Once and Always @FOREVER.

Chapter twelve.

Victoria sat upon the settee in her bedchamber, surrounded by stacks of newly arrived boxes from Madame Dumosse containing yet more gowns to add to the stunning variety of walking dresses, riding habits, ball gowns, bonnets, shawls, long French kid gloves, and slippers that already filled every available storage space in her suite. "My lady!" Ruth gasped excitedly as she unwrapped a royal blue satin cloak with a wide hood, lined in ermine. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?"

Victoria glanced up from Dorothy's letter. "It's lovely," she agreed weakly. "How many cloaks does that make?"

"Eleven," Ruth answered, stroking the soft white fur. "No, twelve. I forgot about the yellow velvet lined with sable. Or is it thirteen? Let me think—there are four velvet cloaks, five satin ones, two furs, and three woolen ones. Fourteen in all!"

"It's difficult to believe that I used to manage quite nicely with two," Victoria sighed, smiling. "And when I go back home, three or four will be more than enough. It seems such a waste for Lord Fielding to squander his money on clothing I won't be able to use after a few weeks. In Portage, New York, ladies don't dress in such finery," she finished, her attention returning to Dorothy's letter.

"When you go back home?" Ruth whispered in alarm. "Whatever do you mean? I beg your pardon, my lady, forgive my asking."

Victoria didn't hear her; she was rereading the letter, which had arrived today.

Dearest Tory,

I received your letter a week ago and was very excited to learn you were coming to London, for I hoped to see you at once. I told Grandmama I wished to do so, but instead of remaining in London, we left the very next day for Grandmama's country house, which is little more than an hour's ride from the place called Wakefield Park. Now I am in the country and you are in the city. Tory, I think Grandmama means to keep us apart, and it makes me very sad and quite angry. We must contrive some way to meet, but I will leave that to you, for you are much better at thinking of schemes than I am.

Perhaps I am only imagining Grandmama's intentions. I cannot be certain. She is stern, but she has not been cruel to me. She wishes for me to make what she calls "a brilliant match" and to that end she has in mind a gentleman named Winston. I have dozens of splendid new gowns of every color, although I cannot appear in most of them until I make my come-out, which seems a very odd tradition. And Grandmama said I cannot make my come-out until you are betrothed to someone, which is another tradition. Things were so much simpler at home, were they not?

I've explained to Grandmama innumerable times that you are practically betrothed to Andrew Bainbridge and that I wish to pursue a musical career, but she does not seem to listen.

She never mentions you, but I speak of you anyway, for I am determined to make her relent and ask you to stay with us. She does not forbid me to speak of you; it is only that she never says anything when I do, which makes me think she prefers to pretend you do not exist.

She merely listens to me with an expression on her face that can best be described as blank and says nothing at all.

Actually, I have quite badgered her to death about you—but discreetly, as I promised you I would. At first I merely spoke of you, injecting your name into the conversation whenever possible. When Grandmama remarked that I had a fine face, I told her you are much prettier; when she commented on my skill at the piano, I told her your talent is greater; when she remarked that my manners were acceptable, I told her yours are exquisite.

When all of that failed to make her understand how close we are and how much I miss you, I was forced to take more drastic measures, and so I carried the small portrait of you that I cherish down to the drawing room and put it upon the mantel there. Grandmama said nothing, but the next day she sent me off for a tour of London, and when I returned, the portrait was back in my own room.