The Spinster & the Beast

by Caylen McQueen

  “ADAM!” Somewhere in the house, Nan was screaming his name. “Where is my dunderheaded grandson?!”

  “I’m in here, Nan!”

  “Where is HERE?!” Nan hollered. “Adam! Where are you?”

  Adam dragged himself from his chair and searched for his grandmother. Today she was in a different sitting room: a bright, airy room with an elaborate mural on the ceiling. Stretching across the wall was a colorful image of Zeus, who reached for his half-naked Muses. The centerpiece of the room was a lustrious pianoforte, which had, as of late, gotten very little use.

  As soon as she caught Adam in her gaze, Nan waved him over. “Do you have holes in your brain, or are you really that forgetful?” she shrieked, motioning toward the pianoforte. “You were supposed to play for me today!”

  Adam clasped his hands behind his back as he stepped into the room. “Nan… I think my musical talent will leave you wanting. I am completely unskilled.”

  “Nonsense! I can no longer play.” She held up her hands and waved her crooked, rheumatic fingers. “My fingers won’t allow it. The next best thing is to have someone play for me!”

  “V-very well…” As he made his way to the pianoforte, Adam had to summon an inordinate amount of willpower. He did not want to humiliate himself with a horrific performance. “What would you like me to play?”

  “Anything!” Nan exclaimed. “Take care that it does not exceed your level of skill. If you see me covering my ears, it means you are too ambitious.” She folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight—as straight as her humpback would allow. “Go on then!”

  Adam’s fingers curled around the keys. Try as he might, he could not remember how to read music, so he played from memory. It was a simple song, but Nan had no complaints. She tilted her head, closed her eyes, and let the music fill her ears.

  Adam extracted the music from the depths of his mind, from the days when he sat beside Miss Penworth at the pianoforte. She would sing while he would play, and he remembered her lovely voice as if it were yesterday. The recollection pinched his heart, pained his soul. Back then he had taken so much for granted.

  He regretted that he was his grandmother’s only source of entertainment. The old woman deserved a better companion in her dotage, but they could never invite anyone to Stokeley Hall, not when his face gave him too much shame. He could see his reflection in the pianoforte, the crags and ridges, the raw flesh and cavernous hole. He was a horror, and his self-contempt would follow him for the rest of his days.

  When he finished playing, Adam rose from the pianoforte and left the room as quickly as he could, despite Nan’s protests. She wanted him to stay and play, but the music had blackened his mood. He needed to be alone.

  Futhermore, he needed to get back to Miss BB.

  * * *

  Dear Miss BB,

  To be less significant than me is entirely impossible, as I am no more significant than a soggy piece of driftwood on an abandoned beach. When you decided to call me Mr. Nobody, I believe I was aptly named.

  I am honoured that you would take the time to reply. I would happily “lend my eyes” anytime, because time means nothing to me. My days are as mundane as they could possibly be. Rest assured, I have all the time in the world.

  I do not fault you for saying your nieces are daft. How old did you say they were? Eighteen? Daftness is a trademark of the age, the foundation of youth. You wanted to know my age, and forgive me for not divulging it sooner. At nine and twenty, I am not much younger than you. It is a tricky age, as I am not sure if I should be described as young or old. To someone very old, such as my grandmother, I suppose I would be very young. The poor woman is eighty, and I am her only companion in the world. I am sure she would describe ME as daft, in fact, I am pretty sure she has called me just that. Actually, “dunderhead” was her word of choice. Unfortunately, there might be some truth in that.

  However, to someone very young, such as your niece, I am sure nine and twenty would seem very old. Is it not strange how the years can sneak up on you? Not long ago, I could have sworn I was wet behind the ears. Now I feel like a dried up old man. Unlike you, however, I have spent little time fretting about my age. Perhaps that is because I am a man, and men, as you have mentioned before, have no time limit when it comes to finding a bride. However, I have no intention of finding a bride. Ever.

