The Forbidden Valentine

by Isabella Thorne

  “It is my father.” Eleanor shook her head. “I continue to worry over the execution of this plan,” she said as she pulled out of Missus Hartfield’s grasp. “It seems to me that eventually, we shall be caught.”

  “Ah, but I am quite proficient in the art,” Lavinia replied.

  “The art?” Lady Eleanor frowned.

  “Of passing letters undetected,” Lavinia said. “Did you know that during our courtship I secretly corresponded with my own husband for nearly half a year before I even knew his true name?”

  “Surely not.”

  “Surely so, but that is another story. Simply know that it can be accomplished. Unless you are having second thoughts.”

  “No,” Eleanor said, sitting once again thinking her dress could wrinkle. She did not care. “No. I am more resolved than ever. Tell me how it can be done.”

  “In fact it has begun already. I have chosen a place and sent Lord Firthley a message outlining the logistics of it. We cannot continue using only the post.”

  “We cannot? Why not?”

  “No one so dotes upon a maiden aunt and mother that letters are exchanged twice daily,” Missus Hartfield said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I see.” Eleanor stood again, filled with nervous energy. “So tell me the way of it then, Lavinia,” Eleanor asked.

  “It is best if I remove to another friend’s house here in London where no one shall take notice of the amount of post I receive.”

  “I shall miss you,” Eleanor said.

  “And I you, but it is for the best. Once settled, I shall then pass the letters on to you. I thought it best we use a time and place that will not seem unusual. I do so love poetry, especially love poetry,” Lavinia said. “And so it stands to reason that I would frequent the poetry society meetings, here in London. I used to attend them quite often, but have fallen away from the habit. I shall pick it up again, and as the meetings are in the hours after midday, and I am a married lady there shall be no impediment to my attending as I wish.”

  “I too love poetry,” Eleanor said hopefully.

  “Ah just so. And I understand you were a member of such a society for young ladies before your involvement with Lord Firthley so there will be no suspicion. So long as your mother will not wish to attend as well?”

  “She will not.” Eleanor said with certainty. “Mother says when she sits for very long her back aches and she does not consider poetry to be her forte. She considers it a waste of time.”

  “Heaven forbid.” Lavinia exclaimed dramatically. “Love and the language of love, a waste of time! Still, it is to our advantage, that she feels so. We shall have the venue to ourselves. We shall go together then, and on those occasions, I shall pass you Lord Firthley’s letters and you shall pass me his. So the letters will be exchanged on each day, as the society meets, and I shall post them.”

  “It sounds very simple.”

  “It is simple. It is best not to complicate matters such as this. It is complication that trips up the whole operation.”

  Eleanor began to pace again. “And what if someone sees Lord Firthley and I together?”

  “There is no need for you to be together,” Lavinia said. “All of your admiration must be shared with pen and ink until that avenue reaches its natural conclusion.”

  “Conclusion?”

  Lavinia gave Eleanor a sad smile. “Yes. That is until you discover that you will not fit, and end your association or until you can stand being apart no longer, I suppose. One way or the other, the letters will end and something else will begin, but that is in the future and no one can tell what the future holds.” Lavinia stated sagely, finally drawing out the letter from Lord Firthley and holding it aloft. Eleanor eagerly snatched it from her hands.

  “You may read it here,” Missus Hartfield offered. “If you intend a swift reply, since as of today we are still using the post.”

  Eleanor sat back at the dressing table, nodded and opened the letter. She scanned it anxious for his words of love.

  Dearest Lady;

  Every moment away from you is indeed Paradise Lost.

  For at once you are my divine delight

  No angel holds the beauty of your light

  She smiled as she read his poem and for a moment her father’s anger was held at bay.

  “I will leave you to your letter,” Missus Hartfield said.

  “No,” she said. “I will only be a moment. I must send my reply. If you have quill and ink?”

  Lavinia nodded and shared her ink with Eleanor. She dashed off a note telling Lord Firthley of her Father’s petulance and hard heartedness. She blotted the page twice, but did not care. She wrote with passion, from the heart.

  I found myself facing him, not for myself but for my sister, like Paulina defending Hermione in the Winter’s Tale. I am not brave, but I shall endure.

  “It is required. You do awake your faith. Then all stand still.”

  EAH

  She gave the letter to Missus Hartfield who promised to post it this very day. Eleanor considered going to her own room to re-read some of her favorite poems or the letters Lord Firthley had sent and thus restore her heart, but instead she went to Lily’s room to console her sister. Somehow the very existence of hope in her heart gave her strength to share.

  ~.~

  Chapter Ten

  Lord Fithley’s reply was delivered two days hence by way of Missus Hartfield. Eleanor was so happy to hear from him; each day was a treat. Each night she sat up reading and re-reading his letters. As the missives grew longer, both hers and his, she had taken to hording candles, picking up stubs from other rooms to hide so that she could read later into the night without her parents’ knowledge.

  When Lavinia realized that Eleanor was sitting on the hearth to gain the light from the fire when her candles had burned down, the dear woman started bringing candles as well as the letters.

