by Fanny Finch
Despite her ill health, she had been the true authority at the table. She had sat at the head while Miss Weston had sat at the foot.
Her demeanor would have done royalty proud. She had smiled indulgently whenever James had checked up on her. As though she did not truly need his help but appreciated it all the same.
“You needn’t be so concerned for me,” she had told him at one point. “I am not so sickly as my daughter fears.”
He had genuinely enjoyed her company. Her wit was such that not everyone could stand to be around her. One had to have a thick skin to tolerate Mrs. Weston’s company. It was no wonder that her daughter was so lively herself.
But despite Mrs. Weston’s wit, he could not completely relax. He had kept looking over at Miss Weston. Watching her interact with the other gentlemen.
None of the men, in James’s opinion, were good enough for Miss Weston.
He knew that he was biased in the matter, horribly so. But if he was to watch the woman that he loved fall for another—or at least marry another—then that man must be one that she deserved.
And Miss Weston deserved nothing but the best.
He had dismissed each man in his mind as he had seen Miss Weston converse with them. Too boring and never knew when to fall silent. Too full of himself. Not nearly enough of an interest in literature. Unable to keep up with her wit.
And so on.
When it was time to go, he was relieved. It had been a fine dinner. A fine game of cards. But everything had been tinged with sourness because of his newfound knowledge.
He almost wished that he had not heard. That Miss Weston had not told him. At least then he could have gone on as he had before. In blissful ignorance.
No, he told himself. James was not the sort of man who preferred to go on like that. He appreciated knowledge. He liked to know the lay of the land in any situation.
His younger brother had always teased him that James ought to be the one pursuing a military career. For James was the one who cared about foreknowledge and strategy. Planning battles, his brother had said, would well suit him.
Of course, James had to stay alive and safe at home in order to learn how to run the estate. But it was a fair point.
Now he knew, and although he hated it, he could now prepare.
Perhaps it would help to find some suitable men? Some men who truly were worthy of Miss Weston? He could then send those men her way along with a subtle endorsement.
He lingered behind, hoping that he might suggest such a thing to Miss Weston. He would not presume to help her in her quest without her permission. If he did so and she found out she would find some way to make her displeasure painfully known to him.
To his surprise, however, Mrs. Weston came up to escort him to the door.
“Mr. Norwich,” she said quietly, “I hope that you will forgive a sick old woman for requesting a moment.”
“You are nothing close to old,” he assured her. “And I always have time for you, dear lady.”
“You flatter me,” Mrs. Weston replied. “That is probably why I like you so.”
“You are fond of me, I should hope, because you know that my flattery is sincere and not made up in order to get on your good side.”
“True enough. My husband beat such false pretenses out of you at an early age.” Mrs. Weston sighed. “Mr. Norwich, I must speak plainly. The time has come for Miss Weston to marry. In fact, that time came quite a while ago and we have all ignored it.
“There are quite a few men that she could marry and who would be proper husbands to her. I would not object to her marrying any of them.”
She grabbed his arm then, her grip surprisingly tight. “But Mr. Norwich. You must know how Mr. Weston and I both think of you. You have been the pupil of whom he is the fondest. You have been more to us than any other boy we tutored.
“We think of you as a son and love you as one. Your dear mother, God rest her soul, was a Christian woman. But I fear she was not always the mother she ought to have been.”
“You have been a wonderful surrogate over the years.”
Mrs. Weston smiled, but it was a bittersweet one. “I have certainly tried to be.
“But as for my daughter… I know that it is not my right to impose feelings upon you. But if there were anyone in the world that I should wish to be her husband, it would be you.”
James nearly dropped his jaw in shock.
That was not what he had expected. Instead he had thought that Mrs. Weston would say something about him being a brother to Miss Weston. That she would ask him if he could assist her in this matter, as a brother would.
To be told that he was the favored choice… that these two people he considered family wanted for him the one thing that he also wanted in all the world…
He could not even begin to sort out all of his feelings. His stomach flipped almost painfully and his heart gave a lurch. He wished to flee but simultaneously found himself rooted to the spot.
“I do not know my daughter’s thoughts on the matter,” Mrs. Weston went on. She seemed oblivious to James’s distress, or at least tactfully ignoring it. “If I had to hazard a guess I would say that she has not thought on any man in such a way.
“But I have faith in your ability to sway her. Of course, if you are against the idea I should understand completely. My daughter is quite the handful. A more stubborn and energetic girl I have yet to meet.
“She would be rather too much for most men to handle, I dare say. And you two have known one another for many years. If your affections for her are rather those of a brother then I should not try to persuade you to change them.
“But if you can find it in yourself to love her as a man loves a wife…” Mrs. Weston’s eyes were shining. “Mr. Norwich. It would be such a joy. And such a relief. To know that a man such as you were taking care of my daughter.”
