Eleanor tried to pull out the biggest drawer, hoping that it was where letters would be kept. Unluckily, the drawer did not move one inch. At first she thought that it was only stuck with damp and warped with time, as the other drawers were, but eventually she decided it was not stuck, but in fact locked. She spent most of the afternoon searching for a key worrying that she would completely lose the light. Eleanor knew she would have to go find a candle, which after the poetry fiasco, were in short supply; at least for her use.
She sat back on her heels and took stock. She knew that both Mother and Father would say she should not mess with things that did not concern her, but how could this not concern her? She must know what happened in the past to properly deal with the future. Had Lavinia not said that? Learn what happened in the past to not repeat the same mistakes? She had made so many mistakes. No more. She must discover the source of the feud and there was only one way to do that, and that was to get the desk open.
Eleanor renewed her effort upon the drawer with an increase in vigor, causing the whole desk to rock on its spindled feet. She stopped, fearing that the entire thing might come apart. She stood back a little, and looked the small piece of furniture over from top to bottom, as if sizing an opponent. There was very little Eleanor could do about her current situation and in desperation she fixated on the only avenue of escape available to her. She looked around for a tool to be able to pry open the offending drawer. With minimal effort Eleanor found an old iron poker with belonged to a previous fireplace set. She paused momentarily. The desk was a beautiful old thing, but that could not matter. She decided she would make kindling of it if it stood between her and her happiness.
Once decided and armed with the poker, Eleanor rammed it next to the drawer’s lock and pried it open. The old and brittle wood snapped with an offensive sound, as if shrieking against such violent entry into its contents. Once the drawer was free from its binding, it released a flurry of folded yellow papers of all different sizes. Eleanor emptied them all onto a dusty sheet that she pulled off an old chair. She coughed with the dust.
With the little light still available to her, Eleanor began to sift through the contents of the once locked drawer. She realized she had to work fast if she wanted to finish this before dark. Immediately she realized that a scattering of the letters were from one William Firthley, the twice great uncle of her own David William Firthley. Picking up each letter and examining it, she placed irrelevant letters back in the mistreated drawer. The heap of papers on the sheet got increasingly smaller, and about half way through the pile she discovered a considerable bundle of letters, bound up with a discolored piece of crimson ribbon. Eleanor took up the parcel, and her eyes immediately fell on the beautifully penned name of Lady Eleanora Hawthorne. She gasped, and she knew instantly she had found what she had been seeking.
“Eleanora,” she whispered remembering Lord Firthley’s words to her ‘you have her name.’
As much as Eleanor wanted to read the letters immediately, she could not do so. She was quickly losing the light. She had to collect them all now rather than read only some. It was nearly dark when she bundled up her prize and carried the remainder of letters down to her own room, where the fire was burning to give her light.
Eleanor put the letters in a pile on the floor and shoved the dusty sheet into a corner of her wardrobe. She had made quite a mess, what with the dust and old wax and bits of letter that had been torn here and there. She paused thinking what the consequences would be if she were caught in the middle of this act, and yet, what worse punishment might her father design? She thought. She was already locked away from Lord Firthley. Perhaps the letters would give her some insight. With a bit of planning, she pulled the quilt from her bed and laid it folded at the bottom. She placed the wrapped package of letters on the bed first and then gathered the others from the floor. Then Eleanor folded the quilt such that she might throw it over the myriad of letters strewn on the bed in a moments’ notice, should she be disturbed. Then she seated herself on the bed next to the letters and one by one, began to read.
She was interrupted only once when a maid came to ready her for bed, and the planning to hide the letters was well used. When she was dressed in her night clothes, Eleanor begged for a fresh candle to read a novel, and her maid took pity on her and brought one with several hours of light. After the maid left for the night, Eleanor took up what she thought was the first page of a letter, and searched for the next. She took all the bits and pieces and put them back together as if the letters truly were a novel. Its grounding in reality only made it the more exciting. She would finally know the truth.
