And stop calling me “Lu.” We are to be married, for pity’s sake. One does not refer to one’s wife in such an undignified manner.
—L. L. M.
P.S. It appears as though your father makes you feel as my family does me. As though you are a constant disappointment. If that is the case, I highly suggest you take up horse riding, if only as a means of escape. That is, if you do not ride already. Don’t all gentlemen ride?
December 1825
Lu,
It is a word. And we never stipulated terms. Not once did we say the words had to be in English. I dare you to discover its meaning. If you do, I shall send you another present.
Of course I ride. Though I do not find the same solace in the activity as you do. In truth, I have a dislike of riding, as the horses seem to despair of me. However, when I put down my quill, I shall take to the saddle. And I shall think of you. Do you suppose I shall find peace? I think not, but anticipate the exercise regardless. Will that make you happy, Lu? If I do as you ask?
You have to know, Lu, that I would do anything to bring you happiness.
—E
P.S. I cannot help but notice that you insist on referring to yourself as my future wife. Are you, then, finally conceding to the eventuality? Or shall you continue to plot against fate?
P.P.S. Were you to be my wife, I would call you Lu every day. I would call you Lu as I pulled out your hair ribbons and replaced them with lilacs. Purple, to complement your dark locks.
* * *
With a soft, happy sigh, the girl the world knew as Lady Luella Moran sat back against her window seat and watched crystalline rivers of water play over the glass. Lu. Aidan thought of her as a Lu. And she found she rather liked that. It was special because only he knew of it.
On the carved ivory mantel stood a little black iron horse so perfectly rendered that it appeared as though it were running over a lake of cream. Aidan’s gift to her. And now another. A tiny, delicate steel lilac. It was utterly beautiful. And hers.
“Lu,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. He’d put purple lilacs in her hair.
As if feeling his touch, her hand drifted to the dark locks hanging about her face. With Aidan, she could be someone else entirely. Someone new. A girl who could ride free across an Irish meadow. And a wife who would have a clever husband to tease her before he slowly pulled the ribbons from her hair. The idea was seductive, and she decided then and there that she would think of herself a Lu.
* * *
February 1826
Evernight,
I find myself softening on the subject of marriage toward you. I don’t know why. It must be a temporary form of madness, for I still find you too forward and altogether too pithy. And yet I quite like it. Yes, I must be mad.
Will you think less of me now that I have exposed my weak underbelly? Will it shock you to learn that last night I dreamt of lilacs, and felt the brush of your fingers through my hair? I am stopping now before I say too much.
—Lu
P.S. I am determined to discover the meaning of that “word” you have sent me. Do not think otherwise!—Even if I still suspect skullduggery at play.
P.P.S. First an iron horse, now a steel flower? You are spoiling me. Or rather your brother spoils me. Perhaps I ought to set my cap to him.
March 1826
Lovely Lu,
You honor me. I read your note with equal parts joy and dismay. Joy that you found something in me that caused you to change your regard. Dismay that I could not receive your acceptance in person.
Think less of you? You are all I think about. I dream of hair like black satin. Of petal pink lips that do not simper, but move quickly with sharp wit. I could grow to adore such lips.
—E
P.S. To me, you shall always be Lu. Whatever fate may bring for us, in my heart you shall always be mine.
P.P.S. I would never dare assume you have given up your quest. And stop creating reasons to fail. The word is real, and therefore yours to find. Now, hurry up!
P.P.P.S. Should you throw me over for my brother, he would be the happiest of men. Of that I have no doubt.
April 1826
Aidan,
May I call you Aidan? It hardly seems fair, you calling me Lu all this time and me remaining so formal. It rained today. I love the rain, have I told you? Which is rather a blessing, given how often it rains here in Scotland. Tomorrow, we go to London so that, in Father’s words, the ton might see Evernight’s bride. I believe you know how very much I detest being treated as cattle.
I’ve only been to London once before, as a young girl. It is horrid there. The air is black and foul and the streets mucky. I cannot breathe in London.
