Dearest, dearest Booke,
Just a few words before I pack you away, for we are off to London at dawn. I will write more when we are there.
Catherine is taking me to London. The day after that very strange visit to her house (I saw the Frenchman peeking out at me after I’d left and was standing outside waiting for the cart to be brought round—so odd! And then Catherine appeared to yank him away, and they disappeared behind the draperies), she called on me, and this is what transpired.
She said that I should leave this house before Lady Durand forces me to marry Mr. Dryden and that she would help me avoid this fate. I became flustered. I have not yet written to Mr. Dryden that I will not marry him, and to be frank, I am afraid to write this letter. Every time I sit down and tell myself I owe