James wanted to ask her how much time she had left. If that was why she was so worried for Miss Weston. Or if it was simply the fear of her beloved only child being called a spinster that drove her.
But he could not dare to ask such things. It was not his place.
“I cannot impose myself onto Miss Weston,” he told her. “Not when she sees me as someone she can trust.”
“She sees nothing,” Mrs. Weston said firmly.
“I will not,” he replied, just as firm. “Not unless the lady herself wishes it.”
“How can she realize that she wishes it if you will not present yourself as a suitor? She knows you as her father’s former pupil. She will know you as a man if you come to her as one.”
“I cannot take that risk. I will not place our friendship in danger.”
Mrs. Weston shook her head. “Julia is too generous a soul to allow that to happen. If you were to try and woo her, she would either come to realize that is the best thing or she would accept your feelings and let you down as gently as she could. She would not scorn you for it or put distance between you.
“I implore you, if there is any possibility that you would see her as a wife: pursue her. Consider it the request of a senile and stubborn old lady.”
“And I have told you many times that you are neither senile nor old.”
“Hmmph. Then consider it the suggestion of an eminently wise and logical woman.”
James placed his hand over Mrs. Weston’s, where she was still gripping his arm. “I shall give it full consideration. I promise.”
Mrs. Wetson gave his arm a fond squeeze, nodding her head. “That is all I can ask for.”
He bowed to her, and then said his brief farewell to Miss Weston who had just walked up to them.
Mrs. Weston moved away with a significant look on her face.
“Tonight was a disappointment all around,” Miss Weston declared. “Let us hope that the future is less so. For the sake of my parents’ peace of mind, anyhow. Did you enjoy yourself?”
Not at all, he thought. Out loud he said, “More so than you did, evidently.”
“
Evidently.” Miss Weston gave him a curtsy. “Have a lovely evening, Mr. Norwich.”
“And you as well, Miss Weston. I’m sure I shall see you at the ball tomorrow.”
“Indeed you shall. Until then.”
James’s thoughts were whirling like a giddy dancer as he walked home. It was not too long a walk in Bath between houses and he appreciated the fresh, cool night air.
It was a complete shock to him—Mrs. Weston and Mr. Weston, both of them people he highly regarded, wished for him to be their son-in-law? They wanted him to try for Miss Weston’s hand?
Of course, they could not force their daughter to marry anyone. Miss Weston had a right to refuse him or any other man.
To know, however, that such people thought of him as worthy… thought of him as a son… it was a boost of confidence that he had not looked for or dared to expect.
Perhaps that meant that Miss Weston might respond to him unexpectedly as well? Could it be that perhaps she simply needed to be told how he felt for her to respond?
He did not wish to be presumptuous. He did not wish to make Miss Weston uncomfortable.
But he would never have even thought that the Westons would think of him with such regard until tonight.
If he could be so blind, but so welcoming, it was possible that perhaps Miss Weston was that way with him.
After all, he had heard the story of many a girl who had longed for the slightly richer, slightly older man but despaired of having him. And he had not read such things in books but had heard them from ladies themselves.
He might just be indulging himself. He might be giving himself hope where there was none. But it was possible, was it not?
How could he know until he tried?
Mrs. Weston had a point in that. He was only going off of what he could guess about Miss Weston. He did not know for certain. Nobody knew anything of what someone was thinking for certain unless they asked.
And he had never dared to ask.
James gazed around him at the darkened streets, the few stragglers walking home from dinners and balls. He was not the sort of man who could say his feelings out loud.
Not when he was so unsure of himself.
And if Miss Weston would be uncomfortable with his declaration then he did not want it to be in person. Certainly not. He wouldn’t want to have her be forced to swallow down her distress.
If things were to become awkward for the both of them then it was better that it were not done in person.
A letter would do nicely. He had always been good with words but best at emotions when those words were written down. His relationship with his brother had actually improved once his brother was in the navy. For then they had communicated by letters, and then James had been able to talk about things such as his frustrations with Mother that he hadn’t been able to say aloud.
It was considered bad form for an unmarried man and an unmarried lady to exchange letters.
Such exceptions were made for close family members, such as a brother to his sister or if a man desperately needed to get information to his cousin.
But surely, just a single letter of intent, disclosing his feelings, that would be understandable?
And then Miss Weston could reply to him in person as she so wished. She did not even have to reply to him at all, if she did not want to.
Her lack of response would be answer enough.
If she did wish to respond to him, she could do so in person. But she would have time to craft a response and think of what to say.
Whether she wanted him to court her or wished to gently turn him down, she would now have the time she needed. She wouldn’t be blindsided.
Yes, that would be the right thing to do. Send her a letter.
When he reached home, he went straight up to his desk and sat down. He barely even bothered to deal with his coat and hat. His valet must be despairing silently right now.
