Chapter 14

Fourteen

R uth could not sleep.

Everything was in order — the casement closed, the fire dim and low, her hair braided into a thick rope over one shoulder — but sleep itself would not come. She lay awake as the hours ticked by, her mind tracing and retracing memories of Lord Darnley. In each memory she could see the strong set of his jaw; the way his eyes fell on her, or the beautiful turn of wit he brought to every conversation.

She felt as though she was doing war with her own thoughts, trying again and again to push the tall, handsome man out of her memory. For a time she could hold him at bay, but when she relaxed even a little into thoughts of sleep, his visage would reappear and her heart would be his again. It was infuriating.

When this had gone on long enough, she sat up in frustration and fumbled towards the fire, using some of the dying embers to light her candle.

She went back to the bed and pulled Lady Cecelia’s diary out from under her pillow, holding the pages close enough to the candle so that she could read clearly.

She had not read a single word until this moment, and if the night had been so difficult and so isolating, she was not sure she would have tried. She turned the title page and found herself almost immediately in the center of some strange drama.

He did not come to me at first, the entry read. He knew that I was watching him from across the dance floor — I could see that he knew. He would not look my way, though. It seemed as though, with a concerted effort, he could keep me invisible and thereby hold me at arms length. But he could not. In the end, he came over to me and asked me to dance. Just as he seemed unable to resist the question, I was unable to resist the answer.

I agreed. Walking out on the floor with him felt like the most intimate of experiences. Everyone watching would have only seen a man and a woman dancing an innocuous dance. No one would have thought anything of it. But for us — we knew the truth. There was love between us, and that made every light touch; ever turn, every step, charged with feeling.

Ruth sucked in her breath, pausing and letting the diary rest in her lap. The things Lady Cecelia described — feelings that she credited as “love” — were known to Ruth. She had felt the very same way in Lord Darnley’s arms. So it was love, then, that made everything feel so poignant? She flipped to the next page, wanting to know the future of this romance.

The man in the entry had not been named. She knew that the Duchess had been pushed into an arranged marriage. That did not in any way sound like this stolen dance in a love-filled moment. She wondered who had claimed the Duchess’ heart all those years ago, and why it had ended.

As she read, she found herself getting caught up in Lady Cecelia’s story. She felt as though she was falling for the mysterious, unnamed man in the Duchess’ writings.

I wonder if it will always feel this way? My heart can hardly stand to be around him, it is full to bursting of love and affection. And yet, my heart would wither away and die without him. I can feel that it is so. I used to despise poetry that prattled on in a dramatic way about endless love, and yet now I understand it. Shakespeare moves through my head: “My love is as a fever, longing still.”

Then, a few pages later: He met me in the village today, catching me as I walked over the bridge towards the millenary. I stopped to speak with him despite my better judgment. I knew that we would be seen. He is not an improper man by any means, but my parents have made it clear that the second son of a baron is not proper for a woman like myself. He will inherit nothing, and have no proper title.

Ruth winced. The second son of a baron may have been nothing to Lady Cecelia’s parents, but he was a good deal more important than herself. She was a governess who had been given a fortunate break as a lady’s companion — neither situation worthy of discussion in the same breath as Lord Darnley. She read on.

The thing about my gentleman is that he is truly kind-hearted. I heard him speaking to the stable-boy outside the Assembly rooms this very evening. The boy had brought the wrong horse forwards. I am certain if my father had been faced with the same situation he would have scolded the boy most severely for overlooking his duties. My gentleman did not. He merely told the boy that “it is easy to make mistakes on an evening such as this, when the stars are clear and the air is blindingly crisp. I imagine your thoughts were not entirely on worldly matters, but turned towards the boundless heavens.”

He was teasing, a bit. I am certain the poor stable boy had not been thinking of anything celestial. Still, the boy seemed happy after the exchange, and went about his business with renewed vigor. It pains me, because I know that the man I love would make a good master and a good lord. He ought to be one. He will not be, but way of his birth, but he ought to be.

Ruth smiled to herself and sank down in the covers. She could just imagine this mysterious gentleman teasing the stable boy and winning Lady Cecelia’s heart in the process. The next entry, however, was much shorter.

He is going. I do not know where, and I do not understand why. He is leaving me.

