How Does Lady Whistledown Start Her Letters の小説・ストーリー

She said and pulled the desk drawer. "Someone felt using emails and text was too modern for them and decided to send you letters from Eastwood. I later figured it was Olivia's mother. I do not know what she wants, and I think it is a trap, but since you said you did not want to hear her name or anything that has to do with them, I did not bring the letter to you. Now that you are over your hurt, I think you can read them. I respected your privacy and didn't open the letters. They are two weeks apart. The blue envelope was the first to come, and then the white one followed," she said, handing me the letters, and I quickly collected them from her.

"It's nothing. Did you see who delivered this letter?" "No," the butler shook his head, then added, "The mailbox outside the estate is mostly used for Mr. ’Thornton’s business magazine subscriptions. We rarely receive letters. But I'll keep an eye out for you in the future." "Thank you." I turned away casually, returning to my room. Like last time, she sent a warning letter before making her move. This wasn't just revenge; it was a hunt. Like a cat toying with a mouse, deliberately leaving a slim chance of survival instead of delivering a fatal blow.

I sat there, staring at the wall until night fell again. When the moonlight touched the edge of the bed, I made a decision. I would not be caged. Not like this. Not for long. The next morning, a different maid came in. She was younger, nervous. New. I watched her carefully. "Can I get you anything, my lady?" "Yes," I said sweetly. "A pen and paper. I’d like to write an apology." She nodded quickly and left. Foolish girl. When she returned, I took the items and smiled at her. When she left, I began to write—not an apology. A letter.

"All 43 of them. I kept every one." She opened the top envelope. The familiar handwriting stared back at her, and her eyes widened. Her fingers clenched unconsciously around the paper. This was the very letter she had written at age 16. Back in high school, Emma had already begun writing novels, only to be rejected again and again by publishers. Unwilling to give up, she sought out a pen pal known only as "Zayn", to whom she sent her manuscripts for feedback. It was an age when the internet was already common, but she loved this slower, more intimate form of exchange. Luckily, Zayn shared her passion. They quickly became confidants, telling each other everything.

Dozens of them—some wrapped in red string, others worn at the edges from too many rereads. A small brooch. A pair of earrings. A map sketched with ancient roads now long erased. Her fingers brushed over the first letter on top. The handwriting was elegant, unmistakable. Wrenlow’s eyes welled, but no tears fell. She smiled. A small, aching thing. “…You stubborn, reckless girl,” she whispered into the stillness.

I still let him hold me at night. But I also knew something was coming. Something I wasn’t ready for. --- It started with a letter. A real one. Hand-delivered. No sender name, no logo. Just my name written in that unmistakable cursive I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years. I opened it slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. My hands shook. “Vivian, You always thought I didn’t know what I was doing. But every move I made was to prepare you for the world you now live in. You think you can rewrite history by marrying into power? You think love can protect you?

“She also said… ‘Tell the Lightning Lady to read it in front of no one but the Duke. And if she rolls her eyes, I’ll roll her into the sea.’” I sighed. “Did she really call me ‘Lightning Lady’?” “Twice. She’s… obsessed.” Alaric grunted like he was trying not to smile. I snatched the letter. “Fine. Let's read the drama scroll.” I cracked the wax, unrolled the thick parchment, and instantly the scent of royal rose oil hit my nose—extra, as always. Then I began to read: “To Lady Abigail MacMayer (or whatever you now call yourself in your rebellious era),

She could feel eyes following her from every corner. When they reached the receiving hall beside the main gates, three figures stood waiting. A steward in Virelle colors. Two escorts. No mother. No apology. The steward bowed too deeply to be sincere. “Lady Lydia.” She almost laughed. Yesterday she had been a burden. Today she was a lady. “You came a long way to use my new title,” she said. His smile tightened. “Your mother sends her regards.” “She may keep them.” The two escorts exchanged a glance. The steward recovered quickly and held out a sealed letter bearing the Virelle crest.

Now she stood at the center of many of them. Not because somebody placed her there. Because she belonged there. The realization felt strangely emotional. The following week introduced another unexpected development. One that nobody anticipated. Especially Adrian. A letter arrived. An actual handwritten letter. Interesting. Very interesting. Because in an era dominated by emails and instant messages, handwritten letters rarely appeared. The envelope carried no return address. No explanation. Only Adrian’s name. The moment he opened it, his expression shifted. Immediately. Ava noticed. Naturally. The room seemed quieter somehow.