The Forbidden Valentine

by Isabella Thorne

  “I know, man. I know.” Harry patted his friend’s shoulder in comradery. “I do not know what to say.”

  “Say you will help me get this done,” David said firmly. “Romantic my heart may be, but steel is my will.” Draining his drink he held out a hand and Harry shook it sealing their pact.

  “Let us call on Lord Byron then” Harry said with a grin.

  Thinking of their boyhood escapades, David’s spirits lifted and a spark of hope filled his chest.

  ~.~

  After initial plans to meet were made, Lord Firthley and Lord Byron stuck up a conversation at the club David and Harry frequented. Harry went to fetch them all drinks and the conversation began in earnest. After the obligatory questions about family, the discussion invariably turned to poetry of which both David and Lord Byron had a fondness.

  “Have you written much, yourself?” Byron asked him. “You must let me read your poems.”

  “I am in the midst of a book of sonnets,” David said with a shrug. “They are but scribblings. My muse is a beauty indeed, though forbidden. I cannot keep my mind from her.”

  “Your mind, eh?” Harry interjected.

  “Do not be crass, cousin” David said. “I would hate to call you out, you are much too small to engage in fisticuffs with me.”

  Byron raised an eyebrow and saluted Firthley with his drink. “Ho ho,” he said. “I like this man, Westlake” he told Harry nodding towards David.

  “I told you that you would,” Harry intoned.

  “Now enough of fisticuffs,” Byron said. “For it has been said that I am a lover, not a fighter.” He grinned.

  “Who has said that?” Harry asked.

  “Why, I did of course.” Byron chuckled at his own joke. “You know, Firthley, forbidden love is the sweetest kind. May I venture to ask the name of your muse?”

  “I cannot say for the sake of her reputation.”

  “Married?” Byron questioned, sipping his drink.

  “No, but forbidden to me still.”

  “Ah yes, and you are still leashed in.” Byron shook his head sadly.

  David gave his friend a look.

  Harry shrugged and grinned. “By sonnets and by convention, both” Harry explained to Byron.

  “I like the form,” David replied answering the first and ignoring the second implication, but what of our plan? Where shall this event be held? Your sister’s, Harry has said?” David inquired.

  “Half-sister’s,” Byron corrected. “But I think it has better be my cousin’s wife who hosts the gathering. There was a bit of gossip already about my half-sister. Best not stir that honey pot just now.”

  “What pot is that?” Harry asked.

  “Never you mind.” Lord Byron, waved the serving man over and bought the next round of drinks for the gentlemen. “Times are changing, loosening the chains of convention as it were,” he said. “Leave the bottle,” he said to the server and waited until the man left them to privacy.

  “And have you written of these loose times?” Harry asked. “As I recall, the last loose volume you wrote, the Reverend Becher advised you burn.” Harry poured drinks all around.

  Byron grimaced. “I think I was too hasty with the kindling.”

  “Do you value your neck, man?” Harry’s voice was a harsh whisper.

  Byron shrugged. “Nevermind. I have written a new book of poetry,” he said. “But the Edinburgh Review hates it nearly as much as Becher hated the last.”

  “You mean Brougham hates it,” David said referencing the scathing reviewer. “He is a small minded man.”

  Lord Byron nodded and took a drink. “So you say.” Byron paused. “You seem to be a fine chap, Firthley, in spite of your father.”

  “My father is an ass,” David blurted.

  “A pompous ass,” Harry corrected, toasting the thought, and they laughed together for a moment. Then silence came upon them. “A powerful pompous ass,” Harry said seriously.

  “So you will help me regardless of my powerful family?” David asked, in what he hoped was a not desperate tone.

  “I have naught to lose,” Lord Byron replied smoothly. “I have already decided. I am not burning any more books. I shall leave England first.”

  “And the Peerage?” Firthley said surprised. He swirled the liquid in his glass, pacing himself.

  “The Peerage will remain,” Lord Byron said finishing his drink and pouring another. “And I am a good little Whig, everyone says so, regardless to how the establishment feels about me and my ideas.”

