by Fanny Finch
Please, write to me.
Sincerely,
Miss Julia Weston
James stared down at the letter in surprise.
Miss Weston had never confided to him that she thought of herself as anything less than a marvel. She always seemed to be possessed of the greatest self-confidence.
Yet, in this letter, she had found the courage to say to a stranger what she would not admit to the face of a man she had known for ten years.
Perhaps there was something to this letter writing.
Perhaps, instead of revealing his name, he ought to continue to woo her through writing. He could say to her all of the things he did not know how to speak aloud. And she would be able to do the same with him.
Would it not enable them to be more honest than if they were in person? There were many years between them. A lot of baggage, in a way. And everyone would be watching them if they were to court. They would not truly be able to fully take the measure of one another. There would always be others listening in to the conversation.
This could be the solution.
He hurried to his desk and wrote her a reply that might be sent out with the earliest post.
Dear Miss Weston,
You have no idea how many times I wish to start these letters with something more drastic than a simple ‘dear’ but I fear I must hold onto some tenets of propriety.
I received your letter after a full day of cursing my stupidity. To my horror, I realized only too late that I had left out my name in my letter to you.
You can easily imagine the many names that I called myself. I despaired of the matter ever being resolved.
How lucky, then, that I had instinctively added my post office box as the return address. And how fortunate that you were kind enough to respond.
Many women would have simply burnt such a letter, I am sure. I suppose I have your adventurous spirit to thank for it?
My first instinct was to write to you and tell you my name. Dispel the mystery.
However, thinking upon it, perhaps this could be a blessing to us.
You echoed my sentiment that it is often easier to be honest when one is not standing in front of the person to whom one is confessing. Perhaps that is why, in Catholicism, the parishioners confess to the priest through a wall?
I was thinking, that is if you would not object to it, that we might then continue this correspondence. That I might reveal myself to you through letters.
A man’s name is after all only one small part of his character. And I have found in my time that I am not wholly myself when I am in person.
I tend to mold myself to fit what others would wish to see. I reflect their own behavior back at them. Sometimes I feel as if I do not even know myself for all that I am playing a role around others.
If you would allow me, perhaps this way we could come to know one another without pretense and without pressure. Without worry and judgment.
Of course, I ask nothing from you. You may ask me as many questions as you like. You are obliged to tell me nothing. The burden of responsibility is on my head, to prove to you that I can be the sort of man that you would desire for a husband.
I believe that in this way we can truly come to know each other. Without the burden of our pasts and our past impressions of one another.
I can assure you that I am far more eloquent regarding my feelings when I am writing them as opposed to speaking them. You can say no, of course. The choice is yours. I only wish to woo you properly, and I think that this would be the best way for me to do that.
I know that it is unconventional. I feel a great well of shame even as I suggest it. I can only say that I am a coward.
But if you would permit me, perhaps this way we could truly come to know one another. Or, rather, you could truly come to know me and my thoughts. The ones that I have kept from you for so long.
The choice is yours. Whatever you decide, I remain…
He stared down at the paper. Should he sign some kind of… alternate name? A fond sort of nickname that she could call him instead of his actual name?
No, that would be too intimate. Too close to a Christian name. Just as he would only call Miss Weston ‘Julia’ if they were engaged, and she would only call him ‘James’ under those same circumstances.
But he couldn’t just leave it blank. That felt too odd. He must leave her something.
He decided to simply sign it with deepest respects, Sir.
He was tempted to replace ‘respects’ with ‘affections’ but he was already risking far too much in continuing their correspondence. And in asking her to continue it even further.
Was he mad? Had he completely lost his mind?
But men and women did write to each other, even though it was prudent not to. Miss Georgiana Reginald, soon to be Mrs. Trentworth, and her fiancé had written to one another throughout their courtship.
Of course, the only one who did not know of their courtship was her father, since his disapproval was legendary.
If one was engaged to a lady or it was presumed that one soon would be, then there were ways in which the lines of what was and was not appropriate blurred.
That did not mean that others didn’t blur the lines before then. Miss Weston had always been the adventurous type. Would she be willing to skirt along the bounds of propriety?
