Entwined (Darkest London)

by Kristen Callihan

  March 1826

  Lovely Lu,

  You honor me. I read your note with equal parts joy and dismay. Joy that you found something in me that caused you to change your regard. Dismay that I could not receive your acceptance in person.

  Think less of you? You are all I think about. I dream of hair like black satin. Of petal pink lips that do not simper, but move quickly with sharp wit. I could grow to adore such lips.

  —E

  P.S. To me, you shall always be Lu. Whatever fate may bring for us, in my heart you shall always be mine.

  P.P.S. I would never dare assume you have given up your quest. And stop creating reasons to fail. The word is real, and therefore yours to find. Now, hurry up!

  P.P.P.S. Should you throw me over for my brother, he would be the happiest of men. Of that I have no doubt.

  April 1826

  Aidan,

  May I call you Aidan? It hardly seems fair, you calling me Lu all this time and me remaining so formal. It rained today. I love the rain, have I told you? Which is rather a blessing, given how often it rains here in Scotland. Tomorrow, we go to London so that, in Father’s words, the ton might see Evernight’s bride. I believe you know how very much I detest being treated as cattle.

  I’ve only been to London once before, as a young girl. It is horrid there. The air is black and foul and the streets mucky. I cannot breathe in London.

  My only recourse is to think of you, wandering the rolling green grass of Ireland. Mayhap one of the reasons I adore you is that you detest the city as much as I do.

  Yours,

  Lu

  P.S. Just two more seasons, and we shall be together. Do you long for it as much as I do? Or have you forgotten me already, now that you are of age and frequenting parties and the like?

  May 1826

  Dearest Lu,

  You have a lifetime to address me as “Aidan.” Call it selfishness on my part—though likely you’ll simply think me rude—but I’d rather you withhold that privilege until we are face to face. For now, would you be so kind as to humor your fiancé and refer to me as E?

  Your devoted, if not slightly eccentric, E.

  P.S. Forget you? You are my waking breath, and my sleeping sigh.

  * * *

  Lu turned from the sound of men chatting in the hall. Pray God, her father wouldn’t call her down to entertain. She’d rather eat cook’s eel pie. Cold. Dipping her quill into ink, she applied it to the smooth vellum beneath her hand. From the silence of her room came the scratch of the nib across the page and the ticking of the mantle clock. A veritable menagerie of metal animals now called the mantle home. An elephant, turtle, cat, dog, lion, monkey, even a little ostrich made up the collection. She loved them all.

  What she did not love was waiting. She was abysmal at waiting. The only thing she hated more was being in London, forced to give false smiles to people she did not want to know. Forced to pretend she was something that she was not. Her life was a mirage. Only with Aidan did she feel remotely like her true self.

  And so she did the one thing that gave her happiness. She poured her soul into her letter.

  * * *

  June 1826

  Dearest E,

  There are days when I hate the letter carrier. Where is he? Why hasn’t he brought me one of your letters? I curse him for leaving me to wait in a constant state of distraction. My neck grows tired from turning toward the door, as if by mere staring, I can somehow conjure up his presence. It never works. Yet I keep trying.

  In the silence of my London house, I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the walk, and my breath grows short, my cheeks flush, and my heart races. Is it he? The man I want most to see? By the time the knocker sounds, I am beside myself with anticipation, when it occurs to me that the letter carrier would not use the front door. My heart plummets. I hear voices in the hall, and my hopes are dashed. It is only Dr. Arnold, Father’s physician. And I hate him for who he is not.

  Most of all, I hate the letter carrier. And yet I love him, for eventually he brings you to me.

  —L

  P.S. You run the risk of me forevermore thinking of you as “E.”

  August 1826

  Dearest L,

  I am not certain I like this letter carrier fellow much myself. Love him, do you? The man you most want to see? In fact, I am quite certain I hate him myself.

  He arrived yesterday, bringing your letter. It was all I could do not to grab him by his lapel and do him a violence. For in my mind, he has seen your lovely face, heard your pretty voice, and I have not. I have to remind myself that this is illogical; he cannot possibly be the same man who left London, nor would any carrier have direct contact with you. However, logic seems to vacate my mind when I think of you.

