The Forbidden Valentine

by Isabella Thorne

  “I only know I must see Lord Firthley,” she said. “Even if I should not be able to speak with him.”

  Lavinia nodded. “You do know eventually, you will have to come to terms with your own heart, Eleanor,” Lavinia warned. “And decide if you would rather remain in the arms of fear or risk all for love of your Lord Poet.”

  Eleanor was not sure what else to say. She dithered for a moment uncertain. “We should go down to tea,” she ventured. “The morning room will be warmed by now.”

  “Very well,” Missus Hartfield said.

  Eleanor knew that Lavinia was right, but that was exactly the problem. Hawthornes did not fall in love. Hawthornes married to further their positon through matches of fortunes and status. Though the Firthleys could boast both of those qualities, the feud between the families had insured that particular avenue was closed to Eleanor no matter how much she may wish it otherwise. Missus Hartfield said she must have faith. Eleanor caught the woman’s hand as they entered the morning room.

  “I do, you know,” she whispered.

  Lavinia cocked an eyebrow.

  “I have faith,” Eleanor said bravely.

  ~.~

  Lady Eleanor found herself considering the plans for the poetry reading which was soon to take place. She could not calm her shattered nerves. Lord Byron would be reading several selections to the society, and many of the ladies were excited about his visit. Eleanor could only think of Lord Firthley. She knew that she would see him, but even if she did, she could not meet with him. She knew she could not speak to him. She could not in any way acknowledge him. To do so would be to invite discovery.

  Now, that she had begun to suspect that she was in love with the gentleman, this was all the more distressing. It pained her that she could come so near to the object of her desire and yet still be so far. Just the thought was giving her palpitations of equal parts fear of her reputation and excitement at the prospect of his very presence. She also knew that such an assignation could be dangerous and was growing moreso each day. Eleanor heartily wished that she might throw caution to the winds, and she was quite sure Lord Firthley felt the same.

  At last the fateful day arrived. Lavinia had once again fashioned an excuse to withdraw Lady Eleanor from the watchful eye of her family. She and Eleanor entered the meeting arm in arm.

  This special meeting of the society was being hosted by Lady Marsdale at her townhouse. There were several more people in attendance than the usual club, including several gentlemen. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Lord Firthley would not be so obvious as one of the few, or even only gentlemen attending. The meeting was in fact quite like the earlier salons of France. They had fallen out of fashion here in London due to the rising tension between the countries, a fact which Eleanor deeply regretted. Regular meetings of mixed company to discuss poetry and literature and the like, would have allowed her correspondence with Lord Firthley to have been undertaken with much greater ease.

  “Ah, here is Lord Byron,” Lavinia said. “We should make our presence known.”

  Lavinia’s keen interest drew Eleanor’s confusion at first, but when Lavinia offered a smile and held out a hand, Lady Eleanor saw her friend’s purpose.

  Lord Firthley, the captor of her heart, was standing several feet away from Lord Byron, but it was clear that he was of the same party.

  “You shall have only a moment to slip away,” Lavinia whispered into Lady Eleanor’s ear as they made their way across the floor. “Do not tarry too long or you shall be missed.”

  Eleanor nodded. The statement was clear. She had only a short while with the gentleman before they must withdraw to avoid suspicion.

  Lavinia greeted Lord Byron as if he were an old friend, using a line of the man’s own verse. His eyes alighted with mischief as she introduced Eleanor before launching into a discussion of one of his poems. Several others joined her beginning a lively discourse. Eleanor allowed herself to be pushed back into the general attendance, where other ladies stood at the back of the hall in a cluster of whispering pods. The thick draperies, holding the winter chill at bay, were closed, and several large potted plants stood at either end of the room. Their leafy fronds somewhat wilted with the lack of sun.

  Lord Firthley followed at a distance as drawn to her presence as she was to his. Each pretended to be avid listeners of the conversation around them, though Lady Eleanor was relieved that she was not called upon to reply. Though she nodded and smiled at the appropriate moments, she heard not a word that was said. She shifted again towards the back, letting others push forward, closer to Lord Byron. Her poet was here.

