the letter in one hand, the fingertips of her other touched his words.
My love… He’d only said those words for the first time a week ago, and yet she’d hoped to hear them for weeks, perhaps for months. Paul. An image of him dressed in his uniform crept into her head, his scarlet coat with its bright brass buttons hugging the contours of his chest. She loved the way he smiled so easily, and the way it glowed in his blue eyes. But he was a man of strength and vibrancy; life and emotion burned in his eyes too, and power cut into his features.
He was a breathing statue of Adonis; his beauty more like art than reality.
Her gaze dropped back to his words.
I’m sorry. Your father has said, no, and by now I am sure you know it. I tried Ellen, but he would not hear me out. He said I am not good enough for you. He would not even consider me. He will not have his daughter become the wife of a mere captain, no matter that I am the son of an earl. He wishes you to be a duchess. He will never consider a sixth son who must earn his living. He actually had the audacity to tell me even if I had been my brother and the heir, he would not agree to our match.
But I refuse to give you up, and I must leave for America soon. My love. I want you with me. Will you come with me without his acceptance? Will you run away with me? We can leave at night and head for Gretna; elope. You know how much I feel for you. You know I cannot bear to let you go. Remember my love burns brighter than the sun for you. You are my life, Ellen. Come. Send word via your maid if you will. My heart shall ache until I can look into your topaz eyes again.
All my love, forever and ever yours,
Paul
Tears dripped onto the paper, blurring the words. She loved him too. They’d met in June. He’d come for a house party with his father, the Earl of Craster, and his brothers. His family had come to talk politics, but Paul had only come to entertain himself.
Ellen looked up from his letter, wiping away her tears. “I will write back, Pippa. You will take the letter for me?” The maid hovered near the door watching.
When Paul had come here, even though Ellen was not officially out and allowed to socialise in high-society, her father had agreed to her joining the party.
She’d been sixteen then.
She’d eaten with the men during the day and entertained them in the evening, playing the pianoforte and singing while they stood or sat in groups and talked. But in those weeks Paul had singled her out. He’d sat next to her for several meals, and turned the music sheets for her when she’d played; his thigh brushing against hers as they’d shared a narrow stool.
She’d known her father’s intention had been for her to draw the interest of the Duke of Argyle, but she didn’t want to marry an old man. Paul had talked to her and made her laugh, whispering as she played, while the other men talked politics and struck bargains about the room.
They’d communicated through the servants since the beginning of August.
Paul had befriended a groom while he’d stayed here and the man took letters back and forth, passing them through Pippa.
Ellen’s conscience whispered as she turned to open her writing desk, which stood on a small table before the window.
The very first time she’d seen Paul, before they’d even been introduced, something had pulled her gaze to him.
Perhaps it was his scarlet coat which made him stand out among her father’s political friends, or his dark blond hair, which swept sideways across his brow, as though his fingers had combed through it. Or his blue eyes which had looked back at her. Or the dimple which dented his cheek when he’d smiled before looking away.
When they were introduced, her stomach had somersaulted, and when he’d kissed the back of her fingers her knees had weakened. It was as if she’d known him a lifetime as he’d held her gaze.
She’d told her sister, Penny, she wished to marry the soldier, not the old Duke.
She should not have written to Paul though, not without permission… Thrusting the guilt aside, she put his letter down to start her own, sitting before a blank sheet of paper.
Paul.
My father has shut me in my room. I am to stay here until I agree to marry the Duke of Argyle. You would not believe how cruel he was about you. I know he is a Duke, but I have three sisters who may marry who he wishes. I choose to marry a captain. Yes, I will elope with you. Only tell me when! Send word as quickly as you can. I do not wish to stay here another hour even.
I cannot wait to see you. Come and fetch me.
Love, love and more love.
Yours and yours always,
Ellen
Ellen blotted her words, then sealed the letter, dropping a little melted wax onto the folded paper. Then she blew on it to cool it, and waved it in the air. She finished by kissing the still warm wax, before she gave the letter to Pippa.
“Be careful, do not let anyone see you pass it to Eric.”
“I shan’t, my Lady. Did you wish me to bring you something to eat? I can fetch something from cook.”
“No, do not take the risk, Pippa. If my father’s steward or the housekeeper discovered it you would lose your post and I will never forgive myself. I can manage. It is just a little hunger.” It shall not be for long…
“Then is there anything else, my Lady?”
“Nothing, Pippa. Go.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy, then left, the servants’ door closing behind her.
Ellen walked over to a chair by the fire and looked into the flames. Her fingers curled into fists as she held on to her excitement.
It was Christmas in a week, mid-winter.
She picked up the handkerchief she was embroidering for her youngest sister, Sylvia, and sat down, then took out the needle intending to sew again, but her hand dropped as anxiety twisted and spun in her stomach. She’d felt muddled for weeks – quivery inside. She’d been confused ever since Paul had left in the summer.
Before he’d gone he’d slipped a note into a book he’d read aloud to her. It had said simply, may I write to you? She’d nodded, her heart blooming with relief that his leaving would not be an end to their friendship.
His first letter had come by mail, but her father checked the post and when he’d spotted a letter to her he’d read it and returned it to Paul, telling him not to write. There had been nothing condemning in it, no words of love, only facts and stories, but still she’d endured a severe interview, and her father hadn’t even known she’d given Paul permission to write.
Paul’s second letter, telling her about his first, had come via Eric and Pippa. It had still been merely talk, but he’d said he’d taken lodgings nearby for a week or two so he might establish a way to communicate with her. Her heart beat rapidly even at the memory of that first letter.