My only recourse is to think of you, wandering the rolling green grass of Ireland. Mayhap one of the reasons I adore you is that you detest the city as much as I do.
Yours,
Lu
P.S. Just two more seasons, and we shall be together. Do you long for it as much as I do? Or have you forgotten me already, now that you are of age and frequenting parties and the like?
May 1826
Dearest Lu,
You have a lifetime to address me as “Aidan.” Call it selfishness on my part—though likely you’ll simply think me rude—but I’d rather you withhold that privilege until we are face to face. For now, would you be so kind as to humor your fiancé and refer to me as E?
Your devoted, if not slightly eccentric, E.
P.S. Forget you? You are my waking breath, and my sleeping sigh.
* * *
Lu turned from the sound of men chatting in the hall. Pray God, her father wouldn’t call her down to entertain. She’d rather eat cook’s eel pie. Cold. Dipping her quill into ink, she applied it to the smooth vellum beneath her hand. From the silence of her room came the scratch of the nib across the page and the ticking of the mantle clock. A veritable menagerie of metal animals now called the mantle home. An elephant, turtle, cat, dog, lion, monkey, even a little ostrich made up the collection. She loved them all.
What she did not love was waiting. She was abysmal at waiting. The only thing she hated more was being in London, forced to give false smiles to people she did not want to know. Forced to pretend she was something that she was not. Her life was a mirage. Only with Aidan did she feel remotely like her true self.
And so she did the one thing that gave her happiness. She poured her soul into her letter.
* * *
June 1826
Dearest E,
There are days when I hate the letter carrier. Where is he? Why hasn’t he brought me one of your letters? I curse him for leaving me to wait in a constant state of distraction. My neck grows tired from turning toward the door, as if by mere staring, I can somehow conjure up his presence. It never works. Yet I keep trying.
In the silence of my London house, I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the walk, and my breath grows short, my cheeks flush, and my heart races. Is it he? The man I want most to see? By the time the knocker sounds, I am beside myself with anticipation, when it occurs to me that the letter carrier would not use the front door. My heart plummets. I hear voices in the hall, and my hopes are dashed. It is only Dr. Arnold, Father’s physician. And I hate him for who he is not.
Most of all, I hate the letter carrier. And yet I love him, for eventually he brings you to me.
—L
P.S. You run the risk of me forevermore thinking of you as “E.”
August 1826
Dearest L,
I am not certain I like this letter carrier fellow much myself. Love him, do you? The man you most want to see? In fact, I am quite certain I hate him myself.
He arrived yesterday, bringing your letter. It was all I could do not to grab him by his lapel and do him a violence. For in my mind, he has seen your lovely face, heard your pretty voice, and I have not. I have to remind myself that this is illogical; he cannot possibly be the same man who left London, nor would any carrier have direct contact with you. However, logic seems to vacate my mind when I think of you.
And I always think of you. Thoughts of you thread so tightly throughout my day that I lose track of where I am and what I am doing, until I cannot help but think that, although we’ve never met, your soul and mine are already entwined.
All I have of you now are these letters, and I covet them, hiding the stack away like some miser before the winter. For I fear that, should I lose them, I’d lose part of you, and my soul would be irrevocably torn.
—E
P.S. I shall take that risk. There are worse things you could think of me.
September 1826
My dearest E,
Ridiculous man, have you not realized? I am yours. In truth, I believe I was born to be yours. Just as you were born for me.
In a few months, it will be spring and we shall be meet for the first time. Has anticipation ever been so keenly felt? Or so cruelly drawn out?
—Lu
* * *
Snow swirled over hard cobbled streets, sinking white and pure into the cracks before growing black as sludge when carriages, horses, and people trampled over it. A hard wind howled down the lane, and Lu clutched the ends of her fur-lined pelisse with one icy hand. In her other hand, she held tight to the letter. The ends of the paper flapped, the words blurry in the whirlwind of snow.
