“Nonsense. Say what you will my son, but if you preferred reading material is any indication I know you are not lacking in romantic sentiment. Do not become discouraged simply because you have yet to find a suitable lady upon which to lay your affections. As you yourself said there is still plenty of time.”
“Quite,” David said flatly, certain that his mother would find the Lady Eleanor Hawthorne wholly unsuitable. Still, he had to know what he was facing and carried on with his attempt to causally mention his mad intention to court a Hawthorne.
“In lacking such a suitable lady, I have decided to choose among those who I deem to be probable candidates. Someone of good breeding, and a quiet competence, easy to handle.”
“Are you speaking of a wife or a horse?” his mother asked lightly.
He scowled at her. “And beautiful of course,” he added.
Lady Perrilyn raised an eyebrow. “You sound like your father. Next you will be telling me you made a list and are planning on checking off probable candidates.”
“Well, not a list exactly.” He looked at her sheepishly. “Seeing as, I am not wholly sure courtship is the proper course of action.”
“Then why?” she asked, but David continued speaking.
“There is Lady Mary Scarbury, who is not quite beautiful, but witty and fun. We have always got on well, and Miss Marshall, the parson’s daughter, who is sweet as well as pretty.”
“A parson’s daughter? Oh, no, David really.”
“Miss Orlon who is quite the diamond of the First Water, and Lady Eleanor Hawthorne, who…”
Mother went completely white. “Lady Eleanor Hawthorne,” She interrupted in a horrified whisper. “A Hawthorne? You would dare even suggest…David, what are you thinking?”
“Well, Mother, of course, I know about all that old family business, but that’s just the thing is it not? Old business; and Lady Eleanor is quite uncommonly beautiful.”
“Beautiful is as beautiful does,” Lady Perrilyn spat. “You will cross her off of your list at once.”
“I have told you mother. I do not have a list, and even if I did, why should she be excluded?”
“Because she is a Hawthorne. She is an awful creature, you cannot know how awful.”
“Do you truly know her to be awful? Truly know, or are you merely abiding by rumors of the past?”
“I know that she is a Hawthorne. Is that not enough?”
Lord Perrilyn somehow appeared at just that moment, perhaps drawn by the very mention of the name, Hawthorne with the walls of his home. “You cannot in all seriousness be asking for permission to court a Hawthorne!” He roared.
“Of course not,” said Mother.
“If I were,” David said.
“Goodness!” Mother exclaimed.
“I forbid it!” His Father shouted in the same breath.
“Well,” David said, seeing that there was no reasoning with the two of them, “As you have noted, there is no hurry for me to wed.” He attempted to calm his Father before the scold could become a lecture. “I understand, Father. As Mother said I shall wait for the woman that inspires me to passion.”
Lord Perrilyn nodded sharply and waved David away, the conversation clearly at its end, but David had his answer. A liaison with Lady Eleanor would not be tolerated. Certainly, a marriage would be vehemently opposed. He tapped the poem in his pocket remembering the sentiment that had inspired his composition; passion indeed. Still his cousin Harry was right. How the devil was he going to manage this?
~.~
The following morning found David resolute. He visited the stables to engage the head groom to begin training Daisy for side saddle in time for his sister’s birthday. He then chose two of the best carriage horses, had the London carriage prepared, and announced to his family that he was going to accept Harry’s invitation to accompany him to London and join him at his flat.
“Enjoy your time with you cousin,” his father encouraged him, “Though, I know you like your peace. If Harry’s antics become tiresome, our own townhouse can be opened in a few hours’ time. You only need to send word.”
David nodded. “I will keep that in mind, Father” he said. His father gave him little censure, but the tension of yesterday’s disagreement hung between them. David bid farewell to his mother and sister. They waved him on his way, and David felt immeasurably freer once he was on the road.
He knew he had left his mother with the impression that he was at last ready to find a wife, but that was not why he had decided to travel to London with Harry, at least that was not the whole reason. David had learned, thorough Harry, who was an apt co-conspirator due to his own experience with mischief, that Lady Eleanor Hawthorne and her family had removed to London the previous day.
David knew he should not be endeavoring to court the woman. Such action had the potential to cause quite an awful lot of trouble, and the lady had given him no indication that she would accept his suit. But it annoyed him that his parents should refuse him the attempt for the simple sake that she was a Hawthorne. What harm could come of a few letters? He looked forward to London as he never had in the past; London with Harry, and perhaps to once again lay eyes upon Lady Eleanor Hawthorne.
The first thing David did when he arrived in Town was to post the poem he had been holding and procrastinating sending. It had been six days since he had last seen Lady Eleanor, six long days, and it was far past time to post the missive.
He had thought long and hard on the matter on journey to London. David worried that Lady Eleanor’s parents may have the same adverse reaction as his own to anything that passed between the Firthleys and the Hawthornes so he took care to not reveal his full name in the note. Though perhaps she would not know who had sent the card. A woman as beautiful as Lady Eleanor was bound to have other suitors.