  I am sure this will sound terribly melodramatic, but at times, I feel I would be better off dead. I am afraid I have not been entirely honest with you, Miss BB. When I returned from the war I was less of a man than when I left. And before your mind conjures an image of a man without limbs, let me assure you, I have all of my appendages. However, it would be accurate to say I am missing half of my face.

  From the bottom of my heart, I hope you do not swoon when you read this. A captured Frenchman escaped, stole my rifle, and fired at me at close range. The shot should have resulted in my death, and yet… I somehow managed to cling to life. As morbid as it may seem, I regret that I lived. If I would have perished on that night, it would have been a blessing.

  Fear not, Miss BB, for I am not so sullen that I would take my own life (although I have considered it many times). I live for life’s simple pleasures, such as tongue-lashings from my dear, old grandmother. We live alone, my grandmother and I, and I intend to keep it that way. As her eyesight is on the decline, she does not know the extent of my injuries. My face is appalling, let me assure you.

  And it is for this reason that I will never have a wife. I would not want to frighten Miss P or any other unsuspecting lady. I am too much of a gentleman to subject anyone to the sight of me.

  I am telling you this in the hope that you will realise your situation is not so dire. You are still young, you have your health, and (by all means, correct me if I am wrong) you do not have a terrifying countenance. You have described yourself as a bluestocking, and I can tell you are quite clever. I am sure there are many gentlemen, such as myself, who would be honoured to have the companionship of such a lady. You sound like a veritable dream!

  You may also think you are plain, but beauty is a very subjective thing. What might be Aphrodite to one man could make another man recoil in terror. You think you are lacking, but to someone else, you might be a vision. Do not be so self-effacing, my friend, and keep your hope alive.

  It sounds like you were unwell during your last encounter with Mr. R. If that is the case, I hope you are feeling much improved by now. Make time for rest, and hopefully you will feel well enough to make the journey to our tree. (It is too much to assume it is “our” tree now?)

  I hope I have not frightened you off with the prospect of my horrific face, for nothing would make me happier than to continue our correspondence. I confess, your letters have been an effervescent bright spot in my darkest of days.

  Wishing you the very best,

  Mr. Nobody

  Chapter Seven

  When she saw her letter from Mr. Nobody, it was all she could do to suppress a trill of excitement. She had expected him to abandon her, just as every man in her life had abandoned her. It was only her second letter from the elusive scribe, but receiving it was the pinnacle of her day. Nay—her entire week!

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Liz sat by the tree and tore open the letter right then and there. Her eyes devoured his words, and his tragedy wrenched her heart. “Poor Mr. Nobody…” she whispered condolences to the wind. His plight made her regret her countless hours of self-consumed griping. Her situation certainly paled in comparison!

  Liz folded the letter and held it against her chest, over her heart. She wondered if she was being foolish for enjoying his letters as much as she did. Our tree. She read the words over and over, and she couldn’t help but feel she was in the midst of some unconventional tryst. Liz wondered if he enjoyed her letters even half as much as she enjoyed his.

  “Doubtful,” she said aloud. She did not want to pin too much hope on Mr. Nobody, because their correspondence could end at any moment. When
she went to the tree, there was never a guarantee she would hear from him. Every letter she received could be the last.

  “I should choose my words carefully then,” she uttered to herself, under her breath,” as I do not want to chase him away.”

  Liz rose to her feet and headed in the direction of the house. In some part of her mind—the silly part, surely—Liz wondered what it would be like if she was to marry Mr. Nobody. He was rich, titled, and the prospect of his scarred face did not bother her one bit. As she was no beauty herself, it wasn’t as if she expected her partner to be the epitome of a handsome face.

  “Liz!” she quietly chided herself. “Why is it that when one man writes you a letter, you fancy yourself betrothed to him? You are utterly preposterous!” She shook her head at the foolishness of her thoughts. Their exchange was friendly, at best, and left her no reason to imagine a romance.

