I am often at the theater, but even there we may do nothing but gaze upon each other and so I hope that these poor pages may pour out the feelings of my heart. Please say the spark of affection I have felt is in your heart also. I stand with bated breath:
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
She paused, half remembering the continuation of the lines, which spoke of the Bard’s inability to speak of his love, or to his love, and how his passion was a fierce thing that consumed him. Did Lord Firthley compare her to such matchless love? The thought took her breath away. She remembered the remainder of the poem.
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
She glanced again at the words he had written on the page.
And so, as that actor,
“Oh, let my books be then the eloquence…”
Eleanor remembered the final lines of the poem.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
Yes, Eleanor thought. She too felt far more in his presence than her tongue could express. And Lord Firthley had said that he did also. Could there be an advantage to being forced to write, as he suggested? To express on paper what could not be said in person. She glanced down at his final lines:
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ.
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
So I commit to paper what my own heart will not allow to be silent.
DWF
Oh, she hugged the pages to herself. His writing was so beautiful in thought and in comportment. She ran her fingers along the letters he had written. His hand was so bold, so masculine, and yet neat and entirely readable. She knew some gentlemen’s handwriting which was barely legible. Her own brother Matthew was such, and his tutor despaired of him. No doubt Eton had at long last taught him otherwise, or at least they had tried and if they had failed, now there was Oxford.
Eleanor considered Lord Firthley learning his letters as her own brothers had. She smiled as she thought of him as a boy making those round letters and then here and there inserting his own firm down stroke, taking command of the language. His writing was like his own manner, she thought: artistic and yet profound, with just a bit of authority when needed.
She smiled. So he thought he would be more eloquent in writing than in speech were the sight of her would rob him of wit. She understood. She felt the same. Just remembering Lord Firthley as he appeared at the theater had nearly rendered her speechless. Eleanor looked at her candle. She had lingered long over his letter and now had less than an hour of light, before she would have to fetch another. She should have been more prepared. She would have to pen her thoughts quickly if she did not want to risk wandering about the halls which would greatly increase the chance of detection. She put pen to paper, attempting to remember some relevant quotation to add to her own correspondence. Milton perhaps?
Dearest Gentleman;
I too find myself speechless in your presence both due to my own nerves and also due to the feud upon which our families have laid their honor. Do you know much of it? My own family is quite rigid in this, I fear, but I shall attempt to gauge the matter more fully. Until then, I think that your volumes could not be
“in discourse more sweet, For Eloquence the Soul, Song charms the Sense….For I must think why should we be condemned for whatever was their long ago fault”
My own heart will not allow it.
I must say I was transported with joy to see you at the theater and could scarce keep my eyes on the actors, though my sisters tell me the play was well done, and I hope to have adequately covered my misattention. I will hope for another glance of you, and in turn, read your letters with rapt attention.
I see now that I must take stock in candles, for this one gutters as I write and the dying embers of the fire do not give me enough light. Forgive my poor penmanship. I lingered too long over your words.
I shall send more upon the morrow, if my nurse is constant.
EAH
Once the letter was sealed in preparation for Missus Hartfield’s delivery, Eleanor realized she had not light to get from one room to another. Still, she knew that Missus Hartfield was only one door away. She got out of bed and crept surreptitiously through the corridor to Lavinia’s room. Luckily it was not far, and since she had lost the light of the candle some time ago, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Feeling her way along, she slipped the letter under Lavinia’s door in the hopes that Missus Hartfield would find it in the morning and post it with her own letter to the captain, or perhaps she would find another way to send it. Eleanor could not see her way clear from the very audacity of sending it at all. She returned to her bed without mishap and lay down, but sleep would not come.
~.~
Chapter Nine
The following day, at breakfast, Eleanor’s tea sat cooling before her. Normally breakfast was served at ten, but it was nearly half past the hour, and Lady Hanway and her four daughters, Lily, Eleanor, Grace and Betty had settled around the table in the dining room, the morning room having a chill due to the inclement weather.
Lady Eleanor was deep in thought about her clandestine relationship with Lord Firthley and her scone sat untouched on her plate. Just the thought of Lord Firthley was giving her butterflies, of equal parts fear and excitement. She also knew that such an assignation could be dangerous. If her family knew, her father or brothers would surely send her away, or demand a duel. She shuttered thinking of that ancestor who had lost her love, and Eleanor wondered if she was following in said ancestor’s beleaguered footsteps.
“What do you think, Eleanor?” Her sister Betty asked her.
She froze. She had not one idea of the topic of the conversation. There was no hope for it. She had to admit her folly. “I am sorry,” she said. “I was wool gathering.”
“Is your head still hurting?” Betty asked sympathetically. It was a well-used excuse because Mother was plagued with headaches herself and was always sympathetic.
“A bit,” Eleanor admitted. She lifted her teacup and put it down again without drinking.
“Oh, but if you are indisposed, you shall miss seeing Mister Nester today,” Mother said saddened.