  Eleanor continued to wait with barely contained patience for Missus Hartfield to visit. Without fail Lavinia brought another letter from Lord Firthley.

  The first exchanges were short, a missive here and there to tell her he was thinking of her, accompanied by a poem; which for the most part centered around odes to her beauty. As the letters continued, he shared bits of news: funny stories about his boyhood with his cousin and more recent events, like how he was seeing to the training of a new side saddle horse for his young sister explaining that she was approaching her fourteenth birthday. Eleanor saw immediately that although the two were not close in age, he loved her dearly. Eleanor shared her own memories of siblings and they chuckled over the anecdotes that each shared.

  The trips to the poetry society were accepted by her parents, and Lavinia was a wonder. Each time they went, a letter was received and a letter was given. It became almost commonplace, except that the content of said letters was anything but ordinary. At first Lady Hanway thought it completely acceptable that her daughter enjoyed prose and poetry but as time went on and Eleanor’s preoccupation with the society became clear, her mother was not so supportive.

  “Your love of poetry is becoming an obsession,” Lady Hanway said. “It is not ladylike to spend so much time with one interest, unless of course that interest is your husband.”

  Eleanor froze with the thought, but Mother went right on, and Eleanor relaxed when it seemed her mother would not forbid her going. Remain calm she told herself, and she smiled dutifully, hoping to project contrition.

  The passing of secret letters and staying up late into the night in their composition was taking its toll on Eleanor’s nerves. Still going to the poetry meetings, which Eleanor enjoyed for their own sake, did not alleviate even half the distress of not being able to converse openly with Lord Firthley. The secrecy and the distance were trying, but the written word was all they were able to share.

  Lady Eleanor took great care to hide the continuing stack of notes deep inside of the winter boots that sat abandoned in the back of her wardrobe. It was the only place where she coul
d think that the servants would not bother to touch in their attention to her rooms.

  Lord Firthley’s odes to her beauty became poems of her strength and determination and wit. Subtly the poems changed to include how resourceful she was, and finally, she opened an envelope that had no letter at all, nothing to connect her to the missive and no initials from the sender. She frowned, turning it over and wondering. She had become used to thick packets of poems and long letters that filled pages. A shard of disappointment filled her that the missive was so brief, and then she read his poem.

  It was written on plain paper, and was just on the edge of decent, telling of a lady that had fallen in the snow, and all the ways the gentleman had caught her, held her, and carried her away. How he refused to let her go; refused to give her up. By the time the poem was complete Eleanor was giggling and blushing all at once. Her face was afire with possibilities, and questions she dare not write in a letter. She reread the poem several times before she hid that poem under her mattress in the very center of her bed. She thought of it there as she fell asleep at night and a warm glow filled her.

  ~.~

  David Firthley had been near elated to receive Lady Eleanor’s reply to the first ardent letter; he had passed her at the theatre. Brief though it was, he had worried she may not return his affections but their exchange was soon begun in earnest, and the missives quickly grew in length.

  He wrote of everyday things and a poem here and there as the muse struck him. First David told her of his family, and their inability to forgive the feud, and his frustration, but he did not want to mar their correspondence with such sad news. He told her about his horses, which brought him joy, almost as much as poetry he said…and you.

  He wrote about training Daisy for his sister’s birthday this summer. Lady Eleanor asked about his sister and he told her about Luella, who was ten years, his junior and so precious to him. He wrote about the day Luella was born. He remembered it so vividly, how he nearly burst with pride to finally be a brother when he thought he would forever be an only child.

  Lady Eleanor replied with stories of her own sisters and her brother Matthew. Her brother Robert figured less in her stories, and David wondered at their relationship.

  David shared stores of the devilment that he had Harry had gotten into when she shared anecdotes of her sisters, and mostly David shared how he wished the world could be. Together with Lady Eleanor some of those dreams seemed less fanciful. Together, he thought, their world would be better, brighter, more forgiving.

  He missed a day of writing when his father first returned to London for Parliament. Lord Perrilyn had stayed late into the night and David could not find a way to post the letter in his pocket, so he carried it around all day reminding him of the first letter he had sent. The paper held close to his heart. He should just tell his father and let him rage, David thought. He was his own man, and yet he did not. Finally, David scribbled an explanation and bribed Harry to send the letter for him. I am a coward, he thought. I should be able to love her in the open, in the light of society.

  David wrote to Lady Eleanor of his loneliness as an only child until Luella was born, and even after, as baby girl was not much company for a young boy. Horses and the written word became his world.

  David told her about the first time he had seen a foal born. He had later written a poem about the miracle and somehow from that point onward, horses and poetry were mixed. He hoped she would understand and appreciate it. It was not a love poem, or perhaps it was his first love poem, he joked. David hoped that the words could bring them together in the shared emotion. He wished Lady Eleanor could have been there beside him to understand. He still had that first foal. The stable master had helped him to train the mount himself. Midnight was nearly fifteen years old now.

  She wrote back sharing her own dreams, dreams that she had thought could never be, and now she had hope. She said, he had given her that. You have helped me to see myself, Lady Eleanor wrote, and he understood, because he felt the same.