  Still, the foolish voice in her head continued, it would be nice to have a place of my own. And I would be an excellent companion for his grandmother. I could read to her, take her for walks in the garden, and…

  “Stop!” she said aloud. “Stop it, Liz! You’re going mad!”

  Clutching the letter, Liz hurried in the direction of the house. She wanted to write back while his words were still fresh in her mind—even though she would probably reread it a dozen more times before her quill reached the paper.

  As soon as she entered the house, she was accosted by Lorna. Her niece looked adorable in her plum dress, modish spencer, and nosegay-covered bonnet. Her cheeks were tinged with rouge, which suggested she had reason to be excited.

  “I am beside myself!” Lorna squealed, confirming her aunt’s suspicions. Before Liz could question her, Lorna pulled an enormous bouquet from behind her back. “It was a gift! From Major Rutledge!”

  “Oh.” Liz’s reaction was completely and utterly underwhelmed. She was surprised at how little she cared about Major Rutledge’s courtship of her niece. “Those are beautiful. Let me see them.”

  Lorna handed over the bouquet. When the flowers were out of her hands, she grabbed the hem of her dress and spun in a circle, like a child thrilled about sweetmeats. Good luck, Major Rutledge, Liz thought, she will be quite a handful. Liz held the bouquet under her nose, inhaling its scent. There might have been a time when Major Rutledge would have given flowers to her, but she was surprisingly unaffected by that fact. Perhaps her jealousy was truly at an end.

  “Do you like him?” Liz asked, handing the flowers back to her joyous niece.

  “Oh, very much!” Lorna exclaimed. “He is perfect, is he not? He is tall, handsome, dashing. What more could a woman hope for?”

  “Indeed,” Liz agreed. It was true. If Major Rutledge had a fault, she had yet to find it. He had been a bit inconsiderate of her feelings, but she could not bring herself to fault him for it. Not anymore.

  “I think he is the handsomest man I have ever seen!”

  “Nevertheless, he is a bit… old for you,” Liz pointed out. In the back of her mind, she remembered Mr. Nobody’s suggestion: Perhaps the best thing you can do for yourself (and your niece) is to push her in the direction of other suitors.

  “Do you think so?” Lorna tapped her chin in consideration of her aunt’s words. “Hmm. I suppose I never considered his age. But I care not! Regardless of his age, he is perfect, and I have my heart set on him!”

  “Isn’t it a bit soon for that?”’

  “Aunt Liz…” Lorna said, sighing, “must you always be so cynical? Love can happen in a moment! Do you not believe in love at first sight?”

  Liz wondered if she should mention her history with the man in question. Should she tell her niece that Major Rutledge had once set his cap on her? She decided it was best to keep it to herself, for she knew she would feel very wicked if she was to put an end to her niece’s joy. “You are so very young,” Liz said, “do not close off your heart to other options.”

  “But no one else compares to Major Rutledge!” Lorna whined. “I know he is the one I want. I know it!” As if to express her ardor, she grabbed her aunt’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “Oh, and I should mention… he invited me on a carriage ride next Saturday. Of course, I could not go alone. Will you come with me, Aunt Liz?”

  Liz took a moment to consider her niece’s request. She closed her eyes, imagining herself sitting across from Major Rutledge as he rained compliments on her pretty niece. Two days ago, the prospect of such a thing might have killed her.

  She looked down at her hand, where she held her letter from Mr. Nobody, and realized the Major was truly a thing of the past.

  “Yes, Lorna,” she finally replied. “I would be happy to accompany you!”

  * * *

  Dear Mr. Nobody,

  I have been thinking I do not care for the name “Mr. Nobody.” You might say you are insignificant, but you have become someone of importance to me. Therefore, I feel the name no longer applies. Do you think it would be too soon to dispense with the mystery? It is my great fear that I will frighten you off, because I fear it might be the anonymity that attracts you.

