Entwined (3 page)

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.

“She has no one now.” No one but them. But Aidan. Shite. “She’s on her way here.” To marry Aidan.

The lump within Eamon’s throat grew thicker. He thought he had more time.

Aidan nodded, a wooden and stilted gesture, his jaw firming up as though facing a firing squad. “Well,” he said, “we knew this day would come. I’d always planned to marry the girl.”

Girl. As if she were still that silly little chit who sent her first letter at sixteen. As if it were a chore. For one, blinding moment, he hated Aidan. It was all he could do not to punch his arse of a brother in the face.

Eamon swallowed the anger down. Aidan wasn’t the arse here.

“You don’t have to—” Eamon snapped his mouth shut. Of course Aidan had to marry her. Lu had nowhere else to go. Besides, it had been decided on long ago.

“I do,” Aidan said, and they both knew the truth of it. He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. “I do, and there’s nothing for it.” He looked at Eamon and paused as if considering. Eamon said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Aidan frowned. “Well then. I’ll have the staff prepare.”

Perfect. Bloody. Perfect.

* * *

Two Weeks Later

She stood on the front drive, halfway up from the gate and halfway to the house. A light mist swirled through the air, beading on her cheeks and dampening her hair. But she did not open her umbrella. No, that she leaned upon until it wobbled under her weight. She couldn’t seem to let go of the death grip she had on its handle long enough to raise the bloody thing and open it up.

Between the mist and the setting sun, the sky had turned a soft violet color, darkening to deep plum where storm clouds threatened.

“Dither out here any longer, old girl,” she muttered to herself, “and you’ll soon be swamped by the storm.”

Sadly, the prospect of being swept away was a shade too tempting. Beneath her skirts, her knees locked, refusing to allow her limbs to move. Ahead lay the edifice of Evernight Hall. The large manor house, done in a classic Greek revival style, shone ivory white against the crepuscular sky, as if even the impending weather would not dare mar its beauty.