Sequel: Everlasting ›
Evermore
xi.
February 16th, 1782 ;
Mary sat in the parlor, her hands making quick work of her tent stitching as she tried to occupy her time, which seemed to drag on forever in the previous weeks. Mary had turned down invitations for luncheons and brunches from friends, she had ignored invitations to balls and coming out parties overall quickly gaining the title of recluse much to her mother’s dismay. At first she had waited anxiously for a reply from the Earl; her girlish heart pining for words of adoration but not a single letter arrived for her.
Mary tried to look on the brighter side of the situation. The Earl would never confess undying love for her; it was not as if the two had spent copious amounts of time together. They hardly knew one another and as she always tried to remind herself; there were many girls—even other widows, such as himself—who would bring him more.
“Mary, you must get out of the house,” Sophia droned from across the parlor when Mary failed to hold back a longing sigh. Mary looked up towards her mother to see her setting aside a letter from a cousin, “Margaret is hosting a dinner party tomorrow and I think it best you and Harold attend. Together.”
“I am not feeling very sociable,” Mary replied softly, her disinterest bleeding into every syllable. In her solitude she had also denied visits from Harold, who had tried several times to take her about the town. While her mother could meddle and allow her fiancé into their home and force Mary to sit in the same room as him, she could not force her to entertain him in public.
“That much has been apparent, Mary Lynn. It is unhealthy for a girl your age to sit about all day and do nothing,” The nagging was irritating but Mary had no choice but to listen, even if she retreated from the room her mother would just follow her through the home. “And Harold is growing exasperated by your behavior as well. The dinner would be the perfect opportunity to make it up to him.”
Mary let out a loud sigh, setting down the pattern she had diligently been working on before looking up at her mother. She looked upon the delicate features of the woman who had coddled and nurtured her from birth and could only feel resentment, “Mother, you told me I had to marry Harold. Not that I had to parade about town with him, attend events or dinners with him, or even entertain his whims. I’ve resigned myself to my fate of marriage to him so please, just let it lay.”
Sophia’s young face contorted into a mask of anger but Mary knew her mother held her temper at bay, “You are so infuriating, Mary. Why can you not act like other young girls your age? There are many girls vying for Harold’s attention but he has only been attentive to you. You should be grateful.”
Standing suddenly, Mary could hold her tongue no longer, “No, Mother. I do not have to be grateful that a man treats me as less. I do not have to be grateful for giving up my happiness. I want to dwell no longer on this! I am marrying him; despite what I want most. I am doing what is right for this family, just as you wished me to do. Be grateful about that.”
Then without a second word, Mary walked out of the parlor and towards the stairs that would take her to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Thankfully her mother did not follow as Mary gathered the skirts of her day dress in her hand and took the steps quickly, wanting to be shielded behind the door of her private quarters before she lost her composure. Even as she ascended the stairs, she felt to hot burn of tears behind her brown eyes.
Just as she reached for the brass knob, the door swung open and she almost collided with the retreating form of Sarah, “Dear Lord!” The maid gasped, a hand flying to her chest in shock as the other steadied her friend, “You gave me a fright, Mary!”
“I am sorry,” Mary apologized quickly as she quickly used the sleeve of her gown to dash away any excess tears in her eyes before asking, “And what is your hurry, you act as if the house is on fire!”
“It may be if your mother finds out about the letter that I left on your writing desk,” Sarah whispered, her lithe body leaning closer to her mistress so the words could be heard better. “You owe me, Mary, I had to promise the toad footman a kiss in order to keep it out of your father’s hands.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide at the tale, the toad footman the young maid referred to was Thomas, a twenty-something year old man from York who had been with the family since Mary only ten years old. He was hardly toad like, but Mary always had a sneaking suspicion that he yearned for her prideful maid’s favor, “Oh Sarah,” she breathed softly, gratitude washing over Mary at the kindness her maid showed to her, “Thank you, truly. I promise I will make it up to you!”
Sarah smiled widely before sidestepping her mistress, “Just take me with you once the Earl and you are wed. I have always wanted to work at an estate.”
Mary could only scoff at the fanciful dreams of her maid as she entered her bedchamber and closed the door behind her, and turned the key to secure the lock. Quickly scurrying to her desk, she could hardly contain herself as she sat down and picked up the piece of parchment. Mary could hardly breath as she looked down at the folded paper, the bright red wax seal beholding his family crest revealing exactly who had written her.
Sliding her finger under the seal, until it gave way and cracked she unfolded the letter and felt her heart soar at the sight of his masculine handwriting.