Harry suggested adding a meeting place so they might speak, and it should appear a chance meeting. Though, perhaps Lady Eleanor would think him too forward for suggesting such a thing. Perhaps she would not come or not reply; worse that she would wish to do so and be unable due to their family estrangement. Never had woman set him so out of sorts. David took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. He had to believe that a woman who was willful enough to walk a near half mile through the snow, and had wit enough to appreciate Coleridge, would be resourceful enough to meet him or at least send word if she was unable.
That is if the lady wished to see him.
Harry clapped David on the back with exuberance. “Now that’s sent off. What more trouble can we make, Firthley?” he asked waggling his eyebrows. “Wine, women or wagers?”
David laughed. His greatest gamble was already out with the post and with it all his hopes.
“Why not all three, Westlake?” He replied lightly. “I feel I may be due for a stroke of luck.”
~.~
Chapter Six
It was nearly a week after the Hawthornes had settled into their London townhouse that Eleanor received the valentine, for that was what it was. It was early in the season for valentines, but not so early as to garner attention. Eleanor was sitting in the breakfast room across from her parents, a sister on both sides, and one across, when the footman entered with the morning post. Luckily, her brothers were not in attendance having risen early. Robert was too observant by far, and Matthew loved to tease her.
“For me?” Eleanor asked, taking up the letter and setting down her cup of tea. It was a plain envelope, with only her name on the front, and she felt her hands begin to tremble. There was a surprising weight to the note.
“Who is it from?” she wondered aloud.
But the footman had already gone. Eleanor looked up at the expectant faces around her, peering with interest at the unmarked letter. Defensively, she held it to her chest, remembering Firthley She thought about how they voiced their insights so easily with the opulence of poetry shared between them. Could he have sent her some missive? What queries would that birth? She pulled the letter a little closer.
“A little privacy would be welcome,” she said, but her sisters promised a scene, so she decided it was best to just open the letter and hope that Lord Firthley was discrete, if it was from him at all. Eleanor scowled at her sisters and slipped her fingernail beneath the seal prying it open.
A piece of thick paper was folded into triangles, all coming together in the shape of a heart painted pink. Betty squealed in her ear. Five years younger than Eleanor and half a head taller, she was in the stage of womanhood where romance and men featured prominently in her thoughts at all times. Eleanor had long believed Betty would marry before her no matter her father’s order to have his girls marry according to their age.
“Is that a valentine?” Betty gasped. “Oh, pray tell? Who is it from?”
“Is it not a bit early in the season for a valentine,” Lily observed.
Eleanor shrugged delicately, her hands shaking. Surely Firthley was not so bold as to send her a letter. Her parents would have none of this. How would she explain?
“Perhaps he is too full of love for our sister to wait,” Betty gushed.
“Gentlemen do not act with such abandon,” Grace said knowingly.
“They most certainly do,” Betty said.
Mother raised an eyebrow at Eleanor’s youngest sister, who had just had her fourteenth name day.
“At least that is what I have heard tell,” Betty prevaricated. She took a sip of tea and Eleanor was glad the attention was now on Betty instead of herself.
“I had no idea you had such a sentimental suitor, Eleanor.” Lily commented.
“Eleanor, why did you not tell us? I cannot believe you have been keeping this secret!” Betty pouted, but she could not contain her excitement for long. “Oh, but a hidden love, how romantic.”
Eleanor felt half lightheaded. If the valentine was from Lord Firthley she was about to be found out at the breakfast table and she could imagine the row that would ensue. Accepting help on the road was one thing a valentine was quite another. She could not think of a single thing to say. Her mouth was dry; her heart beating a steady tattoo.
Grace, on Eleanor’s other side, chimed in saving her the trouble. “If Eleanor were keeping it a secret, she would not look so surprised to have received a valentine, can you not see that Betty? This is a surprise to you too, is it not, Eleanor?”
Eleanor nodded as she fingered the fine parchment. She could imagine who had sent the valentine, but she was not certain. She had attended all manner of parties, balls, teas and galas this past summer. It could be anyone, and yet she knew in her heart it was not. She had never formed any real attachment with any of the gentlemen she had encountered at those functions. She knew some of the men had pursued her. Nonetheless, she was beginning to despair she would find her match, when the only man who invaded imagination dressed like a stable hand and poured mulled wine.
“I have not the faintest clue as to who may have sent it,” she lied, pulling open one of the triangles. A few words in elegant script were revealed. Not enough to make sense of the verse, so she pulled open the rest of the folds and tried to angle the card so only she could read it. Whoever had sent it, she did not want them embarrassed by having their words of affection being made public at the breakfast table, and if it was from Lord Firthley as she guessed, she must not allow it to fall into the wrong hands.
There were several short lines inked across the center of the page, right where the heart was drawn on the reverse side. It was a segment of a poem. One of William Shakespeare’s sonnets, 116. Her heart beat fast. Dare she hope?
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
The sonnet spoke of love, as so many did. Love, near, but untouchable. Eleanor read it three times; then pressed the letter against her breast. The sentiment certainly sounded like Firthley.
“Well?” Betty prompted. She had her hands clasped in front of her, face eager.
“It does not say who it is from,” Eleanor said.