Suddenly Eleanor realized her headache was about to get much worse. Mister Nester was a friend of the family who thought that he should become a son by marriage to one of the sisters. He did not care much which sister, and apparently neither did Mother because she seemed to encourage his visits.
“Is his visit today?” Lily asked panicked. Eleanor could literally see Lily’s brain searching for an escape, now that the excuse of a headache was already in use. Eleanor wondered if her own intrigue had so captured Lily’s attention that she missed this little detail. That was unlike her sister. Eleanor frowned wondering what had so engaged Lily.
“Catherine and I had planned to go shopping,” Betty threw into the conversation and Grace scowled at her.
“Surely you can postpone your trip. It is freezing anyway.”
Betty pouted. “I did want to purchase a new hat,” she said. “Something that would look smart and Catherine’s chaperone will go with us. It shan’t be any trouble. I told you, Mother.”
“Yes, yes,” Mother said waving away her protests. “I remember. In any case, Mister Nester is not visiting to see you, Betty.” Mother always let Betty get away with her flippancy. That was the advantage of being the baby of the family Eleanor supposed.
“I will be home, Mother,” Grace said. “I did want to finish my
embroidery though…”
“I am sure a bit of stitching will not encumber the evening,” Lady Hanway said.
In that moment Missus Hartfield joined them in the dining room. “I have not missed the morning post, have I?” she asked. “I have a letter to send to the captain, and another to my mother.”
Eleanor glanced at the letters in Lavinia’s hand realizing one of them was her own missive to Lord Firthley. Her heart was in her throat. Eleanor was terrified that there may be some mishap, but Missus Hartfield was cool and calm.
“No,” Mother told Missus Hartfield dismissively. “Just give your letters to Angley. He shall post them.” Lady Hanway rang the bell. Eleanor sat frozen as Angley entered and retrieved the correspondences from Missus Hartfield and just like that Eleanor’s letter was on its way. She immediately breathed easier.
Eleanor wished that Mister Nester was as easily dispatched as a letter, but he was not. The gentleman came for his visit not long after breakfast and stayed until tea. He had just returned from a protracted sojourn across the continent and was determined to relive every bit of it in their presence, thus proving that he had the funds to marry an earl’s grandaughter even if he had no title. Eleanor found the only slightly veiled comments about his finances somewhat off putting, and she was not quite sure what to answer.
Mister Nester and Lady Hanway reminisced about a number of French acquaintances they shared and then fell into complaining about how that retched little Bonaparte had spoiled everything with his vulgar ways. This went on for a good quarter hour. Eleanor looked around the parlor at her sisters. Eleanor was not sure which of the young ladies he had come to see, but Grace was happily stitching away largely ignoring him, and although Lily held embroidery on her lap, Eleanor was quite sure she had hidden a novel underneath it to read in spare moments when Mother was not looking. It occurred to Eleanor that she was the only one, besides Mother holding the conversation.
Lud! The loathsome man thought he was visiting her!
When the clock struck four and Mother fluttered a little, looking like she might invite the man to stay for tea, Eleanor claimed she was fatigued and her headache had returned, before retreating to her rooms. If Mother invited him for tea, Lily and Grace could entertain him.
Eleanor rested in her room, rereading Lord Firthley’s letter and contemplating her next correspondence until it was time to dress for supper.
~.~
Eleanor had not expected a letter in the evening post, but Angley brought one for Missus Hartfield as the family sat in the parlor after supper. Eleanor’s father, Lord Hanway was home, but her brothers were both still out on the town.
“From my maiden aunt,” Missus Hartfield explained, laying it on her lap and telling all how her maiden aunt had been her own chaperone in the two years she was out before she met her captain.
“A dear woman, but in ill health this past year,” she said.
“I do understand,” Lady Hanway said, and Lavinia expostulated in great detail how she and her aunt had become dear friends, even though the lady was often under the weather and Lavinia was left to attend gatherings with other ladies instead of her own chaperone. “I suppose she has little to occupy her now, poor thing. I should write to her this evening.” Missus Hartfield said her face all concern.
Mother extolled Missus Hartfield’s virtue in writing to her maiden aunt, as well as her mother, and even Lord Hanway held the woman up as a paragon of womanly duty to her aging relatives.
Betty snorted under her breath but the rest of Eleanor’s sisters managed to keep calm, and Mother set in on Betty, telling her that she was no longer a child and such sounds could not be heard from a young lady. Betty looked sufficiently shamefaced.
Father reminded Mother that Eleanor’s Grandfather, The Earl of Thornwood, had a dinner pending with some members of parliament. Lord Hanway listed who was to be present, and Lady Hanway nodded saying that the girls’ dresses were already ordered from the dress makers. It seemed Mother was not going to let members of the Peerage within sight of her daughters without arranging at least one match. Eleanor thought their mother would be most happy if she could marry off the four of them, even young Betty, by the end of the week. Of course, Lord Firthley was not to be invited.
“You shall attend,” Lord Hanway said to his three elder girls. “and look beautiful like delicate flowers, and like flowers, be silent. Do not give your grandfather any cause for annoyance.”