Mary Lynn,
Thank you for inquiring after me and my sons. Your letter arrived while I was in Scarbourgh clearing up matters in regards to my estate, which is why my reply is less than prompt. I expect to spend a few more months in the city and return to the north, to escape the dreadful heat. Both my sons are doing well in their teachings and have grown big in the time I spent in the city. They were upset by my quick departure are look forward to my return.
I am deeply remorseful to your plight, I did not mean to distress you with my inquiries and it is I who should be making apologies to you. I had no right to intrude on arrangements made by your family in regards to your hand. I have often been told I do not hold my tongue well when something intrigues me and that you do.
From the beginning, I have been curious as to why your parents did not give you a proper coming out and why they did not pursue a higher match for their daughter instead of a match to a mere solicitor. You are well educated; learned in languages, literature, and mathematics by your own fiancé’s admission, surely your family did not have you so well learned to be a glittering jewel on the arm of a lawyer.
But alas, I always must remind myself that the matters of your engagement are of no concern to me. Though, I must ask why you are not contented with the match. Most young ladies, such as yourself, yearn for a match to any young man who is of equal or greater station than themselves. Surely, such a man must shower you with gifts and affections.
I know it is not my place to ask you such questions and if you do not reply to my letter I will understand, wholeheartedly.
Dearest Regards,
Jonathan Waverly
The Lord Scarbourgh
P.S. I would grateful appreciate if you were to call me by my given name, at the very least in our private correspondences.
Mary read the words over and over; weighing each stroke of ink as if the black liquid was gold. It was well into the afternoon when she finally set down the letter and thought longingly after the hidden meaning within it.
Could she have been wrong all this time? Could The Earl of Scarbourgh be enamored by her?
Mary had to withhold a girlish squeal and the urge to clutch the letter to her breast. Her heart aflutter, Mary shuffled around the contents of her writing desk—drawing the ink pot closer and spreading a piece of parchment over the desk as she grabbed the quill in her hand.
A soft knock sounded at the door and jolted Mary from her position in the chair before she turned around, awaiting entrance but none came. “Who is it?” She called quietly.
“Sarah,” the muffled voice called from the opposite side, “I am unable to enter, unlatch the door.” The words were followed by the distinct rattle of the brass handle and the jostle of the wooden door. Mary quickly stood and scampered over to the door, unlocking the latch with a quick twist of the key.
The door opened and Sarah burst in, closing the door quietly behind her. “You have been locked away for hours! He must have written you a novel,” the maid teased.
“Oh, hush,” Mary scowled before sauntering back towards her desk, “I am just about to write back to him. Please sit down, I am going to need your encouragement.”
“What did he say?” her companion as curiously, following Mary like a bloodhound on the scent of fresh blood. Mary did not bother trying to summarize to perplexing letter; she just grabbed it up from the spot next to her ink well and thrust it into her friend’s hands before sitting in her chair, grabbing the quill once more.
“My, oh my,” Sarah muttered as her eyes drifted over the parchment, her legs carrying her towards the small stool that sat off to the left of the desk. “Dear…” The dreamy sighed word only cued Mary to the fact her friend had reached the end of the letter.
“It is bloody confounding, Sarah,” Mary hissed, the curse word something she had picked up from the occasion slip Sarah allowed. “I have no idea where to start my letter to him.”
Sarah paused a moment before stating, “With Harold. Explain to him your feelings, Mary. Exactly how you conveyed them to me; so he truly understands why you are so dissatisfied with your fate. He’s intrigued so he will no doubt eat up every last word. Good Lord, Mary Lynn, he may actually love you in return!” The elated squeal from her maid had a small smile spreading across Mary’s face, the affirmation of her perception of the letter seeding hope in her bleak outlook.
In agreement with her maid’s suggestion Mary dipped the feather tip in the ink and began to write.
Jonathan,
I am glad you have written back in response to my letter and wish for you to truly and completely understand my discontent in my fiancé.
Harold Arnold is a solicitor; man of law whose sole focus is his trade and naught much else. A wife is an afterthought brought on by the hopes and dreams of two mothers who showed him how much more a family man is respected and would benefit his career. He cares not for dancing or parties or turns about the park and does not feel that I am learned enough to talk figures with him, despite my advanced teachings.
Whereas you treat me respectfully and do not regard me as if I were invisible. You would take your fiancé for a turn around the room instead of gather around to idly pass time with half-acquaintances and smoke cigars. You acknowledge that I am a learned woman and belittle me for my intelligence; and have engaged me in conversation about my future instead of laying into me with words.
My discontent comes from you treating me as more of an independent than my fiancé will ever view me. In a way you have ruined me because who wants a wife who wants more for themselves than a husband and children? Life with Harold would be tedious and lackadaisical; I would be expected to have a child within the first year of marriage, to care of the house and the children, have luncheons and tea parties for the rest of my being and it truly is not what I seek.
