To LTF
October 24, 1820
My good friend,
I appreciate your concern for my safety. Cholera has claimed a great many lives here in Calcutta, but I have remained well. It is perhaps due to your sending me that novel, Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. Once I had absorbed the horror of Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, I daresay even disease itself decided to keep its distance. I appreciate you keeping me well-stocked with gothic literature. It has often, ironically, lifted my spirits.
Mr. White has apprised me of the continued progress being made with Hopewell Manor. I was brought to tears reading stories of the soldiers who have found hope within its bounds. You have done well and give me far too much credit. I merely matched your own generous donations. Those who fought against the French Terror need my assistance more than do my own coffers. I have instructed Mr. White that I wish to assist in the purchase of the adjacent two thousand acres you mentioned. It will allow us to help so many more.
I agree with your latest assessment of our trade. I intend to remain here another year or two, at minimum. I have strong contacts within and without the British community. ’Twould be a shame to leave when there is so much yet to build.
Congratulations on winning our last game of chess. You have a most keen mind for strategy. Shall we begin anew?
King’s Pawn two.
In friendship,
Blake
To My Lord Marquess
December 16, 1821
Dear Blake,
My dear friend, I cannot express my abiding sympathy at the passing of your dear mother. I know the depths of your affection for her. Please accept the condolences of a true kindred heart. I find it fitting that your last letter described your journey to a glorious tomb which you called the Taj Mahal. I am still captivated by your description of the place and the drawing you sent. The expanse of inlaid white marble, the spires that soar to heaven. I shall think of your mother resting in a place such as that, surrounded by angels and those she loved.
Your friend in grief,
LTF
P.S. Forgive me, but I do know how you enjoy chess. Rook takes Queen’s pawn.
To LTF
September 23, 1822
My dear friend,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am inspired by your last words regarding the potential for reform at home. The success of Hopewell shall merely be our starting point. In fact, I anticipate returning in a year’s time and taking up my seat in the House of Lords during the parliamentary session beginning in January of 1824. Hone your ideas, my friend, as I intend to utilize your keen insight when drafting my bills.
Though we have never broached the subject, I would dearly love to finally meet you in person. Thus far, I have respected your right to privacy. But I wish to hear the voice behind all the letters we have shared over the years. I wish to express, in person, my gratitude for your faith in a penniless peer so many years ago.
Knight takes King’s Bishop. Checkmate. Hah! I have finally bested you.
Your true friend,
Blake
Chapter Three
THE BLUE BEDCHAMBER
STRATTON HALL, WARWICKSHIRE
SEAT OF SEBASTIAN CAREW, EARL OF STRATTON
MARCH 15, 1823
I wish to express, in person, my gratitude for your kindness in having faith in a penniless peer so many years ago.
Belle set the letter in her lap. Why did she still bother to physically read it? She had memorized its brief lines days ago.
It was just . . . something tangible. Something he had touched.
It had been seven years. Seven years of letters written and sent. Initially only every couple of months, but during the last four years, they had been corresponding nearly every week. Granted, their letters took upwards of six months to reach each other, requiring nearly a year to ask a question and receive an answer.
But the straggling nature of their correspondence did nothing to dim the excitement of it. Ideas and drawings exchanged. The games of chess. Their shared interests in dreadful gothic novels and societal reform, which really were not as far apart as one might think.
She traced the lines. The commanding swoop of his capital letters, the gentle slope of his sentences. The handwriting a microcosm of the man himself. Strong, self-sufficient, but possessed of unexpected depths of gentleness.
And now he wanted to meet her. Or, rather, the elderly gentleman he supposed to be LTF.
Belle had never meant to take the charade this far. But, like so many things in life, she was in the midst of it before realizing it had begun. She had merely summoned the voice of her father, intent on passing along the small bits of wisdom he had taught her.
And, now, seven years later she had a staunch business-partner-cum-best-friend. A man whose every word she had come to treasu—
“If you stare at his letter too long, you are liable to burn a hole through it, dear. And you would be sad if you damaged any of Lord Blake’s fine scribblings.” Miss Rutger’s voice landed Belle back firmly into reality.
Afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows, flooding the room with light. Miss Rutger sat opposite Belle, calmly doing needlepoint before the popping fire. Though old enough to be Belle’s mother, Miss Rutger had been Belle’s chaperone for nearly eight years, their relationship slowly developing into one of solid friendship.
In other words, Miss Rutger knew all about Lord Blake and her correspondence, particularly as she had been there that fateful morning seven years ago. Belle had to trust someone with all her secrets; Miss Rutger as her companion and Mr. White as her solicitor were the only two who knew the truth of LTF.
And now Blake would return.
Belle had only seen him a handful of times so many years ago, the last time being that fateful morning. Would she recognize him when—if—she saw him? She remembered his coloring and general physical appearance: taller, chestnut hair that curled at the ends, blue eyes sparking with humor.
But she didn’t recall the timbre of voice. The exact set of his head.
How had India changed him? Certainly, his skin would be bronzed from the sun and sea voyage, perhaps taking his hair a shade or two lighter. Would he smile when he saw her? Would he remember that morning so many years ago?
