by Fanny Finch
But for the most part she was sympathetic. Understanding. Thoughtful. Supportive.
He had loved her for her liveliness. For her intelligence. For her beauty. Now he loved her also for her understanding heart. For how well she listened and supported him. For her surprising and sweet and vulnerable heart that lurked underneath.
If he was being honest, and he tried to be in most things even as he remained a coward in this… Miss Weston was the person to whom he was now the closest.
His brother was a close second. But with his brother being far out at sea it was difficult to converse with him as easily and as readily as he could Miss Weston.
And Miss Weston was not family. There were things he could tell her about his family that he did not dare speak of to his brother. He could be honest with her without fear of hurting anyone’s feelings or stepping upon anyone’s toes and it was wonderful. Freeing, even.
He would have to give all of that up if she knew who he was. Unless, of course, she decided that she could love him after all and she married him.
James was not altogether confident about that.
She seemed to hold him in great affection, that was true. At least through the letters.
But what if she was picturing someone else when she wrote? What if she imagined another man and was disappointed to learn that it was him?
And while she teased him and was thoughtful and supportive in the letters—that did not quite equal love.
It would be improper to give a love declaration by letter. He was not expecting such a thing from her. But surely she would show a bit more to him of her affection if she was in love with him, wouldn’t she?
It could be that, at the end of the day, she loved the mystery of the letters more than the man. It could be that she saw him as a place to unburden herself and that was what she valued in him, rather than his personality.
He had thought when he embarked on this correspondence that it would clear things up. That it would make things easier between them. More open and honest.
Instead it had only muddied the waters.
At least before he had known where he stood and what her thoughts had been. It had been as though they were standing on opposite banks of a river. They were separated but the water was clear and the course certain.
Now they had both stepped into the river, and they were closer. But the water was dark and muddy, and he knew not what pitfalls lurked beneath as he tried to reach her.
It did not help that Mr. Carson was continuing his play.
He was not so bold about it that people were openly speculating. But James had noticed that other possible suitors had quickly faded into the background.
The other gentlemen had noticed that Mr. Carson was truly making a play for Miss Weston. He would endeavor to sit near her at dinner and to be her partner at bridge. He was always first on her dance card. Although he was not so bold as to ask for a second dance.
Seeing a rich, titled, charming gentleman going after the notoriously witty and picky Miss Weston? The other men had seen how things lay and had faded into the background.
Some of them were probably waiting for Mr. Carson to misstep and for Miss Weston to reject him summarily. But most of them had decided not to wait and were moving onto greener pastures.
And why should they not? They had only been attracted to Miss Weston. They were not in love with her.
James was unsure what to do about the matter. Miss Weston was not openly encouraging the man. But nor was she discouraging him.
She had to know what Mr. Carson was doing. She was not a stupid woman. He had seen her neatly do away with the men in the past who had tried to court her. She could do the same to Mr. Carson if she wanted to.
Yet she almost seemed to be sizing the man up. Why? What for?
Perhaps she was keeping him as a backup option should things fall through with her letter writer. James could not blame her for that.
She still did not know who he was. He could disappear, so to speak, any time that he wanted. He could stop writing her and she would have no way of knowing what had happened.
It was only sensible that in a case like that a woman would keep the charming titled man in front of her as a second option. Marriage was a woman’s career, her insurance, her livelihood.
But could Mr. Carson take chief place in her affections? Despite the letters that she exchanged with James?
Mr. Carson hid nothing from her, after all. He was right in front of her eyes. He was not the one who had to struggle to speak to her plainly even through the written word.
She was not in love with him at the moment. Miss Weston had never been good at hiding her emotions and James had known her for years. If she was in love with Mr. Carson then James was sure that he would be able to tell.
But she could become so. She could fall in love with him. Things were not set yet.
James was going to see the both of them tonight. There was another dinner that Miss Weston and her mother were hosting.
Mrs. Weston had not said much to him since their initial talks about him making a play for her daughter. He could often feel her piercing gaze on him at dinners and balls.
He knew that she was still silently egging him on. Hoping that he would do something.
It was why she kept agreeing to host these dinners, he was certain. Despite her health and how much they drained her energy.
Hosting the dinner allowed her to control the guest list. Not that he seriously thought that Miss Weston would leave him off of any guest list. But he was certain that was why Mrs. Weston was still hosting parties.
