The Forbidden Valentine

by Isabella Thorne

  Eleanor grinned at the thought.

  ‘Wait,” Lord Firthley said as Eleanor turned to depart. He handed her an envelope which obviously contained a letter. This was how they were to communicate then, to learn of one another. This was what she wanted, to explore their attraction and find out if it was real. She held the package tightly as she turned away.

  “I should hold that for you,” Missus Hartfield suggested, gesturing to her larger reticule.

  “Yes. Thank you,” Eleanor replied.

  Lord Firthley gave a smart bow, and Eleanor looked longingly over her shoulder at his retreating form.

  Their meeting was entirely too short. It haunted her as she replayed every moment in her mind as she and Lavinia returned to their seats. Eleanor could not have said whether the play was well done that evening for she was sure her eyes did not see one instant; such was her preoccupation. Eleanor had thought that the meeting with Lord Firthley might purge him from her thoughts. It had not done so. If anything their meeting had only made her hunger for the next.

  ~.~

  The Forbidden Valentine

  ~Part 2 ~

  Chapter Eight

  The evening at the theater was both exhilarating and draining. The encounter left Lady Eleanor entirely in pieces as she tried to comprehend the enormity of what they had done. She and Lord Firthley had planned to secretly correspond by letter, through Missus Hartfield, and continue their association regardless of their parents’ feud. Surely her brother, Robert, could hear the beat of her heart as she contemplated the deception upon her family.

  Lord Firthley had certainly had seemed almost pleased to see her: nervous, to be sure, but pleased just the same. Could it be that his family was not as set against her as hers was against him? Lady Eleanor could hope. She sunk into silence. Not even the amazing performance could hold her attention, and the performance must be grand, Eleanor thought as even Lily held her hand over her lips in an attempt to stifle her laughter.

  The play slipped by, as did the ride home from the theater, with the letter from Firthley hidden in Missus Hartfield’s reticule high in Eleanor’s mind. Her sisters’ comments passed over Eleanor unheeded. Grace who was in uncommonly high spirits, and Lily who pulled every nuance and allusion from the play, were conversing with Missus Hartfield. Normally Eleanor would have gone toe to toe with Lily, but not today. She was entirely too distracted. When Lily asked her to comment on the levity of the performance, Eleanor brushed her off with the claim of a headache.

  When they reached home, Mother and Father had already retired so Eleanor did not have to lie about the performance or feign interest in any other conversation. Robert met Matthew with the order that he was to be the escort at the next outing, and Matthew grimaced before both gentlemen went into the library for a drink. “Was the performance taxing?” Matthew asked.

  “No,” Robert said. “It was quite funny, a young girl dressing as her brother. He glanced at his sisters. “If you could imagine,” he said.

  Matthew chortled. “Perhaps we should go together to the theater on the next occasion, brother, with women not our sisters,” Matthew suggested.

  Upon climbing the stairs, the ladies met Betty, who was still wide awake and waiting for her elder sisters to reveal the night’s activities. Since Betty was not out yet, she could not attend evening events and lived vicariously on her sisters’ exploits.

  Eleanor left Grace and Lily to contend with their younger sister’s excited questions about the play, and more importantly, who wore what and who was with whom. Eleanor was entirely too overwhelmed to think of anyone’s interests but her own.

  Eleanor brushed Missus Hartfield’s arm to signal her to hurry and then hastened away to the quiet of her room to ponder the fact that she was about to embark on a clandestine relationship, with Lord Firthley; even if it was in correspondence only.

  Once Eleanor was in her night clothes, she dismissed her maid. She sat by the window, looking out at the snow, imagining Lord Firthley’s warm arms around her protecting her from the storm. She hoped Missus Hartfield would hurry to her room with the letter. Surely Lavinia would not forget.

  Due to the late hour, and the fact that her husband was at sea, Lavinia was staying with the Hawthorne’s for the night. The house was certainly accommodating enough. The townhouse boasted six rooms to each floor, undoubtedly more than the average London resident might hope to afford, but the Hawthornes were far from average. Eleanor recalled her father’s words. The Hawthornes were a pillar of society, and they must be above reproach, more so now these last hundred years, to dispel the terrible rumors started by the Firthley family.

