safe cocooned in his
arms.
“ Enough, Emily,” she murmured.
She
picked up the book she’d been reading when the messenger boy
arrived. She read a line and placed it down again. Perhaps, Mr.
Dalton did deserve a reply. He had after all saved her from the
scared beast. Furthermore, someone had to awaken him to the harsh
reality of matrimony in this day and age and not to the ridiculous
romantic notion he held.
She
hurried to her desk, a reply already forming in her mind. Dipping
her goose feather quill into the ink, she wrote:
My dear Mr. Dalton,
If as you say, you wish to
respect my wishes, then I beg you not to communicate with me any
longer. Pray, I wish you would see your foolhardy emotion for what
it is.
You quote
Shakespeare and I shall in turn quote another wise man,
Monsieur Pierre Choderlos de Laclos: “ What you call happiness is nothing but a tumult in
the mind, a tempest of passion, frightful to behold even for the
spectator on the shore. “
Sincerely,
Emily
To her surprise, William’s private
messenger brought in a reply early the next morning.
My dearest
Emily,
I wish to respect your decision, but news in town speaks of
wolves and an attack upon Brookenshire Manor. Is this so? Are you
well? Is your family well? Pray, grant this wretched man a last
dying wish and inform me of your wellbeing, for though you might
not love me as I love you, I am concerned for your health and
happiness.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Yours forever,
William
Emily picked at the piano keys. For the past half hour she’d
been attempting to play and had created nothing but halfhearted
melodies. She couldn’t concentrate. She was tired and cranky. She’d
slept poorly, her dreams plagued with images of William Dalton,
wolves and wild horses. Out of the corner of her eyes she peeked at
his latest missive, which she’d hastily thrown atop the piano after
reading it. She had decided she would not respond. The infuriating
man spoke of respecting her decision, yet he wrote again and
included another Shakespeare quote about never-ending love.
Clearly, he was mad.
Once
more, she tickled the piano keys trying to draw out the melody in
the sheet before her. Her clumsy fingers didn’t respond as she
wished and she slammed her fist over the keys in frustration,
chagrining herself for getting out of temper. Any moment, her
mother would come barging in asking what the matter was. Covering
her face with her hands she took in a few deep breaths. Eyes
closed, she placed her fingers over the keys determined to
practice.
“ Emily, what
have you there?”
She jumped at
the sound of her mother’s voice directly behind her. “Mother.”
Before Emily could stop her,
Jane Bunsbury snatched William’s letter from its place. Emily
scrambled to her feet, desperate to take it back. “Mother, please,
it is a personal matter.”
“A personal matter?”
Emily regretted her words as
soon as she saw the calculating light in Jane’s eyes. Her chubby
hands fumbled with the folds of the letter.
“You have been corresponding with Mr. Dalton,” her mother cried
eagerly.
“ Mother …”
“ Quiet, Emily.
Sit.”
Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck.
If her mother read the letter she was doomed. Jane would force her
to reply to Mr. Dalton and that would encourage him. She would not
allow it.
She pulled the letter out of her
mother’s hand, the page ripping in two as the elder woman
arms.
“ Enough, Emily,” she murmured.
She
picked up the book she’d been reading when the messenger boy
arrived. She read a line and placed it down again. Perhaps, Mr.
Dalton did deserve a reply. He had after all saved her from the
scared beast. Furthermore, someone had to awaken him to the harsh
reality of matrimony in this day and age and not to the ridiculous
romantic notion he held.
She
hurried to her desk, a reply already forming in her mind. Dipping
her goose feather quill into the ink, she wrote:
My dear Mr. Dalton,
If as you say, you wish to
respect my wishes, then I beg you not to communicate with me any
longer. Pray, I wish you would see your foolhardy emotion for what
it is.
You quote
Shakespeare and I shall in turn quote another wise man,
Monsieur Pierre Choderlos de Laclos: “ What you call happiness is nothing but a tumult in
the mind, a tempest of passion, frightful to behold even for the
spectator on the shore. “
Sincerely,
Emily
To her surprise, William’s private
messenger brought in a reply early the next morning.
My dearest
Emily,
I wish to respect your decision, but news in town speaks of
wolves and an attack upon Brookenshire Manor. Is this so? Are you
well? Is your family well? Pray, grant this wretched man a last
dying wish and inform me of your wellbeing, for though you might
not love me as I love you, I am concerned for your health and
happiness.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Yours forever,
William
Emily picked at the piano keys. For the past half hour she’d
been attempting to play and had created nothing but halfhearted
melodies. She couldn’t concentrate. She was tired and cranky. She’d
slept poorly, her dreams plagued with images of William Dalton,
wolves and wild horses. Out of the corner of her eyes she peeked at
his latest missive, which she’d hastily thrown atop the piano after
reading it. She had decided she would not respond. The infuriating
man spoke of respecting her decision, yet he wrote again and
included another Shakespeare quote about never-ending love.
Clearly, he was mad.
Once
more, she tickled the piano keys trying to draw out the melody in
the sheet before her. Her clumsy fingers didn’t respond as she
wished and she slammed her fist over the keys in frustration,
chagrining herself for getting out of temper. Any moment, her
mother would come barging in asking what the matter was. Covering
her face with her hands she took in a few deep breaths. Eyes
closed, she placed her fingers over the keys determined to
practice.
“ Emily, what
have you there?”
She jumped at
the sound of her mother’s voice directly behind her. “Mother.”
Before Emily could stop her,
Jane Bunsbury snatched William’s letter from its place. Emily
scrambled to her feet, desperate to take it back. “Mother, please,
it is a personal matter.”
“A personal matter?”
Emily regretted her words as
soon as she saw the calculating light in Jane’s eyes. Her chubby
hands fumbled with the folds of the letter.
“You have been corresponding with Mr. Dalton,” her mother cried
eagerly.
“ Mother …”
“ Quiet, Emily.
Sit.”
Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck.
If her mother read the letter she was doomed. Jane would force her
to reply to Mr. Dalton and that would encourage him. She would not
allow it.
She pulled the letter out of her
mother’s hand, the page ripping in two as the elder woman
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