James could not help but feel as though he was letting her down by not wooing her daughter. He was wooing her, of course, but not in a way that Mrs. Weston knew of. And he hardly thought that it was in the way that she would want him to woo Miss Weston.
As far as Mrs. Weston knew, he had taken her suggestion and her endorsement and had done nothing with them. He must have seemed a coward to her. Or perhaps callous. He was not sure which was worse.
Perhaps he should tell Miss Weston tonight. He could even picture in his mind’s eye how he would do it.
He would linger behind the other guests after the dinner. He would approach her…
What would he say? Something that would ensure that she knew that he was the letter writer.
My little raven. He could call her that. Surely nobody else had even thought to call her by that name.
He had thought of her that way for some time. Her dark hair, her strong eyebrows, her playful incorrigible nature. Her personality and her looks together had reminded him of that inquisitive bird, too smart for its own good.
She had seemed to enjoy that nickname. She would do what she could in the letters to draw it out of him.
That would be what he would call her.
My little raven, he would say—and then he need not say anything more, surely? That must be all that it would take, wouldn’t it?
She would know, then. And she could reject him and choose Mr. Carson or someone else. Or she could accept him.
James already mourned the lack of the intimacy to which he had grown so accustomed. To whom would he speak when he had troubles? Fears? When he needed encouragement?
If she did choose Mr. Carson—he could only hope that the man would be up to the task of comforting her. Supporting her. That he would see that Miss Weston needed to be bolstered as well. That there was more to her than her pretty face and pretty words.
It was in this mindset that he went to the dinner at the Weston residence.
He was greeted at the door, to his surprise, not by Miss Weston but by her mother.
“Mrs. Weston.” He bowed to her. “A pleasure, as always.”
He glanced about behind her and saw that Miss Weston was already in conversation. With Mr. Carson.
James did his best to swallow the bitter taste in his throat.
“Mr. Norwich.” Mrs. Weston gave a put-upon sigh. “I hope that you will do something at
last,” she said in a stern but much quieter tone.
“Why, do you not favor Mr. Carson?”
“You know who I favor. There is nothing wrong with him but I daresay my daughter can do better.”
“It is flattering that after all this time when I have done nothing to earn her you still think that I deserve her.”
“I am not holding my breath, Mr. Norwich. I have learned that is a useless folly to do when you are depending upon a man. But I had hoped that as his courtship of her grew that you would see reason and make a play for her.”
“Trust me, madam, I shall,” he blurted out.
Now that he had said it, of course, there was no going back.
Mrs. Weston smiled proudly at him. “I am glad to hear it. I have given her only another lecture this morning about choosing a man. But she is in a queer sort of mood this evening.”
James could sense it as well. Even though he could not hear her, there was something about the way that Miss Weston was holding herself as she spoke to Mr. Carson. Something in the energy around her.
He was not sure what it was. Determination? Perhaps. But what did she have to be determined about?
He accepted a glass from the servant as other dinner guests trickled in. It did not surprise him when Mr. Carson was once again placed near Miss Weston. She had to be engineering that. Her mother’s look of disapproval spoke volumes.
All through dinner, he could see her and Mr. Carson exchanging glances. They seemed to be sizing one another up. What on earth was going on?
James thought that he would find out in the next letter. He hid his identity but Miss Weston did not and so she often told him how her days went.
She had even mentioned him to himself. Mr. Norwich was in fine form tonight. A wittier man I have never met. He is the best at insulting me and making me laugh at it. For I know that he does not truly mean it.
Miss Weston at least seemed to have a high opinion of him, judging by her letters. She harbored no attraction to him. Or if she did, she had never mentioned it in her letters.
But she spoke of him as an intelligent man whose counsel she depended upon. That had flattered him. Even if it was not what he had been hoping for.
Although, he supposed it would be bad form to tell your romantic correspondent that you were attracted to another man.
James watched as the dinner progressed, and Miss Weston and Mr. Carson seemed to be in their strange stalemate.
He knew what the gleam in Miss Weston’s eye was. He had known her for far too long to not recognize it.
For as long as he had known her, Miss Weston had been a meddler. She would not sit idly by and do nothing while others around her needed assistance.
This could be seen in a positive light. She was always trying to help those less fortunate than she. But it also meant that she would get involved in the lives of her friends.
It was why he had not been surprised when she had burst into his house in order to give Captain Trentworth a proper dressing-down.