Breathing was like to give The Earl of Thornwood cause for annoyance, Eleanor thought as Father continued.
“I know Lord Rumfort is looking for a wife; as are several barons, do not botch the possibility with any of your bluestocking ways.” He glanced pointedly at Lily, but Eleanor knew that she was included in that warning. Father was becoming impatient with her disinterest in the suitors he and Mother provided, and his scrutiny was making Eleanor nervous. She could not get the image of Lord Firthley out of her mind, nor did she wish to do so. She fidgeted under her father’s watchful gaze and Missus Hartfield lay a hand on hers reminding her to be calm and still.
“Father, surely not Lord Rumfort. He is twice my age, and three times my size,” Lily protested.
A man should be larger than his wife, surely,” Father said.
“Not in girth,” Eleanor blurted.
Lord Hanway gave her a stern look, and Eleanor apologized for interrupting. “I am only thinking that Lily can surely do better than Lord Rumfort,” she mumbled.
“He is a baron,” Grace said.
“Then you marry him,” Eleanor snapped.
“Eleanor! Apologize to your sister at once,” Mother said.
“I believe I will write that letter now,” Missus Hartfield said. “If you will excuse me.” Lavinia threw Eleanor a quick look of warning before she withdrew from the parlor and left the family to their discussion.
“I am sorry, Grace. I am not myself,” Eleanor said dutifully. She rubbed her head in a manner she hoped was convincing while Father lectured Lily. Eleanor was anxious to leave her parents company and search out Lavinia. She had the letter that Eleanor was sure had actually been sent by Lord Firthley. Eleanor could barely compose herself once Missus Hartfield retired with what was meant to be her letter. The combination of Lord Firthley’s letter waiting and Mother’s match-making had nearly outdone her. Eleanor sighed heavily as Father continued his lecture on the proper deportment of young ladies of their station. She wanted nothing more than to disappear. She rubbed a hand over her face.
“Your headache,” Betty supplied sympathetically giving Eleanor a way out, but she could not take it. She could not abandon Lily.
“Obviously you do not see the seriousness of this occasion, Lily” Lord Hanway said. “It is little wonder you see anything at all with your nose always in a book. If you are unaware, Lily, you are dangerously close to being labeled a spinster.”
“Yes Father.” Lily replied flatly.
“And once so labeled, no one will have you.”
“Yes Father.”
“You must make an effort to find a gentleman who pleases you,” Lord Hanway said exasperated. “Or I shall find one who pleases me, and that will be the end of it.”
“Yes, Father,” Lily said, tears now streaming down her face.
Eleanor knew she should have held her tongue. Just weeks ago, she would have done so, but she thought of Shakespeare’s Paulina speaking in defense of Hermione.
“I’ll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from’t…I shall do good” she had said.
Lily deserved a husband she could respect, and maybe someone she could read books with, or study…whatever it was she studied. Lily deserved someone she could love, and if Lily was assisting Eleanor in her clandestine correspondence then, well, Eleanor could do no less than to defend her sister, and so Eleanor spoke.
“I do not see why it is necessary for a lady to be married before she is four and twenty,” Eleanor said.
Lord Hanway stared at her, shocked to stillness,
that she would contradict him, and so she continued bravely into the unaccustomed silence. Perhaps Lord Firthley’s candor had made her bold.
“Why should a woman be called a spinster? Men are not held to such arbitrary standards. They can marry when they wish, and many men are older than four and twenty when they marry, in fact most are. Why should a lady not wait to marry for love?” The handsome image of Lord Firthley was not far from Eleanor’s mind.
“Love is not a suitable reason to marry,” Lord Hanway said bluntly.
“But Father,” Eleanor began.
“Silence,” he roared, and Eleanor capitulated. All of the wind went suddenly out of her sails.
“And remember this,” He glanced from Lily to Eleanor. “I will not pay for three seasons, ball gowns and all manner of accoutrements for you while you dilly-dally. Both of you. You have two younger sisters,” he said. “You are lucky I am giving you any choice at all.” And the conversation was finished upon his word. Lily fled and the younger girls followed in her wake.
“May I be excused,” Eleanor whispered. “I have a headache.” With her own hastily spoken excuse, Eleanor followed Lavinia. She realized if she was not careful; she would appear to be an invalid herself, completely devastated and practically bedridden by migraines. Was that an altogether bad thing, she wondered as she knocked on Missus Hartfield’s door? Perhaps she should suggest as much to Lily, if Father presented someone truly odious.
“Do come in,” Lavinia said.
Eleanor entered and wrenched off her gloves, tossing them on the bed. The room was a small guest suite that had a bed, a dresser and a wardrobe as well as a dressing table. Eleanor and sat in the chair in front of the dressing table and then stood again unable to calm her anxiety. She straightened her dress in nervous anticipation, and then began pacing.
“Tell me,” Missus Hartfield said catching her hands. “Are you quite alright? You seem uncommonly pale.”
The Forbidden Valentine Page 9