Page 7 of The Truth about the Rogue
“Because,” Miss Marshall answered, as they slowly made their way towards Gunter’s, where they hoped to purchase an ice, “there must be a purpose behind the poem. It holds so much feeling that it cannot be anything less than a declaration of love made by one gentleman to a lady.”
Charlotte frowned.
“We cannot know that it is a gentleman.”
Miss Marshall scoffed at this immediately.
“Yes, we can,” she stated, firmly. “No ladies would be able to have their work printed in The London Chronicle, I am sure, and besides that, there is a way about it that tells me that it is from a gentleman’s hand.” About to protest, Charlotte caught the sharp glint in Miss Marshall’s eye and chose instead to remain silent. “Should you like me to tell you the words?” Miss Marshall asked when Charlotte said nothing. “You may laugh, but I have it memorized.”
Charlotte blinked but nodded.
“But of course,” she agreed, quietly. “I should like to hear it, I think, given that it has taken hold of society with such strength!”
Miss Marshall smiled, stopped, and then closed her eyes, reciting the words in an almost reverent fashion. “‘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.’”
A light smile danced across Charlotte’s face as she listened to the poem spoken, admitting to herself that the words were sweetly written. Miss Marshall took a deep breath and then let it out slowly before opening her eyes, one eyebrow lifted in question.
“Yes, it was very good.” Charlotte lifted her shoulders and then let them fall. “Though I have heard and read poems of its like before.”
“But do you not think that there is something so beautiful about this one?” Miss Marshall protested, her eyes widening. “There is something about it which speaks to one’s heart. I am sure that the words could not have come from anything other than a deep and unrelenting affection for the lady, whoever she is.”
Charlotte smiled.
“Mayhap.”
Her friend let out a sound of exasperation and then shook her head.
“It is impossible to affect your heart, it seems.”
Laughing, Charlotte continued to walk along the pavement, taking Miss Marshall with her.
“My heart is touched by the tender words, of course,” she admitted, seeing Miss Marshall still frowning, “but I cannot understand why it has grasped society’s heart. There must be many gentlemen or ladies who write such words.”
What she did not admit to her friend was that she had never really let herself dwell on what love was, nor what it might be like to experience it. Her father and mother had always thought of a practical match and thus, Charlotte had considered it a waste of time to permit herself such flowery thoughts.
“But this might be from a gentleman who cannot reach out to the lady he loves in any other way than this!” Miss Marshall cried, a clear understanding suddenly coming to Charlotte. “It is trying to understand the reason behind those words that drives thebeau mondeto such distraction – as it has my own heart also.”
“I see.” Charlotte tilted her head towards the bookshop. “Might you wish to step in here for a time? I am sure that I canfind you an excellent book of poetry that might make your heart sing all the more loudly!”
Miss Marshall laughed and then nodded.
“I know very well that you desireonlyto go to the bookshop and not to the milliners or the like, so yes, we shall. Though we are still to make our way to Gunter’s, are we not?”
Charlotte nodded and then stepped into the shop without hesitation, a bright smile spreading across her face. This was where she felt the greatest joy, the place where she felt as though she belonged, far from the rest of society and all of its requirements. Taking a deep breath, she drew in the smell that seemed to pervade the entire shop, her happiness growing steadily as Miss Marshall moved ahead of her, ready to peruse some of the novels near to hand.
Charlotte considered for a moment, then made her way to the other side of the shop, wandering down the long rows of books and searching specifically for any books of poetry that she might discover. She knew of a few authors and liked one or two specifically, but they often wrote about the beauty of nature, or about their love of their homeland. To find romantic poetry would not be difficult, but it was not something that Charlotte herself had read very often. Given that she had no experience of being in love, the idea had not come to her to read about it.
Moving around the corner to the end of the bookshelves, Charlotte paused and then picked up one book, smiling to herself as she opened it. William Blake was a name she already knew and, interested, she began to read the first page, only for something to knock into her, jarring the book from her hand.
“Oh!” Charlotte scrambled to pick it up, her eyes taking in the damage that the book had sustained from being thrown to the floor. “Oh, goodness. The spine is quite damaged.”
She bent her head to study it a little better, her face flushing with concern.
“My sincere apologies.”
Charlotte looked up, only for her heart to slam hard against her ribs, making her breath catch. This gentleman, whoever he was, had the most wonderful eyes, swirling with flecks of gold. His jaw was tight, however, no smile lingering on his face, but instead a slight furrowing of his eyebrows which made it appear as though he was displeased at seeing her.
“It is quite all right,” she murmured, moving a step back from him. “I shall purchase this book and there will be no difficulty, I assure you. It was an accident, nothing more.”
