Page 62 of Thrones We Steal

18 July 1836

My dearest Helena,

You cannot know how I felt upon receiving your letter. After all, it has been three years since you left, since I saw your face for the very last time. I never thought to see or hear from you again, and even though my heart has hardly beat since the day I heard the news, I did not dare believe it could really be from you.

But how could I live with myself if I did not respond, even if it is nothing but an evil trick designed by a cold heart? I will take this risk and face the consequences, come what may. My body may be in Ireland, but my heart will always be in Wesbourne with you.

You do not know me if you think I do not forgive you for the vows you have spoken to one who is not me. We swore our love to one another, and whilst a woman’s heart is a fickle thing, you have never had the heart of a woman but of an Angel.

A day has not gone by that I have not thought of you, my love. How could I not, when you are my entire world, everything I long for? A singular hope has kept me alive these years, and it is this: that your heart remains as true to me as mine does to you.

A great, churning sea lies between us, my dear Helena, but it is nothing in the face of the love we share. I would cross it today to come to you, but I would rather walk through the depths of Hell itself than to put you in danger. We may be parted in life, but we shall never be parted in Spirit. It will take more than mere mortals to destroy what we have.

I can hardly bear the danger you are taking upon yourself in writing to me, but I do not think I can suffer the silence a minute longer. My heart beats for you and you alone. I can only trust that you have taken care to conceal all traces that could lead back to you, and I truly hope your maid can be trusted. I will do as you ask and direct my letters to Margaret Smith, trusting they will find their way into your hands.

I am alive and well, with the exception of the gaping hole in my chest where my heart once resided, but which flew across the ocean with you when you left.

I am yours for all of this life and the next.

Philip

I refold the letter and place it with the others.

“I wish I could have seen their reunion,” I whisper.

“I didn’t know you were into porn.”

I jab my elbow into his ribs. I’ve never witnessed such raw, powerful love. Nearly two hundred years later, it still has the power to change the atmosphere in the room.

“Maybe great love does exist,” Henry says.

“That doesn’t mean it’s sustainable or realistic.” But in the face of this impassioned letter, I might be forced to concede my stance. These aren’t the words of a man infatuated. His love had withstood the test of time and harsh reality.

“Helena’s mysterious lover finally has a name,” he says.

“There must have been thousands of Philips living in Ireland in 1836.”

“Maybe the rest of the letters will tell us more.” He plucks the next one from the stack and reads it out loud.

From what we can surmise from the letters, Helena had been secretly engaged to Philip Anderson in 1833. Her aristocratic family did not approve of the match and sent her to live with a family friend in Wesbourne, where she was introduced to Wesbournian society. When she caught the eye of the future king of Wesbourne, William I, her father wouldn’t allow her to refuse him. She was forced to marry William less than a year after her removal from Ireland.

Helena finally worked up the courage to write to Philip three years later, in 1836, asking his forgiveness and his correspondence if his feelings remained true to her. Still madly in love with her, he began writing letters to her but directed them to Margaret Smith, Helena’s lady’s maid, the same Margaret who had written the infamous diary.

Margaret would slip the letters to her mistress, who began putting together a plan to see her lover again. The two of them exchanged letters for nearly a year, arranging all of the details for Philip to sail from Ireland to Wesbourne. She even sent him the money to purchase passage to Wesbourne.

Finally, in the spring of 1837, Philip wrote one final letter telling Helena his ship was set to sail on the third of May.

“I guess we know what happened next,” Henry says, after we complete the stack.

“Just because they made plans to be together doesn’t mean they actually pulled it off.”

“Why are you so skeptical? We have the diary. Now we know that a lover did exist and that Helena made arrangements for him to meet her in Wesbourne.”

“So far it’s just a hypothesis. We can’t prove that Philip ever left Ireland, let alone made it to Wesbourne. And even if he did, what proof is there that they had an affair?”

We’re still sitting on the floor, and my feet are falling asleep. His shoulder nudges mine. “I can’t tell if you want it to be true or not.”

“I can’t either,” I say.

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