by Nichole Van
And that’s where the argument always landed.
Belle had never meant to take the charade this far. But, like so many things in life, she was in the midst of it before realizing it had begun. She hadn’t meant to keep writing him.
But when Blake had struggled with bickering tribes attacking their shipments, how could she not offer him advice and unconventional solutions? How could she not provide him with calculations of probabilities and predictions based on fashion trends she saw in London? To say nothing would have been cruel, too.
Ugh. She was in an impossible situation.
Belle comforted her conscience, knowing she had never specifically lied to Blake. She had never deliberately told a falsehood. Blake had assumed her to be a man. She had merely declined to correct his misperception.
Admittedly, a very fine line, but one she did not intend to cross.
The real problem was simple: she didn’t want to lose Blake’s friendship. She valued his good opinion above all others.
Not since her father’s death had anyone occupied such a place in her affections. Like with her father, she and Blake understood each other, seeing eye-to-eye on nearly everything.
To be clear, Blake certainly hadn’t replaced her father—her feelings toward Lord Blake were decidedly not filial in nature—but the feeling of respect and trust was similar.
Belle found herself thinking of her father more and more. As a child, he took her to see a hot air balloon fly. She had watched, hands clasped under her chin, as barrel after barrel was positioned under the rising cloth, releasing a gas—hydrogen, her father called it—into the silk fabric. Before long, the enormous ball rose high in the sky, two people standing in a basket underneath it.
Belle had bounced on her tiptoes, hands clasped in worry.
“What will happen to the men inside the basket, Papa? Won’t they be dashed to the ground?” she asked.
“No, Little Heart-Full. See the ropes there?” Papa pointed to the ropes, stretched and straining to Belle’s eyes. “See how strong and thick they are? The ropes tether the balloon to the ground. It can’t fly away.”
“Oh! How clever!” Belle laughed and clapped. “So the men can fly into the sky, but still be safely held to the ground?”
“Exactly. The wind can blow hither and yon, but the balloon won’t be able to fly away. When they are done, the ropes will bring them safely down.”
Belle stared up, eyes round. “I wonder what they can see from up there?”
Papa chuckled. “I imagine they have a view for miles and miles from that height. The higher you are, the farther you can see.”
Belle had come to consider it a metaphor for her life. Blake had been the one to set her aloft—allowing her to soar on thrilling winds, to see and understand things she had never even considered—all the while keeping her tethered to the ground. To become a person she had never thought possible.
Would she ever tell him thank you face-to-face? Help him understand how in a mere fifteen minutes of time, he had utterly altered the trajectory of her life, allowing her to soar to new heights?
Yes . . . someday, she would tell him.
Someday.
To LHF
Calcutta
June 14, 1822
My good friend,
Thank you for your report about the orphanage. You were wise to purchase Fyfe Hall outside Swindon. The estate looks to be an excellent place for children to be raised, though as you noted, the property will take nearly a year of renovation to make it habitable once more.
I also appreciated your idea to place the children in small family units and hire a veteran and his wife to act as de facto parents to them. It is a brilliant stroke of genius to give both veterans and children a sense of family. I have enclosed instructions to Mr. Sloan to dispatch funds as needed.
I have also been thinking much lately about the idea you posed in your last letter, that quote from Sir Francis Bacon, “Nothing is terrible except fear itself.” You then stated, “My father used to say that our greatest fears are what they are because they describe what will happen to us.” I was moved by the tale of your friend—whose greatest fear was the death of his son and heir—and who subsequently buried all his children.
So what is my greatest fear?
Mine is akin to yours. You fear being left alone in the world, of losing the trust and friendship of those you hold most dear. I am afraid I will never find the other half of me; I fear I will never have that “marriage of true minds,” as Shakespeare describes it . . .
Colin broke off writing his letter to LHF, eyes raising to the rain pattering against the window pane. The summer monsoon had settled in with a vengeance, rain falling almost incessantly. Servants moved through his house, completing their tasks, the sounds clinking outside his door.
He had longed to marry for several years now. But he wished to raise a family in his native land, on the estates he had inherited. He was ready to build a legacy.
Did he truly fear he would never find true love? Perhaps once.
But recent events had changed everything.
He smiled thinking of a pair of vivid hazel eyes and lush smile that was rapidly becoming dear to him. Miss Sarah Forrester had definitely captured his interest.
His fear might soon be laid to rest.
Briefly, he contemplated writing as much to Lord Halbert. But his relationship with Miss Forrester was new enough that he hesitated. Perhaps in his next letter, he would say something.
He continued writing.
. . . I know not for myself. But as for you, I must say, my good friend, you should never fear on my account. You will always have my trust and friendship. On that score, you may be certain . . .
“Miss Heartstone, I am so pleased you could attend my little soiree this evening.”
Belle smiled. “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Phalean. Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Rutger.”