The ink here had smudged, and Ruth realized with a jolt of sadness that she was likely looking at the Duchess’ tears, dried upon the page. The next entry had more description, likely put down after the girl writing had been given a chance at rest and a moment to think.

It makes sense, the entry began, that he should have to go. He told me whilst clasping my hands in the garden, speaking about the need to find his own fortunes. He told me that he will go abroad and study so that he might return with a proper occupation and the ability to support me. He spoke of our future, and I love him for it. Still, I begged him to stay. I told him that I would take him as he is, with no prospects and no money.

He said my parents would not approve. When have I ever cared about them? I think only of him.

He gave me these roses, plucked from the roadside. He told me that he would write every day. He told me to wait for him; that he would love me forever and always. I pledged myself to him in response, but I still ache as I think of him riding away from me down the road.

How could he do this? He has the whole of my heart, and he is leaving. How can one live without one’s heart? It is impossible.

Ruth felt hot tears burning in her eyes. She brushed them away and turned the page.

No word, it said simply. Perhaps it is too early for him to write.

What followed was seven pages marked by only a brief, heartbreaking update on the man’s silence.

No word. No word. No word.

Then, the final page upon which anything was written in the diary. Ruth read the words with bated breath, caught up in the culmination of the tale.

I have not written in some time. When I look back on the pages of my silly history and read about my love for him, it pains me too much. I could not read it all. I will simply write this closing chapter to an affair that had no place ever being.

Mother and Father have found a match for me. He is not very kind, and he is not very handsome. I spoke with him for fifteen minutes the day we first met, and felt it had been a thousand years. He spoke of things that did not matter, in a way that held no life or promise and I found myself growing numb and turning my thoughts to other things.

I think that is how my life will go now that I have agreed to marry him — it will be dreary, but perhaps it will disappear into mist. Perhaps I will stop hurting over time.

You may wonder, diary, why it is that I agreed to the marriage in the first place. It is not, as you may guess, a reaction to my love’s silence. I received a letter from him three months ago. It is tucked in the back of this book, along with a copy of my response a few days past.

My marriage is not an attempt to hurt him. I would never hurt him; never in my wildest dreams. I would wait for him forever if I could.

No, it is only that I have grown realistic at last. A broken heart will do that to you. My family pressures me at every turn to marry, and this latest choice is a duke. Surely if I marry him, I will at least be left alone, not only by my relations, but by my cold husband and my own exhausting thoughts.

The one I love — the one I loved — will never understand, but there is naught I can do about that. He abandoned me, and I do not think he will ever truly know how vulnerable I felt in his absence. Perhaps he will find love again. I will marry the duke — a man I know I can never love — to be certain I do not.

Ruth flipped to the back of the diary and found both letters mentioned tucked there within the flap. She pulled out the gentleman’s first. It was brief — painfully so.

C,

I do not have much time to write. This has been harder than I expected. I am unsure that you are waiting for me; I am unsure that I want you to. Please think of me from time to time.

S

Ruth could hardly credit the letter. She thought it possible that the mysterious “S” — Scott, perhaps? — had meant that he didn’t want to ask Lady Cecelia to wait for him when he knew she could find a better match. Still, it was easy to interpret the letter as a cold shoulder to the woman he loved. The response was even more difficult to read.

My love.

That is what you will always be — my love. I wish it was not so; I wish that I could forget you as I feel you are already forgetting me.

I am writing to tell you that my family has left me no choice. I will marry the Duke of March Manor within the fortnight. I am certain that this is the best choice for our future — I shall be well situated, and you shall not have to strive any longer to hold on to what was.

Please, forget me.

I will never forget you.

Yours, C.

Ruth set the letter down, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“Why?” she said softly into the darkness. “Why would you give up on her? Why would she give up on you?”

She felt she had stumbled upon as many questions as she now had answers. She tucked the letters back into the diary and slid it under her pillow.

I will have to show Lord Darnley tomorrow, she thought. Whatever this diary shows, it certainly demonstrates the Duchess’ condition and a proper reason for her loneliness.

She tried to push her own situation from her mind, but she could not help seeing a parallel. It terrified her. The Duchess had written of growing numb and forgetting her lost love — yet it was clear that love had endured painfully and completely through the years. Ruth wanted to forget her own feelings. She was growing afraid that she would not be able to, and that the unrequited affection would follow her to her dying day.