By the light of her single candle, Eleanor began to read:
“My dearest F,” she began, grinning from ear to ear. Oh, the F surely stands for Firthley, she thought.
Your words have filled my heart with most tender emotion. Upon receiving your letter, I threw myself upon the bed in utter desolation, for I knew I would be ill with the intense sensibility of the entire morning. My heart could near burst from my chest when I first laid mine eyes upon your words of most sincere affection.
Eleanor thought this other Eleanora described her own feelings with uncanny accuracy. Although the language itself was a bit archaic, the sentiment was the same. How often had she thought her heart might beat out of her own chest with the sight of her Firthley? She continued to read.
I shall perchance to walk in my solitude along the garden path…”
“What garden path?” Eleanor wondered. Was Eleanora in the country at the time she had written this letter, or here in London? She knew that the Hawthornes had held this townhouse for nigh on forever so if Eleanora had met her Firthley here, there must be a secret place, but where she wondered.
“…that I may be most fortunate to once more encounter your loving arms.”
“Oh,” Eleanor sighed aloud. They had planned a tryst.
Yours forever,
EAH
She traced her fingers over the lady’s initials. They were her own.
How extraordinarily scandalous! Eleanor thought, laughing nervously as she brought her fingers against her lips thinking of Lord Firthley’s kiss, and then she let her fingers fall to the secret chain around her neck. That a single random letter would prove they acted so scandalously a hundred years ago amazed her. Mother would have her believe they were above such passions. Certainly, Father and Grandfather would. Apparently, this past Lady Eleanora matched her Lord Firthley in passion and recklessness.
The candle was guttering, so Eleanor packaged up the letters and put them in one of her letter boxes. She frowned uncertain if they were safe from discovery, but she did not know where they would be safe from prying eyes. She decided to leave the box in plain sight on the desk.
Eleanor lay in her bed, but she found that sleep did not come easily with the letters sitting only a few feet away from her. As the hours passed Eleanor tossed and turned in her sheets until she could no longer resist the temptation. After all, it was she who was most invested in the story. It was she who had met the present Lord Firthley and so loved him. The very thought of him prevented sleep. Eleanor rose from her bed and sat close to the last remaining embers in the hearth, and she drew out the bundle of letters from her box and squinting by the light of the fire, she read several more.
She found a Valentine dated three years after William’s death.
“It has been three years since cruel fate snatched you from my arms, my dearest William.” Eleanor paused, as the terribly sad words brought her disposition down considerably. Still, she read on, and the post mortem valentine tugged at her heart strings.
Your family has not relented. I still pray they will see reason. Our son grows stronger every day, and every day I see you in him. He is tall for his age. I can already look him in the eye and his hair darkens like yours.
Eleanor felt a lump in her throat as she read.
My heart aches with the pain that you may never see him or take pride in him
, and it is for him only that I live. Only he keeps me on this pale and desolate plain. I despair that I may never again feel the warm comfort of your embrace. Until we meet in heaven, my love.
Yours forever,
EAF
There was only the soft cracking of the fire and Eleanor’s sniffling. She ached for the lost couple. Silly girl, she told herself. You are on the same path unless you change it. She leafed through several more letters realizing that Eleanora kept writing to her Firthley, three years after he had passed, she kept faithful. Her eyes were bright with tears, and she had to pause to find a handkerchief in the soft dark. She came back to the letters but could read no more. However, there were others, a virtual documentation of the child’s young life. Eleanor leafed through them. She could not bring herself to read through the misery. Her throat was choked with tears just thinking of the woman’s distress.
When the child was sick, when he first sat a horse, and when learned to read; each milestone Eleanora recorded for her dead husband. The sentiment nearly stopped Eleanor’s heart.
From the letters, Eleanor learned that her great aunt had remarried twice, in order to keep herself from destitution, but none of her later husbands could supplant William Firthley in her heart. Her devotion to his memory would endure in the form of these unsent and unsendable letters. Eleanor again wiped the tears from her eyes.
