by Fanny Finch
To tell someone one’s feelings was to do a service for one’s self. Not for them. It was to relieve his feelings, and to burden her with them in turn.
It was only in the hope that she might return his affections and thereby be made happy—that he could be allowed to try and make her happy—that was the saving grace of it.
Besides, he could hope that she would prefer to marry him over others she did not know so well. They were friends. They had known one another for years and were comfortable with one another.
Surely, that was a pleasing alternative to trying to find affection for men who were otherwise boring to her?
In any case, he had not meant to simply dump his feelings upon her and have that be the end of it.
He had asked her in the letter for an answer. If she would be able to find in herself the generosity to let him court her. To let him try and prove to her how happy he could make her.
She must be exceedingly puzzled, then, to find no name. And therefore no way of giving the answer that he sought.
He was such a fool.
Now he must see her tonight at one of the public balls for which Bath was so known. She would have no idea that he was the man who had written to her with such passion.
Before it had been bad enough. When he had been pining for her and she was oblivious.
But now that she knew that someone cared for her in that way…
And now that he had actually told her, only she did not know it…
How on earth was he to keep his composure tonight?
It was beyond the patience of man.
Perhaps he ought to stay indoors tonight. Withdraw from the ball and say that he had pressing business matters to attend to. He was the heir to a county, surely people would understand.
No… no that would not do. Enough people knew him to know that he would not allow business to make him skip out on a social occasion.
It would raise suspicions. And he could not have that.
He would simply have to find some way to appear normal in his behavior. To act as though nothing of monumental importance had occurred.
James wondered if this was what losing one’s mind felt like.
The day was nothing short of torture. He could scarcely concentrate on business. During the few house calls he had to make he was so distracted that his hosts would ask if he was feeling quite all right.
It was an utter mess.
Had Miss Weston figured it out anyway, he wondered?
She was an intelligent woman. And she had known him for quite some time.
Why, she even knew his handwriting. She had seen it often, both in his letters to her father and when he was learning his penmanship as a younger man. She had read his essays that he wrote for her father, even.
Could she have recognized him from that? Could she even now be preparing her answer?
She would not give it in the middle of a ball. At least he did not think that she would. It would be unfortunate to discuss such a private matter in a public place.
In some ways, it was a clever thing to do. There was little chance of being observed in a crowd if one knew how to do it properly.
But if her answer would cause him elation or distress—and it must be one or the other—that would be unfair to subject him to such emotions in front of others.
Then she would call upon him today? Before the ball?
But as the hours dragged on, there was no sign of Miss Weston.
She must not know, then. She must have no idea.
All right then. He must soldier on as if nothing was the matter. He could manage that. He supposed.
He was used to pining helplessly after her. It could be next to nothing to keep pretending everything was fine. But now this letter had completely changed the game that he had been playing with himself. And now he was unsure of the rules.
James got ready for the ball with more care than usual. Not that there was anyone other than his valet to comment on it. As a member of the nobility he always strove to be fashion-forward. He doubted that anyone would think anything of his outfit. Nor would they know that it had taken him over an hour to pick it out.
Public balls in Bath were a bit of a mixed blessing, if you asked James.
On the one hand, it was a wonderful way to make new acquaintances and to meet old friends. They were always lively and interesting.
On the other hand, they could be noisy. And since there was no one host, one couldn’t be certain that one would enjoy all the people assembled. There could be quite a lot of mixing of the classes, so to speak.
Miss Weston, James knew, loved them. She loved to meet new people. She thrived upon a little bit of chaos. The balls were an excellent opportunity for her to people watch and gossip.
James himself could enjoy them on most occasions. He could admit that a part of why he went to them was for the chance to spend some time with Miss Weston. But he did not go for her alone.
Tonight, though… he wished like anything that they were in a slightly quieter setting.
The loud music and spinning, colorful dresses of the ladies seemed to reflect the chaos inside of him. He felt off-balance from the moment he crossed the threshold.
Miss Weston came to him at once, almost like there was a magnet inside of him that pulled her to him. If only, he thought with a trace of bitterness.
“Mr. Norwich!” she gestured at all the people assembled. “Did you know that somewhere in here is the man that I shall marry?”
He nearly choked on nothing but air.
“Of course, Mother certainly thinks so,” Miss Weston went on gaily. “Do you think that I shall have a better time of it tonight than last night? I might dance with a man twice, what do you think of that?”
“I think that you must be prudent and careful in your choices,” he replied.
Miss Weston laughed. “Oh, but I am nothing but prudence and care! Have you not met me?”
“I have, unfortunately, had many occasions in which to meet you and learn your character.”
“You are far too cruel. One would think that you do not like me at all and only put up with me for the sake of my father.”