  Would it be alright if I revealed my true identity? You do not have to give your name to me if you do not wish to do so. I can continue to call you “Mr. Nobody” if you prefer, but I see no reason why you should continue to call me “Miss Blue-deviled Bluestocking,” as I am hardly blue-deviled any longer.

  My name is Elizabeth Wicklow. And before you think to address your next letter to “Miss Wicklow,” why not dispense with formalities as well? As you are quite possibly (I am sure this will sound very pitiful, considering I have only received two letters from you) my closest companion, you should call me Liz.

  Will you accept my apology? I have prattled on and on about my own dilemma, only to discover that yours is far more significant. I might be a plain, mousey spinster with little hope of a promising future, but it is nothing compared to what you have gone through! If you are really missing half of your face, I am truly sorry. When I read what you wrote, that you wished you had perished, your words were like a dagger to my heart! Do you really feel that way? If so, it pains me, for I feel life is a blessing. If you nearly lost your life, I am sure you lived for a reason. Perhaps there is some great purpose in life you have yet to fulfill?

  And do you think, by chance, it is not as bad as you imagine it to be? I strongly believe we reserve our worst judgments for ourselves. Has anyone ever looked at you and described your face as you have described it? Terrifying? Horrific? Appalling? Those are very strong words, and I highly doubt anyone would use them in your presence. If they are your own words of choice, perhaps you should seek the opinion of someone else? We have a tendency to assume the worst about ourselves. I am sure I am not as homely as I believe myself to be, but my extraordinary self-hatred would not let me believe otherwise.

  You said it yourself, Mr. Nobody: beauty is subjective! You might expect others to balk at the sight of your face, but it might be a trifling thing to some. I, for one, cannot imagine I would be horrified by the sight of you. Your heart is good, and a good heart is far more important than an imperfect countenance.

  Do you still care for Miss P? I am finally ready to confess, to my great relief, that my heart is utterly vacant. My niece showed me a bouquet of flowers, a gift from Mr. R, and I did not care in the least! It is comforting to know I am truly over him, and I can now wish them well.

  I am interested to know more about you, Mr. Nobody. What is your name? What do you like? What do you dislike? If you could see one face before you died, whose face would it be? When you lie down at night, what is the last thought that goes through your head? How do you pass the time? What do you like to eat? I hope my barrage of questions does not intimidate you, and that you will kindly sate my curiosity. And if there is anything you wish to know about me, do not hesitate to ask!

  When you referred to the letter tree as “our tree,” it made me feel… special. Is that terribly silly? What is the next step, do you think? Shall we
carve our initials into the bark?

  I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits! It is my great hope that we will continue to write to one another!

  Treasuring your friendship,

  Liz Wicklow

  Chapter Eight

  Dearest Liz,

  I am like an overjoyed schoolboy each time I find one of your letters. I have “known” you for less than a week, but you are already the most important person of my acquaintance. If you think you are silly, then I have certainly outdone you!

  I am glad you trust me enough to tell me your identity. Since you have taken the necessary first step, I suppose it is time for me to reveal myself as well. My name is Adam Calloway, otherwise known as the Earl of Stokeley, and my estate is called Stokeley Hall. If you are from this area, I would assume you have heard of it.

  Adam stared at the first two paragraphs of his letter with a frown. If she knew his place of residence, she could easily show up at his doorstep. Adam didn’t know if he was ready for that. He did not want her to see him.

  Adam crumbled his letter and pitched it over his shoulder.

  Dear Liz,

  Thank you for your letter. I am glad you were not frightened off by my deformity, as it is the reason we will never be able to meet face-to-face. When I go to fetch your letters, I go at night, fearful that someone might see me.

  Adam snatched the letter in his hand and tore it in half. No! He could not tell her when he went because he was afraid she would wait until the evening to find him there!

  This was becoming more complicated than he had hoped.

  Dearest Liz,

  So “dearest” was back again. He hoped he would not foil his third attempt as well.