The Forbidden Valentine_Lady Eleanor Hawthorne_Regency Romance Novel

by Isabella Thorne

  To her other side, when Lord Rumfort commented on the weather, and Grace answered in kind, Eleanor and Mister Whimby exchanged a look and nearly burst out laughing, but Eleanor realized there was nothing but the mirth between them.

  Eleanor suddenly knew why she felt so comfortable with Mister Whimby. He reminded her of Matthew, her favorite brother. She told him so, and he paused, spoon to mouth. He put it down in his bowl. “I am sure that is one of those taboo subjects,” he said softly.

  He was right. She should not have spoken so. Certainly comparing an eligible gentleman to one’s brother counted in that list of subjects not to be mentioned, but she did not feel it was fair to have him expect more from her than she was willing to give…to anyone but Lord Firthley, she thought.

  “But I admire your candor.” Silence reigned for a moment and then, as he chose the third type of venison, he said, “How many types of venison can one serve, do you suppose?”

  Eleanor grinned at him. “How many different dishes entirely?” she challenged.

  ~.~

  Chapter Twelve

  The remainder of the evening passed more swiftly than Eleanor had thought it would. With the aid of her new found friend Joanne and of course her brother, Eleanor had managed to evade the worst of the suitors as well as her mother’s censure. Still she was glad it was finally over.

  It seemed strange that after such a dinner she should write to her Lord Firthley even though it was past midnight. Writing each night had become such a habit that she could not think otherwise. Although it was late, she lit a candle and wrote to Firthley of her initial boredom, as well as her dismay since her mother and father were both determined to pair her with someone at this dinner. She told him of how her heart ached for him alone. She told him of how she sat at dinner between the dreadful Lord Rumfort and Mister Whimby the brother of her new friend Joanne, who she admitted was as much of a bluestocking as her own sister Lily.

  But I digress.

  The simple conversation and small looks passed between couples at dinner only remind me of how paltry our own moments are.

  To pass before your eyes would be a miracle; to brush your hand in passing, heaven.

  EAH

  It was several days before Lavinia was able to pass Eleanor another letter from Lord Firthley. Eleanor did not have occasion to read it until an hour later in the privacy of her room. As soon as she began reading, the folly of letters became obvious. Lord Firthley had heard of the dinner party before he had received her previous missive, and she was glad she had at least included Whimby in her account of the evening because there was already a plethora of misinformation in the gossips. She read Lord Firthley’s letter, glad that he was not an impatient man.

  My Dearest Lady;

  Rumor spreads that Lord Whimby is set to offer for your hand, I should have wished to call the man out, which considering your recent letter, I suppose it is best I did not. Such only proves the capriciousness of rumor. It was Mister Whimby you were seated beside at dinner, was it not?

  If you are sure that your father is not considering Whimby (the elder or the younger) then I shall put aside my worry. Still I cannot bear my enforced silence when your famed beauty and accomplishment have already become the talk of the Ton. I cannot pretend to be indifferent to your charms though aloud I may say naught. It makes me ache that another may share your laugh and your smile when even this I am barred.

  DWF

  Enclosed with the letter, as had become his habit, were two new poems which she read with glee.

  Eleanor wrote a new note to Lord Firthley reaffirming her devotion to him alone.

  Dearest Gentleman;

  Fear not and take not offense that I have found humor in your last note. It appears that rumor travels faster than our own poor correspondence. The gentleman of whom you speak is no suitor for my hand, although Mother does flutter and speak of spinsterhood.in my future if I am not more attentive to those she places in front of me. For now, I am without offer, unless there be a handsome young man of dark hair, tall stature and ill-repute who has thought on it? For a such gentleman, I would be attentive.

  Yours,

  EAH

  Lady Eleanor went to the poetry meeting with Lavinia without mishap. The routine had become smooth as glass with Missus Hartfield exchanging letters even when it meant she had to slip outside for a moment to meet the man and then slip back in undetected.

  Lady Eleanor had worried once that if Lavinia were caught out so, her own captain may accuse her of being false, with him gone so many days at sea.

  Lavinia laughed and shook her head. “A love built on trust does not so easily fall,” she said.

  With her usual impatience, Lady Eleanor opened the letter in the carriage, lest there be some matter of import that she must reply quickly.

  My Dearest Lady;

  My shy lady has grown bold! Ill repute! My slate is clean save by the sight of the Hawthorne’s. Oh, I would but I could persuade your father. We must win them over, each day at a time my dearest. I grow impatient as I think do you.

  Yours,

  DWF

  More love poems were enclosed. Each only emphasized Lord Firthley’s frustration and her own. Eleanor bit her lip as she read.

  What is it?” Lavinia asked.

  “He grows impatient,” she said. “As do I.” Violet eyes met blue ones with understanding.

  “I shall speak to Father again,” Eleanor resolved.

  Once the carriage reached the townhouse, Eleanor invited Lavinia in for tea, but she refused. Eleanor understood why. She must speak to her family herself.

  “Thank you, Angley,” Eleanor said as the butler took her coat.