  She glanced at Lord Firthley from the corner of her eye. He stood not but a few feet away, in the shadow of the draperies. Eleanor found herself growing bolder, drawing closer until she found herself standing within an arm’s reach of her love. They could not gaze into one another’s eyes as they wished. They could only stand near each other, and even that was a risk.

  To be so close to one you loved and not be able to acknowledge him in any way was a slow torture. All attention was on the center of the room where Lavinia was still in animated discussion with Lord Byron while he was leafing through his papers searching for the poem he wished to read. Eleanor’s attention was focused elsewhere. She felt Lord Firthley’s tall form draw closer to her side, a warm presence at her back, just within reach. She shifted back again, and felt the velvet of the draperies behind her, and the brush of his jacket just a breath away.

  Standing here, she could smell the scent of him, so close and yet so far. Her fingers itched to reach back, but instead she grasped the folds of her dress, and squeezed, wrinkling the fabric unmercifully. She ached to touch him.

  “Breathe.” His breath ruffled the curls at her ear and the deep timbre of his voice ran through her, weakening her knees. Lady Eleanor released the shaky breath that she had been holding.

  Quickly her eyes scanned the crowd to see if they were observed, but everyone was still focused on Lord Byron, the guest of honor.

  “What shall my mother say when she learns that I have stood shoulder to shoulder with a Firthley?” she whispered in a flash of bravery.

  “Shall you tell her?” His voice held a note of challenge in it.

  Someday, she thought, but not now. She had tried to tell her mother, and her father. She had tried to broach the subject and clear the air, but they would hear nothing good about the Firthleys, and truly she could hear nothing ill. The reading began, and Eleanor if her life depended upon it, could not keep her mind on the poem, not when the poet of her heart stood at her side.

  “It shall be a scandal for the ages,” Lord Firthley whispered, “Though not as much as the first Firthley and Hawthorne, I presume.” The words were spoken from the corner of his mouth. It was so endearing, the way his mouth turned up at the corner, she thought. How was it that she could be so comfortable at the same time as being terrified? Eleanor did not need to look at him to know that his eyes were smiling, sparkling with mirth and joy; a joy that so rarely graced her own home. Why she wondered, was loving this gentleman so wrong when the stolen moments they had were so blissful.

  His cool fingers brushed against her gloved hands as they hid in the shadows of her gown and she caught her breath. There was danger, but still he reached out. Lady Eleanor’s heart leapt to her throat, and she felt both and overwhelming sense of joy and nausea. She was trembling. This was too much. It was too public. They would be caught. She could not dare look up at him for she was certain that all would be written upon her face if she did.

  “Breathe,” he whispered again, though his words had the opposite effect.

  “If we are discovered,” she whispered back near breathless. Nonetheless, she slipped her fingers between his.

  “Then our destruction is certain,” Lord Firthley replied.

  In that moment she wished with all her heart that her hands were not gloved so that she might only once know his touch.

  “Are you suggesting that
we put an end to our intrigue?” She asked. The thought was beyond bearing. She tightened her fingers around his and clung to his overlarge palm with a firm grip that she would have never thought herself daring enough to try before this day.

  “Never,” he replied. “Only, I am not certain how long it can last.” A deep melancholy filled his voice.

  She ventured a quick glance up at him, only to find his deep brown eyes shining with passion. Eleanor quickly looked away before anyone could spot them gazing at one another. She reminded herself to breathe, and then she felt the soft brush of his thumb just beyond the edge of her glove, on her bare wrist. She sucked in her breath. She wanted to rip off her gloves. She did not move.

  The two of them stood frozen in silence for some time and Firthley stilled his thumb before Eleanor answered Firthley’s ominous question. How long can it last?

  “Not long,” she whispered. She felt deflated and the slump of her shoulders revealed as much. His poetry was her life’s blood. He was her love and her life.