“Miss Weston, I can assure you that I put up with you for no reason other than to delight in your company.”
“And now you flatter me! Make up your mind, Mr. Norwich. You know that we ladies are simple-minded creatures and are easily startled and confused. Like wild animals.”
“Indeed, I have often compared you in my mind to a wild creature. Perhaps a great cat of some kind. You have this habit of pouncing upon people like they are your prey.”
“Oh dear, do you feel like prey? I should hope not. You are not enough of a meal for me when it comes to gossip. You are too fair-minded. Miss Perry, for example. She is wonderful for feeding one’s need for gossip.”
“For once, I am glad to have failed you in something. I hope I should never have a reputation as a gossipmonger. Unless of course I am speaking about you.”
“And what horrid things have you said to others about me?”
“That you are perfectly tolerable if one has a glass of wine at hand.”
Miss Weston smacked his arm lightly with her fan. “You are a terrible, terrible man. Why on earth do I put up with you?”
“Because who else would put up with you in turn?”
Miss Weston laughed delightedly. “A fair point, sir. It is lucky for the both of us that we are so suited.”
A part of him wanted to take her by the shoulders and look deep into her eyes and explain that, of course, they were so well suited for one another. That unless all of her joviality towards him was faked, there was a real chance that he could be everything that she wanted.
How could she say such things and not see it? Not realize?
He could be overestimating how much she cared for him and his company, though. He could be letting her natural teasing carry him away, farther than she meant it to.
And he dared not say anything in such a pub
lic setting in any case. So he kept quiet.
“Would you like me to find out what gentlemen are in attendance and give you an assessment?” he asked, scanning the room.
“Oh, that would be most helpful. I know a great many of them, of course.” Miss Weston frowned. “And I suspect that Mother has been spurring them on.
“Not that she truly wants me to marry any particular one of them. I do not think that she has a favorite.”
James could have told her that her mother did indeed have a favorite in this race. He suspected that it would have given Miss Weston quite a shock to learn.
“But I suspect that she thinks that if she encourages the men and lets it be known that I am actively looking to be wooed… that it will then in turn spur me to choose one in order to get rid of the others.”
“You have to admit,” James said admiringly, “it is a fair operation. Hopefully in their actions you will also see more of their true nature through their haste.”
“A fair point. I only wish that I wasn’t getting the impression from her that I was doing it wrong. That there is something that I am missing.
“She keeps giving me these looks… as though there is something right in front of us that she can see and I cannot. I suppose that it is only that I am more fanciful and feeling than she is.
“Mother has always been quite sensible. As has Father. I’m not at all sure where my own sense of whimsy comes from.”
“I think it might have been all those fairy books they let you read as a child.”
Miss Weston smiled in fond memory. “I was rather obsessed with them, wasn’t I? I believe I tried to get people to read them to me because I was too lazy to bother reading them by myself.”
“I think it was more that you wanted the company,” James pointed out.
“True, that as well. I never do well on my own, do I?” Miss Weston sighed. “Perhaps Mother has a point. When I am married I shall never be alone.”
James could see that several gentlemen were eyeing Miss Weston and he knew that the dancing would soon begin. “I think that there are some gentlemen who wish to be added to your dance card.”
“Oh.” Miss Weston looked around. “Well, I hope that you shall snatch me for a dance at some point, Mr. Norwich. At least then I will know that one dance will not be boring.”
Then she was off, smiling and laughing with some other man.
The change in her behavior was most noticeable. She smiled coquettishly and cast her eyes downward in affected modesty.
A pleasing flush was on her cheeks, and she was altogether far more flirtatious than she was when speaking with him.
He tried not to despair. Yet he could not help but feel as though he had missed out on his chance. That he had the one opportunity to tell her his feelings and now he had lost it.
Perhaps he ought to write her another letter? No, that would be repetitive.
Miss Weston and the man that she was with went out onto the dance floor to join the others. In a public ball, there were so many people that James for once did not have to worry about dancing every round.
Usually in smaller balls, hosted by a family, there were more women than men and so the men were obliged to dance nearly every time so that all the ladies got a turn.
Here, at least, he had a chance to simply stand and observe.
Miss Weston stood out, even among all the other lovely women who were assembled. She was in white that night, as was the current fashion. The lightness of her step, the quick and easy way that she moved…
It was easy, watching her, to see that she was the best dancer of those assembled. She made it look as easy as breathing, and the delighted smile on her face revealed how much fun she was having with it.
James felt a small smile form on his face as he watched her.
He wondered if he was obvious to others who could see him. If he looked as besotted as he felt. But standing in amongst the crowd, he felt just invisible enough that he could watch unheeded.