He was willing to risk it for her, but he would not be risking as much. He was aware of that. It was always the woman who took the fall. Rarely the man.
Even when it was clearly the man’s fault.
If they were to be discovered to have been passing letters, the pressure upon them to marry would be immense. Many would assume that they must secretly be engaged to be writing to one another in such a fashion.
But if they were careful—and he for his part would be exceedingly careful—they could get away with it.
They could grow to learn one another properly, this way. Without all of the history between them. Without her set idea of who and what he was. They could manage this.
They would just have to be careful.
And Miss Weston would have to say yes.
Chapter 7
Julia waited with impatience for the arrival of another letter.
Or, perhaps, the arrival of the gentleman himself.
She was not so sure that he would come in person. He had stated in his letter that writing was much easier for him than speaking to her about this face to face. That, indeed, writing was the only way that he could declare his feelings for her.
It would most likely be another letter, to tell her of his name.
She felt like a fiend, always checking the post, paranoid. Even all through the ball last night she had been distracted.
All that she could think as she danced with the men was, Is it you?
At the end of the night, she’d had to admit to herself that she hoped her letter writer was not one of the men with whom she had danced.
Unless one of them was doing a very good job of concealing his more romantic nature, they were all far too dull. Or, they were far too inclined to dance attendance on her.
The letter writer had written to her because he could not show his feelings any other way. That meant he couldn’t possibly be one of the men fawning over her. Otherwise, why not simply woo her in person?
On the other hand, the men who didn’t seem to have as much of an interest in her were quite boring. And none of them had been what she would call a friend. The letter writer wouldn’t have dared to say that if they were only passing acquaintances, would he?
And so who could it possibly be?
It had so distracted her that she had not even noticed until halfway through the ball that Mr. Norwich was gone. They always did a dance together. He was the most skilled dancer that she knew. Someone who could always keep up with her.
Why on earth should he have left?
Julia had shrugged it off. Perhaps he had an early morning and had seen how busy she was with other partners. Mr. Norwich
was always courteous in that way.
Still. She would have liked to have danced with him. She had not realized how much she enjoyed dancing with him until he was no longer there.
Julia resolved to tell him so when she next saw him. He would be all apologies of course. She would then tease him and he would respond and he would dance with her next time.
But who was her letter writer?
She had left the ball in a state of frustration. She had thought that it would be so easy to figure out who it was. That through his glances or words, the man would reveal himself.
Even if he had not meant to show himself. That through her new knowledge of him, he would do so inadvertently.
But this man was rather good at hiding his true nature, for she could not put her finger on any one person and say definitely, That is him.
She did not think that he had gone so far as to pretend to be fawning or indifferent in order to hide himself further from her. And again, none of the men were what she would call a friend.
That meant it was all entirely up to the letter.
Mother commented a few times on her pacing. “Whatever has gotten into you?” she demanded.
Julia could not very well be honest with her and tell her. Impatience was like an itch inside of her bones that she could not reach, similar to hunger and yet so very different.
“It is nothing,” she said, trying to sound dismissive. “I am waiting for the official invitation from Georgiana, that is all.”
“The woman only became engaged a month or two ago, my dear,” Mother replied. “Do give her some time. They are all most likely recovering from the grand mess that was her brother’s wedding.”
True, the wedding of a duke—for that was what Georgiana’s brother was—had to by political necessity be a grand affair.
Georgiana had ended up doing most of the planning to help out her soon-to-be sister-in-law. Julia did not blame her if she wished to take some time before planning her own wedding.
However, it was as good an excuse as any as to why she was currently pacing up and down the hall. Julia held in her sigh.
Then the mail, at last, arrived.
She had to clutch her own hands together to keep from snatching it all out of the servant’s hands as the letters were placed on the tray. She waited until the tray was offered to her, and she could take whatever was addressed to her and leave the rest to Mother.
Mother was luckily not quite so sick that she had to leave all of the matters of the house to Julia. She could still read the letters of business and send on things to Father that he needed to know about. Or read the letters from Father about things that needed to be taken care of.
Julia normally did not care much one way or another about it. She was only glad that it meant that Mother was still well enough in that regard.