  And I always think of you. Thoughts of you thread so tightly throughout my day that I lose track of where I am and what I am doing, until I cannot help but think that, although we’ve never met, your soul and mine are already entwined.

  All I have of you now are these letters, and I covet them, hiding the stack away like some miser before the winter. For I fear that, should I lose them, I’d lose part of you, and my soul would be irrevocably torn.

  —E

  P.S. I shall take that risk. There are worse things you could think of me.

  September 1826

  My dearest E,

  Ridiculous man, have you not realized? I am yours. In truth, I believe I was born to be yours. Just as you were born for me.

  In a few months, it will be spring and we shall be meet for the first time. Has anticipation ever been so keenly felt? Or so cruelly drawn out?

  —Lu

  * * *

  Snow swirled over hard cobbled streets, sinking white and pure into the cracks before growing black as sludge when carriages, horses, and people trampled over it. A hard wind howled down the lane, and Lu clutched the ends of her fur-lined pelisse with one icy hand. In her other hand, she held tight to the letter. The ends of the paper flapped, the words blurry in the whirlwind of snow.

  She ought to be reading inside but Father was in a rare mood. And it was best to leave the house before he could take his anger out on her. A few steps behind her, Martha, her lady’s maid, and Fred the footman trailed her. She barely noticed them. A lump formed in her throat, and her heart squeezed as she read Aidan’s words, scrawled with such force that the nib had nearly run through the paper at some points.

  When she finished, she pressed the letter to her heart and cried for him. “Oh, Aidan.”

  February 1828

  My Lu,

  My father is dead. It was sudden and unforeseen. I will not sully your tender sensibilities with gruesome details, but I cannot help writing to you. For I feel guilt for his death down to the marrow of my bones. I experience not loss but the release of a great burden. His constant disapproval is no more. I ought to be wracked with grief. Yet I am not.

  Sweet Lu, I fear I shall never be the man you believe me to me. In fact, I know so. It is only when I put pen to paper, with the image of you in my mind, that I am truly myself. Ink and vellum reveal my soul. If I should end up a disappointment to you, try to forgive me.

  And should, by providence or some small miracle, you find yourself content with our union, would you, now and then, pull these dusty old letters out and think of this me? Of the pompous youth and hopeful romantic that I used to be?

  —E

  February 1828

  My dear and wonderful E,

  Neither of us are what we seem. Not fully. And how can we be anything different? When no one can know the whole of another’s soul. Just as you, I fear our eventual meeting as much as I long for it in my waking dreams. For I am not I know I will not be the woman you imagine.

  —Lu

  [Never sent.]

  Chapter Two

  Spring 1828

  Eamon sat hunched over his writing desk, his hand clutched so tightly around the quill that it threatened to crack. The blank writing paper befor
e him blurred even as the wind from without howled against the panes.

  He had to write Lu back, had to tell her the truth. “Bollocks,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Sweat drenched his temples, and he sighed, his heart aching, a lump rising in his throat.

  His fingers were clumsy and uncooperative.

  Dearest Lu,

  I am—

  Eamon flung the quill, ink splattering against the wall as it hit. I am, what? An impostor of the highest order? My brother never wanted you. He merely wants a dutiful, quiet, ghost of a wife, so you best start preparing yourself.

  He couldn’t do that to Lu. Shite, but he’d already done it. He’d gone too far, revealing his soul to her when he ought to have kept his distance. Shite, shite, shite. He’d ought to have told Aidan to get stuffed from the first. And now his Lu would come here and marry Aidan.

  The pain around the region of his chest grew hollow. Eamon rubbed it, trying to breathe.

  He could offer for her… A miserable laugh broke from him. Offer her what? He was the second son, with little funds. Worse, he was a big, ginger-haired brute. None of the village girls even looked at him when Aidan was near, and very few looked when he wasn’t. And there was the small matter of the fact that his particular talent was not… normal.

