Page 17 of The Truth about the Rogue
Do not turn your eyes away from me,
The thought, it tears my heart.
We must endure a little while
The pain of being apart.
To be so farand yet so bound,
No threat will make me flee.
I cannot forget what we have found,
My whole self is one with thee.’
“Well?”
Charlotte lifted her head, considering.
“It does appear to me that this is written by a gentleman who is seeking to communicate with his love, does it not? Especially now that he has signed it!”
“It is hardly a signature,” Charlotte replied, with a roll of her eyes. “It states simply that it is by an anonymous gentleman, that is all! I cannot think that makes it particularly clear as to who it is that has written it.”
“All the same, it is better than it simply being written as anonymous,” Miss Marshall answered, coming to the defense of the writer and making Charlotte smile. “I think this gentleman, whoever he is, has written to The London Chronicle purposefully so that his lady love – whom he is kept from, it seems – knows of his love and affection.”
“Mayhap.”
Miss Marshall took the paper from Charlotte again and read over it slowly.
“I think it is quite beautiful. The words that he speaks are words of devotion and affection.”
“And of hope,” Charlotte conceded, “though you are right, it appears that he is set apart from the lady.”
Miss Marshall’s eyebrows lifted.
“Then you think well of it?”
Charlotte shrugged lightly.
“It is a poem about love and the hope of continued affection,” she said. “I cannot see that it is any worse or any better than any other poem I have read.” She laughed as her friend sighed heavily. “But I do not know much about love, and I will admit that I do not often read much poetry on the subject so I cannot be the very best judge of it.” She tilted her head and studied the poem again for a moment, as Miss Marshall held it in her hands. “To me, there is something a little lacking though I do not know what it is.”
“Lacking?” Miss Marshall scoffed and shook her head. “My dear Charlotte, there is nothing lacking in this.”
“You are probably quite correct,” Charlotte answered, with another smile. “I, however, feel as though it lacks a littlepassion, as if it is the imagining of the writer rather than a true circumstance.”
Miss Marshall frowned.
“And by that, you mean to say that you do not believe his words to be genuine.”
“They certainly do come across as though they are, of course.”
“But you have said that you have no experience of reading such poetry and know very little about love. You have never been in love, have you?”
Charlotte shook her head, a little embarrassment coming into her chest as she saw Miss Marshall frown. Perhaps she had spoken a bit too boldly, a little too firmly, sounding arrogant rather than considered.
“I have not been.”
“Nor have I.” Miss Marshall’s tone had softened now, her lips curved into a small smile. “But I do permit myself to imagine what it will be like. I long for a gentleman with a kind heart and a steady character to speak such words to me!” She tipped her head, looking back at Charlotte carefully. “Do not you?”