But now, she was most grateful. Mother had not even asked Julia if she had received any letters. She was so caught up in the business of dealing with her own letters.
Julia could feel her hands shaking slightly as she looked at the one letter that had arrived for her. She had a great many pen pals, as did most people. Everyone lived so far away and there was much gossip to catch up on.
But today, there was just the one letter.
She recognized the handwriting at once. She had read the original letter so many times that it seemed burned into her memory.
The return address in the left-hand corner confirmed it. This was her letter writer.
Julia could feel her hands shaking slightly as she tucked the letter into her dress and quietly departed from the room.
With some luck, Mother wouldn’t even notice that she had left.
She expected nothing but a short apology or two, and then the name. Or perhaps an apology about how the letter writer had now lost his nerve and she should pretend that nothing had happened.
Oh, she hoped with all of her heart that it was not that. She needed to know. She needed to hear more about this person. Understand how they saw such wonderful things in her, how they could burn so brightly for her without saying anything for so long.
To her surprise, the letter was much longer.
Julia could hardly believe what she was reading. The man was suggesting that they continue writing to each other?
It was a risk, she allowed. Although she could admit to herself that her first thought was not of propriety. It ought to have been, she knew that. But she had never been one to think too much about the rules of society.
Or, rather, she had never seen one that she couldn’t bend a little.
Her father would probably say it was her reckless nature and that she ought to caution herself more against such behavior. And she knew that he was probably right.
But she could not deny that the temptation was there. She wanted to know more about this person.
Part of it was, she realized, guilt.
This was someone who called her a friend. Someone who said that they knew one another. But how could she have someone who was that familiar with her, whom she did not realize had such feelings for her?
She almost wanted to write them an apology. To tell this man, I am sorry for being so blind.
She did not think that was what he wanted to hear, though. She would not wish to wound his pride. He seemed content to have been hiding his feelings from her. Glad, even.
The poor man seemed almost ashamed of how he felt. Julia wanted to clasp his hand in hers and assure him that there was no need for an apology. People could not control how they felt or with whom they fell in love, could they?
Yet, whether it was what he wanted or not, she felt that she ought to have noticed. That she should know her friends well enough to recognize their moods. How could she not have seen that someone cared for her this much?
He certainly cared for her more than she cared for him. While she could already feel in herself the potential for more tender feelings, at the moment she felt nothing in particular for any man she knew.
It was imbalanced. It was unfair. If she could she would have apologized at once and asked what she could do to improve their friendship. It made her fear that there might be other important things from her other friends that she had failed to notice.
It also made her want to get to know him better.
It made her want to take him up on his offer. To find some way to know him as he knew her. Perhaps, then, she might love him as he loved her.
She was curious to know if she could. Could she feel for him in that way? Could his love be reciprocated? It couldn’t right now for she did not know him. But he was offering…
He was offering for her to get to know him. Without the bonds of their previous knowledge of one another. Without worrying about others watching them. Without concerns about him perhaps being a bit richer or poorer than she was.
There would be no bothersome input from her parents or from her peers. There would be no need to restrain her opinions and thoughts because others were around. She could ask him questions that she dare not ask normally.
This way, she could truly learn his character, and he hers. She could admit to herself that she was not so sure he truly loved her.
After all, was not the person that she was in public different from who she was in private? Did they not all put on social masks?
She was always so much more flirtatious and confident in front of others than she felt otherwise. This man must feel the same way—and he ought to know that about her.
He ought to know what he was getting into if he married her. Just as she ought to know what she was getting into with marrying him.
It was only fair, wasn’t it? To spare the both of them an unhappy marriage? It had worked out for her parents but she had heard far too many horror stories about other people’s unions.
Nobody would know. Nobody need find out. They would write letters and simply be discreet about sending and receiving them.
With a little intelligence and common sense, there was no reason why this should
become a scandal.
And the gentleman had already shown he was capable of restraint. Julia could think of a great many other things he might have said in his letters.
Indeed, he had admitted in this one that he was tempted to address her in the letter in a manner other than ‘dear’ but had held back. Julia’s mind ran wild with the possibilities of what it might be. Something simple and sweet such as darling? Or perhaps more of a fond pet name, such as dove or kitten?