She could hardly hope. No suitor had yet declared their affections to her, and what was the point of sending a valentine without claiming it? Unless one could not sign his name for fear of discovery. It had to be from him. She could not imagine any of the stiff gentlemen her mother had selected for her ever being so romantic. Eleanor flipped the card over. It was definitely addressed to her.
“Let me have a look,” said Grace, holding out her hand for the note.
Eleanor hesitated; then passed the paper to her. She sat on the edge of her seat as Grace read through the poem, her brow crinkling. “It is rather morbid, is it not, speaking of doom?”
“Oh, no,” Betty argued. “It is not.”
Her sister Grace lifted the corners of the paper, peeking behind the folds.
“Look Here!” she exclaimed, thrusting it back toward Eleanor. She jabbed at a set of initials, hidden in the red paint of the heart. “It says DWF. Who is that, Eleanor?”
Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face, as Grace persisted, “Do those initials mean anything to you?”
It should not have meant anything to her at all. It should not have, but for the lasting curiosity in her mind over a particular man, a man who had helped her in a time of need. Firthley. David William Firthley. She had not heard a peep from Lord Firthley since that night, nor had she expected to, and this proclamation of tenderness was startling to her. She felt the stirrings of something she had not even known was there, buried deep, rising in response to the knowledge that he had felt it too. That spark between them was not something she had imagined. He had acted so oddly, she had been certain she had misread the entire situation.
“It must, or she would not have clammed up like this,” Betty said. “Eleanor has a secret love!”
“Oh, Posh! It is only the initials of the artist who painted the valentine,” Lily said saving her embarrassment. “I will bet it was Lord Rumfort.
“Rumfort!” Grace exclaimed and they all giggled thinking of the oh so proper and stiff Lord Rumfort having anything to do with St. Valentine’s day at all. Could there possibly be a more cold fish?
“Oh yes, I am sure you are right, Lily. I see now,” Eleanor agreed with her sister, hoping her parents would not notice the conversation happening around them. She had been a fool for opening the note at the table, but she also had no recourse. How could she hide a letter from her parents? Only the fact that it was a Valentine gave her some leeway.
“So it is a secret valentine. You devil, how could you keep something so exciting from us, your sisters?” Betty was so excited; she might have received the letter herself.
“Hush now Betty, you are embarrassing her. Not everyone sees romance at every corner.” Lily corrected.
Grace handed the valentine back to Eleanor, who folded it up and set it on her lap.
By now, Lady Hanway had indeed set down her scone and was watching the interaction between her daughters with mild interest.
“Is there something of which I should be made aware?” Lady Hanway arched a thin, groomed eyebrow at Eleanor. Mother was generally the girls’ chaperone and prided herself on her efficiency. At least Mother did not sound cross. She sounded amused. “Have you been acquiring secret lovers, my dear Eleanor?”
“Of course not, Mother. Only in Betty’s oh so vivid imagination.” Eleanor could not help blushing, but the truth was Betty always had her head in the clouds. Mother would believe that the secret was only in Betty’s imagination. This was such madness, the whole of it, that she could hardly believe it was real herself. “It is probably only someone from the poetry society having a lark, I am sure. Please, excuse me.”
Eleanor pushed back from the table and hurried out of the room before her sisters could make further speculation. Clutching the letter in her hand, Eleanor ran up the stairs, into her bedroom, and shut the door behind her. She sat down on the window sill and reviewed the note again. DWF. She traced the letters with the nail of her pinky finger. Had he writt
en them himself she wondered. Did his hand touch this very paper?
When she opened the flaps of the heart to reread the poem, she noticed something she had not seen earlier: A tiny slit in the center of the card, between the words in the poem. She pinched her fingers together and eased another piece of paper from inside. It was no bigger than the palm of her hand. A brief note was written in cramped lettering across it.
Love is full of hope and yet I hopeless stand
Dreaming of a fairyland where I may have your hand.
All my dreams you have haunted
I cannot forget your face
And yet shall we be daunted
In every time and place.
Below the poem was the announcement that the Drury Lane Players were performing Twelfth Night, two days hence. Nothing else, and yet she knew the implication.
Eleanor’s mouth was dry. Was he truly suggesting a clandestine meeting? They had already spent a brief evening together without a proper chaperone. If her parents were to ever find out about the event she could not begin to imagine the trouble in which she would find herself. Another meeting would truly put the nail into the coffin. It was unthinkable. It was sure to be a disaster. It was irresistible. No matter what it took, she would make certain to be there.
A knock came at the door. “Eleanor? May I come in?” It was Betty, and no doubt both Grace and Lily were just behind her.
“Yes,” said Eleanor, getting to her feet.
She had a plan forming in her mind, but she would need her sisters’ help to pull it off. They gathered around her. “I must speak to you all,” she said.
“What is it?” Grace urged.
“It is so romantic,” Betty said twirling around in glee. “You do have a secret admirer.”
Lily, who was always the sharpest of her sisters, said, “You know him.”
“Who?” Grace asked.
The Forbidden Valentine_Lady Eleanor Hawthorne_Regency Romance Novel Page 6