To be honest, I once fancied studying languages more, maybe even learn an instrument or to ride horseback. I do not want to live the rest of my life in London as Harold wishes, I want to have space to roam and eventually, yes, I want children of my own.
My engagement has been agreed upon since I was but ten and three when we were betrothed; he was a score. Then I was not close to complete with my studies; I was fanciful, like any young girl would be. Any young girl dreams of a wedding day and I was the youngest of all my friends to be engaged. My engagement is the reason for never coming out, the lack of a party is also a reason why I was studied. While all the other girls were at tea parties, wishfully gossiping over which one of us was to be the next Duchess of Cambridge I would have rather recited Shakespeare. My parents humored my education to placate me, for my education did not come between my being a good match for Harold, it only boasted well that he had a respectable bride.
I have rambled on and it was not my intention but for all that explaining I fear I still have not explained adequately. I am sure I have muddled everything up.
Johnathan, I will not lie and say that I am not relieved that I have shared all this with you. It is nice—having another person to trust besides my maid but now, after sharing all my concerns with you I find myself wondering after you and your history.
You seem like a true romantic, My Lord. Surely, you must have loved your late wife greatly. It’s no wonder why after five years you have not taken another wife. You must also miss you children tremendously. Is it hard being away from them months at a time? Definitely since they do not have a mother to tend to them?
Truly,
Mary Lynn.
P.S. I have no qualms about using your given name in our letters but if I may make a request? Refrain from your crested seal when closing your letters to me? My maid was placed in a predicament that has her piqued due to crest that would have alerted my household of our private communications. You must be in agreement that our letters be kept secret, to keep any rumors of a tryst at bay.
Mary read over the words with quick eyes before blowing across the parchment to dry the last of the ink before folding the letter. Mary held it in place with both her hands as Sarah dripped wax droppings over the seam and pressing it with the flat of the inkwell.
“Will you do as you did last time?” Mary asked, casting a hopeful look to her friend.
“Oh lord, yes!” Sarah exclaimed, stuffing the letter into the skirts of her dress much as she had done with the first letter. Then with a skeptical look asked, “Do you really believe he will write back.”
Mary was silent for a moment before saying, “Yes. Yes, I do believe he will.”
Mary sat in the parlor, her hands making quick work of her tent stitching as she tried to occupy her time, which seemed to drag on forever in the previous weeks. Mary had turned down invitations for luncheons and brunches from friends, she had ignored invitations to balls and coming out parties overall quickly gaining the title of recluse much to her mother’s dismay. At first she had waited anxiously for a reply from the Earl; her girlish heart pining for words of adoration but not a single letter arrived for her.
Mary tried to look on the brighter side of the situation. The Earl would never confess undying love for her; it was not as if the two had spent copious amounts of time together. They hardly knew one another and as she always tried to remind herself; there were many girls—even other widows, such as himself—who would bring him more.
“Mary, you must get out of the house,” Sophia droned from across the parlor when Mary failed to hold back a longing sigh. Mary looked up towards her mother to see her setting aside a letter from a cousin, “Margaret is hosting a dinner party tomorrow and I think it best you and Harold attend. Together.”
“I am not feeling very sociable,” Mary replied softly, her disinterest bleeding into every syllable. In her solitude she had also denied visits from Harold, who had tried several times to take her about the town. While her mother could meddle and allow her fiancé into their home and force Mary to sit in the same room as him, she could not force her to entertain him in public.
“That much has been apparent, Mary Lynn. It is unhealthy for a girl your age to sit about all day and do nothing,” The nagging was irritating but Mary had no choice but to listen, even if she retreated from the room her mother would just follow her through the home. “And Harold is growing exasperated by your behavior as well. The dinner would be the perfect opportunity to make it up to him.”
Mary let out a loud sigh, setting down the pattern she had diligently been working on before looking up at her mother. She looked upon the delicate features of the woman who had coddled and nurtured her from birth and could only feel resentment, “Mother, you told me I had to marry Harold. Not that I had to parade about town with him, attend events or dinners with him, or even entertain his whims. I’ve resigned myself to my fate of marriage to him so please, just let it lay.”
Sophia’s young face contorted into a mask of anger but Mary knew her mother held her temper at bay, “You are so infuriating, Mary. Why can you not act like other young girls your age? There are many girls vying for Harold’s attention but he has only been attentive to you. You should be grateful.”