  He scowled down at his large, scarred hands. These hands, what they could do was a secret that his family had kept for him since he was just a lad. Unnatural. Yet Eamon coveted that part of himself. While his hands chained him to a life of solitude, they were necessary.

  No, he could not offer for Lu. Likely she’d hate him on principle for deceiving her all these years. And she’d have every right to.

  Whatever may come, Eamon knew he had to convince his brother to call off this wedding.

  Taking a breath, he retrieved his quill and returned to his desk, only to stop when someone knocked on the door.

  Aidan stood on the other side, holding a letter. As always, the sight of a letter sent a bolt of happiness mixed with anxiety shooting through Eamon. However, the handwriting wasn’t Lu’s.

  He took the damp missive. “Just came in?” Eamon usually made it a point to collect the mail.

  “It did.” Aidan glanced at the windows, where the storm still raged. The rider had to have been well paid to come out in such weather. Aidan’s mouth tightened as he looked at the letter. “Well?”

  Aidan hated to admit his weakness, but Eamon was his brother and they had long ago accepted that he’d read for the both of them.

  Frowning, Eamon tore open the letter. And his insides dipped. Bloody. Hell.

  “It’s from Ballyloch’s solicitor. Cholera hit the Moran house. Ballyloch is dead.” His mouth went dry. Lu. “And half his household besides.” His eyes darted over the words desperately. “Luella was the only one spared.” Eamon sagged against the door frame as he said the words. And then he looked up at his brother.

  “She has no one now.” No one but them. But Aidan. Shite. “She’s on her way here.” To marry Aidan.

  The lump within Eamon’s throat grew thicker. He thought he had more time.

  Aidan nodded, a wooden and stilted gesture, his jaw firming up as though facing a firing squad. “Well,” he said, “we knew this day would come. I’d always planned to marry the girl.”

  Girl. As if she were still that silly little chit who sent her first letter at sixteen. As if it were a chore. For one, blinding moment, he hated Aidan. It was all he could do not to punch his arse of a brother in the face.

  Eamon swallowed the anger down. Aidan wasn’t the arse here.

  “You don’t have to—” Eamon snapped his mouth shut. Of course Aidan had to marry her. Lu had nowhere else to go. Besides, it had been decided on long ago.

  “I do,” Aidan said, and they both knew the truth of it. He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. “I do, and there’s nothing for it.” He looked at Eamon and paused as if considering. Eamon said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Aidan frowned. “Well then. I’ll have the staff prepare.”

  Perfect. Bloody. Perfect.

  * * *

  Two Weeks Later

  She stood on the front drive, halfway up from the gate and halfway to the house. A light mist swirled through the air, beading on her cheeks and dampening her hair. But she did not open her umbrella. No, that she leaned upon until it wobbled under her weight. She couldn’t seem to let go of the death grip she had on its handle long enough to raise the bloody thing and open it up.

  Between the mist and the setting sun, the sky had turned a soft violet color, darkening to deep plum where storm clouds threatened.

  “Dither out here any longer, old girl,” she muttered to herself, “and you’ll soon be swamped by the storm.”

  Sadly, the prospect of being swept away was a shade too tempting. Beneath her skirts, her knees locked, refusing to allow her limbs to move. Ahead lay the edifice of Evernight Hall. The large manor house, done in a classic Greek revival style, shone ivory white against the crepuscular sky, as if even the impending weather would not dare mar its beauty.

  And behind those walls lay Aidan Evernight. Aidan. Just thinking his name sent flutters of anxiety and excitement quivering through her belly. Four long years she’d ached to meet him, tried to imagine the way he smelled, the precise shade of his fair hair, the exact timber of his voice. She’d fancied it would be deep now, rolling over her like a wave from the sea. A shudder of longing went down her back as she imagined all of Aidan crashing over her.

  He was so very close. It might has well have been a hundred miles.