  “Tea is served in the dining room, Milady,” he said, and she nodded. The dining room was often used in winter when the many windows of the morning room made the room unduly chill. “Tell Mother I shall only be a moment.”

  “Very good,” Angley replied, and Eleanor hurried away to hide Lord Firthley’s letter before coming down for tea.

  How should she approach this subject? She wondered. Though in truth, she had been planning this conversation for some time. Eleanor still had not dared to let her parents know about the correspondence between Lord Firthley and herself. She had brought up the name Firthley several times, but each time, she had been silenced.

  Eleanor knew that the only way to legitimately marry was to convince her father, and to do that, she hoped first to convince her mother, but the task was not so easily done. She had attempted previously and was at a loss as to how to bend them.

  The first time she spoke the name Firthley, Mother had gasped and nearly fainted, and Father had ordered Eleanor to silence.

  “But what did the Firthleys do?” Eleanor begged. “I know there is a feud, but surely the matter is couched in lies. Nothing is worth a hundred years war, except perhaps a crown!” She said thinking of the previous war with France.

  The second time she asked about the Firthleys, she got a bit more information. “The Firthleys abandoned your twice great aunt when she was with child,” Lord Hanway said finally.

  “A woman with child,” Mother repeated as if this were the worst sin.

  “They spread viscous rumors that she was unfaithful to her husband and that she ensnared him with witchcraft,” Father added.

  “Witchcraft?” Eleanor repeated, cognizant of the fact that a hundred years ago in Scotland women were still being burned as witches. In England they had given up the ghastly practice, but still, there were those who believed in such evil. A hundred years ago a rumor such as that would not be easily quelled. It made her feel a bit sick.

  “Still, Mother, it was nearly a century ago. No one believes in witches now.” She said weakly.

  “You would be surprised,” Lady Hanway murmured. “If a man can blame a woman by magic for his own fault, you would be amazed by what rumor can be spread.”

  “That rumor was bad enough, but that was not the end of the Firthley’s treachery,” L
ord Hanway said.

  “No. Once she was ruined, the Firthleys son died, and they accused the lady of his murder. She was forced to remove to France and although it was terrible, we saw fit to let the matter lie. Twenty years passed. Mind you, we did not forgive, but we let the trouble alone, that is until they killed her son for demanding his rightful due. The Firthley’s killed their own grandson to deny him his right.”

  “The heir?” Eleanor surmised shocked.

  “Yes, their own flesh and blood, dead twice over, the father and then the son, all because the Firthleys said they were tainted by the Hawthorne witch, your aunt.”

  “A man that would murder his own blood, cannot be trusted,” Lady Hanway said.

  “Rotten to the core. All of them,” Father intoned. “You stay far from the Firthleys.”

  Eleanor bit her lip. She had not obeyed her father’s command. She could not obey him. Her heart would surely break if she were to cut off correspondence with her dear Lord Firthley. No. She was determined. Mother must be made to see her way. Lord Firthley was not what her parents said of him.

  Eleanor paused before she entered the dining room where tea was set. Her Father sat across from her mother with her sisters at opposite sides. At least her brothers were not also present. She took a fortifying breath and went into the dining room prepared to do battle. She feared this was not going to end, except in bloodshed.

  ~.~

  Frustrated and no further ahead than she had been last time she spoke with her parents on the subject of the Firthleys, Eleanor threw herself on her bed and broke down in tears. She knew her sisters would have comforted her, but they had been sent from the dining room about the time Father realized where the conversation was going.

  She cried herself dry and then sniffled. She rolled off of the bed, not caring that her dress was a mass of wrinkles and her hair had fallen about her face. She and wiped her nose with her handkerchief and rang for water to wash her face. When she was composed, she went to her pen.

  Dearest Gentleman of my Heart;

  I have said my good words hither and to but they fall upon deaf ears. I am no further ahead today than yesterday. Indeed Father has ordered my sisters from the room and stuck the table. He decreed that the name Firthley shall not be mentioned, yet I mention it still.

  I am afraid that soon Mother will think I have lost my senses entirely and call the physician to confirm that I am addle-brained. She believes me the subject of a soft heart, but knows not the extent of it.

  I expect only the expense of the season has kept Father from confining me to the country, and he would likely give me to any gentleman who offers who does not carry your name.

  How goes it with your family? I beg you say you fair better than I.

  Still Yours,

  EAH

  My Dearest;

  Your heart is of steel, there can be no doubt. Never have you wavered and for that I shall ever sing your praises, my dearest.

  I am afraid that my family is also unmoved, but I care not. They will relent and give us cause for celebration. Never worry.

  By my troth I’ll go with thee to the lane’s end..

  I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.

  Yours,

  DWF

  She laughed aloud at Firthley’scomparing himself to a burr, and then because she did not know the origin of the quote, she had to go and find it in her Shakespeare volumes. The candle had burned down by the time she realized it was from the play, Measure for Measure. She closed the book on her bed and her thoughts brought a smile to her lips as she fell asleep to dream of him.

