“You look like an idiot. Stop daydreaming and read the letter, or I shall.”
Rosanne broke the seal to reveal a page covered with large, rather careless writing.
“Goodness,” she said finally. “Gracious.” And because she knew Kate would persuade her in the end and she needed another opinion, even that of her giddy sister, she read it again, aloud. “Dear Miss Lacy. As I sit in my gloomy barracks the thought of you is a beacon of light, an unflickering candle glimpsed through a storm. I sink into the dark pools of your lovely eyes, feast my gaze in contemplation of your perfect countenance. I curse the duty that forces us apart. My only consolation is the hope that you will assuage the longing of your poor admirer with a few words. I shall remain in painful diffidence until I hear from you. I beg you, tell me what you do, what you read, whom you see! I am jealous of the pen, clasped by your slender hand, but will treasure the paper that reveals your precious thoughts. Until then, Miss Lacy, I remain your humble and respectful servant, Francis Newnham.”
For at least half a minute only birdsong disturbed the spring morning. If nothing else, the letter had rendered Kate speechless. “What do you think?” Rosanne asked.
“I think you’d better not show the letter to Mama.”
“No, indeed. She’ll either forbid the correspondence or demand an immediate marriage.”
“He seems to admire you excessively.” Kate’s lips twitched at the corners.
“From anyone else, I would think it a joke.” She perused the lines closely, searching for truth. “Mr. Newnham did not seem the sort of man to make a jest of me. Yet I wouldn’t have expected he would express himself in such ... florid language.” A vision of the author, splendid in scarlet regimentals, danced in her brain. “You know, it is quite flattering to be addressed with such fervor. And there is a certain elegance to his prose, however overwrought.”
“If you say so.”
“Perhaps he was nervous.” That was it. “I’m sure he was.”
“What shall you do?”
“I shall write back, of course.”
o0o
“Why the frown?” Christian asked. Frank had been reading the letter for a good quarter of an hour. “Do you need help deciphering the mysteries of your lady love’s thoughts?”
“I think she may not have liked your letter.”
“Your letter, my boy. Your letter. And it was a fine letter, designed to flatter and cajole, therefore bound to appeal to any female.”
“Listen to this. I confess to no little astonishment at being addressed in such terms so early in our acquaintance.”
“If she’s so easily shocked, you’re better off without her.”
“I cannot make out the next bit,” Frank said, his noble brow forming perfect ridges. “I’m also both worried and confused about your claim to sink into the dark pools of my eyes. Firstly, because my eyes are a light gray. Secondly, if you are under water you cannot see my countenance. What can she mean?”
Having previously regarded Frank’s infatuation and his own assistance with the letter as an insignificant joke, Christian discovered a glimmer of interest in Miss Lacy. “Either she has a very literal mind or a sense of humor. Perhaps both. By God, she chides me for my metaphors and she has a point. What else does she have to say?”
Frank handed him the letter. “Read it yourself.”
Miss Lacy wrote in evenly formed characters with an elegant forward slant.
In answer to your questions, I am enjoying the charms of Little Mickledon Hall. I have the company of twenty thousand daffodils, three dogs, a cat, a flock of ducks, and my parents and sister. The former you met, the latter did not accompany us to Leicestershire, since she is Not Yet Out. Though almost eighteen, Kate will not, to her considerable distress, make her debut this year. Mama and Papa prefer country life and secretly hope that she will find a husband before she persuades them to take her London next year. Or else convert to Rome and elope to a convent.
You would think that being so busy with ducks, daffodils, etc. I would have little time to read. But somehow I manage to consume prodigious quantities of books because I am a firm believer that reading improves the mind. Dedicated perusal of the novels contained in Dorchester’s circulating library have improved my mind to such an extent that I am in danger of becoming a bluestocking. You have been duly warned, and I shall not hold it against you should you prefer to cut the connection and cease this correspondence. If you reply, I would be interested in hearing how you undertake mental improvement. Yours sincerely, Rosanne Lacy.
