Page 102 of Lost in Darkness
“Mother and child—a girl,” he went on, “are healthy and happy… and by the smile on your face, you are as well. Good news for the world-famous travel writer, I take it?”
She rolled her eyes. “A favourable write-up in theTimeshardly makes me world famous.”
“How many other authors can claim the same? You told me yourself that particular paper employs the harshest critics.” He tapped her playfully on the nose. “Now then, what does your letter say?”
“It’s a short note from Mary Shelley.”
“Mary who?”
“You remember, the young lady who lived next to Balfour House last summer. Apparently she’s married now, with a son, and she sends her congratulations on my Cairo piece. She writes that she hopes to be as successful with an idea for a novel she’s working on, something called”—she lifted the paper to eye level and squinted—“Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus.”
Graham hmphed. “Kind of her, but why tell you?”
“She says she owes me a debt of gratitude for my friendship and for all the inspiration she received while in Clifton.” Amelia looked from the letter to her husband. Husband! She’d never tire of the thought.
She lowered the note. “Those were a tumultuous few months, during which I didn’t have much contact with her. I don’t remember being particularly inspiring. What do you suppose she means?”
“I suspect you’ll have to read her book to find out, quite the clever ploy.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And what does your other letter say?”
She shuffled Mary’s letter behind the other, which did have a return on it. “This one is from Mr. Moritz.” She broke the seal.
Dear Mrs. Lambert,
At long last, I have parted ways with old man Krebe and have established an entirely new publishing venture of my own. Well, I and a very generous patron, that is. It is my sincere hope you might consider penning your next travel handbook for me. Details enclosed.
As ever, Mr. Justin Moritz
Intrigued, Amelia looked deeper. Sure enough, snugged behind the letter were three tickets. One each for herself, Graham, and Betsey, with two berths reserved on the HMSHopewell, sailing June 8, 1:00 p.m., port of Southampton, bound for Morocco.
“Oh my,” she breathed, then pressed her fingers to her lips. How good—how impossibly good—God was despite everything.
“Dare I hope that is a happyoh my?”
“A very happy one!” She grinned and held up the tickets. “Mr. Moritz has just sent full passage for us to travel to Morocco.”
But then her smile faded. Her hand dropped. She peered up at Graham with what she hoped was a brave set to her jaw and not that of a tot who’d just had a ginger drop taken from his fingers. “But of course we won’t go.”
“Not go?” Graham reared back. “This is a perfect opportunity.”
“For me, yes, but you? The folk around here have come to depend upon you. What are they to do without a doctor?”
“They won’t be.” A mysterious and far-too-attractive grin lit his face. “I shall write immediately to a colleague in London who’s been grumbling about needing a holiday in the country. I have no doubt he’ll fill in for me. Besides, I fancy a holiday might be beneficial for us as well. Would you not enjoy the white sands of a Moroccan beach, walking barefoot beneath a canopy of stars with me?”
“Scandalous!”
“Exactly.” The heat in his gaze, the promise in his voice, cast aside any further objections. This time when he pulled her body against his, his kiss did more than steal her breath.
And when he did break away, were it not for the support of his hand against the small of her back, she’d have fallen weak-kneed to the ground.
“Well”—she smiled—“I suspect I won’t have much time for writing.”
“Not if I can help it.”
She laughed, as much for his intent as for the half-pirate gleam in his eyes. “Then by all means, to Morocco, Husband, we will go.”