Had no Hawthorne seen fit to show these letters to the Firthleys? Had no Firthley taken pity on the poor woman? In Eleanor’s opinion, there could be no doubt that Eleanora’s child was indeed the son of Lord Firthley and yet no one believed her except Lord Firthley himself, and with his death, her trials had begun. The thought angered Eleanor more than she had expected. Perhaps it was because the woman bore the same name as she. She felt more than a kinship with her. She felt a bond that passed through time, a bond of love, between the Hawthornes and the Firthleys, a bond that neither time nor death could not dislodge.
Lady Eleanora was disowned by her own parents, who could not believe she would lie with a man outside of wedlock. If she had told them the truth about what she had done, and tried to reason with them, Eleanor wondered if they could have forgiven her and accepted her wishes. Eleanor could only hope that during this more modern time, she would be allowed to be with Lord Firthley and live as she wished.
She wanted to sort the letters between his and hers. Willaim’s notes were there too, written in the same manner, full of sentiment and exaggerated sensibility. Many even contained poems and Eleanor wondered if the previous Lord Firthley wrote them himself. Was he as much of a romantic as her David? She thought fondly of her own Firthley and with the light of dawn, put the letters back in the box and fell asleep dreaming of her love.
~.~
As the next days passed, Eleanor found time in her imprisonment to sort the letters chronologically. Most were not actually dated due to being small notes that Lady Eleanora and William Firthley passed between them apparently without the advantage of post. Others were posted, so she thought those would be at a different time. Perhaps they were more separated then, not in London or at different country estates. She was not sure, but it seemed that the pair’s love escalated even more quickly than her own had grown.
Eleanor read some of the earlier letters, letters telling of their lives when they were both still at their respective country manors. Many were much of the same vein, alluding to their secretive meetings and expressing their longing for each other. Eleanor read, understanding their feeling. And then, suddenly, the notes began to take a turn for the worse. At first, Eleanor could not make out what had happened exactly, for neither of them spoke of it in clear terms, but they seemed to hold a grave secret between them, one that could spell the doom of both were it to be discovered. Letters were no longer poetry, but scraps of paper with frantic scrawled writing. Some Eleanor could barely read. She pieced them together, the first from Lady Eleanora.
My Dearest Willliam,
I know we had hoped fate would soften our woe, but such has not come to pass. They shall not relent.
And then another from Eleanora saying, I search for Juliet’s solution.
What on God’s good earth did she mean?
And still another letter where William staunchly denied that she should drink any elixir. How were they planning to escape? Eleanor wondered. She knew that the true Romeo and Juliet was only a story. No elixir brought on a death-like sleep. There was only death, or life.
Finally she found another note on a scrap of paper which read:
Fate remains fixed. Save me if you are true. If you be false, I die.
EAH
Eleanor could hardly believe it. Was Eleanora contemplating suicide? She supposed it did not come to pass. Eleanora had lived to marry and bear a child. Eleanor knew that.
And suddenly understanding came to her.
Scrawled below Eleanora’s words on the same note, in a rougher hand, barely readable, was simply,
Nor do mine relent. GG as planned.
Midnight on the morrow at the east garden gate. I shall come for you both.
WF
“She was with child,” Eleanor whispered stunned. That was why they risked Gretna Green.
She reread the first letter in the pile, and the truth was clear. That was why the romance escalated so quickly. Yes. Lady Eleanora was with child! Eleanor blushed at the very realization of it, and how Lady Eleanora had no one with whom she could share such a secret.
Her only brother was considerably younger than she, only a child of ten at the time, not that the lady would share such intimate knowledge with a brother, Eleanor thought. Unlike Eleanor, Eleanora had no sisters to shield and guide her. What a terrible time that must have been for her, Eleanor thought. How alone she must have felt. Eleanor knew if her own parents even suspected she was even reading such things, about love affairs and illegitimate children, they would be angered, but she could not bring herself to put the letters away. She had to know the truth, even though it felt like she was prying into Eleanora’s most intimate secret.
