by Fanny Finch
“Were I seeing another man I would have told you so at once. I would have taken care to be seen with him by others so that this sort of misunderstanding could be avoided.
“This is not a decision made because my heart is elsewhere. It is a conclusion that I had already come to some time ago. I can only apologize that I did not do a better job of conveying that choice to you in my actions.”
Mr. Carson, at least, seemed satisfied. He nodded, then bowed.
“I cannot say that I am not disappointed. But I will not do you the discourtesy of going on for some time about what state my heart is in. I wish you all the best, Miss Weston. Give my regards to your mother.”
Julia curtsied, and stood aside for him as he exited.
The moment that the door closed behind him, Mrs. Weston entered the room. “Well!”
Julia jumped, startled. “Mother! Do not tell me that you were listening in.”
“I might have paused partway down the stairs when I realized that I was hearing voices,” her mother replied innocently.
“Mother!”
“Can I not take a vested interest in my daughter’s social life? My dear, you certainly know how to catch them. The poor man.”
Julia sighed, all but collapsing into a chair. “Do not act as though you feel sorry for him now. You never wished for me to marry him.”
“That does not mean that I cannot be sympathetic to his feelings, Julia.”
“He is not truly in love with me. He shall get over it soon enough.”
“Mmm. I must say that I believe you are correct. You handled it well, my dear.”
“I hope so. I do not wish to be the reason that I break a man’s heart. Nor do I wish for people to gossip about me.”
“You will always break a few hearts along the way,” her mother replied. “It is how life works.”
“Well I find that to be completely unacceptable.”
Her mother hummed noncommittally.
“He did not seem inclined to be too angry with me,” Julia went on. “I do not think that I shall become the subject of ridicule.”
She paused, considering. “You overheard what we were saying. Was I right to tell him that he ought to have been more obvious in his courtship?”
“I believe so,” her mother said, sitting down as well in her favorite chair by the window. “The only reason that you knew he was thinking of you in such a manner was that no other man was doing anything at all.
“It was only the absence of other men’s interest that made his interest prominent. That is not the proper way to court a woman. It must be plain to her so that she can properly refuse or accept him.
“But in any case, my dear, why are you wasting time worrying about him? He is inconsequential to your happiness.”
“I think that it is my right to worry about whether a man is about to damage my reputation.”
“He will not. Otherwise he is not a man of honor. A lady has a right to a refusal. Now, have you decided on writing to Mr. Norwich?”
Julia sighed. When her mother seized upon a subject there really was no turning her away from it.
“I was about to write to him when Mr. Carson interrupted me.”
“Then by all means, go.” Mrs. Weston smiled. “Julia, I did not start out in love. I married a man that I knew would respect me and provide for me. I married a good man.
“But I did not marry a man with whom I was in love. I was fortunate that I fell for him later on in the marriage. And if Mr. Norwich was not in love with you and you not in love with him I should advocate doing the same as I did. Finding a husband who is a good man, a man who will respect and provide.
“However, you are fortunate enough to be in love. And to be loved in return. That is no small thing. Now that you have found it, I beg of you to seize it. Not everyone is so lucky to fall in love with their spouse later on as I was. And even fewer are so lucky as to be in love with one another before the marriage even starts.”
Julia could not help but smile. Her mother spoke in such a loving and sweet tone, quite unlike her usual manner. She sounded so very earnest. But also happy—as though she could already envision the joy that her daughter would experience in such a marriage. If she would only seize her chance.
If Julia had not already determined that she would write to Mr. Norwich, she would have come to that conclusion right then. For she could not deny what her mother was saying. Especially not when her mother looked so happy and hopeful for her.
She rose. “I suppose that… that I had rather get started on that, then, mustn’t I?”
Mother smiled proudly at her. “Do not spend too much time apologizing. It will not become you. Rather, focus on the way that you feel about him. That will convince him.”
Julia could already feel nervousness bubbling up inside of her again, but she nodded and went upstairs to begin writing.
How could she even start the letter? She felt as though she ought to write I’m sorry over and over again. Until the entire page was filled with it. That even then, it still might not be enough.
How could she begin to explain her own folly? Or even, on top of that, the mental paths through which her mind had run to come to her new conclusion? Dare she mention speaking of this matter to her mother and Georgiana? Or would he consider that to be a breach of trust?
