Page 6 of The Truth about the Rogue
“But all the same,” Andrew added, refusing to be dissuaded, “if my work was published, then you might be able to read it with great feeling and affection, drawing the young ladies of London to you.” He reached out his hands as he spoke, then pulled his hands in towards himself. “That would be a good thing, surely?”
His friend’s lips quirked.
“Mayhap,” he admitted, shrugging. “But you must first consider whether or not youwillpublish your work. Though I might want to use it for my own purposes, I can assure you that I believe that it is worthy enough, in its own right, to be published!I am also quite certain that thetonwould think very highly of it and, no doubt, might be eager to hear more.”
Andrew considered this, then tilted his head.
“I suppose then that I could use it to my own advantage also,” he said, slowly, as Lord Glenfield frowned in obvious confusion. “I could take the poetry and read it to whichever young ladyIwas focusing on at the time, could I not?” He chuckled as Lord Glenfield rolled his eyes but grinned. “I might consider it. The London Chronicle, you say?” Seeing his friend nod, Andrew ran one hand over his chin, feeling himself grow more and more contented with the idea. “Then I think I shall. Thank you for that, Glenfield. I expect my first poem to be out amongst thetonvery soon!”
‘In fields of gold,where wildflowers throng,
Love’s gentle breeze whispers its song
As we walk, hand in hand, our embrace so sweet,
Our lips, our hearts, our lives, now meet.
A love, a flame that burns so bright,
Will guide us through the dark of night.
Our love, so strong, will forever shine,
A love so pure, so true, so divine.’
Andrew smiled to himself as he sat back in his carriage, his satisfaction continuing to grow as he considered each and every word. It had only been a short poem, yes, but it had been enough for him to send to The London Chronicle in the hope that they would publish it.
And publish it they had, albeit with the word, ‘Anon’ at the bottom, just as he had requested. He had been very cautious indeed in how he had gone about sending the poem into theChronicle in the first place, taking it with him into the heart of London and, thereafter, paying a ragamuffin handsomely to have it delivered. The child would not know who he was so, therefore, there was not even the smallest suspicion that anyone would recognize him. This was just as he had desired, just as he had hoped for and, now, to see his work printed did bring Andrew a good deal of contentment.
I should thank Lord Glenfield for his suggestion,he thought to himself, as the carriage rolled its way toward St James’ Park.And mayhap send in another one very soon.
The carriage stopped and Andrew climbed out, ready to take a stroll through the park and see who he might engage in either conversation, or perhaps in something a little more intimate. Placing his hat on his head, he strode directly into the park, only to come to an abrupt stop.
How very strange.
There were clusters of ladies all standing about together, their heads bent forward as though they were whispering to one another. Andrew could not understand it, frowning heavily as he began to make his way towards one of the small groups, confused as to why so many young ladies were standing in such a way.
“A love so divine,” he heard one of them murmur, his heart quickening as he realized what it was that the lady was speaking of. “I do wonder who it is that this gentleman is writing about.”
“Mayhap it is a great secret,” said another, a wistfulness in her voice. “Mayhap he is much too overcome with love for her to be able to express it in any other way than this. Mayhap there is a reason that they cannot be together, and this is the only way for him to speak with her.”
A small, collective sigh ran around the group and Andrew, who had slowed his steps to a mere crawl to listen, grinned broadly, ducking his head so that the ladies would not seehis expression. They were speaking of the poem, he realized, his heart suddenly soaring. They not only appreciated it, they thought well of it and, seemingly, were losing themselves in raptures about what was said within it - which was, Andrew considered, precisely what he had hoped for.
Though,a little voice said in his mind,you know nothing of love. All you speak of is imagined, all you write comes from what you believe love might be like. There is no truth in that.
With a shake of his head, Andrew dismissed that thought and, lifting his gaze, continued to walk through the park, taking in all of the small huddles of ladies who were eagerly reading the paper and the poem within it. His confidence bolstered, Andrew took his time as he wandered along the pathway, feeling a sense of pride and, indeed, a growing confidence within himself. Perhaps his work was more than satisfactory after all.
Chapter Three
“Youmusthave seen the poem! Everyone is speaking of it.”
Charlotte shook her head, looking at Miss Marshall, somewhat amazed that her friend spoke with such awe over one small poem.
“My sister has told me of it, saying that it is only a few lines long, but that it holds a great deal of feeling.”
“It is overwhelmed with feeling,” Miss Marshall replied, putting one hand to her heart. “My goodness, it still overpowers my thoughts and senses whenever I think of it.” Charlotte said nothing, looping her arm through her friend’s arm. She and Miss Marshall had been acquainted for many years, given that their fathers’ estates bordered each other, but Charlotte had never once heard her friend speak with such passion before. “I know that you will think me foolish, given that this is my second Season, and I have heard a great number of gentlemen read a great many sonnets before, but there is something about that poem that is so very intriguing and so very beautiful at the very same time.”
“Why is it intriguing?”