She ought to be reading inside but Father was in a rare mood. And it was best to leave the house before he could take his anger out on her. A few steps behind her, Martha, her lady’s maid, and Fred the footman trailed her. She barely noticed them. A lump formed in her throat, and her heart squeezed as she read Aidan’s words, scrawled with such force that the nib had nearly run through the paper at some points.
When she finished, she pressed the letter to her heart and cried for him. “Oh, Aidan.”
February 1828
My Lu,
My father is dead. It was sudden and unforeseen. I will not sully your tender sensibilities with gruesome details, but I cannot help writing to you. For I feel guilt for his death down to the marrow of my bones. I experience not loss but the release of a great burden. His constant disapproval is no more. I ought to be wracked with grief. Yet I am not.
Sweet Lu, I fear I shall never be the man you believe me to me. In fact, I know so. It is only when I put pen to paper, with the image of you in my mind, that I am truly myself. Ink and vellum reveal my soul. If I should end up a disappointment to you, try to forgive me.
And should, by providence or some small miracle, you find yourself content with our union, would you, now and then, pull these dusty old letters out and think of this me? Of the pompous youth and hopeful romantic that I used to be?
—E
February 1828
My dear and wonderful E,
Neither of us are what we seem. Not fully. And how can we be anything different? When no one can know the whole of another’s soul. Just as you, I fear our eventual meeting as much as I long for it in my waking dreams. For I am not I know I will not be the woman you imagine.
—Lu
[Never sent.]
Chapter Two
Spring 1828
Eamon sat hunched over his writing desk, his hand clutched so tightly around the quill that it threatened to crack. The blank writing paper before him blurred even as the wind from without howled against the panes.
He had to write Lu back, had to tell her the truth. “Bollocks,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Sweat drenched his temples, and he sighed, his heart aching, a lump rising in his throat.
His fingers were clumsy and uncooperative.
Dearest Lu,
I am—
Eamon flung the quill, ink splattering against the wall as it hit. I am, what? An impostor of the highest order? My brother never wanted you. He merely wants a dutiful, quiet, ghost of a wife, so you best start preparing yourself.
He couldn’t do that to Lu. Shite, but he’d already done it. He’d gone too far, revealing his soul to her when he ought to have kept his distance. Shite, shite, shite. He’d ought to have told Aidan to get stuffed from the first. And now his Lu would come here and marry Aidan.
The pain around the region of his chest grew hollow. Eamon rubbed it, trying to breathe.
He could offer for her… A miserable laugh broke from him. Offer her what? He was the second son, with little funds. Worse, he was a big, ginger-haired brute. None of the village girls even looked at him when Aidan was near, and very few looked when he wasn’t. And there was the small matter of the fact that his particular talent was not… normal.
He scowled down at his large, scarred hands. These hands, what they could do was a secret that his family had kept for him since he was just a lad. Unnatural. Yet Eamon coveted that part of himself. While his hands chained him to a life of solitude, they were necessary.
No, he could not offer for Lu. Likely she’d hate him on principle for deceiving her all these years. And she’d have every right to.
Whatever may come, Eamon knew he had to convince his brother to call off this wedding.
Taking a breath, he retrieved his quill and returned to his desk, only to stop when someone knocked on the door.
Aidan stood on the other side, holding a letter. As always, the sight of a letter sent a bolt of happiness mixed with anxiety shooting through Eamon. However, the handwriting wasn’t Lu’s.
He took the damp missive. “Just came in?” Eamon usually made it a point to collect the mail.
“It did.” Aidan glanced at the windows, where the storm still raged. The rider had to have been well paid to come out in such weather. Aidan’s mouth tightened as he looked at the letter. “Well?”
Aidan hated to admit his weakness, but Eamon was his brother and they had long ago accepted that he’d read for the both of them.
Frowning, Eamon tore open the letter. And his insides dipped. Bloody. Hell.
“It’s from Ballyloch’s solicitor. Cholera hit the Moran house. Ballyloch is dead.” His mouth went dry. Lu. “And half his household besides.” His eyes darted over the words desperately. “Luella was the only one spared.” Eamon sagged against the door frame as he said the words. And then he looked up at his brother.
