by Kira Stewart
She was also inclined to have a quick temper. With her dark auburn hair, she took after her father, but unlike his gentle temperament, was prone to sudden outbursts of emotion. Her mother, Sophie Maldon, had been something of a beauty in her day, and had been born into an aspiring middle-class family with pretentions of grandeur, and wanting great matches for her daughters was of upmost importance. With a tendency to feel above most of her own rank and social standing, she came across of something of a snob and quite domineering, but essentially had a kind heart. Without that, Mr. Maldon could never have married her.
The rectory afforded a modest library, her father being an avid collector, if not an actual reader of books. Sometimes the owning of a library was enough to show one’s literary intent, without the actual supplication and effort of the actual reading. There was never a shortage of novels and her father often subscribed to the latest publications, usually ignorant of their genre, leaving little Henrietta to browse at will.
Her sisters often teased her, called her both a tomboy and a bookworm, and chided that she would never marry.
Henrietta, or Henry as she called herself, responded that she did not care. She never wanted to marry, although, secretly she hoped that one day she would meet a handsome hero, straight out of the pages of one of her stories, and together they would have great adventures.
At the age of ten, she saw the world through the eyes of the heroes and heroines she read about. The sleepy village afforded little in the way of adventure, but the girl’s imagination made up for the slow pace of life. Inventing her own plots, her dear papa’s gentle parishioners became unwitting players in her latest imagined storyline.
Miss Hetherington, the local school mistress, became a heiress; kindly Mrs. Crotchet, the old seamstress, became an evil godmother; and even her poor papa was not spared, and the mild cleric became the wicked Baron in many a tale.
For her own part, she liked to think of herself in the role of an orphaned young girl, penniless, yet somehow finding herself the receiver of a generous, yet anonymous benefactor. Henrietta enjoyed her own company, but loved to share her stories. Her sisters thought her too silly to take much notice of, so it was her second eldest sibling, her brother George, whom she sought out when needing an audience for her imagined narratives, and more importantly, her brother’s best friend, Tom.
Like her brother, Thomas Langton was four years older than the young Henrietta. Living only a mile away from the village, he was a regular visitor to both the village school and rectory.
In Thomas Langton, Henrietta had found an ally, as his love of reading matched her own. Living with his widowed mother, his family was not very well off, and he was treated like one of the family at the rectory, sharing the benefits of the library with Henrietta.
He would often find the curious girl sat with her nose in a book, and stop and spare the time to ask her opinion on the latest read, and to swap stories.
To this end, Thomas Langton often became the hero of many of her imagined tales.
Life was slow and uncomplicated in the village, the pace and daily routines in tune with nature. Henrietta longed for something to happen, but when it did, it was not a change that she would have wished for.
Thomas Langton was to move away. His great aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Abbotsford, of Bath, whom were both childless and wealthy, had decided to “adopt” the boy and give him a good education.
His mother being so poor, she could not afford such a start in life for the young man. He would attend his great-uncle’s old college in London and the move was to be imminent.
The members of the Maldon family at the little rectory, greeted this news with a mixture of both excitement and sadness. The boy was like a son and brother, and he would be greatly missed, and yet the opportunity was beyond any of their wildest hopes, and they wished the boy well.
He had shared his news over tea one sunny Sunday afternoon in July, sat in the bright and sunny parlour. He would be leaving as soon as his things could be packed and the travel arranged. He would be away for at least four years to cover his college education.
There had been back slapping and hand shaking between the men at the news, a great display of emotion, and even tears from Mrs. Maldon, probably wishing that she had pushed one of her daughters at the poor boy whilst she had the chance. In her turn, poor Henrietta had rushed from the room, unable to contain her emotions.
Thomas had left the others to seek her out, easily finding her in the
place she liked the best, her father’s library. She stood by the casement window looking out into the fading summer sunshine, almost hidden by the long velvet drapes.
“Dear Henry, whatever is wrong?”
The young girl could hardly speak, as she tried to stop the tears from flowing.
“Just think of all of the stories I will be able to tell you on my visits home and what adventures I shall have.”
The young girl sniffled.
“And, of course I will write.”
The girl eventually turned to face him, her face solemn.
“You will write?”
Her voice was small and meek.
“Of course I will write. Now, come here, you silly goose. Four years will not be long. Just think, you will be a fine young woman by the time I return, and with lots of suitors I imagine. Now, you must promise to wait for me?”
Henrietta looked serious and held out her hand.
“I promise. Now, we must shake hands on it to secure our promise.”
She had read in a book somewhere that the shaking of hands was both a solemn and binding affair.
Smiling, Thomas held out his hand, taking her small hand in his.
“There, we have made our promise.”
The young man tried hard to stifle his amusement at the funny young girl. She would soon forget about him in no time at all.
The young man was joking, but Henrietta took his words to heart. That night she wrote in her journal.
T is to go away for a long time. He has asked me to wait for him and I shall. We made a solemn oath and shook on it! If I ever do get married, it shall be to T!!!
Henrietta missed her friend and confidant. Thomas did write letters occasionally, but when they did arrive at the rectory, Henrietta could not help feeling a little disappointed that they were addressed to all of the family, and not just particularly to herself. When the letters had been read and re-read by her family, Henrietta would take charge of them, keeping them hidden with all of her special and secret items, in a small wooden chest that George had made for her.
For a while, she would sit at her window, his letter in hand, tracing over the neat handwriting. Where he mentioned her name, she would lightly run her fingers over the letters, and wish fervently for his return. Whenever she felt sad at missing her friend, she thought about the promise they had made, and it lifted her spirits for a while.
Through her vivid imagination, she kept him close to her—the hero of all her imagined adventures. Very soon, the fictional Tom had overtaken the real one in her thoughts. Indeed, if anyone were to read her diaries, they would be amazed to hear of the adventures of the pair, and their exciting escapades…
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