Belle exchanged a few more pleasantries with Mrs. George Phalean before passing into the Phalean’s drawing room.
“You are quite shameless,” Anne murmured in her ear.
Belle did not disagree.
She felt a bit like a spy, invading Blake’s homeland, surveying the countryside, as it were.
But . . . he had sent his sister, Cecily, a portrait. A current portrait. Surely it had arrived by now. How could Belle hope to resist seeing such a thing?
Belle had known for years that Blake’s sister came to London for the Season. For the past five years, Belle had deliberately not sought a friendship with the woman. To befriend Cecily Phalean, without ever mentioning a word of it to Blake, felt like crossing an invisible threshold from misunderstanding to brazen deception.
But . . .
Fate had intervened. Belle had happened to meet Mrs. Phalean at the opera one evening. The slight acquaintance had then led to an invitation to attend a dinner party hosted by Mrs. Phalean.
What else was Belle to do? She couldn’t outright refuse to attend. Besides, Belle had a purpose beyond simple curiosity tonight.
She needed to see Blake. And as the man himself was still in India, his portrait would have to do.
The reason?
Somewhere amidst their letters about Frankenstein and the Taj Mahal, Belle suspected she might have given Blake her heart.
Like the letters themselves, she was in the middle of it before realizing it had even begun. But she thought about him at least twenty times a day, and oh, the rapturous thundering of her heart whenever a letter arrived.
This was not normally how Belle felt about correspondence from other friends.
How horrid to have a best friend who didn’t even know he was her best friend. A love who didn’t know he was her love.
Poor Blake.
Poor her.
A cordial friendship with the fictional LHF was all well and good. But enthusiastic discussion of philosophy and literature was hardly the same thing as romantic interest.
In her most fanciful moments
, Belle had imagined writing the words:
Do you recall that forgettable woman who proposed marriage to you one spring morning in Hyde Park? Allow me to relate a humorous anecdote . . .
She would tell him the truth behind LHF, and he would rush to her side, overcome with emotion. Sweep her into his arms, professing a deep and profound love, begging her to always be his—
She stopped herself.
Enough, she whispered. You don’t know for sure if you feel anything for him beyond brotherly respect and friendship.
In fact, this overwhelming attachment was a large part of why she had accepted Mrs. Phalean’s invitation this evening.
Was her infatuation with Blake a genuine thing? Or was it more likely a case of absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder?
Her mind seemed to think that seeing his likeness would sort the issue for her.
So she smiled and nodded at a few acquaintances, all the while surreptitiously scanning the walls, trying to see if one of the many portraits belonged to Lord Blake.
Would she recognize his likeness? Or had India changed him too thoroughly? Certainly, his skin would be bronzed from the sun, perhaps taking his hair a shade or two lighter.
It was hard to say.
She and Anne continued to move around the drawing room, talking with friends. Part of Belle marveled that she had ever found this sort of social interaction difficult. It all seemed so normal now. She would never have a spirited demeanor, but her shyness had settled into a graceful sense of confidence and poise.
She and Anne passed onto the music room, still greeting the bevy of guests. Belle accepted a glass of sherry from a passing servant. It was only as she sipped that she felt all the fine hairs on her neck stand in attention.
Later, she would relive the moment over and over, pondering its significance.
Slowly, Belle turned her head, staring at the wall behind her.
Oh.
Oh!
There he was.
His eyes gazed at her, quiet, intent. Soul-piercing.
It was a bust portrait, showing him from the chest up, body slightly angled. His cravat fell in precise folds, tucked against a bottle-green coat. The green caught the reddish highlights in his hair, which was indeed a shade lighter than she remembered. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
But it was the intensity of his blue eyes that held her. They saw through her, challenging, calling to her innermost soul.
His likeness was achingly familiar and utterly new all at once.
I see you, he seemed to say. We are similar creatures, you and I.
Belle’s foolish heart choked her, aching with so much . . . feeling.
Oh, Blake.
My heart.
Heavens, now what was she to do—
“I see you’ve been captured by my brother, Miss Heartstone,” a chipper voice sounded at her ear.
Belle only barely stopped herself from startling.
She turned with a strained smile to Mrs. Phalean.
“Pardon?” Belle managed to say.
Did Cecily know? Was Belle’s attachment written plain upon her face?
And given the depth of her emotion, how could she not show it?
“My brother, Lord Blake.” Mrs. Phalean gestured toward the portrait, fortunately appearing oblivious to Belle’s emotional crisis.
“Yes,” Belle eked out, voice still breathy.
“’Tis a pity he has spent so long in India. He would be quite the favorite, I am sure, were he in London this Season.”
“Yes,” Belle repeated, dragging her brain back to the moment at hand.
Cecily Phalean was truly Blake’s sister. The resemblance was certainly there, in the color of her eyes, the shape of her nose. And a sister would know so much . . .