“Will you meet him? Will you tell him?” Miss Rutger asked.
Belle stared into the fire, not missing her meaning. Will you tell him who you are? Inform Lord Blake that he has been writing a young lady of fortune all these years, not a middle-aged gentleman of some means.
“I do not know. Most of me wants him to know. But . . .”
“But he is a gentleman of honor.” Miss Rutger snorted. “The sort of man who clearly understands that an unmarried lady and eligible Peer of the Realm should not carry on a private correspondence. Were it to become known, ’twould dishonor him.”
“You know as well as I that Blake is not overly concerned about such things.”
“Perhaps. But you do run the risk of ruination. And more.”
Belle knew this. It was why she had gone to such lengths to keep her identity secret, despite Blake’s persistent requests.
She and Miss Rutger had this conversation with such regularity, she could recite their words before it began.
Miss Rutger: You could be ruined if you say anything.
Her: Possibly, but only if he is indiscreet. He never breathed a word about my behavior seven years ago.
Miss Rutger: Granted. But neither has he ever spoken another word to Miss Heartstone.
Her: He has been in India for the past seven years. How could he contact me?
Miss Rutger: Hrmph. Were he to discover your subterfuge, you risk losing your friend and business partner.
Her: Perhaps LTF could die, and I could introduce myself as his daughter? Arrive on his doorstep in black mourning—
Miss Rutger: You read too many gothic novels, my dear. They are starting to addle your brain. Besides, you have
far too much honor yourself to engage in such elaborate deception.
And that’s where the argument always landed.
Belle would not directly lie to him. Though Blake had assumed her to be a man, she had never deliberately told a falsehood. She had merely declined to correct his misperceptions.
Admittedly, a very fine line, but one she did not intend to cross.
No. The real problem was simple: she didn’t want to lose Blake’s friendship.
Would she ever tell him thank you face-to-face? Help him understand how in a mere fifteen minutes of time, he had utterly altered the trajectory of her life?
As a child, her father took her to see a hot air balloon fly. She had watched, hands clasped under her chin, as barrel after barrel was positioned under the rising cloth, releasing a gas—hydrogen, her father called it—into the silk fabric. Before long, the enormous ball rose high in the sky, tethered to the ground with strong ropes.
Why don’t they set the balloon free? she had asked. Her eight-year-old self wanted to see it fly away.
Once high in the air, her father explained, the balloon would be at the mercy of the prevailing winds. So it has to stay firmly tied to earth.
Belle had come to consider it a metaphor for her life. Blake had been the knife that had cut her tether, allowing her to soar on thrilling winds to new and exciting climes. To become a person she had never thought possible.
Part of her considered it a tragedy he would never understand the good he had wrought.
But, once he knew, Blake would be honor-bound to cease their correspondence. Despite his unconventional views, he was a man of honor. Unless he decided to pursue her romantically, she would lose him.
Her dearest friend.
Though she wanted so much more than just mere friendship from him, were she honest with herself.
Somewhere amidst their letters about Frankenstein and the Taj Mahal, Belle had lost her heart. She loved him. Like the letters themselves, she was in the middle of it before realizing it had even begun.
How horrid to have a best friend who didn’t even know he was her best friend. A love who did not know he was her love.
Poor Blake.
Poor her.
A cordial friendship with the fictional LTF was all well and good. But enthusiastic discussion of philosophy and literature was hardly the same thing as romantic interest.
And the idea of a man like Lord Blake consciously choosing to pursue her . . .
Her heart gave a painful lurch.
He had not shown a single spark of interest in her seven years ago, even with the enormous carrot of her plump dowry and the need of his extreme poverty.
And now . . . the man was wealthy. No heiresses required. Young, handsome, titled. He would be welcomed home like a conquering hero. In short, he could have his pick of any eligible woman in the British Isles.
In her most fanciful moments, she imagined writing the words:
Do you recall that forgettable woman who proposed marriage to you one spring morning in Hyde Park? Allow me to relate a humorous anecdote . . .
She would tell him the truth behind LTF, and he would rush to her side, overcome with emotion. Sweep her up in his arms, professing a deep and profound love, begging her to always be his—
Belle closed her eyes, the familiar ache again clenching her chest. Swallowed back the pain in her throat.
She was twenty ways a fool.
She had always known she was an heiress. Potential suitors had always known she was an heiress. No one ever praised her person, her wit, her beauty . . .
Well, they did, she supposed. But only as a way to her fortune. Such compliments were usually too extravagant to be taken seriously. What was it Mr. Carleton had said over her pianoforte four evenings ago?
“We should carve you a pedestal, so all can admire your exquisite beauty.”
Only rigid self-control prevented her from rolling her eyes.
Honestly.
She was so much more than a mere ornament, even if she were a great beauty to be admired.
Thanks to Blake’s friendship, she knew her own worth now. She would never be wallpaper to decorate a man’s life. Some polite, all-but-invisible bauble.
