When she’d first arrived home from up north, she’d been so thankful for safety and comfort that she thought of little else besides dipping into warm baths, languishing before crackling fires and bountiful meals. But as she calmed and familiarized with her environment, she noticed that her thoughts still turned constantly to the north, and the man who’d cared for her. She felt strange when she thought of him - her stomach lurched all the way from her throat to her groin. She assumed, at first, that this would fade; that these memories were just a rehashing of the terror of all that’d happened there.
But after nine months, her thoughts were still pulled constantly toward him, magnetically, as if drawn by some exterior force. She thought always of his face, the way he looked in the light of the dim fires of the lodge, in the clearing of the woods, and at the edge of the lake. She could see him in her mind’s eye, his clear eyes and their penetrating look that seemed to pierce right through her heart. Her thoughts turned constantly to the clearing, the place where she’d succumbed to his passion; where she’d lain across his lap and been held in his arms. She thought of the lake as well, flinching at the memory; at first blocking it out, then searching her feelings to try and understand what had happened. She knew somehow that she had caused it, though she feared to admit it to herself. For it seemed that such a realization would change her entire life and how she must perceive herself. It seemed such an admonition would confirm her a witch, an evil creature, according to all the sermons and stories she’d heard in her life.
She kept seeing his face at the edge of the lake, his light eyes staring intently at her beneath dark eyebrows, his hair hanging round her face in a curtain as he embraced her. At times she felt she’d lost control of her own mind, as if the force of another was overpowering her very own thoughts, pulling them to him; drawn by some strange god, some principality imbued with the merciless, humbling force with which to break her will.
When she returned from the village, Aunt Everild had tea waiting.
“Now, my dear,” she said in her prim, domineering way; directing placement of the tea with a few flourishing points of her hand. “Your father left instructions as to your care and future. Everything is in order, but we must see to a certain.. matter... that affects you.”
Maryone sat obediently, accepting a treacle tart and tea with cream. Her aunt was far from unpleasant, despite her bossy ways. She was an old spinster, but emitted a sense of motherly comfort that Maryone appreciated after growing up without a woman’s care. Having received her tea, she listened intently, sitting completely erect, with chest out and hands folded neatly in her lap; knowing Aunt Everild would chide her otherwise.
“Your father left his affairs in the usual order,” Aunt Everild said matter-of-factly, “But there was one rather unusual stipulation left in regard to you my dear. One which I hope shall not be too upsetting for you.”
“Your father,” she continued, stirring her tea with a tiny spoon, “Left instructions not to whom... but for when you may marry, my dear.”
Her voice changed, becoming anxious and distressed.
“It is most unusual, and I’m having it looked into legally. But your father left instructions that you may not marry until the age of... twenty-four.”
Aunty Everild pronounced the syllables of “twenty-four” with hushed horror, to show just how scandalous she thought the idea to be. She paused to allow Maryone time to react, clearly expecting her to be as distressed as she was, or even more so. It was a strange stipulation, yes. Most women married in their mid teens. An unmarried woman of twenty-four, in most cases, would be considered “on the shelf” and no longer desirable to the wider male populace. But Maryone didn’t find the news distressing. She was actually relieved. She was in no hurry to marry, and relished the idea of having several more years of solace, without being obliged to rear and care for children.
In truth, she was afraid to marry. Since returning home and reflecting upon what happened on the shores of that northern lake, she began to wonder if she was truly evil. She’d never seen anyone else do what she’d done, and the look of horror on the men’s faces who’d witnessed the event - it filled her with a profound sense of shame and dread. Perhaps there was something horribly wrong with her. Perhaps she could never be a fit wife to a good, steady, respectable man. Perhaps any man would inevitably find out what a horror she was, reject her, and turn her over to be condemned by the church, or one of those ruthless witch-finders who roved the land.
“I see,” she replied evenly.
Her aunt watched her for a moment, confused by her subdued reaction. Then she looked down at her tea cup, sighed in acceptance of her niece’s strange sensibilities, and took a generous swig.
“I say my dear,” she said, “Most girls would be sorely disappointed. But I suppose you’ve nothing to worry about. You’re a handsome young woman with fortune enough. You’re not of a terribly jolly character, but I daresay you’ve enough to tempt a man. Even when you reach... twenty-four years.”
Aunt Everild pronounced the number dubiously again, shaking her head.
“But I daresay,” she continued. “It wouldn’t be wise to set your cap at a man yet, no matter how... exotic.”
Maryone thought little of the comment, but nodded in acquiescence, if only to end the conversation. They finished their tea in general silence. Even after nine months of being home, Maryone still felt thankful for small pleasures, like the jam, cream and scones made by cook. She breathed deeply and savored every bite.
Just as she stood and was about to excuse herself to an afternoon stroll, Aunt Everild stopped her with an outstretched hand.
“I almost forgot, my dear,” she said. “There’s a letter come for you. From abroad, no less.”
