The Veil of Virtue

by Karen Joyce

  After a spell, their path opened before them into a small meadow where, in the centre stood an old, proud, black evergreen as round and tall as the columns in the ancient ruins of Plato’s academy. Lincoln hurried ahead of her and removed his coat.

  “Shall we sit awhile?” he asked, laying his coat upon the ground by the trunk of a tree.

  “Sir, please, it is too cold and you will catch your death.”

  “To be sure, for I shall stand here until you accept my offer and if you refuse, my death will be on your conscious.”

  “You are a stubborn man,” she replied, taking his hand and lowering herself down upon the ground. “Though for some, death is not a sinister foe we believe it to be but the sweet embrace of an old friend.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone that would welcome that offer of friendship and it troubles me that you would feel that way.”

  “Then tell me, how should I feel?”

  “People tend to fear death. So that would be a start.”

  “What is there to fear? Everything must come to an end.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of what you’ll lose when that time comes? Doesn’t it frighten you to know that everything you love and hold dear will be gone forever?”

  “I’ve already lost everything I love and hold dear in this world and now there is nothing left keeping me here.”

  “There is always something worth living for in this world,” he said, holding out his arms. “All you have to do is open your eyes and see all the beauty that surrounds you. It’s everywhere.”

  “I saw it once. I felt it. It was all I knew, but things change.”

  “You will know it again. One day someone or something will come into your life and you will never be the same again.”

  “That day has already come and gone but it was cruel like an old maid waiting for a love that will never come.”

  “When it comes it won’t be cruel,” he said, unable to explain how it would feel, but then he looked into her eyes and the words came so easily then. “It will make you feel like every day that has come before never existed. It will be as if you never lived until that moment and you will never want it to end.” And he didn’t. He wanted to stay here with her forever. “They will be so beautiful you’ll never want to close your eyes again.” He couldn’t help himself then and he reached out and ran his fingers through her hair. She was so beautiful, but if wasn’t just her beauty, it was the sadness too. It was everything he saw within her, and everything else that he couldn’t see. Everything that she made him feel. It was all of her. He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t know anything about her, but he felt like he had always known her. It was as if she was a part of him that had been missing his entire life and now he had finally found it. He wanted to lean in closer and hold her. How he wanted to hold her.

  “Please,” she whispered pulling his hand away. “

  “What happened to you to make you this way?”

  “It is what happens in every life. For some there are the sweetest gifts for them to treasure, but for others…for others those gifts are taken away from them.”

  “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

  “I’m a guest of the Montagues.”

  “A guest who declines to dine with fine society or even your hosts?” The wind gently lifted little yellow parachute seeds, which softly fell upon her, shining like specks of gold. Reaching up, he picked one that had fallen off her sleeve and blew it into the air.

  “Sir Rinehart, not everyone lives according to the dictates of society,” she said, smiling as the little yellow parachute seed pirouetted through the air before falling upon the earth. Lincoln was amazed at the boldness in her remark. A look of admiration in his eyes.

  “And pray tell, what other rules of decorum within our polite society do you not observe in the usual fashion?”

  “Well, that all depends?”

  “And what, may I dare ask, does it depend?” he inquired, moving his eyes upon every part of her through stolen glances, as if they were in a dream and he may soon awake and never see her again.

  “Why, the subject of course.”

  “Very well then, allow me to volunteer a subject,” he said, as he brought his arms forward and pulled at the grass upon the ground in deep thought. The young woman took this moment during his mind’s intense occupation to watch him with a closeness of eye, knowing if they had been able to share a lifetime together it would never have been enough for her to know every part of him and shower him with all the affection that was swelling within her heart. For it was an infinite spring of emotion.

  “What are your views on the etiquette of a gentleman’s bowing habits when sighting a lady through a window.”

  “I suppose if he is not very tall, this would give the impression of his height being of a shorter stature, which I do not imagine would bode well for his manhood.”

  “And what of the gossip that would lend itself to the impropriety of such an action?”

  “I say that the mind should not concern itself with the thoughts of others that it does not hear.”

  “But what if one’s reputation was harmed by such gossip?”

  “Then I would simply say that sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Lincoln laughed at her childish words.

  “Well, now that is a refreshing view to take upon the matter. And what of small talk since we have already failed to observe that other custom?”

  “If the conversation is spoken with small minds then I believe it would be a fitting one to practice.”

  “But, what of the dangers of it leading to a more absorbing conversation.”

  “Then we should soak it up as if we were a sponge for what better way is there to experience the world than through the fresh eyes of another and if one does not converse beyond the superficialities of the world, then how is one expected to gain a deeper understanding of what lays within its heart.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Lincoln, as he leaned back against the tree and breathed in the tranquillity of the woods.

  “Do your views extend to social customs of woman’s etiquette?”