  It was then that David picked up a poem that he had begun some time ago. It had come upon him that first night in a flood of passion that could not be stilled, nor stopped. He considered sending it now. The poem commemorated how he had first seen her, the quiet explosion that had happened when he first held her in his arms, and how it had seemed impossible to go so deep so fast, but now it was different.

  Now poetry was the only way he could touch her. It seemed not so risqué, as it had been when he had first written it. Now it seemed a natural part of their growth together, a tribute to how they had first met and the beginning of their new life. David knew now, if Lady Eleanor would have him, he would never let her go. He would defy his family to have her, but first he must find a way to hold her in his arms for just a moment, to gain strength from the warmth of her.

  He held the poem and thought to explain, to say why he sent it, but what could he say? How might he explain the depth of his feeling if not within the verse? Besides which, he had to be mindful that at any time, any letter, could be intercepted. This poem could not connect them in any way, only silently in their hearts. They would know. No one else. The poem should stand alone.

  David folded it; sealed the envelope and sent it, before he lost his nerve.

  The next day he wrote of his desire to see her again.

  ~.~

  Lord Firthley’s next letter was delivered to Eleanor with in the home of Lady Tarkington. The poetry meeting was just breaking up and Eleanor sat with Lavinia as the other ladies talked with one another, before departing. Many of the ladies had books of poetry with them, and Eleanor was no different. She held the letter, which Lavinia had just given her, hidden within the pages. She reached between the pages, broke the seal and opened it, thinking she was indeed growing brave.

  My Dearest Lady;

  When shall I again see your face? I do not want to wait on another chance. We must make one. I shall be at Almack’s Assembly Room in two days’ time. I pray, look for me. I shall stand transfixed, with eyes for your beauty alone.

  DWF

  Eleanor looked up at Lavinia and Lavinia arched an eyebrow at her. As long as she did not say his name, Eleanor thought. She could discuss him openly with Lavinia, and so, with the other ladies milling about her, Eleanor told Lavinia. “He wants to meet me at Almack’s later this week.” She kept her face as carefully blank as she was able. As if the author of the letter was of no consequence.

  “I will call the carriage,” Lavinia said stopping any further discussion until they were safely alone in the conveyance.

  “I knew it would not be long before the gentleman would desire another meeting,” Lavinia said once they were seated and the carriage moving back towards Eleanor’s home. Her voice was pitched as to not be overheard by even the driver. “Can we manage Almack’s? What other events might you have in your social calendar?”

  “We cannot.” Eleanor shook her head sadly remembering. “Grandfather has a dinner gathering and Father expects me to be there along with my sisters. He has plans to set us out like paintings to be admired, and perhaps one of the Peers shall purchase us.”

  “Oh dear, let us hope it is not as bad as all that.”

  “I suppose not,” Eleanor said. “It is Lily who is in the most danger, since she is the eldest.”

  Lavinia nodded. “I see. Well, perhaps we can organize a meeting later in the month then,” Lavinia planned. “It is best not to upset your father’s plans.”

  “Oh, I wish I could write the letter right now, so I could send it immediately. If only I could balance the ink upon my knee as I write.”

  Lavinia patted her hand. “Tomorrow is soon enough,” she said.

  Eleanor had her reply on the morrow and Lavinia posted the letter.

  Dearest Gentleman;

  I am not allowed Almack’s this week, and my heart breaks to tell you so. My grandfather is hosting a dinner for several prominent members of Parliament. Of course, your father would not have recei
ved an invite. I shall be miserable in my duties as accommodating hostess. I shall be the lily of the hour, as they say, and abhor every minute of it. I await your volumes.

  EAH

  The next day brought yet another letter. Eleanor opened it. It was a thick package, with a single letter and several leaves covered with poetry. She was filled with delight. She read the letter first.

  My Dearest Lady;

  Do not despair, my love. Neither did Romeo receive an invite…”

  Eleanor gasped, terrified for a moment. He could not think he could be so bold! Father would kill him. She read on, breathless.

  But I am afraid I may share Mercutio’s fate if I were to attend. Even so, I find just a glimpse of your sweet face would perhaps be worth the cost.

  Worth the cost! Of his life, never.

  Here I have attached my social requirements for the fortnight. I pray that you might have but one event the same if the fates smile on us.

  Also enclosed were several sonnets, which she laid aside to enjoy later.

  Pray tell, do you prefer Petrarch over Shakespeare? I do like the succinctness of a single rhyming couplet, but fear it is impossible to resolve all difficulties with only two.

  DWF

  Eleanor considered what Lord Firthley had written. First, that he would even jest about his life was not something she could consider. Yes, it had become tedious to converse via letter alone, and yet to meet would be much more dangerous. He could be called out in a duel and killed by any member of her family. Her mouth went dry. She considered the last line of his letter. “Impossible to resolve all difficulties with only two.”

  She did not think he meant only the poem. Did he think it would be better to involve more people in their ruse? What would that accomplish? Who could help them, Eleanor wondered. As she considered, she looked at his social calendar. It was completely opposite of her own. She should not have been surprised. She sighed, took up pen and ink and began to write.