—L. L. M.
P.S. It appears as though your father makes you feel as my family does me. As though you are a constant disappointment. If that is the case, I highly suggest you take up horse riding, if only as a means of escape. That is, if you do not ride already. Don’t all gentlemen ride?
December 1825
Lu,
It is a word. And we never stipulated terms. Not once did we say the words had to be in English. I dare you to discover its meaning. If you do, I shall send you another present.
Of course I ride. Though I do not find the same solace in the activity as you do. In truth, I have a dislike of riding, as the horses seem to despair of me. However, when I put down my quill, I shall take to the saddle. And I shall think of you. Do you suppose I shall find peace? I think not, but anticipate the exercise regardless. Will that make you happy, Lu? If I do as you ask?
You have to know, Lu, that I would do anything to bring you happiness.
—E
P.S. I cannot help but notice that you insist on referring to yourself as my future wife. Are you, then, finally conceding to the eventuality? Or shall you continue to plot against fate?
P.P.S. Were you to be my wife, I would call you Lu every day. I would call you Lu as I pulled out your hair ribbons and replaced them with lilacs. Purple, to complement your dark locks.
* * *
With a soft, happy sigh, the girl the world knew as Lady Luella Moran sat back against her window seat and watched crystalline rivers of water play over the glass. Lu. Aidan thought of her as a Lu. And she found she rather liked that. It was special because only he knew of it.
On the carved ivory mantel stood a little black iron horse so perfectly rendered that it appeared as though it were running over a lake of cream. Aidan’s gift to her. And now another. A tiny, delicate steel lilac. It was utterly beautiful. And hers.
“Lu,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. He’d put purple lilacs in her hair.
As if feeling his touch, her hand drifted to the dark locks hanging about her face. With Aidan, she could be someone else entirely. Someone new. A girl who could ride free across an Irish meadow. And a wife who would have a clever husband to tease her before he slowly pulled the ribbons from her hair. The idea was seductive, and she decided then and there that she would think of herself a Lu.
* * *
February 1826
Evernight,
I find myself softening on the subject of marriage toward you. I don’t know why. It must be a temporary form of madness, for I still find you too forward and altogether too pithy. And yet I quite like it. Yes, I must be mad.
Will you think less of me now that I have exposed my weak underbelly? Will it shock you to learn that last night I dreamt of lilacs, and felt the brush of your fingers through my hair? I am stopping now before I say too much.
—Lu
P.S. I am determined to discover the meaning of that “word” you have sent me. Do not think otherwise!—Even if I still suspect skullduggery at play.
P.P.S. First an iron horse, now a steel flower? You are spoiling me. Or rather your brother spoils me. Perhaps I ought to set my cap to him.
March 1826
Lovely Lu,
You honor me. I read your note with equal parts joy and dismay. Joy that you found something in me that caused you to change your regard. Dismay that I could not receive your acceptance in person.
Think less of you? You are all I think about. I dream of hair like black satin. Of petal pink lips that do not simper, but move quickly with sharp wit. I could grow to adore such lips.
—E
P.S. To me, you shall always be Lu. Whatever fate may bring for us, in my heart you shall always be mine.
P.P.S. I would never dare assume you have given up your quest. And stop creating reasons to fail. The word is real, and therefore yours to find. Now, hurry up!
P.P.P.S. Should you throw me over for my brother, he would be the happiest of men. Of that I have no doubt.
April 1826
Aidan,
May I call you Aidan? It hardly seems fair, you calling me Lu all this time and me remaining so formal. It rained today. I love the rain, have I told you? Which is rather a blessing, given how often it rains here in Scotland. Tomorrow, we go to London so that, in Father’s words, the ton might see Evernight’s bride. I believe you know how very much I detest being treated as cattle.
I’ve only been to London once before, as a young girl. It is horrid there. The air is black and foul and the streets mucky. I cannot breathe in London.
My only recourse is to think of you, wandering the rolling green grass of Ireland. Mayhap one of the reasons I adore you is that you detest the city as much as I do.