  ~.~

  Chapter Thirteen

  David Firthley had sought lodgings with his cousin Harry. Harry had leased his own place in town and shared the accommodation with his brothers. The apartments had become a bachelor’s haven, but at the moment, only Harry was present as David opened the letter from his love. The others had gone out to various engagements.

  Harry sank into the arm chair opposite and allowed David privacy to read.

  Dearest Gentleman of my Heart;

  Soft or steel, my heart is yours alone. But your own heart is so romantic. I fear neither of our families will recognize our affection for one another. Certainly mine do not recognize what they do not have. How then might they recognize such bliss in another? I am bitter, and such does not become a lady.

  Yours,

  EAH

  David closed his fist around the letter and tightened his jaw. It was intolerable that his love for Lady Eleanor was causing her pain. He had to find a way to stop this torment. He opened his hand and let his fingers smooth the creased pages. David felt a poem brewing in his frustration, but that would not solve anything. He was a man. This dilemma was his to solve.

  The Lord Perrilyn was in Town with the opening of Parliament, but David had not spoken to his father since that night in the library when they had had their last row about the Hawthornes and David had gone to his club in a fit of anger. He had expected his father to relent, or at least to offer terms. David was his heir. This could not go on.

  Harry placed a drink in front of him on the table. David downed it without looking at the contents, and Harry filled it again. This time he sipped. Brandy. Fine brandy, he thought as he looked at his cousin. Harry closed the decanter and sat across from him on a tufted chair, his own drink in hand.

  “I have to fix this Westlake, and deuced if I know how,” he admitted.

  Harry leaned forward his elbows on his knees. “I have been thinking on it,” Harry said. “Do you know of Lord Byron?”

  David frowned. Of course he did. He knew all of the Peerage, even if the men were on the opposite side of politics. It was important to know them, but David was confused. Why was Harry asking this? “The young Whig?” David queried.

  “Yes,” Harry said. “You know him?”

  “Vaguely,” David said with a shrug. Father disliked Whigs almost as much as he disliked Hawthornes…well, not quite. He hated the Hawthornes. David’s mind was still on his love and not on Harry’s query as he replied. “We attended Harrow together as boys, Byron was not in my class, though he was a poet and a trouble maker as I recall.”

  “Ah,” Harry said. “Well, a bit of trouble is in need of making, is it not?”

  David listened as Harry continued speaking. “Lord Byron is a friend of a friend, we shall say. You must know that all the ladies adore his poetry?”

  “I was not aware of his popularity,” David said sipping his drink now to appreciate the fine brandy Harry had provided. “But what has this to do with anything?”

  “I have solved your Hawthorne problem,” Harry said leaning back in his chair and holding his own drink high.

  “How?” David asked wishing Harry would speak clearly.

  “You want to see her, your Lady Eleanor, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “And you know that her chaperone exchanges the letters with me outside of various ladies’ homes where they read poetry and discuss it for a lark.”

  “Yes,” David said. “Get to the point, man.”

  “Well, you and I and Byron, and perhaps some other gentlemen as well so as not to arouse suspicion, shall go to one of these gatherings and you shall be able to meet your lady face to face.”

  “But how? Those gatherings are the meetings for a ladies society,” David protested.

  “Ah, but they did not used to be so,” Harry said. “In France, the salons were mixed groups of both ladies and gentlemen who met for intellectual discourse in poetry, literature and politics.”

  “We are not in France,” David said. “We are at war with France.”

  “Yes. Yes. I know. Mixed gatherings were discontinued here several years ago, well, because of the war I suppose or perhaps because some elder gentlemen did not appreciate women discussing the politics in poetry, and so they meant to put an end to their discourse.”

  “How ridiculous. Just because the gentleman no longer frequented the salons d
id not mean the ladies halted their discussion,” David interrupted, now getting into the spirit of things.

  “Exactly. But we are talking of the poetry of love, not politics, though the understanding was, surely a lady could not talk of politics or passion without a man present,” Harry said. “She hasn’t the wit.”

  Thinking of the wit expressed in Lady Eleanor’s letters brought a smile to David’s lips. “You have a location for this salon, do you not?” David said finally guessing his friend’s intent. “A poetry society meeting for ladies and gentlemen.”

  “I do,” Harry said puffing up with pride. “A time and a place. Actually it is Lord Byron who has secured a place for the gathering, some cousin of his or his half-sister. Once I suggested it, he was off like a shot.” Harry held his hand up as if viewing a banner above it. “The renowned Lord Byron reads his poetry,” Harry intoned.

  “Why would Lord Byron aid me?” David said. “I barely know the man and our families are on opposite sides of the political arena.”

  “Oh, but he loves the ladies. And he is ever apt to put a bee in the bonnet of certain political stogies. Quite the liberal, as you say. He and your father would get along about as well as a fox in a henhouse.”

  “Yes,” David said. “Then, first I must meet this Lord Byron. I would not do anything that would bring censure upon my lady.”

  Harry gave him a look. “Have you not already done so, Firthley?”

  “I have done nothing untoward,” David snapped at his cousin.

  “Do not get tetchy,” Harry said, holding up his hands in defense. “I only meant, your letters alone put her at risk.”