by Finch, Fanny
Did she think that they laughed at her behind her back? Or that they merely put up with her?
He wanted to ask, but of course he could not—
Or, wait.
He could.
Through the letters.
She did not know who he was. He had seen for himself, felt for himself, how the anonymity of the letters bolstered him. How it made him bold. How it enabled him to say things that he could not otherwise.
Why could he not, therefore, tell her that she was too hard on herself? Why could he not praise her and tell her that she ought to think more highly of her intellect? Why could he not point out the things he had read in her letters and ask if she truly thought that about herself?
James felt conviction stirring in him, replacing the envy and jealousy and frustration that had plagued him only moments before.
These letters could not be just for him to show himself off to her. He must also use them to show her how valued she was. How loved and cared-for she was.
He would not allow the woman that he loved to go about her life thinking that she was anything less than amazing. For she was, truly. She amazed him.
He would simply have to find a way to make her see it, that was all.
It fit in nicely with his original plan of courting her through letters. But this… this felt different.
This was not showing himself to her so that she could know him and come to care for him. This was about bolstering her up. About making her see herself as he saw her.
Yes, he could admit, it would probably charm her to hear him praise her so highly. But that was secondary to him. His first priority, the one that lit a fire in him as he sat down to craft a response, was to make Miss Weston feel her worth.
He would help her to see herself as she truly was. He would help her to banish those doubts.
He cursed himself, as well, for being so blind. He had known this woman for years. How could he have not realized her own struggles with self-worth? How could he not have seen that she had moments of doubt as well?
Instead he had been so caught up in his own woes that he had not seen hers. He had been guilty of the very thing of which he had accused her. While he was alternately lamenting and rejoicing in her inability to notice his feelings, he had been failing to notice her own, towards herself.
He was twice, no, three times a fool. A coward, and a selfish coward at that.
How could he have been so blind? How could he not have seen how badly she thought of herself?
And he had called her his friend. The worst kind of presumption.
Well, he would rectify that now. He would do whatever it took to bolster her spirits. He would show her that she was everything that the other women wanted to be. That she was popular, witty, beloved.
It would serve to distract him a bit from himself. From his worries about not measuring up and being inadequate. He would instead be focused on her, as he should have been this whole time.
This shouldn’t have ever been about him. It should have been about her and how she deserved to be treated. He should have made her his priority from the start rather than himself.
Well, he knew better now. He would do what he could to make up for that horrid mistake.
Pulling out his pen, James wrote hastily.
She would receive this next letter by the morning post.
Chapter Eleven
Julia sat in her bed, the letters scattered around her.
It had been weeks of corresponding and she was no closer to figuring out who her mystery letter writer was than before.
He had taken to signing his letters Sir, a tease seeing as she always addressed him as such at the beginning of her letters.
That told her nothing.
She had hoped that over time he might slip up and reveal more. Put in, if not his actual name, a nickname of sorts that might reveal something of who he was.
But this man was clever. Terribly clever.
After her first letter in which she had asked him about various books her father’s pupils were sure to know, he had barely even replied to her questions.
Instead, he had focused in on things that she had not even been aware she had written.
My dear, how can you think such low things of your intellect? I have seen you best many a man in a battle of wit and in a discussion of literature alike.
He had praised her, in a way that no person, even her mother, had praised her before. He spoke of how he admired her intelligence. Her education. How it was so refreshing to be able to converse with her as an equal and to speak of things other than fashion and gossip about others.
Not, of course, that I am averse to gossip. I quite enjoyed a conversation that we had most recently. I cannot relay to you the details, of course. But I can assure you that it was very diverting and about quite a few people around us.
He was charming and clever, alluding to conversations such as that one but playing coy with details.
But it was the praise that truly struck her.
She had not been aware that she had been quite so down on herself in that letter. It had only felt natural to speak what she felt, in a way that she did not usually when she was in person with someone.
She hadn’t realized that her insecurities would leak out in such a way that he would notice them. She had thought, even, that perhaps a little self-deprecation would help.
She had tried to explain that, in her next letter.
Most gentlemen do not take kindly to my seeming an authority on a subject. Therefore I have undertaken to downplaying my knowledge so as not to appear threatening.
The gentleman had taken quite a bit of offense to that. He had told her sternly in his return letter that she ought to be nothing short of proud of her intellect and her learning.
He was grateful for it, he told her. He was always pleased when he got a chance to converse with her. She ought never to apologize for being intelligent or well-read.