Yours,
Lu
P.S. Just two more seasons, and we shall be together. Do you long for it as much as I do? Or have you forgotten me already, now that you are of age and frequenting parties and the like?
May 1826
Dearest Lu,
You have a lifetime to address me as “Aidan.” Call it selfishness on my part—though likely you’ll simply think me rude—but I’d rather you withhold that privilege until we are face to face. For now, would you be so kind as to humor your fiancé and refer to me as E?
Your devoted, if not slightly eccentric, E.
P.S. Forget you? You are my waking breath, and my sleeping sigh.
* * *
Lu turned from the sound of men chatting in the hall. Pray God, her father wouldn’t call her down to entertain. She’d rather eat cook’s eel pie. Cold. Dipping her quill into ink, she applied it to the smooth vellum beneath her hand. From the silence of her room came the scratch of the nib across the page and the ticking of the mantle clock. A veritable menagerie of metal animals now called the mantle home. An elephant, turtle, cat, dog, lion, monkey, even a little ostrich made up the collection. She loved them all.
What she did not love was waiting. She was abysmal at waiting. The only thing she hated more was being in London, forced to give false smiles to people she did not want to know. Forced to pretend she was something that she was not. Her life was a mirage. Only with Aidan did she feel remotely like her true self.
And so she did the one thing that gave her happiness. She poured her soul into her letter.
* * *
June 1826
Dearest E,
There are days when I hate the letter carrier. Where is he? Why hasn’t he brought me one of your letters? I curse him for leaving me to wait in a constant state of distraction. My neck grows tired from turning toward the door, as if by mere staring, I can somehow conjure up his presence. It never works. Yet I keep trying.
In the silence of my London house, I hear the sound of footsteps coming up the walk, and my breath grows short, my cheeks flush, and my heart races. Is it he? The man I want most to see? By the time the knocker sounds, I am beside myself with anticipation, when it occurs to me that the letter carrier would not use the front door. My heart plummets. I hear voices in the hall, and my hopes are dashed. It is only Dr. Arnold, Father’s physician. And I hate him for who he is not.
Most of all, I hate the letter carrier. And yet I love him, for eventually he brings you to me.
—L
P.S. You run the risk of me forevermore thinking of you as “E.”
August 1826
Dearest L,
I am not certain I like this letter carrier fellow much myself. Love him, do you? The man you most want to see? In fact, I am quite certain I hate him myself.
He arrived yesterday, bringing your letter. It was all I could do not to grab him by his lapel and do him a violence. For in my mind, he has seen your lovely face, heard your pretty voice, and I have not. I have to remind myself that this is illogical; he cannot possibly be the same man who left London, nor would any carrier have direct contact with you. However, logic seems to vacate my mind when I think of you.
And I always think of you. Thoughts of you thread so tightly throughout my day that I lose track of where I am and what I am doing, until I cannot help but think that, although we’ve never met, your soul and mine are already entwined.
All I have of you now are these letters, and I covet them, hiding the stack away like some miser before the winter. For I fear that, should I lose them, I’d lose part of you, and my soul would be irrevocably torn.
—E
P.S. I shall take that risk. There are worse things you could think of me.
September 1826
My dearest E,
Ridiculous man, have you not realized? I am yours. In truth, I believe I was born to be yours. Just as you were born for me.
In a few months, it will be spring and we shall be meet for the first time. Has anticipation ever been so keenly felt? Or so cruelly drawn out?
—Lu
* * *
Snow swirled over hard cobbled streets, sinking white and pure into the cracks before growing black as sludge when carriages, horses, and people trampled over it. A hard wind howled down the lane, and Lu clutched the ends of her fur-lined pelisse with one icy hand. In her other hand, she held tight to the letter. The ends of the paper flapped, the words blurry in the whirlwind of snow.