  Missus Lavinia Hartfield was kind-hearted, though she seemed a bit scatterbrained, more of a friend for Betty than for Grace, in spite of the difference in their years. Perhaps Grace liked the bubbly personality of the blonde woman, who reminded them both of their youngest sister. The cheerfulness Lavinia and Betty expressed was so alike. Eleanor smiled; it was not as if they needed another sister with the four of them. Yet that is much how Missus Hartfield felt to her, a sister, as if Betty had been born as the oldest instead of the youngest.

  Lavinia had become more than a chaperone to the girls and especially to Eleanor. She was a friend. Only a year her elder, the recently married woman was a frequent companion when her own husband was at sea and her presence was a source of comfort, and a release from Mother’s complaining.

  Lavinia’s husband, Captain Johnathan Hartfield was presently engaged in the work of His Majesty’s Navy and so his wife had taken up residence with several friends in London. Lavinia had many friends amongst the Ton, so she did not often want for company when her husband was away. As a married woman lacking the distraction of her own husband, she was happy to help Lady Hanway with the chaperoning of the Hawthorne sisters, much to Eleanor’s benefit.

  It was not long before Missus Hartfield slipped in through the doorway, in a bubbling burst of excitement. She came to sit on the edge of Eleanor’s bed and opened her reticule. She had not quite stopped bouncing though she quieted as she realized Eleanor’s pensive mood.

  “You are lost in your thoughts,” Lavinia observed.

  Lady Eleanor shrugged, and took Lavinia’s hands which now held the letter. It was a plain envelope, so that if it was dropped along the way no one would think ill of its holder. It was sealed with a blob of dark blue wax, but no signet. It was so completely anonymous, that Lady Eleanor felt a wave of disquiet. It seemed Lord Firthley was as skilled at subterfuge as Missus Hartfield! And yet, her fingers itched to touch the letter, to read his words. She took the letter and held it unopened, perhaps in forbearance, perhaps in trepidation.

  “I, too, was surprised by Lord Firthley’s attentions this evening,” the elder lady observed.

  Lady Eleanor flicked her eyes to her companion, but did not speak. The cool vellum under her fingertips took all of her attention.

  “He did not seem such a villain as your family would have one believe,” Missus Hartfield murmured. “And I might have even called him hopeful.”

  Lady Eleanor hugged the letter to her breast, groaned and lay back into the goose down pillows that framed her bed. She did not want to think about Lord Firthley’s motivations. She did not want to think that he had been hopeful to lay his sight upon her again, only to have his hopes dashed.

  “Do not say such things, Lavinia,” she sighed

  “But you were thinking the same; were you not? Were you not hopeful?”

  “How can I be, Lavinia when the situation is so hopeless.”

  “I am sure your family will consider him if you are in love.”

  “I do not yet know what I feel, Lavinia. I have agreed to correspond with Lord Firthley, but Father will never agree to a proper courtship, not with a Firthley. To say nothing of Grandfather.”

  “Then this feud is truly as bad as it is rumored to be,” Lavinia said sadly. “It seems a shame. The quarrel happened so long ago. What has it been? Nearly a hundred years?�
��

  Lavinia began pulling pins from her blonde curls. She put them in a pile on the dresser and then ran her fingers through the tangled mass. Aside from her own darker hair, Eleanor realized that she and Lavinia looked much the same. Like a mirror image of the same girl, one dark and one pale. They both were petite, though Eleanor was perhaps a bit fuller in frame. If one did not look too closely, even Lavinia’s china blue eyes could be mistaken for Eleanor’s darker violet.

  “I wonder if the Firthleys are even aware,” Missus Hartfield pressed on. “I might say that either Lord Firthley had kept this entire event close to his collar or his family is not as bothered by their son seeing a Hawthorne as your father is you seeing a Firthley.”

  “Do you truly think so?” Eleanor asked hopeful.