Lowering the sheet, Christian felt a rare grin stretch the scar on his cheek. “You must marry this girl, Frank. She will brighten up our family gatherings.”
“I knew you’d like her. How shall I reply?” His voice held a note of panic. “About the mental improvement thing.”
“She wants to know what kind of books you like.”
Frank shifted uneasily. “Not a great reader, as you know, Chris. I often take a look at the Morning Post, avoiding the political reports, of course. And The Sporting Calendar. Lots of useful stuff in there.”
“That’s a good start. Then we’ll burnish your credentials a little.”
o0o
Dear Miss Lacy,
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This beholder drowns in your eyes day and night, and at night the pool is dark. I concede that under those circumstance your countenance may not be easily regarded. Not to mention that a remarkable contortion would be needed to see your face while swimming around in your eyes. Your criticism of my prose was well deserved and I have saved you the trouble of finishing the job. The fact that you will not soon be traveling to London distresses me so much that I have been forced to take solace in much-needed mental improvement. Having exhausted the charms of The Sporting Calendar and the Morning Post, I resort to poetry. Your crowd of daffodils directed me to Wordsworth, yet somehow the joy of your letter put me in a less contemplative mood. The adventures of The Giaour have enlivened my dull existence these past days. If you have not yet had this work (I assume you, like every lady of my acquaintance, has sighed over Childe Harold) I will send it to you. What do you think of Byron? To my mind...
o0o
Dear Mr. Newnham,
Will you despise me if I admit that I am no great lover of poetry? I like Byron more for his wit than his lyricism. I prefer my reading without rhymes. If I cannot find a work that offers believable and amiable characters and a story that ends well (such works are rarer than I would wish), I happily devour the narrative excesses of Minerva Press novels. But please lend me The Giaour because I would enjoy discussing it with you.
o0o
Dear Miss Lacy,
I take the liberty of enclosing a newly published work by A Lady. I believe it satisfies your requirements...
o0o
Dear Mr. Newnham,
I apologize for my delay in writing, but I could not put the book down, and as soon as I finished I read it again. Pride and Prejudice is the best thing I ever encountered. Please tell me that the author has written a hundred such works...
o0o
Two months and sixteen letters later...
“Dear Mr. Newnham. The weather has reduced me to banality, so I will say only that this uncommonly wet and cold spring makes me more grateful for your letters. I have never regretted so much that my father refuses to go to London for the season. How can life at Little Mickledon compare with the diversions of the capital? You describe the performance of Kean in Othello and all I have to amuse you is the performance of a fox who broke into the henhouse two nights ago and rendered us short of eggs. My father’s distress at the loss of his morning omelet is certainly histrionic but doesn’t carry the same dramatic force as the unfortunate Moor possessed by the green-eyed monster. Neither can the parade in the Little Mickledon churchyard (I shall spare you an account of the bonnets since I know gentlemen have little patience for such important matters) compare to the trooping of your regiment. How I shoul
d like to see it! You must look splendid on your horse, galloping with saber brandished, ready to repel invaders.”
Frank stopped reading and chuckled. “Miss Lacy has quite the wrong idea about the Household Cavalry. Wouldn’t like to hear what the colonel would say if I galloped around London with a drawn sword. Besides, Boney’s on the run. Not likely to turn up now. Do you think we should explain?”
“I could be mistaken,” Christian said, “but I believe she is being mildly ironic.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I think so.”
Frank grinned. “Glad you approve.”
“Remind me, Frank, why you fell in love with her? Apart from her physical perfections, that is.”
“I don’t know, really. The moment I saw her, I knew she was the one for me.”
“That sounds unwise. She might have turned out to be beautiful but stupid. Or ill-tempered, or cruel.”
“But she didn’t, did she? Rosanne is the cleverest and kindest lady in the world, as well as the most beautiful.”
Christian couldn’t argue. Though not able to opine on Miss Lacy’s appearance, her letters suggested that she was in every other way worthy of his cousin. While Frank read the remainder of the letter, he wondered if his cousin was worthy of her. He didn’t think Frank appreciated her letters on the same level that Christian did.