At last, she realized that if she did not begin writing this letter she would not write it at all. There was no way for her to determine what the perfect thing to say to him would be. And the longer she pondered over it, the more she delayed in receiving a possible reply from him.
An imperfect letter was better than no letter at all. His hearing of her realizations and emotions in a clumsy or frustrating manner would be better than his never knowing of them.
If she erred, at least he would know. And that would be better than all else.
She sat down and carefully began to write. She must not be hasty. She could not afford to let her words become smudged.
Dear Sir…
Julia ended up having to go through a few drafts before she was satisfied. She found herself wondering how many drafts Mr. Norwich had gone through when he was writing that first letter of his to her.
Had he been so nervous? Had he crossed out whole lines, and written in new ones? Had he crumpled his paper in disgust and thrown it into the wastepaper basket?
In the end, she simply had to write what was in her heart. And what was in her heart was him. His absence was like an aching hunger only in her chest, her soul, instead of her stomach.
She wrote for him to come to her. To try again. To step into her drawing room and say the words that he had realized would be improper to say the other day.
Let him say them, and he would find the warmest of welcomes. The words were already on her lips. She was only waiting for him to say his so that she might then reply.
Let her folly not have made her too late in being able to accept his affections. Let him understand that she was only confused and lost. That she never meant to hurt him or reject him outright.
Please, let him understand that she had meant everything that she had said to him when he was only her mysterious correspondent. She had meant them, from the bottom of her heart, and she meant them now.
When it felt as though she had exhausted herself, when it felt as though she had said everything she needed to say twice over, she folded up the letter.
She was tempted to copy it all out neatly onto a new set of pages so that it would look nice for him. But she felt that honesty, in all of its forms, was the best way to go about this.
The crossed-out lines, the cramped writing, the additions in the margins, those were all honesty. Those were her feelings, scribbled and scratched into the paper.
Hopefully he would see the mess and through it would understand what it had cost her to write this all out to him. Hopefully, it would help to convince him of the truth and depth of her feelings.
Hopefully. Hope. That was all that she had.
> But, she supposed, he had taken a leap of faith on her. It was only fair that it became her turn to take a leap of faith for him.
Julia sent the letter off, her breath bated even as she handed it over. She knew his estate and so could fortunately send the letter there. She could only hope that he had not quit the estate and gone to London or somewhere without her knowing of it.
“Good girl,” Mrs. Weston said when she saw that it was sent off. “It will all turn out as it should, you will see.”
Now there was nothing to do but wait.
Epilogue
James was sitting at the breakfast table as he went over the morning’s mail.
There was, as always, much to be done at the estate. Father was shirking his duties yet again. Much to James’s everlasting frustration.
He could understand the desire for retirement. To live out the last few years of one’s life in peace.
But Father was far from sickly or old. He was hale and hearty and all the other lords of his age were managing just fine in their duties to the estates. Father was simply being lazy.
There was nothing in the mail from his brother, alas. There were some letters of business. He would see to those in a moment. One letter from a friend in London. And…
He nearly dropped his fork.
Even before he read the return address he knew who it was from. The handwriting was too familiar and beloved for him not to realize.
Miss Weston.
She had written to him—but why? What for? So that she might apologize in an official manner for not returning his affections, he supposed. Or perhaps she wished to inquire about how he was faring. She had to know that she was the reason for his quitting Bath. She was not a stupid woman and never had been.
James glanced up in order to make sure that his father had not come into the room while he was distracted. Father tended to sleep in far later than he should as the lord of the estate.
Now that James was around, however, Father seemed to think that James would take care of it all.
And he had been, because if he did not, who would ensure that the tenants were being looked after?
James gritted his teeth at the thought of the impossible position Father had put him in. If nothing else, Miss Weston’s letter would give him something else to think about.
He opened the letter.
The first thing that he noticed was how messy it was. He was surprised, in fact. Miss Weston’s penmanship was lovely and she had always sent him quite neat and organized letters when they were corresponding.
Yet here, there were added words and sentences scribbled in the margins. She had crossed out bits here and there. Some of the handwriting was smudged.
It was, quite honestly, adorable. Worrying as well, however—was she in such an emotional state that she had not even had time to write out a fresh, proper draft before sending the letter?
He could not imagine what would have her in such a state. Not unless…
Oh, no. Had her mother taken a turn for the worst?