  If they had the support of at least one side of the family, if that could be true, then perhaps their situation was not entirely doomed. Eleanor’s heart leapt to hear the same thought that had been racing through her own mind. Still she dare not dream it so. It was dangerous to be so hopeful.

  Lavinia shrugged. “On the other hand, perhaps he kept the meeting secret. You said only a few servants were present, when you met with him. Perhaps they were discreet, and his parents do not yet know of your visit. Then the turmoil is only delayed.”

  Eleanor nodded, her stomach bubbling with nerves as Lavinia voiced her own fears.

  “I cannot think of such things. It hurts my heart.”

  “Of course it does, my dear, but that does not mean one should ignore the facts.” Lavinia reached out and stroked her hair. “Just because love is glorious, does not mean it does not tangle and hurt. You must also be practical. You seemed like a practical young lady.”

  “Yes,” Lady Eleanor agreed, running a fingernail against the hard wax of the seal. His hands touched this paper. Her father had deemed her the most practical, after Lily. He had high hopes for her marriage. She sighed. He would be so disappointed in her if he knew what she was thinking just now. “But this venture is so very impractical, you must agree, Lavinia.”

  “Yes,” the woman continued, “And then it is romantic, in a terrible sort of way, to be sure. All the more reason why you must take care.”

  “Oh, do not tease,” Eleanor begged.

  “I am not teasing,” Lavinia assured her. “I am only thinking of that lost couple. I wonder at what that first Firthley might have said, all those years ago,” she whispered. “Was he true or false? Perhaps he voiced some wonderful declaration or a promise of love, which was then foiled by the families’ animosity. It is all so terribly sad.” Lavinia held her clasped hands to her heart. “To share a secret love with a sworn enemy, repeating the same mistakes as made by your ancestors, defying certain destruction.”

  “Oh! No!” Lady Eleanor cried. “Lavinia, do stop! I cannot bear it,” Eleanor moaned. “What are we doing? Are you saying there is no hope for us? That we must stop? We have barely begun. Do you think this is nothing but a lark? Lavinia, how could you say such things?” She hugged the letter to herself, and rocked slightly in her misery.

  Lavinia turned to Lady Eleanor, suddenly serious. “What I think is, we must find what happened to those long ago lovers so that the past should not be repeated. Come now. All is not lost.”

  Lady Eleanor looked heavenward. She hoped in her dearest heart that there could be some truth to Lavinia’s words. Perhaps a clue was in the past, but how would she find the truth when the tale was buried in rumors? Would such an endeavor be possible?

  “Eleanor,” Lavinia said in all seriousness. “I know this is no lark.” She sat beside Eleanor on the bed. “Only for love’s sake would you risk your reputation, and love is worth such risk, but you must remember, your reputation is at stake. If you are found out, no one will have you, save Lord Firthley. In embarking upon this path, you put your life in his hands. Make no mistake.”

  “It is a bit late for warnings, do you not think?” Eleanor complained.

  “I only warn caution. Your maudlin attitude after a glorious and quite hilarious night at the theater may have caused your lady mother pause.”

  “Mother was not in attendance,” Lady Eleanor said with a frown.

  “Exactly. She was not. Your brother did not notice anything amiss, men rarely do, but you must always be vigilant. You must be prepared at a moment’s notice to hide your feelings, and I think that you often wear yours upon your sleeve. It is dangerous to do so.”

  Eleanor nodded worriedly. “I see.”

  “Still, there is no one here now to censure your sentiment. Read your letter and dream of love.” Lavinia waved her farewell as she started towards the door. “But trust me; let caution guide you. We both know that I have the nose for these things.” She tapped her own pert nose with a knowing look.

  “Should you not be putting forth all this effort toward your own husband?” Lady Eleanor teased half-heartedly.

  Lavinia paused, still standing before the unopened door.

  “Oh, I have written him already this day.” Lavinia wrinkled her nose and shook her head with a secret smile. “Besides, I have only your doings to occupy my thoughts at present, and this, I must say, is the first real excitement that we have had.”

  “Lavinia!” Lady Eleanor scolded. “My heart is not a boon for your pleasure.”

