Love Letters to a Lady: A True Clean & Sweet Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Finch, Fanny

  She had used to envy Georgiana that ability when they were children. Nobody knew what Georgiana was thinking or feeling unless she told them.

  “Parents are not perfect either, as I hope you will someday have the joyous opportunity to learn.” Mrs. Weston smiled. “I am still learning, even now. And I want the best for you.

  “But I fear sometimes I am too hard on you and today is one of those times. I am sorry. Will you accept my apology?”

  Julia found herself crying again. “Of course, Mother.”

  Mrs. Weston pulled her in to hug her and Julia laid her head on her shoulder. “I was unfair to you. My sweet girl. You are a sweet girl, Julia, do not ever allow yourself to doubt that. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother.” She was not sure that she agreed. She was still terrified of being selfish. But it felt good to hear her mother say those things.

  They stood there for a moment. Julia soaked up the love and warmth of her mother’s arms, her head resting on her shoulder.

  Then at last they pulled back.

  “Now,” Mrs. Weston said. “Go to bed and get some good sleep. I shall hear about this other prospect you have mentioned in the morning.”

  “It might take a day or two, please have patience,” Julia said, laughing a little. “I shall inform you as soon as there are solid developments.”

  Her mother hummed skeptically. “If you say so.”

  She kissed Julia on the forehead and then turned, walking into her room and obviously heading for bed.

  Julia slipped into her own room and took care to lock the door behind her.

  Just in case.

  She crossed over to the desk. A pleasant fire was already going in the fireplace and she used it to light a candle that she might set upon the desk in order to write.

  Julia supposed that she might wait until the morning. It was rather late and she was emotional.

  But she was not a patient person. She was not at all like her letter writer who had waited for her patiently all of these years. And then had been even more patient in writing to her and slowly allowing her to get to know him.

  She sat down at the desk and pulled a piece of paper to her.

  How could she even begin?

  She did not want it to seem too startling or out of the blue. She wanted the letter writer to understand that this was genuine.

  She might not know his face or his form but she knew his personality. And the disappointment that she had felt when Mr. Carson was not her letter writer was keen.

  Julia still could not explain why she had not wanted it to be Mr. Carson in the first place. That odd sensation of hoping and yet not hoping that it would be him was still confusing to her.

  But that aside, she could not deny that she could not feel any affection for the man once she knew that he was not the gentleman with whom she had been corresponding.

  Julia thought for a moment, and at last began to write.

  Dear Sir,

  You must excuse me but I shall not be continuing our lively conversation from the previous letters. I am afraid that I have something of the utmost importance that I must relay to you, if you are able to hear it.

  When you first wrote to me, you told me of your feelings and that you knew that I did not return them. That you indeed had little hope of my ever returning them.

  These letters were therefore a way for us to get to know one another. A way for you to court me. A way that we might see if we could in fact work together as a couple.

  I must congratulate you, my dear sir.

  For indeed this evening I was struck with the realization that you have succeeded in your aim.

  The affections that you have displayed to me and for me are returned. They are most affectionately and deeply returned.

  You have most likely guessed, for you are an intelligent man, that I have been trying since the beginning to learn your true identity.

  You cannot blame me for such a thing, I hope. I did ask once, quite politely, if you would share your name with me. Instead you suggested this correspondence. You cannot blame a lady for trying.

  And I admit that attempting to learn through clues and process of elimination who you truly are was quite fun. I highly enjoyed the chase.

  This evening I thought that I had figured out who you truly were. Or at least who you were very likely of being. I set several clues before the gentleman but I was unable to come to a strong conclusion.

  The gentleman was understandably confused and I fear that I might have caused some misunderstandings from him initially. But at last I put before him a question that he could not answer. In his lack of answer I knew that he could not be you.

  Until that moment I had been unsure whether I wished for you to turn out to be that gentleman or not. He is a fine man. He has everything that many women could ask for in a husband.

  But the moment that I knew he was not you, I was filled with a fierce determination. I knew that I simply could not marry him.

  You can well understand my confusion at this. Why should I not wish to marry a man with a title and wealth, a man of education and charm? Because he was not you?

  And it was then that I realized—it was because I was in possession of the deepest feelings that a woman can hold for a man.

  I hope that you will not see me as being too bold. Given what you had declared your own feelings to be I thought it not out of the question for me to respond in kind.

  Having never experienced these feelings before I find myself quite at a loss as to how to express them.

  All I know is that I wish that I were in your company right now. In fact, I have longed for your company all day.

  I feel safe when I am with you. And I do not mean merely in the sense that my physical wellbeing will be looked after. I feel as though I can share myself entirely with you without fear of judgment.

  You entertain me. You are kind and thoughtful. You are patient with me. I have been able to tell things to you that I have not dared to tell to anyone else.

