Her Humble Admirer

By Lucy M. Loxley

Livia Hightower is more than a little intrigued when the morning mail brings a most unexpected delivery.

Dearest Livia,

The call of the nightingale is but a sorrowful, plaintive psalm
Next to the sterling hue of my lady’s eyes, gazing mine.

It is signed simply Your Humble Admirer.

Again and again similar notes arrive in the post. Could it be a beguiling coincidence that they coincide with the arrival in the neighborhood of handsome Mr. Framingham? Surely Livia's childhood friend, James, would never indulge in such romantic behavior, especially when he openly distrusts whoever is sending the tender missives.

With each new note, Livia becomes more convinced that her future lies with the sender. If only she could learn who he is...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Uncial Press
• Release date: Oct 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781601742322

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http://www.uncialpress.com

Chapter One:

In Which a Missive Arrives

Shortly Before a Visitor

The first message arrived in the afternoon mail in a manner that was in no way out of the ordinary.

York brought it into the drawing room, his steps a slight shuffle, on the usual silver filigree tray, which he placed near the settee. Livia's slippers were propped in close proximity to the hearth to keep the chill from the morning rains from further dampening her mood. Rains, for the third week in a row, despite it being well into May.

She murmured a thank you and handed a reply card for York to put into the mails for the Duchess Asquith of Rutledge Hall's birthday supper. York offered a proper bow and slipped from the room. His white gloves drew shut the double mahogany doors to hold the hallway chill at bay and seal the lady in at her leisure, momentarily undisturbed.

Yawning and in no great hurry, she watched water droplets hanging from the branches beyond the windowpanes. Will the sun ever shine? Livia sighed and turned her attention to sorting the contents of the tray.

She had expected calling cards from Lady Philip Gregory and her daughter, Georgina, as this was, indeed, Wednesday. Without doubt, Georgina, the new Mrs. Doctor John Morgan, would want to report on her honeymoon to Weymouth, from which she'd just returned before settling anew in her husband's home at Tisket Hall.

No calling cards were to be found.

I suppose Georgie has better things to do these days. Would Livia ever get used to calling her Mrs. John Morgan? Unlikely. She would forever think of Georgina's mirthful exuberance, dashing to rescue kittens and hiding them in the greenhouse after her mother's stern warning.

Undeniably, dear Georgina is even happier now.

Her fingers absentmindedly plucked an ivory envelope from the correspondence tray. The paper was smooth and creamy. Addressed in fine indigo ink, by a strong slightly left-leaning hand, to Miss Livia Hightower.

Strange. She didn't know this handwriting. Perhaps it was Dr. Morgan's, in gratitude for the peafowl she and her widowed father had gifted the newlyweds for their rose garden.

She sliced the letter opener into the sealed seam and opened the folded quadrants. She smoothed her palm over the heavy, quality bond.

Dearest Livia,

The call of the nightingale is but a sorrowful, plaintive psalm

Next to the sterling hue of my lady's eyes, gazing mine.

      …Your Humble Admirer

Her gaze shot to the drawing room doors to ensure she was truly alone.

A fine heat rose into her face, a heat she knew had scarcely little to do with the fire. She turned the paper over twice, her hand trembling slightly. She sought any indicators of the sender's identity, but the paper was bare even of initials.

Her mind danced through his ardent images: nightingale; sterling hue; lady's eyes, gazing mine.

Who can it be? Who could write this beautifully about how I have affected him?

She was certain she didn't know a gentleman with this fine a way with words, with the passion to encode his affection in lines of verse that were so close to poetry. Unless…

Henry Framingham…Might it be? Mr. Henry Framingham, the duchess' nephew, had taken her hand as if it were a fine possession the night of her grace's Easter Frolic. He'd asked her to dance the waltz once; certainly that presaged some manner of attachment.

Her heart thudded under her ribs as she remembered his kind brown eyes, his frothy blond curls. How politely he'd offered to get her punch, but she'd declined. Why on earth had she declined? She struggled to recall as the note trembled in her hands.

Ah, yes, Dr. Morgan had been called away to a sickbed and she'd promised Lady Gregory that she and her father would escort Georgina home. Or else, surely, she'd have taken the fruit punch and she would have spoken to Mr. Framingham more, and would have gotten to know him better.

Has he been thinking of me all these weeks? Has he been carrying this missed opportunity in his heart so tenderly that it inspired him to set these words onto the page?

She started as three quick raps resounded on the drawing room doors.

Company?

The letter! Her fingers trembled too much to fold it back into the envelope, and the doors were already swinging open. Quickly she half-rose, and then sat back onto the divan atop the papers and smoothed her skirts as best she could.

Come in.

Sir James Dorchester, York announced.

Just James? She relaxed into the divan.

Well, isn't that a fine welcome for a dear old friend? But his voice smiled as he sank his lanky frame into the chair opposite. He nodded to York, who pulled the door closed behind him once more.

To what do I owe this mighty, mighty honor? she teased, hearing the paper crinkle under her gathered skirts and trying not to move, lest he notice the hidden missive.

I've come to check on you.

Check on me? Whatever for?

With your bosom bow become Mrs. Morgan so lately, I figured you might be wanting for company. Isn't Wednesday her call for tea?

Don't remind me. She allowed her disappointment to sound in her voice.

Dear friend, it is just as I thought. He leaned forward and a strand of his dark hair fell across his high brow. Our Livia is lonesome, and this insipient deluge is simply not helping.

Piqued, she sat straighter in her chair, "I most certainly am not lonesome. It's this dreadful weather. That's all it