by Finch, Fanny
On the one hand, he understood the need for him to be prepared. Father was not sickly but life was uncertain.
On the other hand, he suspected that Father was simply taking the opportunity to foist as much responsibility off onto his son as possible. That way the count himself might spend his last few years relaxing instead of running his estate.
James did not like to think such things of his father. But he had long been aware of his family’s failings.
He hoped that he would be a better husband to his wife than his father had been. Especially if his wife was Miss Weston. He wanted nothing more than to make her happy.
The thought kept plaguing him all day—he ought to walk to her house. He ought to call upon her and explain himself and apologize.
He couldn’t believe that he had asked for so much from her. He should have never thought to do such a thing.
Every time he was about to leave and call upon her, however, he would force himself to focus on his work instead.
He would not be hasty. He wouldn’t make this an even bigger mess than it already was by barging into her home and confessing.
Whether it was the right thing to do or not, he reminded himself, he had sent off that letter. The least he could do would be to allow her to consider it and answer it as she willed.
She must turn him down, though. She must. How could she not?
Miss Weston had always been the kind of person to skirt danger. He had counseled her against it many times himself.
She had always replied that if he would not take things seriously than neither would she. And she would not suffer his rebukes.
It was a fair point. James knew himself to be more serious than he often let on. He had been most serious, recently, in regards to Miss Reginald and her struggles.
She was a fine woman and he admired her greatly. He had been willing to offer up his own hand in marriage to her. That is, if Captain Trentworth had truly abandoned her.
Miss Reginald did not and had not loved him. But he had admired her. He had been despairing of his feelings for Miss Weston, as usual. Why not marry a fine woman and save her from spinsterhood? He could do much worse.
Fortunately, Captain Trentworth had come around. It had taken some yelling from Miss Weston and some time, but he had.
But Miss Weston had not been there for his serious moments with Miss Reginald or with the captain. She could not know that within him lay a deeper ocean than she suspected.
Letters might show her that. And he might find new unexplored depths within her soul as well. If she agreed to the exchange.
He was torn between despair and hope. He wanted her to respond and say that she would exchange letters with him. He also wanted her to refuse and to demand to see his face.
He was not sure which would bring him more relief. Showing himself would bring him an answer and put an end to both their questions. But it might also bring an end to any chance they had of truly knowing one another.
Continuing with the letters would provide him a chance to woo her. To show her who he was outside of the box that she had constructed for him in her mind. He, too, could see her in a new light. He was sure that some part of him still thought erroneously about her. As people tended to about individuals they had known for so many years.
People changed and grew. And yet it was sometimes hard to see that in someone that he had known for so long. It was simply human nature. First impressions were strong and clung to a person’s perception of another even after years of acquaintance.
He would not be surprised to find new angles to his lovely Miss Weston.
But while the letters would allow them to know one another, it would also prolong the inevitable. He would have to reveal himself in time. And how would she take it?
How would she reconcile the man she knew on paper with the witty childhood friend she knew from ‘real’ life?
He had no answer.
Perhaps it was best that it was up to Miss Weston. Whichever answer she chose, he would go along with it. There were obviously positives and negatives to both possibilities. He would simply allow fate and the lady to select which one.
That did not stop him from checking the letter box with near-obsession all day.
When he finally could think of no more excuse for business, he retired home and proceeded to pace. He tried reading a book but was too distracted. He kept wondering what Miss Weston would say. What she would think.
Perhaps she was not responding at all? Perhaps she had decided that the entire endeavor was too ridiculous?
He knew she was a fanciful girl. Or rather that she could be fanciful when she wanted to be. But she was not an unintelligent person. She was not silly.
It could be that her common sense won out. That she had no interest in playing games of any kind and so had thrown his letter into the fire.
Or, it could be that the letter had been discovered. She could be getting into serious trouble with her mother right that moment. He could have just set her up for belittlement and punishment.
James arranged for some tea to be brought to calm his nerves. He was behaving worse than a fifteen-year-old off at her first ball in London. There was no reason for him to be so very nervous and panicked.
Miss Weston was an intelligent and capable woman and could handle herself. There was no reason for him to panic. Panicking would not help him or her no matter what the outcome was.
If Mrs. Weston had indeed seen the letter—that was the worst-case scenario that James could come up with. If she had seen the letter, then he would learn of it soon enough. Miss Weston or her mother would be sure to tell him about it.
Mrs. Weston might even employ him to find who this letter writer was. She would want to keep it from her husband, of course. Mr. Weston need not be bothered to come from London when James was available and happy to provide his services.
Besides, it would only cause Mr. Weston needless distress.