But if Frank wanted her, Christian owed him every assistance. He pushed him over to the desk and handed him a pen that he had sharpened himself.
“So you think we could keep the letters shorter?” Frank said. “Damn it, Chris, my wrist gets tired when you make me write page after page.”
“Nonsense. Miss Lacy is not a young lady to be impressed by slim platitudes. Chin up, man. It’s time to move forward a step. Dear Rosanne. I am presumptuous, I know, but Rosanne is how I think of you. Beautiful Rosanne. Rosanne of the kind words and clever wit. Rosanne of my heart. You consume my every thought, haunt my waking hours, and disturb my dreams. There, I have challenged propriety and said what I should not but I cannot help it. I must speak.”
“Slow down.” Frank scribbled frantically. “Speak. There. I knew I was right to have you compose the letters. I could never come up with anything so fine on my own. This is exactly how I feel. What next?”
Christian cleared his throat. “For weeks, your letters have been my only comfort, but they no longer suffice. I wish to see you, hear you—dare I say it?—touch you. I yearn for your presence. In a month I have leave from the regiment, and I hope you will receive me kindly if I should happen to be in the neighborhood of Dorset.”
Frank put down his pen and shook his wrist. “Do I have leave?”
“I spoke to the colonel today. We both have the month of June free. You must have noticed her hints that she would like to see you. I don’t believe Edmund Kean is the only reason she wishes she were in London.”
“I want to see her, too. I’m going to Wessex’s wedding, and Little Mickledon’s only twenty miles or so from Kingstag. I could do it.”
“Sooner you than me. I intend to decline my invitation, but I grant that the timing is fortuitous for you.”
It occurred to Christian that Frank might—would—have difficulty maintaining the quality of his discourse once in the presence of his beloved. He’d just have to bowl her over with the potency of his physical presence. When confronted with the glory of his person, Rosanne would be too befuddled to notice his lack of wit. Women never did, Christian thought, absent-mindedly fingering the livid scar that slashed down his cheek and disappeared into his collar.
o0o
Rosanne tore through the topiary walk to her secret place, the stone bench next to the ornamental pond, well out of sight of the house. She was in no state to deal with Kate’s mischievous nonsense, her mother’s determined cheerfulness, or, Heaven forbid, her father in any mood.
How could he? How could her mother bear it?
She had been brought up to suppress any hint of temper as unsuitable for a lady. A lady must be calm. A lady must refrain from embarrassing herself and distressing others with unseemly displays of emotion. A lady must be happy, because then those around her will be happy too. At moments like this, Rosanne feared she was no lady.
Her recent discovery made her want to scream, very loudly indeed. Since this might attract the attention of the gardener, she seized a handful of gravel from the path and flung it into the water. The stones were too small to make a satisfying splash and succeeded only in alarming the carp that lived in the pond. The fact that letting her anger harm the innocent—albeit only fish—supported her mother’s precepts didn’t make her feel better. She wished she were a hundred miles away from Little Mickledon and anyone by the name of Lacy.
A new letter from Frank, her obvious means of escape, rested in her pocket. But he was all breezy good humor, although his letters often displayed an ironic edge that she’d never detected in the few days they’d spent together. Today she didn’t want affability. She’d rather read something dark and dreadful and filled with passion.
Perching on the bench she unfolded a single sheet. A shorter letter than usual, but a wonderful one. Not dark and dreadful, but the passion was there. Frank loved her! He didn’t say it in so many words, but surely that was what he meant.
Rosanne of my heart.
Her own heart soared and her pain receded, to be replaced with a new and raw emotion.
He loved her and she had an overwhelming desire to see him, to feel his arms around her. She read the letter again, relishing every word. Did he linger over each sentence? She rather thought not. It was more like the dashing cavalry officer to attack the business of composition with impetuous zest. She imagined the words pouring from brain to pen. Tracing the careless trails of ink with her forefinger, she felt a physical connection to their author and a shivery excitement.
I wish to touch you.