She picked up a small letter from a nearby dish and handed it to Maryone. Confused, Maryone took it and turned it over in her hands.
“Likely,” said Aunt Everild. “It’s from that strange foreigner who’s been to dinner these two times.”
Maryone knew instantly that she was referring to Valefar. But she was confused, for Valefar had visited her several times, far more than twice. Many of those times he’d approached her on the grounds, but she was always sure she’d seen him in the house earlier in the evening. Or, had she?
“He pays you particular attentions, my dear,” continued Aunt Everild. “Be careful you do not make your preferences known.”
Maryone balked at the idea, for Valefar was easily old enough to be her father - nay, her grandfather. She felt nothing but friendship for the man, and was surprised that anyone could assume otherwise. It seemed quite ridiculous.
“Yes, Aunt,” she said obediently, not wishing to elaborate on the subject.
Perhaps it wasn’t proper to have met with him so repeatedly on her own. But he was her only true friend, and she felt she needed him. He was leading her towards something, she could feel it; some knowledge she’d sensed her whole life but never been consciously privy to, perhaps an answer to what’d happened on the lake and why. She must continue to receive him when he came, she couldn’t bear not to.
“I shall take my letter,” said Maryone, “On my walk with me.” She rushed out of the room, calling back, “The day looks most refreshing!”
“But my dear!” Her aunt called after her, clearly curious to know the details of the letter.
She didn’t wish her aunt to hold her back, so she scurried down the hall, her boots clacking against the marble in a quick scramble. Pulling her cape about her shoulders for added warmth against the autumn air, she rushed out the back door into the gray day. It felt like descending into a bright, cool ocean after the confined darkness of the house. She loved days like these, overcast and dark, with a warm breeze blowing everything about. The trees made their ominous rushing sound as she walked briskly over the lumpy grass, on towards a stone bench that sat desolate on a hill overlooking the southern pond.
She studied the script on the outside of the letter once more. It was quite
fine, but of a different style than one usually saw in England. The paper, too, was rather unusual. She broke the small seal and pulled the letter out. Expecting a letter from Valefar, she was taken aback as she read what was there.
Miss Gurza,
I pray you would forgive me for taking the liberty of writing you. It is my greatest wish that this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I desire, first and foremost, to inquire after your health, and the state of your recovery after the heinous suffering you endured at the hands of my uncle and cousins. I hope you understand that I heartily condemn every action they took against you, and your distinguished family. I do not expect, only desire that you may find the grace to forgive me for any and all part I played in causing you pain. I am established now with my family in Italy, and would welcome any communication you would be so kind as to send me.
In Deepest Regret,
Ascelin Sforza
Her heart thumped and her breath came short. She felt like she was spinning, and was grateful for the cool air blowing against her face, lest she faint. The letter was a visceral reminder of her time of suffering in the north. The sense of it all came crashing down on her as she read of the words, defined mostly by the memory of his presence in that dark old lodge. She found herself devilishly thrilled at having heard from this man who had dominated her thoughts for so long. And though she chided herself, she realized her feelings towards him were more positive than she’d thought.
She touched the calligraphy with her fingertips, feeling the silky surface of the paper. It was quite fine, as was the language and penmanship of the letter. She’d thought this man to be a complete brute, perhaps unable to read. It was surprising to receive a letter from him at all, never mind such a letter. What, pray, could have caused him to be brought up by such people as Lord Rypon, hidden away in that northern wasteland? She sat for some time considering these things. Her heart pounding at the thought of him. She’d fancied boys before, she understood these feelings. She’d even kissed a few, and felt affection for them. But this man made her feel something else, something more. She shook when she thought of him. Her limbs went weak. She was terrified of him.
It was truly gentlemanly of him to send such a letter. It showed true integrity and courage from a man hundreds of miles away, who might live out his life in happiness and prosperity without anyone being the wiser regarding what he’d done, or what she’d suffered at the hands of his uncle. He hadn’t written this letter out of self-preservation, nor to butter up a family who might later do him harm or good; for she and hers held no sway in the world he now moved in. In fact, from the looks of the seal at the top of the paper, he ran in circles much older and higher than her own. Truly, those whom he lived among now would likely never know of her or her family’s existence. Had he not cared for her when she was desolate? Had he not orchestrated her safe return home? Seen to her care? Sat by her side and protected her? She sat for a moment, a feeling of warmth rising in her chest, one of true appreciation and awe of the man’s qualities.
But what of her father? What would he think? A shock of acid ran through her chest at the thought of her poor betrayed, departed father. How could she forgive one of those who’d done him harm? Ascelin hadn’t shot the arrow that did him in, but he was of their party. She knew her father would be angered at her regard for the man. How could she betray her father’s memory? What kind of cruel, unfeeling daughter was she to put such sensibilities before familial loyalty?