  Lord Firthley responded with one squeeze, his hand covering hers entirely before withdrawing. She felt the loss of him acutely, but just in time. Lady Eleanor realized, one of the gentlemen had turned to address Lord Firthley at that very moment.

  Missus Hartfield reappeared at her side a second later, took quick note of Lady Eleanor’s high color and frazzled state, and made excuses to remove to the other side of the room. The ladies turned and left at a leisurely pace, though Lady Eleanor wanted to do nothing more than run, but whether for joy or fear, she was not sure.

  Lady Eleanor knew then that she must gather the stolen moment to herself .She must cherish every second that she could with the love of her life. Though their romance might end any day, she would soak in the glory of it all while she could. Perhaps their fear made them foolhardy. Perhaps the indeterminate conclusion added an excitement to each moment, each glance, that they shared. She could not think past today, this moment, now.

  Lady Eleanor was certain that when she looked back on it all, even if in the end she were ruined, she would regret not one thing. She would make the most of it. She would wring from these moments all she was able and worry not for the consequences. There was far more sadness in the thought of a life without her love, than there was fear of reprisals. A denial of her heart, for what little time she might share it, was more than she could bear.

  So, with caution to the wind, Lady Eleanor enjoyed the furtive glances she and Lord Firthley shared across the room. She recorded the memories in her mind’s eye: the scent of him, the feel of him at her back. She watched the uncertain cock of his head, and the way he ran his hand through his curls, and she wondered what it would be like to feel her own so tousled by his long fingers.

  She felt as if she might burst into flame at a glance and when he spoke of one of Shakespeare’s poems, she did not hear his analysis at all. She only heard his deep voice as if he were reading a different poem, a poem written in her honor, and she melted like snow. His touch seemed to have lit a fire inside of her that she could not quell. Her gloved fingers still burned with the last intentional brushes of his hand in hers.

  Lavinia’s firm grip on her arm held Eleanor and led her unseeing back towards their seats and their ruse was complete.

  Missus Hartfield’s captain, recently returned from the sea, appeared at Lady Eleanor’s opposite shoulder and offered his compliments to the crowd.

  What a fine conversation that was.” Captain Hartfield smiled, oblivious to the ladies covert grins. “Do you not agree? Never have a seen a more pleasant group of gents.”

  Lavinia stuck her elbow into Lady Eleanor’s side that she might respond.

  “What?” she gasped. “Oh, yes. Very pleasant,” she stammered.

  There could be no other for her, Eleanor realized, only David Firthley. It would destroy her to lose him. She knew that she could never voluntarily let him go. Still it could never be. Not if she ever wanted to see her family again: her parents, her sisters, Matthew, and even stodgy Robert.

  Fate was cruel and unfair. Eleanor had hoped that it might bring two people together but such good fortune was not to be. Rather it had left them condemned to live as enemies rather than lovers. She had depended upon fate, and fate was cold to her. Now she could only depend upon herself.

  ~.~

  Chapter Fifteen

  The week passed in a flurry of clandestine letters exchanged. With each passing day the couple grew more confident in their methods, though Lady Eleanor had already concealed quite a stack of letters hidden now beneath the corner of her mattress. The pile was growing so that they could not be stacked vertically, neither within her boots nor under the mattress, but must be spread nearer the center of the bed to keep the maids from curiosity. And still the letters continued. They had a harried desperate tone, as both Eleanor and Lord Firthley knew that this could not last. With each letter Eleanor found herself more in love and more despondent.

  She longed to see Firthley again, and she knew from the ardent tone of his letters that Lord Firthley shared her sentiment. Her entire body was filled with a flush as she thought of him, the way he had stood at the poetry reading so tall and commanding, the way his hands moved when he spoke of something of particular interest. She imagined his fingers wrapped around the quill as he wrote to her. He had such astute answers to the meaning of the poems and his voice was so melodious and deep. It gave her a rush of excitement to hear him, and she imagined him reading his poetry to her while she rested against the warmth of his chest, her head over his heart.