  “Then whose pleasure might your heart wait upon?” she raised a knowing eyebrow.

  “Oh, do stop,” Eleanor said. She buried her flushed face in her pillow. “If I could only look upon him again,” she muttered into the pillow thinking of Firthley. “And yet I cannot.” Eleanor raised her face to look at Lavinia. “Who knows how long we may be parted.”

  Lavinia shook her head and came back into the room to console Eleanor. “Take heart, my dear. I too pine for the arms of my love. I dream of holding my Jack…and kissing his lips,” she said, “Do not forget that I too am separated from my love. Do you think all love disappears once the vows of marriage are spoken?”

  “I know not,” Eleanor said. She had never really thought of it. Certainly there was little enough love in her parents’ marriage. She had not considered that Lavinia may be missing her husband.

  Then Lavinia took a more practical tone. “Surely you do not wish me to think of my dear, Captain Jack in harm’s way in this dreadful war.” She blinked innocently at Eleanor and Eleanor felt immediately guilty for not considering the other woman’s situation.

  She felt she was horrible for not thinking of Lavinia’s captain once in the past days, so immersed in her own trials, was she. “Of course not,” Eleanor said sympathetically. “I am so sorry, Lavinia.”

  “Ah,” Lavinia said. “And you have immediately forgotten your own sorrow and that you wished to scold me.” Lavinia grinned at her and strode back toward the door.

  “You did that apurpose,” Eleanor said amazedly.

  “I distracted you,” Lavinia agreed. “And so shall your love be my distraction. For thinking optimistically of your love will help me to be optimistic about the fate of my own,” Lavinia said stoically. “You must be faithful, my dear. Be faithful and vigilant and clever. And I shall aid you in whatever way I am able.”

  Lady Eleanor shook her head, but could not deny that Missus Hartfield had accomplished a major feat in allowing her to have a few short moments with Lord Firthley. For the first time, Eleanor allowed herself to believe it was possible for their love to come to fruition…with Lavinia’s help.

  “Lavinia,” she called after her friend. “Thank you.”

  “My dearest, Lady Eleanor,” Lavinia whispered in a feigned masculine voice as she thrust her wild haired head back through the crack in the door. “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,” she said, quoting tonight’s play.

  Lady Eleanor smiled at her performance.

  The small moment had brought some cheer back into her life. She had a champion and for that at least she could be thankful. The door clicked shut with an abrupt snap, and Lady Eleanor was left to her solitude for the remainder of
the evening, Lord Firthley’s forbidden letter in her lap.

  ~.~

  After Lavinia left the room, Eleanor broke the seal and by the light of the candle read Lord Firthley’s written words to her.

  Dearest Lady;

  I dare not let my quill pen your name lest this letter fall to the wrong hands, and cause you distress. (I shall choose a most constant Friar. This I promise.)

  Oh, she thought, like Romeo and Juliet; they communicated by letter. Well, if he had the friar, she supposed that made Lavinia her nurse. The thought brought a giggle to her lips and she realized she was mad with nerves. She looked again to the letter in her lap.

  Barred as I am from you as the Bard’s other Rosalind, I must confess:

  No sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked, but they loved, no sooner loved,

  but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason.

  I fear I have no reason. You have stolen it from me and I only live in the hope that I may lay eyes upon you again, for a moment, an hour, and to thus speak with you, and yet I am struck dumb at your beauty and flawless manner. In the silence of my room, my pen pours ink upon the page. I am quite embarrassed to send you such a volume. It is all that I did not say when we first discoursed before the fire. All that we will not say this night at the theater.

  He had written volumes? About her? Surely not. Eleanor’s heart felt as if it had grown wings. She returned to her reading.

  I shall await your word and perhaps I shall be better acquitted as this unperfect actor, than the tongue-tied youth of our previous meeting.

  “Unperfect actor,” she thought. She knew that line. It was from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the one to forbidden love. Was it number 23? They had spoken of Shakespeare’s sonnets when they had conversed before the fire. She would look up the poem, but now, she had Firthley’s own words before her and her eyes were only for them. She continued reading.