She had some sort of scheme up her sleeve tonight. James was sure of it. But what could it be?
She could not possibly be thinking to convince Mr. Carson to ask her to marry him. That was simply ridiculous. He had not yet been bold enough for her to have a hope of such a thing.
And James did like to think that she was not so unsatisfied with her mystery correspondent that she wished to marry another man without any warning.
Then what on earth could she have up her sleeve? What could be making the cogs turn in that clever and meddlesome mind of hers?
James realized that he had lost the thread of conversation at his end of the table and focused back in on it. It would not do to be rude no matter how curious he was.
Still, he could tell that he was not the only one noticing the strange mood that hung in the air that night.
The discussion and bridge playing and such that went on after dinner was oddly strained and subdued. People seemed to have trouble carrying on conversations.
Miss Perry endeavored to play the pianoforte to lighten up spirits. There was a bit of dancing that came about because of it but it all felt forced. As though everyone was making themselves have a good time.
It was not that the atmosphere was uncomfortable, exactly. It was that something else was going on. There was an undercurrent beneath the main flow of the conversation. A second set of energy.
James could sense a great deal of frustration from Miss Weston. She seemed easily distracted and almost absent-minded.
Could it be that he had said something in his letters that had upset her? That he had unwittingly caused her to want to run into the arms of Mr. Carson?
He could not think of what he might have said that would cause such a reaction. Their last letter had been discussing the latest novel by a new writer.
Although, he had mentioned something about himself. About how he felt as though in public he had to pretend to be different, to be more, than he truly was.
Had that put her off somehow? Had she taken offense to that?
He could hardly see how it would, seeing as she was similar. Miss Weston was in her letters a much softer and vulnerable person than she let herself be in person.
An hour or so after dinner guests started to dissipate. James was locked into a game of cards with Mrs. Weston, Miss Perry, and another gentleman.
That was his excuse as to why it took him so long to notice that Miss Weston and Mr. Carson were conversing off to the side.
It was practically a private conversation. They were not around the corner where they were unable to be seen. But they were in the dining room. It could be seen from the sitting room, since the doorways opened onto each other. But nobody could hear what was being said.
James glanced up as the card game ended and noticed that Miss Weston’s eyes were gleaming. They only looked like that when she was upset and struggling to hide it.
He doubted that Mr. Carson or anyone else who did not know her well would realize that was what it meant. Miss Weston, he had learned from her letters, was very good at hiding her emotions.
Especially those self-deprecating emotions and emotions of sadness and fear.
James stood, clearing his throat. “I think that it is best that we all retire for the evening. I myself will be heading out shortly. Miss Perry, will you need an escort home?”
Miss Perry demurred and said that the other gentleman—James struggled to remember his name—would escort her.
James was not all that surprised. Miss Perry was one of those women who was lovely in personality but far too eager to attach herself to the nearest young gentleman in the hopes that he would marry her. Being married was more important to her than who she was married to.
He watched as the final guests left. He assisted Mrs. Weston in getting up and going to her room as well.
“I think you should talk to your daughter,” he told her.
“Miss Weston and I have already had words this evening,” Mrs. Weston replied. James was taken aback. “She can find her own way to bed. And if she is truly eager to say goodnight to me then she knows which bedchamber is mine.”
James knew that Mrs. Weston had a reputation as being sharp-tongued for a reason. He dearly hoped that she had not been too hard on her daughter.
He bid her goodnight. At almost the exact same moment Mr. Carson bid Miss Weston goodnight and then left.
It was only him and Miss Weston now.
“Mr. Norwich?”
He had rarely heard her voice so small and so upset. He crossed to her at once. “Miss Weston.”
She quickly wiped at her eyes. “I apologize. You must think me quite the child.”
“Never. Did Mr. Carson upset you?”
“Oh, not intentionally. I managed to hold in my tears in front of him, thank the heavens for that. It is only that I feel—I feel quite stupid. And silly.”
“You are neither of those things, I can assure you.” He took her by the arm and guided her to sit dow
n. “What is troubling you?”
“I cannot speak of it.”
James’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. The only thing he could think of was that Miss Weston had been too bold at last. That she had finally stepped over a line that she should not have crossed.
That she had made it clear to Mr. Carson that she had feelings for him. And he had rejected her.
It surprised him that Mr. Carson had rejected her. The man had explicitly stated—or as explicit as one could be as a gentleman—that he was going to do his best to court Miss Weston.