  David coughed. “Is there such a thing as a good Whig?”

  Byron laughed aloud. “Spoken like a true Firthley,” he said. “In any case, I am sure England will survive without me. In truth, think England herself hates me, I am a free spirit, and England....” He sighed looking into his cup. “Lives in a fog of yesteryear. Do not misunderstand me,” Byron said quickly. “I love the country of my birth. I would love her more if she would loosen the strictures that bind her.”

  “You have always been a free spirit, Byron” Harry commented.

  “And, as of late, so am I,” David said as he finished his drink. “I am indeed grateful your offer of aid, Lord Byron, but unlike you, I am not free of parental constrictor. I must be mindful of myself and mostly of my lady. As much as I wish it I am not yet lord of my own life. I am still under my father’s rule.”

  “Under his thumb, you mean,” Byron said. Together they toasted the freedom of youth, and decried the small mindedness of their elders.

  Lord Byron was somewhat in his cups when he stated, “Firthley I have a thought.”

  “Oh bless me, the world is ending,” Harry teased, but Byron brightened with his idea. “I am going on the grand tour with Hobhouse. You should come with us. You remember John, from Harrow, do you not Firthley.”

  “I do, but my muse is here,” he reminded Byron. “Here and yet not here, as out of reach as heaven itself behind the walls of her family’s dislike of mine.”

  “Yes. Yes. And we shall have her. Walls may be breached, Firthley” Lord Byron set his cup down with a clunk and paused again thoughtful before he took another drink. “Well, if it all goes to hell, simply capture her and bring her away with you, good man” Byron suggested. “Cut her moorings and set the lady free. She will one day thank you for the liberation.”

  “I have yet to kiss her,” David said. “I cannot spirit her away.”

  “Ah yes. A first kiss,” Byron said musing. “Such a sweet thing.” He became thoughtful, and David recognized the look of a poet sinking into his own muse, he spoke softly, “Some portion of paradise still is on earth, and Eden revives in the first kiss of love.” I think I shall enjoy this endeavor,” he said. “I shall be the watering pot upon the first bloom of love.”

  Harry snorted his laughter. “And on that thought,” Harry said standing. “I shall go water the lily.”

  “Now what poetry would you like me to read for this event, Firthley,” Lord Byron asked as he leaned in to his new friend. “What would set the scene for your seducement?”

  David flinched at the word. “I love her,” he said.

  “And you seek to seduce her.”

  “I seek to marry her,” David corrected, now certain of his sentiment. “Something suitable for ladies, mind you,” he stressed. “Nothing like those poems that Reverend Becher decried.”

  “I will have to see if I have anything like that,” Lord Byron teased. “Shall I dispense with the flowers and the bees, then,” he said. “I shall say pastoral passions are made for the grove, but not for love. That’s a good rhyme, is it not, grove and love?”

  “It is,” Firthley said. “And I do not think the ladies will mind the flowers. All ladies enjoy flowers, do they not?”

  Byron chuckled. “But no bees,” he added.

  “No bees,” Firthley agreed.

  “Perhaps on the topic of the first kiss,” Byron suggested. “Yes, the first kiss of love. That is what I titled my last collection. It is a
good collection.”

  “I shall have to read it,” Firthley said.

  Dawn lightened the sky when Firthley finally retired to one of the rooms above rather than heading back to Harry’s flat. He wrote a letter detailing a plan for Lady Eleanor to share with Missus Hartfield. Now that there was a plan in motion David felt doubly impatient. He had to see her. He was going mad with the very thought of her.

  ~.~

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eleanor despaired of finding somewhere she may meet with Lord Firthley. Night events required an escort. Father, Robert, or at least Matthew would attend. Sometimes Mother as well. Eleanor could not meet Firthley in such a place. Mother continued to introduce her to a myriad of suitors attempting to spark her interest her in one of them. And Mister Nester was still about, much to Eleanor’s chagrin. She mentioned the impediments to Missus Hartfield in the carriage on the way to the latest poetry society meeting. During the event somewhat in the middle of things Missus Hartfield disappeared, as she was wont to do, and reappeared with Firthley’s letter hidden in her reticule.

