lay coiled in her chest, a serpent poised to strike. To reveal herself as the true author of the letter would be to invite scandal and humiliation. Yet, silence guaranteed Whitehall's continued pursuit of Miss Sinclair, or some other woman, under the guise of an affection that was rightly hers.

As the music swelled, Minnie's gaze drifted to the far end of the ballroom where Whitehall stood, his profile as striking as any Grecian bust. His laughter reached her, a melodic rumble that resonated with a charm that had first captured her attention. It was in that moment—a fleeting heartbeat—that Minnie knew what she must do.

With a deep breath, Minnie steadied herself. The decision carved itself into her being, as irrevocable as the chisel marks on marble. She would not expose her secret, nor would she allow Miss Sinclair to triumph unchallenged. Minnie vowed to guard the truth of her writing, to keep the essence of her affections hidden beneath layers of propriety and poise.

"Come, let us escape for some fresh air," CeCe suggested, mistaking Minnie's resolute expression for a need to escape the crush.

"Yes, let's," Minnie agreed, allowing her sisters to lead her away from the scene of her quiet surrender.

As they passed by the tall windows, the night air kissed her cheeks with the promise of summer—a gentle caress that whispered of changes coming. But Minnie turned her face away, her heart anchored to a winter that refused to thaw.