If a man was threatened by it, he told her, then that was not the sort of man she wanted in her life. A man should expect his wife to be intelligent. How else could he trust her to run his estate while he was not home? Or to manage the household? How could he expect to converse with her at home and be entertained if she could only prattle on about local gossip?
She would only be unhappy with a man who did not appreciate her.
It was easy to read between the lines and know that he was telling her that he would appreciate her. But she almost did not care about the bit of self-promotion. She suspected, at this point, that it might even be unconscious. That the gentleman had not noticed it.
For while he had claimed that this letter writing was in order for her to get to know him, he seemed rather determined to spend much of their correspondence building her up instead.
She had found herself telling him things that she hadn’t told anyone except for Georgiana. And even then—for Georgiana was busy planning her wedding, and so Julia had not unburdened herself to her friend as of late. She hadn’t wanted to add more to her dear friend’s plate.
Julia had found herself telling this gentleman her fears about her parents. How she worried about her mother’s health. How she feared that her father was doing more poorly than he let on as well. That she would lose both of them swiftly and without warning.
She spoke of her concerns about finding a husband. How she felt pressed into it. How she chastised herself for not looking for one sooner. How she felt like it was her own fault that she now felt confined and pressured.
To her pleasure and surprise the gentleman had not responded by telling her all the ways in which he would make her a good husband.
Instead, he had talked to her of his own fears. How he worried about his sibling, who had a reputation as a flirt. How that sibling would fare when they returned to society. How he missed them but had only started to truly understand and connect with them once they were far away, through letter writing. How that felt like a cruel irony.
He had talke
d about how he felt distant from his mother. How he thought that she had been a vain woman who had not cared all that much for raising her children. He spoke of how his father was foisting all of his responsibility onto his eldest son and how he felt a great deal of unwanted pressure from it.
Julia had found herself over the past few weeks opening up to this man in a way that she had never opened up to anyone else before.
She had expected when they began this to try and find out his identity. And, in the meantime, she expected she would discuss books and such with him.
Instead, she found that the both of them were divulging things that they dared not speak of to anyone else.
It was so easy to do so by letter. To say things in the privacy of her room without the person’s face in front of her. There was no immediate feeling of rejection. Although she did often feel fear afterwards that she had gone too far or said too much.
But she doubted that she could have said all of this to someone’s face. It was refreshing. No, more than that—like relieving herself of a burden that she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying.
The intimacy between them was not merely romantic. Although there was plenty of that.
She ran her fingers fondly over the papers around her. Over time her letter writer had gotten bolder. Although to her credit she had certainly encouraged it.
I do wish you would not call me ‘dear’, she had written in one letter. It is what my parents call me and so that is all I can think of when you use it.
He had responded with, if I am too forward in this, tell me so at once. But I have thought of you for quite some time in my head as my darling.
She had thrilled to read those words. Hysterical, joyful giggles had burst out of her. All that day, she had felt as though she had been walking on air.
To know that she was so beloved in his eyes—oh it was probably not proper. Not at all. But she hardly cared.
In a world where she constantly second-guessed herself, here was one person who seemed to love her wholeheartedly.
He still would not use such names with her easily or freely. She had to coax them out of him in the letters. She would tease him and prod him and at last he would indulge her with a sweet name.
The one that she liked the most was my little raven.
It had sprung up because of her dark hair and her inquisitive nature. You are far too intelligent for your own good sometimes, he had written. Rather like a raven.
And so the name had been born. She could admit that she understood the comparison, having dealt with quite a few precocious ravens herself over the years.
It had become her favorite nickname. Whenever he used it, which was rare, it was usually to playfully chastise her.
Do not think that I do not know what you are about, my little raven. I can see you trying to ferret more information out of me. But I am afraid that our mystery must continue.
His identity, which had at first been a shield to him, was now an object of play between them. It was almost a joke, in fact. Something that she tried to learn and he tried to keep from her.
So much of their letters were playful. She was certain that he must be a witty man and not at all dull. That had narrowed down her search a bit. For if a man was clever with his words, why should he choose to be dull in conversation at the dinner table?
But all that she had learned from him and of him was not enough to help her in figuring out his identity. He could still be any number of men.
Julia stared at the letters around her, trying to organize them and trying to solve the mystery.
A part of her did not want to solve it. A part of her wanted to keep this special intimacy that they had built forever.
If they were to meet in person, if she was to know his identity… would it not possibly ruin things? Would it destroy the lovely relationship that they had built together?
What if he liked her in the letters so much better than in person? Or what if she liked him in his letters, and could not stand him in person? What if they were disappointing to one another?
Julia shook such thoughts from her head. No. He would not go to such lengths as to call her a special nickname and share with her all of his woes if he was the sort of man who would not care for her in person.