In any case, he would hear about it. He would explain and apologize and accept any consequences that came for him. He would ensure that Miss Weston did not receive any punishment for what was his due alone.
There, he told himself. You have reached a logical conclusion. There is no need for you to pace so.
He forced himself to sit down and drink his tea.
But the knot in his stomach would not dissipate.
Finally, with the last mail of the day, it was delivered.
He knew that he was probably overestimating the postal service, but they were in the same city. Surely it should not take all day for a letter to reach him if it was posted from only a block or two away?
No matter. This endeavor might actually teach him patience. And the letter was here now.
He opened it carefully, making sure that he didn’t tear it in his haste.
Dear Sir,
I admit that your proposition did not fill me with the concern that it should have. My worries about discovery and condemnation were secondary to my desire for the adventure of corresponding with you.
First, you must accept my apology. Before we proceed any further.
You say that we are friends. Yet I have not an inkling as to who you might be. You must feel some relief at that. I understand. I would be embarrassed to have such passionate feelings that I was unsure would be returned.
Please understand that from my perspective, it is quite a blow. To know that someone who I call friend feels such things for me and I had no idea. I feel as though I have failed you somehow. That I ought to have seen and been considerate of your feelings.
You might say that there is nothing for which I must apologize. That your concealing of your feelings was and is on your shoulders and not on me. But I cannot help but feel this way.
Now that unpleasantness is out of the way.
Second of all, I must thank you for placing such trust in me. This is a delicate endeavor that you are suggesting we embark upon. I’m certain that many other ladies would be tempted to spread the news of
such a romantic and clandestine affair.
You could have easily exposed yourself to a dangerous game in which quite a few people knew what you had done. Yet you risked that for me. I can only offer up my humble thanks in your trust.
Third and finally:
I will accept your offer.
You have warned me greatly of the risk to myself. I understand it. I appreciate the effort that you have taken to ensure that I understand what this would entail.
I am certain in my choice, however. If this is the way that you feel you can woo me, then this is the way that we shall employ. Even if we do not agree to join in marriage, I would like to know your true heart, my friend. Whoever you may be.
Perhaps you could begin by explaining to me just how you came to develop these feelings you speak on? These feelings that are simultaneously so strong you would risk yourself in putting them down in words, and yet that you are too scared to speak aloud.
I await your return letter with a breathlessness that I probably should hesitate to confess to. But I find I do not much mind confessing things to you. Letters are so permanent. And yet, it is easier to speak my thoughts in them than to voice my words.
Sincerely, I remain,
Miss Julia Weston
James let out a slow breath.
She had agreed. They would write one another letters. They would be careful and considerate. He would have to make sure that he said nothing in the letters that would condemn her too much should they be discovered. He must not be overly ardent in his affections.
They were set on this course, now. It was almost a relief to know that. It was a decision, at least. There would be no more questioning and waiting in agony for an answer.
He went up to his desk and took up his pen and paper immediately.
The mail would have to go out first thing tomorrow but there was no reason to delay in writing it. There was no reason to delay in anything anymore.
Besides, he knew what he wished to say to her. And he really ought to say it before the words flew out of his head.
Unlike the first letter he did not have to do much rewriting. It was as though now that he had been given permission he could feel the words flowing from him without impediment or second-guessing.
He could so easily answer her question.
He only hoped that she would be satisfied with the answer.
Chapter Nine
Julia’s heart thumped in excitement when the letter arrived.
She had dared to ask him how he had fallen for her. How he had come to know that she held a special place of affection in his heart.
It was a bold question, she knew. But was that not the point of exchanging these letters? To ask the questions that she would not otherwise dare to?
When the letter arrived she immediately slipped up to her room to read it. Mother was wonderfully distracted. Julia had expected her mother to say something, anything. To even shoot her a look that told her that her behavior had not gone unnoticed.
But there was nothing. No word of warning. No concerned glance.
It was marvelous good luck. Julia only wished that there was some way to communicate that would not involve her mother potentially seeing her receiving these letters.
She could put in her next letter the suggestion that perhaps they leave the letters in an oak tree nearby or some such. It would be quite romantic. And she needn’t wait upon the postal office to ensure that she got her letter. Indeed she would get it faster this way.
That was too much danger, she reminded herself. That was a ridiculous flight of fancy in which she should not indulge. If they were to resort to leaving messages in a tree then who was to say they would not run into one another at one point?
It would all be too ridiculous. They might as well simply meet in person if that was the case. Leaving a letter in a tree or something of that manner was for when you knew who the person was, anyway. It was for lovers who couldn’t be together and therefore had to resort to clandestine means.