“Please do not be cross with me, Aunt Eleanora,” she whispered to herself, or perhaps to the spirit of the long dead woman. I am in much the same predicament, she thought, although perhaps not quite as dire. As much as she wanted a child with her own Lord Firthley, Eleanor could see how the facts had put a time limit on the first couple, and she could only imagine her own Father’s ire if she was to be found in such a state. She felt sympathy for Lady Eleanora who was pushed to drastic measures.
I have to keep in mind I am not prying into the affairs of the past out of curiosity only, Eleanor thought to herself, but out of a need to know for my own fate. In fact, the very fate of both our houses may hinge on the truth revealed in these letters. I must continue. Steeling her nerves, she began again, trudging through the long worded pages and puzzling out the meaning hidden between the lines. By the time Eleanor was finished, she had cried herself dry for the tragedy her Aunt Eleanora had suffered, but she understood the feud as few others had done.
Lady Eleanora’s parents had not seen the young Firthley as a suitable match for their daughter, but the couple had hoped that their families may be convinced, and at first it seemed possible. Both were young and titled. They were both from good families, but Eleanora’s father accepted a proposal from another peer, and decided Eleanora’s fate without so much as a by your leave. Eleanor thought of her own Father’s plans for her marriage with distaste. The couple was certain their marriage prospects could proceed; however, as fate and their fathers would have it, that was not to be. They were also certain that they could appease their parents at a later time, after the birth of their child. The couple decided to elope to Scotland, where they might be wed without consent from their elders. The journey, documented in a letter at last sent to Lady Eleanora’s mother, had been harrowing, but she wrote:
Still, I love him. I would not change a moment.
Afterwards, Eleanor realized, the couple intended on staying in
Scotland for a while, in order to conceal the exact date of their son’s birth. But as Lady Eleanora left her home with Lord Firthley, one of the servants revealed her secret, or perhaps the letter written to her mother was a trust misplaced. In any case, her own father disowned her, claiming that Firthley despoiled her. Why else would they go to Gretna Green? When the child was born early, her father’s suspicions were confirmed. In turn, the Firthleys would not believe the boy was the Firthley heir and the lovers’ sad fate was set in motion. The Firthley’s disallowed the child as heir.
In anger and frustration, William Firthley said he did not want the money or the title, for himself or his son if his family could not accept the woman he loved. He would be happy with his love alone. He let the title and lands remain with his father.
Eleanor sighed. She knew the history now. William unfortunately died while his father was still alive, and so the estate and title had passed not to his son, but to his brother. Eleanora was in France then with her second or third husband. Eleanor was not exactly sure of the timeline as some letters were not dated. After both died, Eleanora’s young brother invited her and his nephew back to England. When William’s brother died without an heir himself, Eleanora’s son attempted to claim the inheritance that he claimed should have been his all along and was killed in a duel with a Firthley cousin; the same cousin who then became The Earl of Perrilyn. And was also the present Lord Firthley’s great grandfather.
Eleanor thought long and hard about the problem. She barely slept at all that night. The letters were clear enough. Lady Eleanora, although far from being blameless, had always been sincere in her feelings towards her Lord Firthley, and had in no manner contributed to his death. Were the Firthleys to learn of this, after all these years of believing she had been the sole doom of their relative, might they end the feud once and for all? Eleanor could hope. Eleanora did lie with William Firthley before their marriage. That much was true, but surely they would not believe one mistake would damn her forever as a harlot, or perhaps it would. Eleanor sighed. Still the child was of Firthley blood. Eleanora had never been unfaithful. It was clear that she loved her Lord Firthley.
The Forbidden Valentine_Lady Eleanor Hawthorne_Regency Romance Novel Page 21