She ought to be reading inside but Father was in a rare mood. And it was best to leave the house before he could take his anger out on her. A few steps behind her, Martha, her lady’s maid, and Fred the footman trailed her. She barely noticed them. A lump formed in her throat, and her heart squeezed as she read Aidan’s words, scrawled with such force that the nib had nearly run through the paper at some points.
When she finished, she pressed the letter to her heart and cried for him. “Oh, Aidan.”
February 1828
My Lu,
My father is dead. It was sudden and unforeseen. I will not sully your tender sensibilities with gruesome details, but I cannot help writing to you. For I feel guilt for his death down to the marrow of my bones. I experience not loss but the release of a great burden. His constant disapproval is no more. I ought to be wracked with grief. Yet I am not.
Sweet Lu, I fear I shall never be the man you believe me to me. In fact, I know so. It is only when I put pen to paper, with the image of you in my mind, that I am truly myself. Ink and vellum reveal my soul. If I should end up a disappointment to you, try to forgive me.
And should, by providence or some small miracle, you find yourself content with our union, would you, now and then, pull these dusty old letters out and think of this me? Of the pompous youth and hopeful romantic that I used to be?
—E
February 1828
My dear and wonderful E,
Neither of us are what we seem. Not fully. And how can we be anything different? When no one can know the whole of another’s soul. Just as you, I fear our eventual meeting as much as I long for it in my waking dreams. For I am not I know I will not be the woman you imagine.
—Lu
[Never sent.]
Chapter Two
Spring 1828
Eamon sat hunched over his writing desk, his hand clutched so tightly around the quill that it threatened to crack. The blank writing paper before him blurred even as the wind from without howled against the panes.
He had to write Lu back, had to tell her the truth. “Bollocks,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Sweat drenched his temples, and he sighed, his heart aching, a lump rising in his throat.
His fingers were clumsy and uncooperative.
Dearest Lu,
I am—
Eamon flung the quill, ink splattering against the wall as it hit. I am, what? An impostor of the highest order? My brother never wanted you. He merely wants a dutiful, quiet, ghost of a wife, so you best start preparing yourself.
He couldn’t do that to Lu. Shite, but he’d already done it. He’d gone too far, revealing his soul to her when he ought to have kept his distance. Shite, shite, shite. He’d ought to have told Aidan to get stuffed from the first. And now his Lu would come here and marry Aidan.
The pain around the region of his chest grew hollow. Eamon rubbed it, trying to breathe.
He could offer for her… A miserable laugh broke from him. Offer her what? He was the second son, with little funds. Worse, he was a big, ginger-haired brute. None of the village girls even looked at him when Aidan was near, and very few looked when he wasn’t. And there was the small matter of the fact that his particular talent was not… normal.
He scowled down at his large, scarred hands. These hands, what they could do was a secret that his family had kept for him since he was just a lad. Unnatural. Yet Eamon coveted that part of himself. While his hands chained him to a life of solitude, they were necessary.
No, he could not offer for Lu. Likely she’d hate him on principle for deceiving her all these years. And she’d have every right to.
Whatever may come, Eamon knew he had to convince his brother to call off this wedding.
Taking a breath, he retrieved his quill and returned to his desk, only to stop when someone knocked on the door.
Aidan stood on the other side, holding a letter. As always, the sight of a letter sent a bolt of happiness mixed with anxiety shooting through Eamon. However, the handwriting wasn’t Lu’s.
He took the damp missive. “Just came in?” Eamon usually made it a point to collect the mail.
“It did.” Aidan glanced at the windows, where the storm still raged. The rider had to have been well paid to come out in such weather. Aidan’s mouth tightened as he looked at the letter. “Well?”
Aidan hated to admit his weakness, but Eamon was his brother and they had long ago accepted that he’d read for the both of them.
Frowning, Eamon tore open the letter. And his insides dipped. Bloody. Hell.
“It’s from Ballyloch’s solicitor. Cholera hit the Moran house. Ballyloch is dead.” His mouth went dry. Lu. “And half his household besides.” His eyes darted over the words desperately. “Luella was the only one spared.” Eamon sagged against the door frame as he said the words. And then he looked up at his brother.