Besides, he had already been in love with her before the letters. She was the one who had not known him.
Oh, she did hope that she would like him. That he was thoughtful and intelligent, she knew. But would he be charming in person? Handsome?
She felt incredibly shallow for it but she did so hope that he was handsome. Or even if not handsome, at least pleasing to look upon. Someone with the kind of face that she could gaze at for the rest of her life. Because that was, hopefully, what she would be doing.
Many times she had been tempted to simply ask him who he was. But she was not sure that he would reveal himself to her. And trying to figure it out on her own was so much more fun.
Julia shuffled the letters around a little and then checked her paper. She had written down all the things that she knew about him that helped to narrow down her list of possible men.
First, he had a younger sibling. Possibly more, but he had only ever mentioned one.
Secondly, he was not on the best of terms with his mother. Julia was actually unsure if his mother was alive or dead. He had not been clear on that point. But either way, she frustrated him.
Third, his father was giving him a great—and if you asked Julia, an unfair—deal to do with the running of the estate. She could tell by the man’s descriptions that he was set to inherit a title. But what title exactly, she did not know.
Fourth, he was indeed one of her father’s pupils. He had dodged those questions as best he could, but Julia had figured him out. She would slip in mentions of books here and there and he had always replied.
She would put in a reference to this philosopher or that historical event. And she had brought up what her favorite dish was as a child. The dish that her mother had only had the cook make when a new pupil first came to the house. As a sort of celebration, welcoming dish.
The gentleman had responded that it was one of his favorite dishes as well and that whenever he had it as an adult it reminded him of his childhood.
It was possible that it was simply a dish he had eaten at home. But that combined with knowing the books and opinions her father had taught… it could not be merely a coincidence.
Furthermore, she did not know of any man that she had known for as long or as well as her father’s pupils.
Fifth, she knew that he was a good dancer and that he enjoyed dancing. That he especially enjoyed dancing with her.
Sixth, he always noticed her dress. While he was glad that there was more to speak with her about than fashion he had often complimented her on her style of dress.
He was careful not to be too specific. He clearly did not want her to be able to select a particular ball or dinner that he had attended in order to narrow down her search.
It helped of course that she wore dresses multiple times. Or rather, it helped him to keep his anonymity. Only the greatest of ladies could afford to get a new dress for every single ball and dinner they attended. The newly-married Lady Reginald, Georgiana’s sister-in-law, would be able to do such a thing.
Most of the time, however, ladies would order a set of new dresses at the start of a season. They would then cycle through them throughout.
It had been flattering to know that her choices were not only noticed by other women but by this gentleman. That he appreciated her fashion sense and admired how she looked.
Had it been all he admired about her she would have been less pleased. But on top of everything else, it made a pleasant flutter start up in her chest.
The gentleman was very good at doing that in general. She read his letters in bed at night so that there would be no suspicion from her mother or the maids. There she would smile, widely and possibly idiotically, as she read his lines. She could feel her face he
ating up when he would slip up and say something like,
You are darling when you laugh.
Or,
You always know how to make me smile.
She knew that he tried not to compliment her too much. That he struggled to maintain some level of distance and propriety despite what they were doing.
But oh, when he did slip up and those little moments showed through. When he called her little raven, when he called her darling… it made her heart leap in her chest as nothing else could.
It was almost like a sip of wine when she hadn’t eaten anything beforehand. It went straight to her head and to her stomach. Made her a little woozy in the best of ways.
If he had been straightforward and complimented her in a romantic manner all the time. If he had been frank and set aside decorum completely to tell her how she made his heart race, she would not have been quite so enamored of him.
But she could see how he was restraining himself. That he was trying not to show her just how much she affected him. Even in his slip-ups there was nothing untoward. He had not once mentioned touching or kissing her. He had never spoken of the marriage bed or anything of that sort.
Instead his little moments where propriety peeled away showed how esteemed she was in his heart. How high of a place he held her in his thoughts. Not only in an intellectual way or as a person to admire. But as a person to truly love.
His struggle to remain a gentleman was what so endeared him to her. He was doing his best to maintain his self-control and succeeding for the most part. That was what made it all the sweeter when he did let that bit of passion show.
Julia bit her lip, gathering the letters up into a pile.
He had to be someone who she saw often. He was in Bath. He could not have avoided seeing her while staying in town. It would have been too obvious, too awkward.
And if he was someone that she saw often in Bath… had a younger sibling who was known for being flirtatious… was a former pupil of her father’s and set to inherit a title…
There were so very few men who it could be.