  Part of it I can admit, at least in the beginning, was the safety of anonymity. Something about putting one’s words down on paper instead of saying them out loud is quite freeing. We have both noted this in our letters previously.

  At first I confess that I was somewhat afraid to be saying all that I was to a person who knew my identity while I did not know theirs. But then my fear and apprehension turned into curiosity. And now, it is excitement. I long to know who you are.

  I might be more cautious in expressing myself if it were not for your previous confession. It has given me the strength to express my own feelings towards you.

  Julia paused in writing the letter.

  Should she be even more explicit? No, he had to understand her meaning.

  Ought she to take out the part about Mr. Carson?

  No. Her mystery writer had not been at the dinner, she was sure. And if he had been, then would he not be curious as to what she and Mr. Carson had been talking about?

  Her writer had to know that Mr. Carson was also making a play for her. Mr. Carson had been a bit slow in his courtship, it was true. But it was still evident to those who cared to look.

  He took care to dance with her first at balls. To sit near her at dinner. To always engage her in conversation.

  Mr. Carson was being slow but not subtle. Her correspondent must know what was going on. Unless he for some reason was not attending any balls or dinners and staying out of the social life in Bath.

  She saw no reason why he should. And he did mention balls now and again, as well as local gossip. He must be in the loop of things.

  It would only be natural therefore that she explain. He would know that she meant Mr. Carson even though she had not said the gentleman’s name. That way her mystery writer would know that he need not fear Mr. Carson as competition any longer.

  Well, Mr. Carson would continue to pursue her. She would simply have to rely upon her letter writer to propose to her before Mr. Carson did in order to cle
ar the entire matter up. It would serve the double purpose of saving herself from having to turn down Mr. Carson directly.

  She did so wish to avoid that. She would not like to hurt the man’s feelings.

  But in any case, the writer would know that he need not fear her affections turning towards Mr. Carson.

  Very well. She would keep it in the letter.

  Those feelings which I allude to I dare not go much further into detail over. You know as well as I do that we must still be careful about what we say in these pages.

  But I’m sure that you cannot fail to guess the depth and breadth of my meaning. I hope that I am not too late.

  I can admit that there is in me still a slight fear. A fear that perhaps your feelings have faded from romance into friendship. That in coming to know me better you might have wished to know me less. That growing closer meant you wished that we were farther apart once more.

  You will respond that of course you do not feel this way, but bear in mind that if you had come to this particular realization you could hardly back down from writing me. After all, you were the one who persuaded me to start this correspondence in the first place.

  You see what sort of circles my mind runs in.

  In any case, I hope that you will reveal yourself to me now. You can be certain of a warm reception. I find that I wish for no other man to make his intentions known to me.

  You may do so in person or through writing. I know that I must think of your comfort as well as mine. If you wish to reveal yourself as you originally planned all those weeks ago then you may do so.

  However, if you do wish to proclaim yourself in person, you will find a warm welcome.

  I wish to meet you. I wish to know your face. Your voice. Who you truly are. I feel as if I already know you and yet, at the same time, I feel as though I am only standing at the edge of a cliff. Waiting for the fog to clear. Waiting to know you.

  Please do not tell me that I am too late and your feelings have cooled. Tell me that I will get to know who you are at last. Meet you in person at last.

  I confess that when I first realized how I felt about you I nearly burst into tears. Actually—I did, although only after the poor confused gentleman had left. I did not wish to cry in front of him as you might well understand.

  But it was just so overwhelming. I think that I gave at least two others who know me a fright. I think that they believed me to be upset.

  I was upset, in that my emotions were all askew, but not in any alarming or bitter way. In a wondrous and overwhelming way.

  My day I confess had not been going very well beforehand either. I was full of self-doubt and turmoil. But I can assure that those events and those emotions had nothing to do with informing my realization about how I feel towards you.

  It was rather simply the understanding, almost like when one sees the sunrise, that came upon me so swiftly and naturally.

  But now I am undoubtedly rambling. I am certain that you do not wish to hear all of my wayward thoughts about my day and how I came to know how I feel for you. About you.

  All that you must want to know and all that you need to know is that I long to read your words not with my eyes but with my ears and my heart. For them to be spoken instead of written.

  I wish to no longer imagine a blank slate where your face is when I picture speaking with you or going on walks with you or reading with you.

  And yes, I do imagine all of those things. Is it not silly of me to have not realized before what it all meant? What it signified?

  You stole into my affections without my even realizing it and now I find myself completely at your mercy.

  It seems only fair, though. You threw yourself at my mercy initially and now it seems I am to return the favor. Please do not keep me waiting long in your answer. Do not delay in providing me with some kind of response.

  You are the person who has come to represent to me the deepest form of friendship. I blush to read your letters and I am warm for hours afterwards knowing that your thoughts are with me. Just as mine are with yours.