Standing suddenly, Mary could hold her tongue no longer, “No, Mother. I do not have to be grateful that a man treats me as less. I do not have to be grateful for giving up my happiness. I want to dwell no longer on this! I am marrying him; despite what I want most. I am doing what is right for this family, just as you wished me to do. Be grateful about that.”
Then without a second word, Mary walked out of the parlor and towards the stairs that would take her to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Thankfully her mother did not follow as Mary gathered the skirts of her day dress in her hand and took the steps quickly, wanting to be shielded behind the door of her private quarters before she lost her composure. Even as she ascended the stairs, she felt to hot burn of tears behind her brown eyes.
Just as she reached for the brass knob, the door swung open and she almost collided with the retreating form of Sarah, “Dear Lord!” The maid gasped, a hand flying to her chest in shock as the other steadied her friend, “You gave me a fright, Mary!”
“I am sorry,” Mary apologized quickly as she quickly used the sleeve of her gown to dash away any excess tears in her eyes before asking, “And what is your hurry, you act as if the house is on fire!”
“It may be if your mother finds out about the letter that I left on your writing desk,” Sarah whispered, her lithe body leaning closer to her mistress so the words could be heard better. “You owe me, Mary, I had to promise the toad footman a kiss in order to keep it out of your father’s hands.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide at the tale, the toad footman the young maid referred to was Thomas, a twenty-something year old man from York who had been with the family since Mary only ten years old. He was hardly toad like, but Mary always had a sneaking suspicion that he yearned for her prideful maid’s favor, “Oh Sarah,” she breathed softly, gratitude washing over Mary at the kindness her maid showed to her, “Thank you, truly. I promise I will make it up to you!”
Sarah smiled widely before sidestepping her mistress, “Just take me with you once the Earl and you are wed. I have always wanted to work at an estate.”
Mary could only scoff at the fanciful dreams of her maid as she entered her bedchamber and closed the door behind her, and turned the key to secure the lock. Quickly scurrying to her desk, she could hardly contain herself as she sat down and picked up the piece of parchment. Mary could hardly breath as she looked down at the folded paper, the bright red wax seal beholding his family crest revealing exactly who had written her.
Sliding her finger under the seal, until it gave way and cracked she unfolded the letter and felt her heart soar at the sight of his masculine handwriting.
Mary Lynn,
Thank you for inquiring after me and my sons. Your letter arrived while I was in Scarbourgh clearing up matters in regards to my estate, which is why my reply is less than prompt. I expect to spend a few more months in the city and return to the north, to escape the dreadful heat. Both my sons are doing well in their teachings and have grown big in the time I spent in the city. They were upset by my quick departure are look forward to my return.
I am deeply remorseful to your plight, I did not mean to distress you with my inquiries and it is I who should be making apologies to you. I had no right to intrude on arrangements made by your family in regards to your hand. I have often been told I do not hold my tongue well when something intrigues me and that you do.
From the beginning, I have been curious as to why your parents did not give you a proper coming out and why they did not pursue a higher match for their daughter instead of a match to a mere solicitor. You are well educated; learned in languages, literature, and mathematics by your own fiancé’s admission, surely your family did not have you so well learned to be a glittering jewel on the arm of a lawyer.
But alas, I always must remind myself that the matters of your engagement are of no concern to me. Though, I must ask why you are not contented with the match. Most young ladies, such as yourself, yearn for a match to any young man who is of equal or greater station than themselves. Surely, such a man must shower you with gifts and affections.
I know it is not my place to ask you such questions and if you do not reply to my letter I will understand, wholeheartedly.
Dearest Regards,
Jonathan Waverly
The Lord Scarbourgh
P.S. I would grateful appreciate if you were to call me by my given name, at the very least in our private correspondences.
Mary read the words over and over; weighing each stroke of ink as if the black liquid was gold. It was well into the afternoon when she finally set down the letter and thought longingly after the hidden meaning within it.
Could she have been wrong all this time? Could The Earl of Scarbourgh be enamored by her?
Mary had to withhold a girlish squeal and the urge to clutch the letter to her breast. Her heart aflutter, Mary shuffled around the contents of her writing desk—drawing the ink pot closer and spreading a piece of parchment over the desk as she grabbed the quill in her hand.
A soft knock sounded at the door and jolted Mary from her position in the chair before she turned around, awaiting entrance but none came. “Who is it?” She called quietly.
“Sarah,” the muffled voice called from the opposite side, “I am unable to enter, unlatch the door.” The words were followed by the distinct rattle of the brass handle and the jostle of the wooden door. Mary quickly stood and scampered over to the door, unlocking the latch with a quick twist of the key.
The door opened and Sarah burst in, closing the door quietly behind her. “You have been locked away for hours! He must have written you a novel,” the maid teased.