No, she could withhold herself from going quite that far in ridiculous romanticism. She had already been bold enough in asking him to tell her how he had come to have feelings for her.
She retreated to her room, making sure to lock the door behind her, and read. She would not be able to read them in such a manner forever. She would have to learn patience and wait to read them in bed after Mother had gone to sleep.
After all, it was only so long until Mother noticed how her daughter dashed upstairs to read her letters every time the mail came.
But she could not wait. Not this time. She had to know. There would be time for patience later.
She sat on her bed and opened up the letter. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she realized that it was a long one. Her suitor had certainly put quite a lot of thoughts into it. She was terribly excited.
Dear Miss Weston,
I confess to both fear and elation that you have agreed to this. I hope that I will do justice to the faith that you have put in me.
As to your question… I wish that I could tell you the exact moment that I came to have these feelings for you. However, alas, I cannot.
All that I can do is tell you when I realized them. When it came to me what I had fallen into without even realizing it.
It strikes me as quite strange that one cannot identify the moment in which one fell in love. The beginning is unknown to me and seems to be unknown to everyone else. At least according to poets and novelists.
Yet, there we are. And we cannot escape it now that we are in it. It is rather unfair of love, if you were to ask my opinion.
The moment that I realized my feelings for you had changed was at a ball. It was barely over two years ago, if I am remembering the dates correctly.
You wore the most lovely dress. I had always admired your sense of style. You were the picture of an elegant lady.
I did not think as much of it as I ought to have. I had grown used to how lovely you looked. I had taken you and your presence for granted.
Yet that evening, there was another young man who waxed poetic to me about your form and figure. He was quite enthusiastic about you and wished to know if I knew where your interests lay.
In fact, he told me that he suspected I had designs upon you.
In that moment, I realized that he was right.
This man that I had never met before saw in me what I had failed to see in myself. That I had no designs upon you but had fallen, quite deeply. So deeply in fact that there was no way for me to extricate myself.
I confess with some shame the envy and jealousy that shot through me in those moments. Envy that he might have what I only then realized I wanted. Jealousy that he might take away from me a dear friend of whom I was so fond.
You can imagine how dumbstruck I was. This man was only trying to find out if the way to you was barred. Instead he accidentally gave me a revelation that I had not expected.
It frightened me at first. The strength of my feelings was new and concerning. I had of course had youthful infatuations. Who has not?
And like all youths, men and women alike, I thought those infatuations to be love. But it felt nothing like what I realized I felt for you.
You snuck into my heart and rooted yourself there deeply, a tree instead of a mere sapling by the time I realized you were there. Years of solid friendship had given my love a strong foundation.
For the first time my romantic feelings were not built upon looks or flirtations during a dance or a ball. They were built upon many years of acquaintance.
At first, I was not sure if this was not another infatuation. That I was mistaking it for love yet again.
I started to pay careful attention to our interactions. To how I felt when I saw you. When you walked into the room. When you made one of your quips for which you are so renowned.
I found that I was drawn to you. I felt like a moth, my steps taking me towards the flame before I even realized that I had moved.
You were m
y dearest companion, I realized. It felt shameful to admit such a thing. That a lady who had so many friends and acquaintances was the closest person that I had in this world.
Yet, while there were a great many people in society I admired, none of them were so close to me as you were.
I am aware that it is one-sided. You have many friends and I have but few. You may be my closest and my dearest but I am not yours.
The knowledge was not something that came to me surprisingly. Rather, as my knowledge of my own feelings grew, so did my understanding of yours. I could see almost at once that you did not hold for me the same level of depth of affections in which I held you.
I did not blame you for it. It is impossible, I think, to blame someone for their inability to fall in love with someone else. It is not really something that we can help.
One’s behavior can be judged, of course. I will judge those husbands who do not love their wives and proceed to visit those less savory areas of London as a result. But it is not the lack of love that I judge. It is the breaking of a promise.
I quickly resolved to never let you know of my feelings. I could see nothing in it but embarrassment for us both if you were to learn of them.
But I could not stop watching you.
The way that you dance is a delight. You are often—in fact I think that you are always—the best dancer in the room. You move as though you are not even touching the floor.
Your smile lights up the entire ball. You must wonder I am sure why you are always the center of attention. Even when there are ladies of higher birth than you in attendance. It is because you are the most vivacious and witty of creatures.
Sometimes, I wonder if you are purposefully trying to distract me with your frocks. You always show yourself off to the best advantage in them. I confess that my valet makes most of my choices for dress. I am hopeless with fashion.
Everything that I had already admired in you for so long, in short, came into clear focus. I finally understood what had been building inside of me all of these years.