In recent weeks, curiosity about the intimate side of marriage, and a kind of yearning, had possessed her. It was another reason to put an end to spinsterhood. Closing her eyes and envisioning Frank Newnham’s handsome face and magnificent figure, she longed for it. Gentlemen were habitually swathed with cloth and buttoned to the throat. They didn’t show their necks and bosoms as women did. The only bits of Frank she’d ever seen uncovered were his hands and face. It didn’t seem quite fair. She’d like to start with the neck cloth, unwind it...
She started at her unruly thoughts. Today, of all days, she mustn’t forget the darker side of male desire. A darker side that her father had succumbed to. She still could hardly believe that the bluff, plain-spoken, affectionate man had betrayed his wife. She wondered how she would react if it happened to her. Well, it would not. She wouldn’t allow it. Besides, she trusted Frank. He was a good man and he loved her.
Only by trusting him with the feelings she couldn’t share with her own family might she elicit the reassurance she needed.
o0o
Christian experienced an unusual attack of nerves when the reply came from Rosanne. Had he advised his cousin badly? Would he—Frank—be answered with disdain for his bold declaration? Forcing his arms to his sides when he wanted to throttle Frank and tell him to hurry up, he hid his anxiety as Frank fumbled with the seal.
“My word. Listen to how the letter opens!” Frank said. “Dear Mr. Newnham, Frank. Yes, Frank, for that is how I think of you. How about that?”
“Go on.” This was splendid news, just the response they’d hoped for. The sinking in Christian’s stomach was merely relief.
“I write today in an agitation of spirits, for I learned something dreadful. Oh, Frank! In the months we have exchanged letters, I have come to feel such affection and friendship for you that now I can confide a most distressing secret. I don’t have to tell you that these words are for your eyes alone and must go no further.”
“You shouldn’t be reading this.” Christian and Frank spoke in unison, then the latter goggled at his cousin.
“It’s addre
ssed to me,” Frank said. “As a gentleman I can’t go blabbing what she tells me in confidence.”
“Don’t be an ass. I’m a gentleman too, and I’ll keep Rosanne’s confidence to the death. But I wrote those letters and I have a right to know what she says.”
Frank was as unhappy as Christian had ever seen him. “I don’t think you should call Miss Lacy Rosanne,” he said stiffly.
“How are we going to answer the letter if you won’t tell me what it says?”
Go on, Frank. Tell me to go to hell and you’ll write your own damn letter. That’s what he ought to say, but Christian hoped he wouldn’t. He wanted to know what had upset her. Perhaps there was something he could do to help. “Come on, Frank. We’re like brothers. You can trust me as well as she can trust you.”
“You’re right, Chris. I’m sorry to doubt you.”
“No apology needed. Now let’s find out what Miss Lacy has to say.”
“I have two sisters. Kate, of course, as you know from my letters, but also another. I fear I have begun the story at the end so let me arrange my disordered thoughts. For several years a Miss Mary Birch, who is now ten years old, has visited us for a month every summer. She’s a sweet child and I enjoy her visits. We were always told that she was the daughter of a friend of my father and came to us for country air while her widowed mother enjoyed a holiday. Now that I know the truth, I see how absurd the story is. She and her mother live in Dorchester, a mere ten miles from Little Mickledon and scarcely a smoke-filled metropolis. Today, as a result of unintentional eavesdropping, I learned that Mary is my father’s natural daughter. Oh Frank! Now that I know, I see signs of our kinship: she had light brown curls like me, Kate’s blue eyes, and my father’s smile. Like me, she enjoys stories, and I have often read fairy tales to her in the nursery. I now understand my mother’s air of disapproval whenever I mention little Mary. I should not burden you with these unsavory family affairs, but you are the only one I feel I can tell. Thank you for reading this. Next time I write, I shall be myself again and full of news about books and spring flowers and the local assembly and the mad things Kate says. For now, my dearest friend, I offer only a sad adieu. P.S. I do not blame little Mary. She is innocent in the whole affair. She will always be my sister, even if forever unacknowledged.”
At the Duke's Wedding (A romance anthology) Page 9