  “Indeed, I prefer to pull out my own chair, call upon my acquaintances unannounced and as you have seen, roam the woods without the attendance of a chaperone.”

  “And does this not worry you, for surely your opportunity to marry well within or even above your station will be in grave jeopardy.”

  “I was hoping my lack of sense and sensibility would guarantee that I will never have to meet that fate.”

  “But how will you occupy your time. Surely if a woman does not have a husband to care for she will be lost to the world and to herself.”

  “Perhaps, but I believe women should be afforded equal opportunity to live her life in the same manner as any man would.” Never before in all his days, had he met another whom spoke so brazenly and that it was a woman astonished him. It was as if she breathed life into the words that no longer moved within him. There was a feeling between them of camaraderie that is felt between two friends reunited after many years apart. They shared an understanding that went beyond reason.

  “You believe in women’s suffrage?”

  “I believe in universal suffrage,” she said and this time there was no playful banter between them. This time there was great seriousness within their expression.

  “Are you of the opinion that the world will ever see the day all humanity are free from the chains of this world?” he asked, even though it was an impossible question to answer.

  “One day I believe it will,” she said, with conviction he both admired and envied.

  “When the people that walk upon this world are long dead and buried in their graves.”

  “Yes, but even the immortal souls of the dead go on living long after they have passed from this world.” This frightened him then and there was a sobering realisation within her words. “For they leave their mark upon this world and the ones that are lef
t behind are forever changed.” Now he understood what she had meant but there was still a fear growing within him.

  “And what of the world that lays in wait for them? What if they never reach that place?”

  “Then they wander there still holding on to life though it has long slipped through their grasp. Still believing that they live and breathe and walk among the earth just as the living do.”

  “But surely, they know they are dead,” said Lincoln, the fear beginning to overwhelm him.

  “No, for it is like a dream or a nightmare without the sharpness of reality that is afforded to the living.”

  “Lady Madeline tells me your stay at Rinehart Estate has been curtailed.”

  “Yes, quite unexpectedly I’m afraid. Though I wish it could be delayed,” he added, his eyelids lowered a little, revealing the gravity of his desire that his fear had not yet expelled, though her words still troubled him so. Was she real? Even now as she sat here before him, seeing her moving, speaking and laughing he wanted to believe that she was, for if she wasn’t then this ghostly apparition had more heart and more life within her than any man or woman he’d ever known before. It came to him now, a memory from long ago, fast and thick washing over him; this woman no longer grown, but younger, much younger as a girl running ahead of him; her image blurred by the rays of sunlight. Him running faster and faster and just as he catches up to her, reaching out to take her arm, she slips from his grasp, her laughter trailing behind her, as he’s calling out to her, Delphinia…Delphinia…Fin…

  “Fin…” he said it now, involuntarily as she turned to him.

  “Lincoln…” she said, smiling with the heaviness of the memory taking them back, back into the past. “You said you’d come back for me.” He remembered now. Lady Madeline running ahead of them. Him and Lady Delphinia running behind a tree, pausing to catch their breath, as he leant down and pulled the stem of a flower from the ground, winding it into a small circle before placing a floral ring upon her delicate finger. “Who are you, Lady Delphinia?”

  “None of it matters, Lincoln. It’s all in the past,” she said, as she rose from the ground and turned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as he gathered his coat from the ground and rose to stand.

  “I have been gone too long. It is time I returned to the Manor.”

  “Wait!” he called, surprising himself as well as her. She paused and he hurried to her and, perhaps it was because she had not yet turned and he could not see her face, but he spoke more brazenly.

  “When can I see you again?” She turned then, but when he saw her face again he was startled by her cold expression.

  “The night has not yet fallen and yet these woods have grown so dark. I have always been so frightened of what comes in the absence of the light.”

  “I will not allow anything or anyone to harm you.”

  “How chivalrous you are,” she said, as she smiled at him sadly. “I must return to the manor.” She turned then and left him there alone in the woods, feeling as if a piece of himself had been taken with her. And though he was afraid of her; afraid of her words, he knew just as every life must one day die and every story must come to an end, the story of their future was yet to be told. For there was something about her that he couldn’t seem to shake. She had awoken something within him that had lain dormant for centuries. Somewhere deep within him the faint dying ember of his soul had begun to flash and flicker.

  When Lincoln had finally said his farewells to the Montagues and his mother, he embarked upon the long journey home to London, but as he left he said a silent goodbye to the Lady Delphinia and making a solemn vow, he promised to himself, come what may, he would see her again.

