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Such as your impending death and the dark hole it will leave. And situating my family for a life of happiness and prosperity.
His father appeared contemplative for a while, and Hugh’s gut tightened at the way he stared at him.
“What is it?”
“It cannot be her.”
The words fell between them, a fiery arrow piercing his affected calm, and an unexpected tension mounted in Hugh. He did not have to ask for clarity as to who the “her” belonged to. He had entered his private study only this morning to see his father reading the letters and words that had been indelibly seared onto Hugh’s memory.
Her—the lady who had been bold enough to berate his actions in advertising for a wife. The one who had responded to each of his eleven letters over the course of several weeks. The one who made him anticipate seeing that rider racing up the lanes of his home, black coat flapping behind him as another of her replies was delivered. The missives enlivened his days, and he slept with the sometimes caustic, other times lonely, then curious words rolling through his mind.
It had been a matter of honor that he’d not used a devious tactic to uncover her identity. She wanted to remain a mystery, and it was important to him that he honor that request. Many times, he had fiercely suppressed the need to set his man of affairs to find out exactly to whom his responses were delivered.
The first tones of her letters had implied the quill had been dipped in acid, so fiery and scathing her words had been. Something had changed over the course of their interchanges, an odd friendship of sorts, if he could dare to label it as such. But he looked forward to those letters even when she queried if he had found his wife in her dry, mocking, and often amused tone.
What did she look like? What did she sound like…and what could she possibly taste like? Sweet or tart like her words? Oftentimes, it bemused Hugh that he wanted to kiss a lady he’d never seen. In the nig
hts, he stood atop this very cliff and spoke to her.
Do you like to read? he would ask and then silently offer to her, I enjoy Mencius, a master philosopher who lived in the Zhou dynasty.
That dream woman would lift her face to his and her lips would curve.
How do you smile? With your lips only or with your eyes as well? Despite her bold and provocative replies to his letters, he believed her to be a lady who saw and enjoyed the humorous idiosyncrasies of life. Many of their exchanges were indelibly seared into his memory, especially the one that had led him to believe her heart had been recently broken.
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
I think perhaps your remarks might be right. Love has nothing to do with marriage. I am a bit wiser in that regards. I do hope you find your helpmate.
A Curious Lady.
He had seen her, sitting at a small writing desk, her chest tight from the hurt she must have endured. The bright, passionate words that had declared so ferociously that love was necessary had gone, and in its place, he’d heard the jadedness and the pain. Hugh had wondered if he was being fanciful.
Dear A Curious Lady,
I am sorry you were hurt. Please avail yourself to my listening ear if you wish to speak of it.
A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth.
…
Dear A Gentleman of Distinction and Wealth,
A very thoughtful offer from a man who seems to lack any refined sensibilities. Have I experienced enough of the world to be betrayed by love? I even wonder if what I had felt was love…and truly how does one measure such a sentiment? Is it real, do you think? Someone who I thought loved me has hurt and disappointed me most terribly.
But then I reflect that those with familial connections who should have loved and protected my heart did not, so why should I ever expect it of another? I confess to you, and it is frightfully easy to do so because I do not know you, there is a heaviness in my heart, and despite my numerous reflections, I cannot understand my discomfort or what to do about it.
By the by, have you found your wife?
A Curious Lady.
…
Dear Curious Lady,
I confess I am not certain if that kind of love is real, having never experienced it myself. I’ve heard many poets, giggling young ladies, and blushing gentlemen describe it as something akin to heart palpitations, sweaty palms, restless nights, and nameless hunger. I have no desire to endure such unpleasantness, symptomatic of a wasting sickness and a collective delusion.
That being said, I love my family. But when I think of them, my father, brother, and sister, my heart does not race, nor do my palms sweat. I simply know they are of important and I will sacrifice much to make them happy. And perhaps that is the way to measure if love is real.