She had lived a full life these past seven years. Out-waited her mother’s demands that she marry, taken possession of her fortune herself, created Hopewell Manor and other charities. Yes, she still dreamed of marriage, but she knew her own value. She would not settle for anything less than “a marriage of true minds,” as Shakespeare described it—which, she and Blake shared, she supposed. He just didn’t know it.
“Will you wear the blue satin or the yellow muslin tonight?” Miss Rutger asked, changing the subject. They were to dress for dinner within an hour.
“The blue, I think. It is elegant without being overly pretentious.” Which fairly described the face she presented to the world as a whole.
Calm. Poised. Confident. Reserved.
Looking a bit like wallpaper, truth be told.
She hated the irony of that observation.
She and Miss Rutger had arrived at Stratton Hall several hours earlier. Georgiana, Lady Stratton, was a dear acquaintance and delightful hostess. Her ladyship had lured her into enjoying a week-long house party.
Belle was content to be at Stratton Hall. She had stayed at one of her country estates over the winter, not terribly eager to join in the London Season and its constant barrage of invitations and fortune-hunting gentlemen who haunted her wake. A week of country air and tranquility was the perfect way to ease back into the hectic social schedule London would require. Lady Stratton was known as a kind, undemanding hostess, and invitations to her house parties were always a coveted commodity.
The perfect place to begin pondering a solution.
Six months. She had just a little over six months before Blake would return.
Would she allow LTF to reveal his—er, her—identity? What to do?
She just needed a plan.
An hour later, Belle descended the central staircase of Stratton Hall, the demi-train of her sky-blue satin dress sweeping behind her, hair curled and amassed atop her head. Pearls glowed softly at her wrist and neck, peeked out from her hair. Long, white gloves encased her hands and arms, while a soft cashmere shawl looped through her elbows provided extra protection from the March chill. Miss Rutger walked calmly at her side.
Stratton Hall was a more modern building, built in the neoclassical style of the previous century, with pedimented doorways and rooms that led one into another. They passed through the entrance hall, through the music room, and into the green drawing room.
Belle paused in the doorway, somewhat taken aback. She and Miss Rutger had arrived earlier in the day and retired to their rooms, eager to rest after their journey. Consequently, she had not seen any of the other guests arriving.
She had expected the usual assortment of acquaintances from Georgiana, Lady Stratton. Married MPs, older friends with refined tastes, perhaps a poet or artist to round out the company. In other words, a small, intimate group of like-minded people.
But, instead, she faced a room of . . . not that.
Two matrons stood to one side with five fluttering charges between them. Belle recognized one of the women as Mrs. Jones-Button, a mother known for her ruthless determination to see her three daughters married. Belle did not know the other woman, but given that she surveyed the room like a general preparing for battle, her intentions were obvious. The girls ranged in age from young to younger and cast longing looks across the room to the bucks gathered around a brandy decanter.
For their part, the group of men ignored the young ladies, preferring instead to pass around the brandy and laugh at each other’s jests. Belle recognized most of the men, a group of friends she collectively thought of as the Gold Miners. They each sought a wealthy wife for one reason or another—some out of necessity, others out of greed. In either case, Belle preferred to skirt their company.
Why this odd g
roup of people? It was so unlike Lady Stratton.
Granted, Lord Stratton’s stepfather and mother were in attendance—most likely invited from the nearby vicarage. And Belle also saw two lords and their wives, known for their reformist views on labor which aligned with Lord Stratton’s own. A widow and her nephew, both known for their wit.
But why the host of unmarried young ladies and gentlemen?
Miss Rutger noticed Belle’s pause and said, sotto voce, “I understand Lady Stratton owed a favor to Mrs. Jones-Button who is a niece to her ladyship’s aunt. Mrs. Jones-Button brought along her own three daughters, as well as invited her sister and her two girls. Hence the need for more eligible bachelors.”
Miss Rutger gestured toward the Gold Miners with her eyes. One of the gentlemen was now attempting to balance a deck of cards on his nose. Another took bets. A third was pouring generous glasses of Lord Stratton’s finest brandy.
Charming.
It was going to be a long week.
If only she didn’t like Lady Stratton quite so much . . .
Belle lifted her chin. She was being unfair. The presence of fortune-hunting men and marriage-hunting women need not affect her.
Belle’s eyes focused on Georgiana herself. Standing before the fireplace, Georgiana looked elegant in an ivory silk dress with small, puffed sleeves, her golden hair glinting in the candlelight. She stood speaking with the vicar and another man who had his back to Belle. A wide smile broke across Georgiana’s face as Lord Stratton crossed the room to stand at his wife’s side. The love in Georgiana’s eyes as she looked at her husband, his returning look of intense affection.
Belle firmly beat down the pang that kicked in her chest.
Why did she have to want such a relationship so fiercely? The one thing that no amount of money could purchase. She, of all people, would know.
Why did love have to be so elusive? Or, in her case, so pathetically one-sided?
She just needed to be content with her life. She had money enough for multiple lifetimes. Charities that needed her. Friends who shared her sense of humor and who had children she could dote upon.
Spring in Hyde Park Page 18