  VI

  Over the next few weeks Lincoln took the first steps toward becoming a political representative. Although he was ineligible to register as a representative for the Kent and London boroughs, Lord Ashwood had purchased an estate in Gravesend for Lincoln and combined with his wealth he was eligible to run as the representative for the borough of Gravesham where he paraded through the streets giving public speeches. On the day of the election, he won by a landslide and he took on the responsibilities of his new position with great diligence, labouring tirelessly to understand the functions of his role and how to do them justice. The position ignited within him a great spark of energy which he had never known before. There was within him a renewed sense of purpose, drive and direction leading him now. There was within him a renewed sense of purpose, drive and direction leading him now; and there was great meaning in his accomplishments, no matter how small or how insignificant they appeared to Lord Ashwood and the upper classes of the elite. To the lower classes he became a friend amongst a sea of enemies, one to whom they could trust to listen to their concerns and do everything within his power to give them the help that had for so long eluded them. This was how he spent the winter, engrossed within his work, one ear toward the commoners of Gravesham, the other listening to the undercurrents of the political shifts within Westminster. That was until, several months later, on a fine day at the end of February, some weeks after the sitting of parliament and some weeks before the awakening of spring when Lincoln received a letter postmarked from Greenwich, Kent. The address was written in an unfamiliar hand and it was only upon turning it over did he see the envelope had been sealed with red wax that was imprinted with the Montague crest and scented with ambergris.

  Lately, nothing had been able to steal his mind away from his duties and he noticed now how this letter evoked a tingling sensation within him, one of elation that was close to delirium, as he hurried to open the envelope that may grant the secret wish he carried within his heart. Liberating the letter from within the envelope’s hold, he paused for a moment inhaling deeply, savouring the moment of suspense. Finally, he unfolded the letter as he entered another reality that took him back to the woods; to a dark image moving toward him. The delicate whirls of the author’s penmanship suggesting what he had dared to dream from the first. His impatient eyes skimmed over the letter to reach the end. Eternity passing through him as he voraciously devoured the full name signed at the bottom of the page, revealing the author’s identity: Lady Madeline Agnes Montague. Lincoln, not realising he had been holding his breath the entire time, exhaled with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief because he could release those feelings Lady Delphinia had awakened within him that left him feeling like he was no longer in control of himself, and disappointment because there was great promise in what lay dormant in its realisation. Lady Madeline had written to inform Lincoln she would be arriving in three weeks for the London Season and staying at their London Mansion on Park Avenue, which held a magnificent view of Kensington Gardens. A whirlwind of events had been planned for the occasion and, of course, her mother had made some not so subtle hints at hoping to find her a match with a wealthy and eligible young bachelor. All this time she had resisted her parent’s earlier attempts to marry her off, but lately the idea had become more acceptable to her, which she explained to Lincoln was, of course, if there was a shared feeling of intimacy and her mother approved. Lady Madeline’s letter continued on in the same vein as it had begun with the usual rhetoric that concerned those of wealth. Her cousin, Fortescue Willoughby’s plans for Montague Manor as the heir to her late father’s estate and considerable fortune, the shooting season and, of course, the weather. Near the end of the letter, she also congratulated him on his new appointment as the representative of Gravesham and included within an article she had found, published in The West Kent Guardian commending him on everything he had achieved for his electorate; though, why he bothered with these trivialities which she believed were of no consequence, she did not understand; especially, she added, when there were so many more important things to be done for the nation. As the letter came to an end, Lincoln discovered the slightest inference of impropriety of which he blamed himself, where she wrote that she hoped he had not forgotten their time together at Montague Manor, for never woul
d a day go by without the delightful memories coming to her mind, and she hoped he would have time to visit them during their stay in London and join them for one of the many activities her mother had planned for them; the first of which was to see a performance of Mozart’s The Magic Flute at The Kings Theatre. Finally, she thanked him for making the winter more bearable, reminded him again how sorely he was missed by the family and how they looked forward to making his acquaintance again very soon. He wasn’t sure if it was her pride but she never requested for him to write to her, only that she hoped her letter had found him well; signing off with the French term of endearment Mon ciel étoilé: my starry sky.

  Upon reaching the end of her letter, Lincoln sat there for a time in a spell. Lady Madeline’s letter had touched him, but his mind was preoccupied with that other whom touched him deeper; deeper than the depths of the ocean; deeper than a thousand wishing wells, and though he knew how impossible it would be, he wondered if Lady Delphinia would be joining them here among society. He tried to imagine it now. Her at the opera. At the ballet or even a debutant ball. Walking through the streets of London with a young gentleman chaperone and then it was overshadowed by the painful realisation that others would see her, know her and this made him envious, for he never wanted to share her. He wanted to covert her all to himself. Even though he knew, when he finally saw her again, it would hurt him to look upon her. This woman he felt so close to and yet so distant all at once. How he felt her sorrow wash over him, cleansing his soul. When he spoke her name it brought her near and he wondered if she could feel him now, thinking of her; words rushing forth, repainting the memory of her; recapturing the beauty of her essence…You said you would come back for me…