  My thoughts are with you now. My breath is bated. I hope that I am not wrong in holding it as I wait.

  I eagerly await your answer.

  Sincerely, as always,

  Miss Julia Weston

  She was terribly tempted to sign the letter in another way. To simply say ‘Julia’, or to say ‘your darling’ or even ‘your raven’.

  But she did not dare. Her courage failed her there. And she was still mindful of someone else possibly seeing the letter.

  Julia sealed it up and then began to dress for bed. Her heart was hammering in her chest as though she had sent the letter out already.

  It would not take long for her to receive an answer, she knew. It never took longer than the span of a day for a reply to reach her. She would know by tomorrow evening at the latest.

  She might know even sooner if he chose to come to her in person.

  Julia took his letters out of the drawer and sat on the bed to read them, one last time.

  Just in case things went horribly wrong.

  She did not know how they could go wrong, exactly. But she was aware that they could and she was worried that there was still some way that she could lose in this. That she would not get to have this man after all.

  The letters had become even more dear to her over time than when she had first read them. They were a little worn in places from her fingers folding and unfolding them. She knew the words almost by heart now. Yet, reading them over again still quickened her breath and set her heart to fluttering like a butterfly.

  She lingered longest on the letter that held the passage where he had first started to call her by her nickname.

  You remind me very much of the ravens that I used to see as my companions when at home as a child.

  I hope that you will not take offense to the comparison. I admit I was rather lonely growing up in my estate. I did not find cause to become more outgoing until I was older and sent away for my education.

  But there were a great many ravens that lived thereabouts. I would observe them often. They proved themselves to be clever birds. Very sociable. And with very good memories.

  In fact, they were rather too clever for their own good at times. I would watch them teasing bigger birds or stealing things. They would succeed just often enough that it would make them bold.

  They remind me rather much of you in that way. You are a clever lady and you do like to tease. You are quite the wit. And I do sometimes fear that you will grow too bold and land yourself into trouble for it.

  But I cannot help but be amused at your antics. And the darkness of your hair, the shine of it, your sharp eyes—they strike me as being very much like the wings of that particular bird.

  Some say that ravens and crows are signs of bad news but I have never thought so myself. I think that they are simply troublemakers. Good-humored at that.

  I often see you fluttering about on the dance floor. You move as if your feet were not even touching the ground. And I cannot help but imagine that you are truly flying just a bit, my little raven.

  That had been the first time that he had called her that. She had read that phrase and at once her heart had leapt into her throat.

  Now she understood why.

  He had to be in love with her. Why would he come up with such a specific and endearing nickname otherwise? One that spoke both of her physical features and of her personality?

  Nobody else could possibly be so specific. He must love her.

  Or at least, he had loved her when he had written that letter.

  Julia looked at the clock. It was late and she had a rough day behind her. That was why she was so nervous. A good night’s sleep would make it all seem that much better.

  Tomorrow she would meet him. Or at least read his name in the evening mail when it arrived. Tomorrow she would know who he was.

  She would know the identity of the man with whom she was in love.

  Chapte
r Fourteen

  James stared down at the letter.

  He had to read it several times over to make sure that he correctly understood what he was reading. That this was not in fact some dream. Or that he did not accidentally, in his haste, misunderstand what was being said.

  But no. There it was, in plain letters. Or as plain as it was possible to be in writing when a letter could always fall into the wrong hands.

  He had to sit down, unable to properly feel his legs.

  So that had been what had happened last night.

  He had been so certain, so very certain that she wanted Mr. Carson. He had been ready to find some way to give her up and to bow out.

  When he got her letter he had expected nothing other than an apology and an end to their correspondence. Or perhaps she would continue on as before, although it would hurt him to know that he was simply a consolation prize.

  In fact, he had been bracing himself for almost anything… except for this.

  A declaration of love.

  He had thought that Miss Weston was so upset last night because she was dejected. Instead it had been because she was overwhelmed with emotion in realizing she loved him?

  He was not so surprised at the being overwhelmed part of it all. Miss Weston had always been an emotional girl. She was imaginative. Prone to daydreams and outbursts of passion. He had seen her give quite a few lectures in her time.

  It was the fact that she was overcome because of him. Because she cared for him.

  James knew that he was reading it and that it must be true but it was so difficult to reconcile what he had known for so long with the new truth that was in front of him.

  He realized, for the first time, that despite his writing letters to her he had still not truly believed that he could win her. That he could actually change her mind and convince her to fall in love with him.

  And yet, it had happened.

  He was a bit concerned for Mr. Carson. Not only for the man’s feelings but also for the situation in general. But he supposed that they would cross that bridge when they got to it.

  In the meantime, though… in the meantime there was Miss Weston.

  Miss Weston who had been crying because she was so overwhelmed with how she felt about him. Who had written at once to tell him about it.