Page 16 of The Truth about the Rogue
“The poem?” Miss Marshall sounded confused for a moment. “Does she mean–”
“It must be The London Chronicle,” Charlotte answered, linking her arm with Miss Marshall’s again. “The second poem from whoever wrote the first one must be printed in this issue, given the amount of excitement here!”
Miss Marshall leaned into her for a moment as they continued their walk.
“Will you think ill of me if I admit that I am a little interested in seeing what the new poem says?”
Charlotte laughed.
“No, not in the least. My interest is piqued also, though not in the same way, mayhap. I should like to see if there is a name to the poem, or if the anonymous author has gone on to reveal themselves to theton.Given the reaction of society, I would think that they might now be bold enough to declare themselves.”
“Shall we go and purchase one, then?” With a nod, Charlotte walked alongside Miss Marshall – though not with any haste – and together, they collected a copy of The London Chronicle, with Miss Marshall paying the fellow for it. Unhooking her arm from her friend, Charlotte waited until her friend had found the page and watched her face as she read the poem. “It is certainly longer.”
“Oh?” A little surprised at how interested she was in the poem, Charlotte tried to push her curiosity down a little. “In what way?”
“It has four verses,” came the reply, “and each one is beautifully written, I must say.”
“It is on the same theme?”
Miss Marshall lifted her head.
“It is about love, if that is what you mean.” She dropped her head again to read, only to suck in a breath. “Goodness! There is no doubt now as to the author.”
Charlotte moved closer at once, looking down at the paper as Miss Marshall pointed to the bottom of the poem.
“It has a name?”
“No, but it states that it is by an anonymous gentleman.” Miss Marshall’s eyes rounded just a little. “Clearly this person wants to make sure that everyone knows that it ishewho has been writing these poems rather than a lady. Mayhap he heard society whispering about the confusion and wished to bring clarity.”
“Mayhap he did,” Charlotte agreed, refusing to let herself read the poem until Miss Marshall was ready.
It was a strange thing, she considered, finding herself very eager indeed to read it, but also battling within herself not to do so. She had thought the last poem very pretty, though she had not felt the same overwhelming excitement as others, nor had she had the great swell of emotion in response to the penned words. Mayhap it was because she was so well read… or, she considered, turning her head away, she had never permitted herself to imagine what it would be like to be in love. She had always been quieter in nature and studious in her character, choosing practicality where she could and thus, she had considered her marriage would be so too. A suitable match over a love match and, thus, Charlotte had never permitted herself to even imagine what a love match would feel like. Dare she open her heart to the possibility? Dare she read that poem and let herselffeelmore than she had ever done before?
“I think there is more passion here now.” Lifting her head, Miss Marshall handed Charlotte the paper. “Should you like to read it?”
Charlotte took it from her friend.
“Yes, of course.”
Taking a small breath, she set her shoulders and began to read.
‘A sweet melodystrums my heart,
Echoes in the corridor of my soul.
A joyous symphony that can never depart
It binds my pain and makes me whole.
Love’s songyou sing to me alone,
Your eyes hold fast to mine.
And with each word, my love is sown
My heart to yours entwined.
My very soulis clung to thee.