  “Your gentleman may have a solution,” she whispered.

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Truly. You have spoken to him.”

  “Not directly.”

  “We should take our leave.”

  Lavinia laid her hand on Eleanor’s shoulder reminding her that calm and propriety were their best disguises. It was another quarter hour before they were able to extricate themselves from the ladies who wanted their opinions on the poetry of the hour. When they returned to the carriage, Eleanor tore open Firthley’s letter post haste. She read avidly. Her eyes drinking in Lord Firthley’s words as the carriage bounced along in the melting snow and muddy ruts.

  My Dearest;

  I have spent many lonely afternoons thinking of ladies who frequent the poetry society’s meetings, mostly one lady. And in my mind’s eye I have wished myself there, beside you, listening to the reader of the poem and imagining your responses. (I feign to say I would know them well).And then I recalled that these salons, where both ladies and gentleman met for such discourse were once a popular sight.

  The bumping of the carriage caused her to momentarily lose her place, but she put a gloved finger against the writing to find it again and continued reading.

  Today these are not frequent, but Lord Byron has agreed to read his poetry on Tuesday next at the home of his cousin. Since several other gentlemen besides Lord Byron shall be present. If you should choose to be in attendance, we may lay eyes on one another for a moment. A moment would be heaven.

  I long to but stand at the gate, and look upon the beauty so out of reach, like the poor creatures of Paradise Lost, who once decried,

  Because we freely love, as in our will to love of not; in this we stand or fall.

  Heaven beyond a mere mortal’s reach.

  The letter went on to wax poetic, and Eleanor thought she would read Lord Firthley’s poems later at her leisure when she could dream of him. She folded the letter in half and showed the pertinent part to Missus Hartfield so that she might plan accordingly.

  Eleanor prayed that she and Lord Firthley might catch a glance of each other. The waiting was, for Eleanor, heaven and hell all combined.

  “It will be in the afternoon,” Eleanor said, “at the same time as our regular poetry readings. “Surely we will not need to alter anything, nor tell Mother or Father that anything is different this time.”

  “I see no reason why we should,” Lavinia agreed slyly.

  Eleanor leaned over at once and hugged her. “Oh, Lavinia you are the truest of friends. We should tell Firthley, immediately, yes?” she said. “Shall we deliver the message at once?”

  Lavinia stopped Eleanor with a firm shake of her head. “We must not give cause for suspicion,” Missus Hartfield cautioned. “On the morrow, I shall pass your message. No sooner.”

  Eleanor nodded. She knew it was the best course of action. She could not shake the ever present recollection of Firthley as had stood before her; pillar of strength in the disquiet of her mind. Eleanor’s heart was in her throat. It was a ghastly ingenious plan. She loved poetry, but she found the prospect of seeing Lord Firthley again in person was trying on her nerves. She did want to see him; truly she did, but she had grown comfortable with the letters. She only wished her heart would stop beating so rapidly. It felt as if it were to burst from her chest at any moment. Truly she was not made for such intrigue.

  “Come in for tea,” she urged Lavinia. “We will have to suffer Mother, but I am sure Lily will draw her away to give us a moment of privacy.”

  “Very well,” Missus Hartfield agreed.

  As they entered the house, Eleanor told Angley that Missus Hartfield would be staying for tea.

  “Where would you like it set, Milady?” Angley asked, and Eleanor was surprised. She paused in removing her cloak.

  “Is Mother not at tea?” she asked.

  “Lady Hanway is indisposed with headache. Your sisters, Lady Grace and Lady Betty are on an outing with friends and Lady Lily has refused tea. I believe she is in the library.”

  Eleanor frowned. The dining room felt massive for only her and Lavinia. “Is the morning room very cold?” Eleanor asked. It had windows all around and in the winter they tended to be covered with ice making the room chill.

  “I do not believe so, Milady; the sun is shining. I shall have the fire made up,” Angley promised

  “Thank you Angley. I shall just be a moment. I want to put my poetry book in my room,” Eleanor said.