Despite the glowing, warm feeling in her heart, she stifled her feelings for the man, determined not to feel them. To do so would be a gross betrayal of her poor father’s memory. Indeed, if her father had known of such an affection while he lived he would have turned her out. What if her aunt found out? Would she stop helping her? Would she leave her alone to be despised by the village folk and spend her days in loneliness? It was bad enough that she might be evil. At least she could make good decisions and try to remain loyal to those who’d cared for her. No. She must not feel so. Not for this man. It was unconscionable. She would reply, for her limbs shook with the words she wished to say to him; it felt like she had no choice. But it was out of mere civility. It wasn’t that her heart wished to reach out to this man, only that she must do what was polite and respectable.
As she rose and walked back to the house, loose strands of hair blowing across her face, she convinced herself that her heart was not hoping for another reply from him, that she was only doing what was proper in writing. But a fire burned in her to communicate with this man, and to keep the lines of communication wide open, despite what she told herself. She scurried back to the house feeling warm all over, her thoughts racing and awash with denial.
When she acquainted her aunt with the affair, excluding his part in the drama up north, the woman was thrilled, pressing her to reply and invite him to the house. His family was apparently of an ancient and noble lineage, and her aunt was already well acquainted with their reputation. She sang the praises of such an acquaintance, asking question after question, trying to suss out his particular prospects; but Maryone knew nothing to tell. Maryone watched the woman’s irises dart back and forth above her tea cup, as if her mind were made of busily whirring gears, and she were hatching a plan to catch a fox in a snare. She didn’t wish to admit it to herself, but it gave her keen pleasure to witness this eagerness. For though she told herself that she meant to reject any acquaintance with him, or daresay, a match; her heart grasped at any loophole that might invite him into her life, absolving her soul of the sin and laying it on another.
~
From then on, she and Ascelin were in constant contact. She received a letter from him every fortnight or so, the amount of time she imagined it took for her own letters to be received and replied to. She always replied directly, every week or so, but thought of him everyday. To be honest, she’d begun to think of him nearly every moment. As soon as her consciousness brightened into awareness each morning, splayed against warm bed sheets, he was their focussed object.
She tried to occupy herself. She ran errands, took walks, talked to the servants, attended social gatherings orchestrated by her busy aunt. She read and fished about the old library. She’d even occasionally visit her father’s - or rather, her own - tenants, taking medicines and other sundries to those in need; visits that became increasingly few and far between, for always with the common folk she sensed a suspicion and fear, which only served to remind her of her own fears and doubts about herself. Nothing strange had occurred since that day on the lake, but she lived in such dreadful fear that something would that she held her feelings in a sort of box, never allowing that explosion of sensation that’d led to the strange event on the water’s edge. And yet, with all these distractions, every conversation and activity seemed a momentary diversion from her mind’s true object.
She continued to receive visits from her strange friend Valefar, who seemed always to hypnotize her with his appearances. Not a romantic hypnosis. Rather, near him she sensed something strange and unknown, like a whispering just at the edge of hearing. In his presence, she felt a strange world unfolding all around her in an arcane dance; as if behind each blink of his cutting violet eyes, a different universe was hidden. She sensed that he understood the strange, shameful event that’d taken place at the lakeside, which fed her desire to interact with him. He never said as much, but she felt it; felt he was leading her gently down a path, taking his time, pulling her with subtle machinations, weaving knowledge in a style that imbued true understanding, in which she would come to see with her own eyes and understand with her own soul.
Her bond with Ascelin grew, opening her heart and mind. In time, it seemed the lines of communication were so open and clear between them, as if she could sense him across all those miles, feel his gaze upon her, piercing her. She told herself that such a notion was foolish, mere superstition; but she couldn’t deny the pure potency of the sensation when it overtook her, like a wave of revelation straight from heavenly rea
lms. By him she felt more loved, understood and known than she had by any in all her life; even by herself. The connection imbued her with deeper knowledge of herself, showed her how she might be better, raise her mind and heart into higher realms. And this sensation became, to her, her purpose for rising in the morning and taking each breath that followed; a presence that filled her body, consumed and never left her. She held onto it with both hands.
In her darkest moments of doubt, insecurities whispered that he was only being kind, only seeking to rectify past wrongs and expressing his own honorable character. But, after wrestling painfully with such notions, she would remind her desperate heart of what’d happened at his uncle’s lodge, in the clearing, and of what she felt was true in her heart. Besides, why would a man bother so with a young woman he felt nothing for? Surely, gallantry and manners had been satisfied long ago. What he did now must purely be motivated by desire.
With each passing day, month and year, this feeling became more central to her life - to her very existence. He was a part of her, with or without her consent, she could not tell. Her heart was no longer her own, but a compass that now pointed only to him, with every beat leading her closer. She’d always been so good at controlling her desires and emotions. Her father had never been an indulgent parent, and she’d learned not only to mask her desires and the emotions they created, but to live without their object. Though she was the daughter of a rich man and didn’t need to toil for her survival, she’d been given little in the way of possessions or attention, until recently. And in such an upbringing, she’d learned to be content with small pleasures; to retreat into the safety of her own mind for comfort.
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