Feeling his heart climb into his throat, James began to read.
Dear Sir,
You must excuse my writing to you like this. You must not want to hear from me ever again. If that is the case and you simply throw this letter into the fire without reading another word, I shall forgive you. I shall understand.
I treated you most poorly. I behaved as though you were two separate people: Mr. Norwich and my correspondent.
When of course you were the same person the entire time. If I loved one, then I must love the other, for there is no difference between you two.
I was confused and surprised. That is the only excuse that I can offer, and it is a flimsy one at best. I know that I have treated you poorly as a result of my own lack of observation. I know that I have not given you the understanding and attention that was your due.
The only thing I can say to that is I am terribly, truly sorry. I hope that you can feel it through the pages. I hope that you can sense, despite the distance and my lack of presence, the turmoil inside of me at knowing the pain I have caused you.
I meant every word that I sent in my last letter to you. The feelings that I expressed in there, I still harbor. I still feel them.
To be perfectly honest… I wrote to Miss Reginald. I told her everything. My mother knows some of the story but not about the letters. I fear that her wrath would be beyond what either you or I could handle.
Miss Reginald replied to me with the most astounding revelation.
She told me that I was already in love with you. As Mr. Norwich.
She pointed out to me the way that I spoke about you. How much I had missed you since you quit Bath. And I have missed you, terribly. I had not realized how important you were in my life until you were gone.
When I thought that you might be Mr. Carson, I felt a strange sense of disappointment. I see now that it was because, without even realizing it, I wanted it to be you. I hoped that it would be you.
You have been my dearest friend all of these years. Aside from Miss Reginald, you are the person that I trust the most. You are the person whose company I most enjoy.
Please, forgive me. Forgive me for being a selfish and thoughtless girl. Forgive me for not seeing. Forgive me for toying with your emotions in such an awful manner.
If you will still have me, I am yours. I understand if you do not wish for that any longer. If I have poisoned your heart against me with my actions then it is no less than what I deserve.
But if your feelings are still the ones that you expressed to me so eloquently in your letters… then you need not doubt your reception were you to call on me.
I await your answer. If you do wish to take that final step in our courtship, then I implore you not to do it through writing. Please. I miss you terribly. All of you, both as my years’ long friend and as my correspondent.
Forgive a little raven for pulling on your tail. For cawing a little too loudly. For getting too audacious for her own good.
I will wait for you, as you have been so kind as to wait for me.
I remain,
Miss Julia Weston and, if you still wish it, your little raven.
If he still wished it, she was his.
If he still wished it? As if his heart could have changed course so thoroughly and easily? As if he could have found a way to so quickly drop the sails that had powered the ship of his heart, the winds that had dictated his course, after years of carrying on?
She had clearly been in great emotional distress when writing the letter. He could see it in her scribbled words, her lack of poise with her lettering. As if the content of the letter was not enough, the manner in which it was written spoke volumes.
She loved him. She was in love with him. Not only her letter writer but him, James, all of him.
She even said that she had, possibly, been in love with him without realizing it, all of this time.
He stood up without feeling his legs. His heart was pounding. He must write—but she wanted him to come in person. If he did so then he would arrive before any letter that he sent her. She would have no warning of his coming.
No matter. She said that she would wait for him. He had to trust in that.
James hurried to the study where he dashed off a letter to London, for Mr. Weston. Her father.
Dear Sir,
I hope that this letter finds you in good health, and that your business is going satisfactorily. I miss your conversation at dinners and my father sends his regards.
I apologize that this letter must be brief. If you reply, please do so to my address in Bath. I shall include it at the bottom in case you are not in possession of it already.
To be short and frank in my manner, sir, I wish to put forth to you a question that might seem rather out of the blue to you. I doubt that either your wife or your daughter has apprised you of the situation.
In short, I wish to ask your permission to marry your daughter.
For quite some time I ha
ve harbored the tenderest of emotions for her. But I had long given up hope of her returning them. It is to my great surprise that I learn that she does return them, and that I have reason to be tentatively optimistic about the question I am about to pose to her.
This letter will most likely reach you as I am proposing to her. I hope that I shall receive a favorable answer from both of you. I have always held nothing but the deepest of respect for you and will honor whatever answer you give me.
But know this, sir: I would do anything and everything under the sun to make your daughter happy. She is the dearest creature in the world to me.