  “I can take it for you, Milady,” he said and for a moment her heart jumped to her throat.

  “No. It is quite alright,” Eleanor said. “We will be in the morning room directly.” Eleanor hurried upstairs with Lavinia beside her. She paused in her room and just breathed. She felt that she would die of worry as she awaited the gentleman’s reply.

  “I am not made for such intrigue,” she said voicing her earlier thought.

  “Come.” Lavinia sat upon the bed and opened her arm that her friend might settle beneath it.

  “I just cannot…”

  “Do you not wish to see Lord Firthley?” Lavinia asked smoothing Eleanor’s hair. “Are you satisfied with letters then?”

  Eleanor knew she was not. Once she might have been, but that was before she had such strong feeling for the gentleman. That was before he had written her books of poetry.

  “Of course I want to see him. I must see him. If only a glance…Only…”

  Eleanor broke off and shook her head. It was herself she could not trust. The very thought of being alone with him set her heart to pounding and her palms grew damp with perspiration.

  She turned to look at Lavinia. “What if we are found out?” The very thought took her breath. She knew she would somehow make a mess of things. They would be caught. It would all end in disaster.

  “Ah, I see,” Lavinia responded with a serious stare that her words might be taken to heart. “You fear for your reputation.”

  Eleanor nodded, at once both fearful and hopeful. She was certain Lavinia would know what was best and tell her what she should do.

  “Do you not trust him?” Lavinia asked instead. “Trust and love go hand in hand, Eleanor. Do you doubt his sentiment? Do you not feel he would guard you from censure?”

  Eleanor was instantly indignant. Of course she trusted Lord Firthley. She was forced to admit that her fear of reprisal, might have slowed her reception of the gentleman in their early correspondence, but no longer. Lord Firthley had spoken most ardently in his letters, and she returned his depth of feeling.

  “You are my chaperone. You are the one who is meant to keep me from ruination.”

  “You cannot think I would be party to a senseless indiscretion or ruination on your part,” Lavinia explained. “Yet, nor can I stand by in idle fashion if this is more than infatuation. Lady Eleanor, if what you feel truly is love; I shall not see it squashed. But you must decide what it is you truly desire
from this correspondence. You and only you. And of course, Lord Firthley,” she added.

  Eleanor’s heart sank. What she truly wanted was her father’s blessing. Though she knew she would never have it. Perhaps she should at least attempt to speak to her mother on the subject again; this time alone. Although past attempts to get Mother to in any way thwart Father’s wishes were fruitless.

  Tears of frustration threatened. Oh why had she ever dreamed this could happen? The chances that any of her day dreams would come to fruition were almost nil. Eleanor would have retrieved one of Lord Firthley’s letters then and re-read it or perhaps some of the poetry to settle her, but here Missus Hartfield was, waiting for her answer. Eleanor sighed deeply, her stays poking her. The tight bodice reminded her that this was her reality, so stifling she could barely breathe.

  With the bevy of letters in so a short time Eleanor had learned of Lord Firthley’s character. He was all that she had hoped him to be and more. Likewise, he had confessed that his discovery of her ways did nothing but strengthen his resolve that they were fated to one another. It was true that there was something between them that denied reason. Eleanor doubted that she had the will to resist it for long. Yet, their love could not be.

  “Father will never agree to this match,” Eleanor said tearfully.

  Lavinia wrapped Eleanor in an embrace. “I am a sympathetic soul to your plight,” Lavinia whispered as if the kind words held a magical power all their own. “You must have faith, my dear. I do forget that though you are not much younger than I, you are indeed innocent to the ways of the heart.”

  Of course she was, Lady Eleanor thought. Her sheltered life had left little in the way of exposure to the workings of romance. Her brothers were as of yet unwed and there was certainly not a surplus of passion in her parents’ relationship. Though they did get on well enough Eleanor supposed but she had never been witness to anyone caught in the throes of love and passion. The entire experience was foreign and confusing when compared to the rational unions by which she was surrounded.