  Here she stood, bedraggled, her pelisse ripped on one shoulder and the hems of her skirts covered in muck and mud. She ought to be arriving in a proper coach. With proper servants to attend to her. Another shudder rippled through her flesh. This one so violent that she almost lost hold of her umbrella. The coach was at the bottom of the sea. And everyone else gone with it.

  Bile surged up her throat at the memory. The screams, both of horses and of people. The sight of the carriage dashed upon the rocks, and in an instant, of the sea sweeping all sign of it away. Grief and fear threatened to crush her just then. She ought to be dead as well. Only she’d gotten out before the horses spooked. Having an indelicate yet undeniable need to relieve her bladder had saved her. And her bloody umbrella. The one she had insisted upon taking with her to use as a privacy shield.

  A mad laugh escaped her. Not at all a bad omen, this. She swallowed hard. She’d seen too much death of late. As if it haunted her.

  Perhaps it did. She ought to have died of cholera too. No. She wouldn’t think about it. Later she could cry for those lost. Ahead lay her future. All she had to do was claim it. To claim Aidan.

  All she had to do was move. In the direction of the house. And yet she remained riveted to this bit of halfway earth. When really, she needed to be all in.

  He was waiting for his bride. To be his bride was a notion that had, at first, struck fear into her heart and then become the only thing to keep her going. Years, she’d written to him. Fallen in love with him over parchment, ink, and quill. Horribly, the reality of actually meeting him was not the stuff of rainbows and chirping birds. But one of terror. She wanted this so badly it made her teeth hurt and her bones thrum.

  Yet what right had she to pursue happiness when she lived a life of smoke and mirrors? Her family had died, a coach lay at the bottom of the sea, and she only here by providence.

  Blinking up at the swirling clouds, she thought of old Irena the cook’s saying, fate throws fortune, but not everyone catches it. Was it really this simple? Could she do it and not feel guilt with every passing day?

  Put the past behind her. And embrace her future. What could go wrong?

  Chapter Three

  Eamon hadn’t imagined that his temper could grow any fouler, but it had. He fair ached to smash his fist to the wall and feel the welcome bite of pain. For here Lu stood. At last. Battered and nearly swaying on her feet. And prettier tha
n he’d imagined. Her fine, sherry-sweet voice was soft as she explained her harrowing journey, of how the coach horses had spooked from the sudden flash of lightning, and how the bloody stupid driver hadn’t been able to control them. The coach had gone over the cliff and into the sea, killing her lady’s maid, the driver, and two outriders.

  Jaysus, but she could have been killed as well. The mere thought had his insides pitching and icing over. Lu. At last. And his eyes ate up the sight of her like a man starved. By God, but she was lovely. Delicate features, large, wide eyes the color of midnight, and a determined little chin with a cleft in it. A sign of stubbornness, Nan used to say. Not that anyone need tell him that Lu was stubborn. He adored that aspect of her.

  Her hair was darker than he’d expected. A pure, raven black so glossy it shone gold where the lamplight hit it. Rainwater dripped from the ends of the limp tendrils falling about her face. She ought to be tended to, carried up to her room and set before the fire, not standing here swaying upon her feet.

  Eamon was of a mind to suggest it when his brother spoke.

  “How did you manage to get here from the cliffs, Lady Luella?” Aidan asked quietly.

  His brother sat close to Lu, his body tense and his countenance pallid. As unhappy as Eamon. If only they could trade places.

  “Well, I walked, didn’t I?”

  Eamon almost smiled at her not-so-subtle dig at Aidan’s inane question. She had every right to be annoyed.

  Mud streaked down like tears along the fine curve of her alabaster white cheek. “It wasn’t far.” Even so, she visibly trembled, and Eamon had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out for her.

  “That you had to walk at all is a travesty,” Aidan said shortly, then reached for the bell. “We ought not have kept you here.”

  At Aidan’s use of “we,” Luella ’s gaze flicked to Eamon. As fleeting and disinterested as her inspection of him was, he felt the look down to his marrow, and his breath caught short. But her attention had already returned to Aidan with a greedy appraisal that had Eamon’s tender heart squeezing in pain. God, he was nothing to her now.