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Ella
We are back at our country estate, not far from London. I am more at ease here without the noise and crowds and confines of the city. There are trees instead of buildings and air that doesn’t reek of smoke and filthy streets. I could never understand the appeal of large cities like London. Perhaps for most, it is the social aspect that draws people; there is certainly no shortage of that. For me, it’s suffocating and tedious, superficial in a way that wears on my patience. But not here, I think, as I watch a bird fly by carrying a small stick in its beak, landing in a nearby tree. It’s building a nest, and I could sit here all day and watch while that tiny creature accomplishes such a great task.
“Ella!” Mary calls, startling me out of my reverie. “You have to tell me this again from start to finish. I cannot imagine that this man, whom you say is a visual treat, not a bloody monkey or a mule—”
“Mary!” I admonish.
“Oh, Ella, it’s just the two of us here. You aren’t becoming one of our mothers already! You are not even twenty. Surely that offers you some liberty to be improper.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because you don’t know any better, of course!” She throws her head back and laughs while I wonder at her logic. Mary has always been like a grown woman inside a child’s, or now, a young woman’s body. She has the carefree attitude and unfiltered speech of a woman fortunate enough to pass the age of seventy-five. However, despite her inappropriate outbursts and tendency to embarrass me beyond words, Mary is a true and dear friend. I trust her in a way that is different than how I trust others, and although it doesn’t surpass the trust I have with Beatrice, it is still quite valuable.
Mary sits down next to me by the window and grabs a pillow to hold in front of her, her red hair and green eyes glowing in the bright light shining through the glass. “Now, back to what I was saying. You have a man that has shown great interest in you. He is uncommonly handsome, the heir to an earldom and whatever other titles you mentioned. He’s a captain in the Royal Navy, and wrote you that poem that just melted my heart. Yet, you’re upset about this…why?”
Without telling her the sordid details of our encounter, not to mention his improper familiarity toward me, she will never understand why I have issues with this man—issues that I fear may never resolve. “Mary, you know I cannot tolerate an egotistical man that cares for nothing more than himself!”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, Lydia, one of the serving maids, appears with a light afternoon refreshment. My stomach flips as I see she has also brought a small silver tray that holds a single envelope fashioned with the neat handwriting I have already come to recognize as Lord Stewart’s.
My heart skips a beat. I stare at the envelope with intense curiosity mingled with an undeniable blend of anticipation, trepidation, and possibly fear at what may be hiding within.
“Whateverthatis,” Mary says, pointing her finger at me, “that’s written all over your face, has my curiosity boiling over. Open the bloody thing, and let’s see what he has to say. Because I know that letter is from the subject at hand and not Lord Sweaty Palms.” She gives a mock shiver as her face twists in disgust.
Reluctantly, I do her bidding and damn him for playing with my heart again.
Dearest Lady Ella,
You have been in the forefront of my mind since I saw you last. Admittedly, I try to maintain my focus on tasks I am to complete while not at sea—after all, it is my duty. Yet it will all have to wait, for I fear a magical spell has been cast upon me by a mysterious maiden that hides in the forest. She’s filled my mind with fanciful notions and whimsical tales as I wonder what she is busy doing now. Earlier today, as I lay on a grassy hill listening to the rhythmic sound of water flowing down the rocky stream nearby, the sun warming me from the outside in, these words came to me, and I rushed home to write them down for you.
Do a butterfly’s wings make a sound as it moves from here to there and everywhere?
Distracted by so many colors, too many flavors, to ever stay in one place very long.
“Shhhh,” she bids through pursed lips and a slender finger,
“If you know how to listen, you can hear their song.”
“Their song?” I question. “The butterfly’s or its wings?”
“Shhhh,” she sounds again. “Its wings, of course.”
Her whisper is soft and soothing to my ears.
I do not ask again, though I long to hear her speak.
She shutters her eyes as the silence surrounds us.
Mine will not close.
Her face is lit by the sun,
Her breathing barely nil.
Her lips slowly spread, then lift at either side.
My heart beats faster,
Then faster still.