“Oh, hush,” Mary scowled before sauntering back towards her desk, “I am just about to write back to him. Please sit down, I am going to need your encouragement.”
“What did he say?” her companion as curiously, following Mary like a bloodhound on the scent of fresh blood. Mary did not bother trying to summarize to perplexing letter; she just grabbed it up from the spot next to her ink well and thrust it into her friend’s hands before sitting in her chair, grabbing the quill once more.
“My, oh my,” Sarah muttered as her eyes drifted over the parchment, her legs carrying her towards the small stool that sat off to the left of the desk. “Dear…” The dreamy sighed word only cued Mary to the fact her friend had reached the end of the letter.
“It is bloody confounding, Sarah,” Mary hissed, the curse word something she had picked up from the occasion slip Sarah allowed. “I have no idea where to start my letter to him.”
Sarah paused a moment before stating, “With Harold. Explain to him your feelings, Mary. Exactly how you conveyed them to me; so he truly understands why you are so dissatisfied with your fate. He’s intrigued so he will no doubt eat up every last word. Good Lord, Mary Lynn, he may actually love you in return!” The elated squeal from her maid had a small smile spreading across Mary’s face, the affirmation of her perception of the letter seeding hope in her bleak outlook.
In agreement with her maid’s suggestion Mary dipped the feather tip in the ink and began to write.
Jonathan,
I am glad you have written back in response to my letter and wish for you to truly and completely understand my discontent in my fiancé.
Harold Arnold is a solicitor; man of law whose sole focus is his trade and naught much else. A wife is an afterthought brought on by the hopes and dreams of two mothers who showed him how much more a family man is respected and would benefit his career. He cares not for dancing or parties or turns about the park and does not feel that I am learned enough to talk figures with him, despite my advanced teachings.
Whereas you treat me respectfully and do not regard me as if I were invisible. You would take your fiancé for a turn around the room instead of gather around to idly pass time with half-acquaintances and smoke cigars. You acknowledge that I am a learned woman and belittle me for my intelligence; and have engaged me in conversation about my future instead of laying into me with words.
My discontent comes from you treating me as more of an independent than my fiancé will ever view me. In a way you have ruined me because who wants a wife who wants more for themselves than a husband and children? Life with Harold would be tedious and lackadaisical; I would be expected to have a child within the first year of marriage, to care of the house and the children, have luncheons and tea parties for the rest of my being and it truly is not what I seek.
To be honest, I once fancied studying languages more, maybe even learn an instrument or to ride horseback. I do not want to live the rest of my life in London as Harold wishes, I want to have space to roam and eventually, yes, I want children of my own.
My engagement has been agreed upon since I was but ten and three when we were betrothed; he was a score. Then I was not close to complete with my studies; I was fanciful, like any young girl would be. Any young girl dreams of a wedding day and I was the youngest of all my friends to be engaged. My engagement is the reason for never coming out, the lack of a party is also a reason why I was studied. While all the other girls were at tea parties, wishfully gossiping over which one of us was to be the next Duchess of Cambridge I would have rather recited Shakespeare. My parents humored my education to placate me, for my education did not come between my being a good match for Harold, it only boasted well that he had a respectable bride.
I have rambled on and it was not my intention but for all that explaining I fear I still have not explained adequately. I am sure I have muddled everything up.
Johnathan, I will not lie and say that I am not relieved that I have shared all this with you. It is nice—having another person to trust besides my maid but now, after sharing all my concerns with you I find myself wondering after you and your history.
You seem like a true romantic, My Lord. Surely, you must have loved your late wife greatly. It’s no wonder why after five years you have not taken another wife. You must also miss you children tremendously. Is it hard being away from them months at a time? Definitely since they do not have a mother to tend to them?
Truly,
Mary Lynn.
P.S. I have no qualms about using your given name in our letters but if I may make a request? Refrain from your crested seal when closing your letters to me? My maid was placed in a predicament that has her piqued due to crest that would have alerted my household of our private communications. You must be in agreement that our letters be kept secret, to keep any rumors of a tryst at bay.
Mary read over the words with quick eyes before blowing across the parchment to dry the last of the ink before folding the letter. Mary held it in place with both her hands as Sarah dripped wax droppings over the seam and pressing it with the flat of the inkwell.
“Will you do as you did last time?” Mary asked, casting a hopeful look to her friend.
“Oh lord, yes!” Sarah exclaimed, stuffing the letter into the skirts of her dress much as she had done with the first letter. Then with a skeptical look asked, “Do you really believe he will write back.”
Mary was silent for a moment before saying, “Yes. Yes, I do believe he will.”