How to begin? He knew that he had to do it now before he lost his nerve or all would be lost.
He was filled with an odd kind of reckless courage. It was satisfying, almost, to know that he would have an answer. That he would know quite soon beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He knew that he had to write it all down now. Not that the words themselves would escape him. He had thought many times over the years what he might say to Miss Weston if he gave himself leave.
The problem was that if he waited until morning, he knew that his courage would fail him. He would toss and turn all night and come up with a multitude of reasons why he should not do it.
He had talked himself out of telling her many a time before. Why should this time be any different?
He could not hesitate, or his courage would fail him.
James took a deep breath and set up his paper and pen.
It took several drafts. At first, he was too terse, the words difficult. It was not enough to simply write, I love you and leave it at that.
She would want to understand why and how. She was worth more than simply a few short lines.
But then, once the words flowed, he found that he was rambling. He repeated himself, he was waxing far too poetic in his prose, he dragged it all on for too long.
A lady deserved romance, but ten pages was a great deal too far. Even Shakespeare didn’t have his characters recite ten pages of a love monologue.
Then there came the problem of having to always start over with a fresh piece of paper. For once he got it all written, the pages were covered in additions and crossed-out words and scribbled lines in the margins.
That wouldn’t do either. And so he had to go and copy it all neatly on a new page.
His candle had burned quite low and it was nearly morning by the time that he finished it to his satisfaction. He could see the sky out his window turning that dark, bruised purple it took on shortly before the sun emerged.
James stared down at it. He had gone over every line—no, every word—more times than he could count. It was not perfect, but then, nothing was truly perfect, was it?
And he must let it lie. If he did not he would continue to edit it until the world ended. He must do it now before his nerve was gone.
He folded up the letter, addressed it, and then sealed it for good measure.
Only then did he finally go to bed. Purged of his emotions, having strung them all out all night, his nerves frayed, he fell asleep quickly.
He’d have an answer soon enough.
It was only after he had dropped it off at the post office. After he had walked back home for breakfast. After he had been halfway through said breakfast, that he realized.
He had, in his obsessing over the contents of the letter, his own exhaustion, and his nerves—
He had neglected to add his name.
Chapter Five
Julia was surprised to find that she had a letter the next morning.
“Were you expecting anything?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Julia shook her head. “No. Most peculiar, is it not? But it must be from some friend or other in London.”
She opened it and could have sworn that the handwriting was one that she recognized. But she had a great many friends with whom she corresponded. There was no one who jumped to mind immediately.
Julia quickly scanned the letter looking for the name.
But there was none.
That was odd. Who would send her a letter without a name attached?
Perhaps they had forgotten it? Ah, well, that was easily remedied. She would read the contents. The talk about local gossip and families and all would quickly narrow down the search.
When she began to read, however, she quickly saw that it was not an ordinary sort of letter at all.
Julia quickly set the letter down. Her heart was racing. She had only read the first couple of sentences but that was enough to tell her what sort of letter this was.
She knew that she ought to simply burn the letter. For a lady to receive something filled with such clear devotion as this was not proper. Only
a husband or perhaps a fiancé could send this. Certainly not a stranger.
Perhaps, then, the name being left off was on purpose? In case the person’s letter was ill received?
Julia could not imagine who it could possibly be. That of course only made her want to read the letter more.
She glanced over at Mother, who was reading.
“I am going to go and do my hair,” Julia told her, hiding the letter in the folds of her dress. She kissed her mother’s cheek and she walked by and did her best to be sedate.
Once she got out of the sitting room, however, she hurried up to her bedroom. She locked the door behind her, just in case.
She would take no chances with anyone finding out about this.
Julia sat on her bed and carefully opened the letter.
She wished that she could remember where she knew the handwriting from. For she had seen it before. Somewhere.
The letter started out innocently enough. But it quickly changed course from there.
Dear Miss Weston,
You must forgive me in writing you. I know that it is not proper. But I knew that if I were to try and say my words aloud to you in person that I would never find the courage.
I wonder if you realize quite what an intimidating woman you are. It does not surprise me that no man has yet found the courage to court you.
Not that you are an unkind person. You are generous of spirit. Indeed, I find you to be the most loyal friend that I have ever encountered.
But such intelligence and quick wit can leave a man wondering what his reception will be. I cannot be the first man to wonder. No. You are far too shining of a star for others to not have craved to stand in your light.
Julia’s heart was hammering, her breath shallow in surprise and delight. She was fairly blushing. The line about being a star—it was like something out of a novel or perhaps even a poem.
Who could it possibly be from? And dared she read more? The writer was already complimenting her far beyond the bounds of propriety and they had not even gotten to their proper confession yet.
She suspected it to be a confession of love but one could never be certain. It might be some other sort of dire secret.