Belle forcibly held back the thousand questions about Blake that clung to her tongue. Such overeager interest would not be seemly so early in a friendship. And, more importantly, delving deep into Blake’s personal life certainly crossed a line into gross deception and betrayal.
So despite the cacophony of her thoughts, Belle gave a polite smile. “Is it an accurate likeness of Lord Blake, do you think?”
“Oh yes, most definitely. I know I am his sister, but Blake has always had a dashing air about him. The ladies quite swoon when he enters a room.” Mrs. Phalean laughed at her own wit. “But he has never allowed the attention to go to his head. He has always been a most attentive brother.”
That’s when Belle realized that Blake was Cecily’s favorite topic of conversation.
Hallelujah!
Belle didn’t have to say a word. All she did was smile and nod, and Mrs. Phalean monologued on and on about her brother.
His kindness and concern for their late mother.
His attentiveness to Cecily in sending her a portrait of himself.
The brilliance of his career in India and his well-read mind.
Belle listened, nearly entranced. But the more she heard, the more her suspicions were confirmed.
Blake owned her heart. Thoroughly. Utterly.
Worse, she had no hope that he would ever offer his in return.
To LHF
September 23, 1822
My dear friend,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am inspired by your last words regarding the potential for reform at home. The success of Hopewell shall merely be our starting point. In fact, I anticipate returning in a year’s time and taking up my seat in the House of Lords during the parliamentary session beginning in January of 1824. Hone your ideas, my friend, as I intend to utilize your keen insight when drafting my bills.
You might well be surprised at this decision. It was precipitated by another happy event. Please congratulate me. By the time you receive this letter, I will be a married man. My betrothed, Miss Sarah Forrester, is anxious to rejoin family in London, and I am only too eager to see England again.
Though we have never broached the subject, I would dearly love to finally meet you in person. Thus far, I have respected your right to privacy, but to be very honest, I know your identity, my friend. I have known since the beginning of our venture.
Fair warning, I intend to call upon you when I arrive in London. I wish to express, in person, my gratitude for your faith in a penniless peer so many years ago.
Another riddle for you: What occurs once in every minute, twice in every moment, but never in a thousand years? I long to best you at something!
I hope this riddle truly stumps you.
Your true friend,
Blake
8
. . . My dearest Blake, though you insist that I should not fear losing your trust and friendship, I worry that it will come to pass. You see, there is one small detail about myself that I have not mentioned . . .
—excerpt from the fifth draft of a letter from Miss Heartstone to Lord Blake, written but never sent
By the time you receive this letter, I will be a married man.
The words fairly stole Belle’s breath away, their impact not any softer even a week after the letter had been delivered to her London townhouse.
She held Blake’s letter in trembling fingers. Phrases and words jumped off the page, sinking into her skin, painful thorns.
. . . my betrothed, Miss Sarah Forrester . . .
. . . love to finally meet you in person . . .
. . . I know your identity, my friend . . .
. . . I long to best you at something!
Best her?
If only he knew.
He had defeated her in every way.
She lowered the letter, breathing slowly. Despite this being precisely the fifty-third time she had read it, the pain refused to abate. Particularly on evenings like this one, when she and Anne sat alone before the fire, occasionally talking, but mostly listening to silence. Silence which rendered her thinking too loud.
Belle’s heart had shattered at his words. She could still scarcely speak of it without tears.
He was married.
Blake
Her Blake.
But he was not her Blake. He would never be her Blake now. He was a married man and that was that.
She glanced at the letter, sternly telling herself to let it be. She did not need to read it again. Its contents would not change. Besides, she had memorized its brief lines days ago.
. . . I know your identity, my friend. I have known since the beginning of our venture . . .
Hah!
Those two lines had nearly stopped her heart when she first read them.
But, no, it couldn’t be true.
Blake had more than once referred to her as a ‘man of seasoned wisdom.’
So . . . he clearly did not know who she was.
Which begged two questions—
Who did he think LHF to be?
And, more to the point, what was she to do about his return?
He had written this letter last autumn. He had likely been married for months now, as England was awash in March rain at present. If he hadn’t already, Blake would shortly set sail, arriving in England in less that than six months.
She would see him. It was only a matter of time now. Her friendship with Cecily Phalean had naturally progressed over the past year. Belle had been careful not to actively pursue a friendship with her, despite liking Mrs. Phalean quite thoroughly. Blake was already going to feel betrayed once he learned of LHF’s identity. No need to add ‘consorting with his sister’ to her list of crimes. So though Belle did not claim Cecily as a bosom friend, they called upon each other and occasionally dined together.
Cecily would certainly welcome her brother home like a returning hero. And Belle, as a tolerably close acquaintance, would be included in the festivities. She would have to greet Blake and the new Lady Blake. Would he smile when he saw her? Would he remember that morning so many years ago—