She was such a wonder. He could see her making her partner laugh. And not the false, forced laugh of a man who is trying to be polite. But the quick, eyes-crinkled laugh of someone who is genuinely and unexpectedly amused.
And there was no doubt that her form was pleasing to watch as she moved. She showed great skill in the dance, but dancing was also a way to show off her figure. And she had quite a lovely one.
James glanced about the room. Already he could see other men who were waiting for their chance. Their eyes were on Miss Weston and they would approach her as soon as the dance ended, no doubt.
He would not stick around and torture himself in such a way. Nor would he dance with her tonight. It might disappoint her and he hated to do that. But he had to protect himself as well.
He retired into the men’s room and engaged in some debates about politics instead. It was sufficiently distracting. Miss Weston could not find him in there. She might use logic and conclude that this room was where he must be, since she would not be able to find him elsewhere. But she could not follow.
After he had spent what he felt was a sufficient amount of time—long enough to be polite—he excused himself.
“Early morning tomorrow,” he told his conversation companions.
He darted quickly through the ballroom so that he would not be seen and stopped by anyone. He quickly descended the stairs to the street and set off briskly down it.
When he got home, however, he found that there was a surprise awaiting him.
A letter. From Miss Weston.
He picked it up, turning it over. There was no name on it. It was addressed to his post office box, where he had his man pick up the mail every afternoon.
This must have been put in his box with the late post.
Oh, but of course. He must have provided a return address when he had addressed the letter to Miss Weston. Although he had forgotten to sign his name, his habit of addressing was so ingrained that he had done it without thought.
She certainly could not be giving him an answer as to yes or no, could she? Not when she did not know who he was. Surely it would be folly for her to say yes to allowing a man to court her if she did not know his identity.
What, then, was this letter?
He opened it, surprised to find that his hands were shaking. He paused, walking over to sit down and then resuming in reading it.
Dear Sir,
I confess that your letter stirred in me a great curiosity. I would even have been inclined to say yes to your proposal to court me.
However, I am afraid that you neglected to include a rather important part of yourself to me. Despite claiming to give me your heart, you have neglected to give me your name.
What should a lady think of this? I was pleased, no, taken aback even by your words. They fed my soul in a way that I did not even know needed feeding.
I was astounded that I could produce such passionate and tender emotions in someone. I have to confess—and I find it is so much easier to confess such things on paper.
That is why you wrote to me, is it not? That is what you said—that you could not say such things in person.
I find that it is the same for me. In writing you this letter I can tell you easily that I do not think as highly of myself as other people believe I do.
To know that I had endeared myself to you so completely was a reassurance. A great one. Even if our correspondence and relationship were to end now, I would always remember and treasure your words.
But you have left your name out. How am I to give you an answer if I do not know who you are?
I implore you to tell me your identity. I am filled with quite a burning curiosity. Partly because I am appalled at myself. With someone who calls me his friend, how could I have failed to notice his feelings for me?
You must be quite angry with me. I hope that you are not but I would understand if you were. Is that why there is no name? So that you might have me be purposefully in the dark, punishment for my lack of observation?<
br />
Or is it some kind of puzzle that you mean for me to figure out?
I hope that you will write to me again and let me know who you are. My heart has not beat at anything less than a breakneck speed since I read your letter. I am sure I will scan the crowd for you at the ball tonight. Wondering as each man approaches me—is it you? Is it you?
Please, write to me.
Sincerely,
Miss Julia Weston
James stared down at the letter in surprise.
Miss Weston had never confided to him that she thought of herself as anything less than a marvel. She always seemed to be possessed of the greatest self-confidence.
Yet, in this letter, she had found the courage to say to a stranger what she would not admit to the face of a man she had known for ten years.
Perhaps there was something to this letter writing.
Perhaps, instead of revealing his name, he ought to continue to woo her through writing. He could say to her all of the things he did not know how to speak aloud. And she would be able to do the same with him.
Would it not enable them to be more honest than if they were in person? There were many years between them. A lot of baggage, in a way. And everyone would be watching them if they were to court. They would not truly be able to fully take the measure of one another. There would always be others listening in to the conversation.
This could be the solution.
He hurried to his desk and wrote her a reply that might be sent out with the earliest post.
Dear Miss Weston,
You have no idea how many times I wish to start these letters with something more drastic than a simple ‘dear’ but I fear I must hold onto some tenets of propriety.
I received your letter after a full day of cursing my stupidity. To my horror, I realized only too late that I had left out my name in my letter to you.
You can easily imagine the many names that I called myself. I despaired of the matter ever being resolved.
How lucky, then, that I had instinctively added my post office box as the return address. And how fortunate that you were kind enough to respond.
Many women would have simply burnt such a letter, I am sure. I suppose I have your adventurous spirit to thank for it?