  Eleanor’s nights were spent with quill and ink pouring over Lord Firthley’s pages by the glow of stolen candles. She would find herself lost in the composition of her replies, her mind searching for just the right line or phrase to express the depth of her feeling. Her sleep was fitful and she awoke with his visage on her mind, and her musing still filling her with need.

  It was just such a morning and Eleanor found herself driven to distraction at the breakfast table, so much so, that she started at the sound of her name, and sloshed a bit of tea onto the tablecloth as she came back to the conversation.

  She had not one idea of the topic being discussed; her day dreaming about Lord Firthley occupying the whole of her thoughts.

  “Are you quite alright?” Grace asked.

  “Yes. I am sorry,” she said dabbing at the spilled tea. “I was wool gathering.”

  “Mother is planning our weddings,” Lily said dryly.

  “What?” Eleanor felt a spike of panic run through her, as it was entirely possible that Father had chosen someone. Then she recognized her sister’s dry wit, and realized Lily was teasing her. She sat her teacup aside and looked back at Mother, wondering desperately which suitor was under consideration. Grace unwittingly helped her.

  “I do not think Lord Rumfort is so horrible,” Grace said. “I hear tell that he has a very nice garden.”

  “Garden,” Lily repeated looking heavenward. “He has all the grace of a …”

  She broke off at mother’s look.

  Lily sighed and exchanged glances with Eleanor, who had to agree Lord Rumfort had the appearance of an overly large rodent, with his beady eyes, jowls and large paunch. The thought of him rooting around in his garden; which as Grace said, was precious to him, would have made Eleanor laugh if it were not so tragic.

  “He cannot choose his looks,” Grace added, “And there are worse prospects. He is not a cruel or unkind man; many are.”

  Grace was partially correct, but when Eleanor’s mind and heart was filled with Lord Firthley she could not consider another.

  “It is easy for you to be kind,” Lily said to Grace. “Mother is not trying to marry you off to him. The real question is what does Eleanor think?”

  Eleanor realized she had been day dreaming and not stringent enough in her refusal, as Lily had been. Her heart dropped to her feet. Was it possible this was proceeding apace without her active involvement?

  “I think he
is not a villain, but that does not mean I wish to marry him.” Eleanor cried. “Is it not possible to marry for love?”

  Lady Hanway gave Eleanor an incredulous look. “Do not be ridiculous, Eleanor,” she said. “In any case, regardless to what you wish, Lord Rumfort has been invited for tea, and you will be civil.” Mother gave both ladies a hard stare.

  “Yes Mother,” Lily said, capitulating albeit reluctantly, but Eleanor was overcome.

  “Oh, but I will miss the poetry meeting,” she said dejectedly. She was meant to go with Lavinia this afternoon, and exchange letters. She could not stay here and entertain Lord Rumfort. She had spent the better part of the night composing her own missive to Lord Firthley. Aside from the obvious reason of another letter, her entertaining Lord Rumfort could make him of the opinion that she favored him. She felt panicked, trapped. “Mother, please.”

  In addition to the exchange of letters, Eleanor enjoyed the poetry society for its own sake. She enjoyed the readings and the discussions afterwards. She had often written of their discourse to Lord Firthley. She enjoyed expressing her thoughts on the text and sharing her favorite lines, the ones that touched her heart, as he had, but mostly she wanted to be present to pass the letter.

  Mother would hear none of her excuses to attend yet another poetry reading.

  “Why you are becoming quite the blue stocking,” Lady Hanway said, “And I have already engaged Lord Rumfort. You will remain here and entertain him, as will your sisters.”

  Eleanor angrily sent her regrets to Lavinia, saying she would be unable to attend the society meeting today. She was so terribly disappointed.

  Eleanor spent a near intolerable afternoon with Lord Rumfort, sitting and smiling and oh so politely sipping tea. All of the while her thoughts were far away with the poetry society where even now, she might share some discourse on Coleridge or Milton.