Page 62 of The Lord who Captured Her Innocent Heart
Ella approached, casting a single glance towards Tiffany, who lurked beneath a tree. Her yellow skirts swept out behind her, growing damp in the increasing rain. She felt foolish for having forgotten her parasol.
Peter took several steps to meet her in the centre of the garden. The rain caused the smells of the grass, the roses, the ivy to surge forth and fill the air, making it thick and oddly difficult to breathe. His lips were parted as though he was on the brink of saying something. She matched him. Her heart bulged with apprehension. What a wretched thing it was to be a woman, to be filled with such colossal feelings. She felt they might tear her to shreds.
The rain splattered across their cheeks. The vision was akin to two people weeping in the grey light. Ella thought it was fit for a painting, this final moment before either spoke. Perhaps it would hang in a sitting room somewhere, glanced at every few hours by a wicked-bored housewife with a grey and sputtering heart.
“Ella,” Peter finally whispered. The word curled around her ears. “Ella, I had to come see you as soon as I could.”
The weight of his words pressed against her chest.
“I don’t understand,” Ella murmured in return, not wanting to assume. Again, she was reminded of the day he’d cast himself to their estate, brimming with lust for her sister. Perhaps he was apt for such rash decisions.
Peter took a slight step forward, seemingly trying not to move too quickly, so as not to frighten her. “I spent the previous days in Brighton, conducting work with my father.”
“I heard,” Ella returned. She felt the hesitation in her voice. Perhaps he sensed it like a wall.
“And to be frank, every day was absolutely wretched,” Peter continued. “I found myself seeing myself as an outsider. Seated beside my father. Working through meaningless meeting after meaningless meeting. It all seemed so completely lacking in anything that resembled who I am or who I want to be.”
“And you wanted to come all the way back here — to the beautiful Chesterton estate — to tell me this?” Ella asked, feeling the exasperation in her own voice.
“No. Well,” Peter continued, tilting his head. His eyes glowed. “I saw myself as an outsider, and thus could completely describe my inner turmoil. It was true that I didn’t wish for the life my father had, nor for the one he wanted to give to me. But beyond that, Ella. I understood one thing absolutely completely. And that was — the fact that I was totally wrong regarding my feelings for your sister. You see, in the midst of fighting to break up Frederick and Tatiana, I realised that my true mission wasn’t making Tatiana my wife at all.”
He swallowed hard, so much so that his Adam’s apple did a bit of a jump. Ella took momentary pleasure in it, in watching a man struggle before her. She had never thought herself to have any sort of power over anyone. Still, the rain pattered over them, forming a kind of rhythm.
“I love you, Ella,” Peter whispered. “I think you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved in my life. Everyone else — including your sister — was just a passing fancy. They were images of how I could have wanted my life, had I been a different sort of person. But in fact, I am the man standing before you, and I know this to be true. You’re the perfect woman.”
Ella felt she was reading the pages of an overly-sweet romance novel. She baulked, recognising reality lurking its ugly head over everything else. Swallowing, she whispered, “Who’s to say I’m not yet another passing fancy, Peter?”
To the side, Tiffany let out a little sigh of exhaustion. Ella kept her eyes pointed straight towards Peter, not wanting to lend Tiffany the slightest bit of her attention. How wretched that she had to exist in the midst of such loss, such fear, such torment.
Peter took another step towards her. He looked as though he wanted to touch her hand, to bridge connection. Ella had begun to form a thicker barrier around her heart, scraping it together as they stood together in the rain. The fact that he uttered these “emotions” so clearly to her told her that perhaps they might not carry any real weight.
He was known to do such things before.
“Ella, when I watched you sister marry my cousin, I imagined that I would feel an ache in my soul,” Peter continued. “I imagined I would feel an incredible loss, knowing that Tatiana could never be my life. But in actuality, I spent the majority of the morning with my eyes only upon you. I prayed you weren’t heartbroken over Frederick’s marriage to your sister. I prayed you weren’t thinking continually that she was more beautiful or more talented or more worthy of the world — because your gifts are just as marvellous as hers, yet simply different. I’ve told you that before, but I know that it didn’t draw itself close to your heart. You must find this fear filling you always.”
Ella staggered for a moment. She swept a finger beneath her eye, unsure if it was a salty tear or just a droplet from the sky above.
“You think you can spew poetics to me and lure me into your arms?” Ella murmured, wanting, suddenly to lash out to him, to tell him just how tormented she truly was.
Peter ignored these words. He took yet another step towards her. Ella itched to step back but avoided it. From where she stood, she inhaled the deep, aching scent of him — the scent of tobacco and musk and horses and the wind.
“Ella, over the past several weeks, I’ve learned more about you than anyone on this planet knows,” Peter continued.
“Besides Tatiana, of course,” Ella chimed in.
“Your sister, of course, does see you fully,” Peter offered. “But I dare say she doesn’t appreciate you in a similar way. I dare say the image of you doesn’t float to her mind when she’s trying to sleep. I—Ella, I— I want to know what it’s like to awaken beside you in the morning. I want to nurse you during your illnesses. I want to make you a mother and watch you raise our children.”
Ella’s eyebrows stitched low. Her lower lip blubbered out. She tilted her head to the side, feeling the words grow heavy on her chest. It all felt too good, too enormous — so much so that if it was ripped away, she would feel it like a gaping wound.
“You’re intelligent, Ella,” Peter continued, his voice soft. “You’re whimsical and soft and kind, always aching to learn more about the world and the people in it. You haven’t a care for silly matters, but you find beauty in the things I find beautiful — like art and music. I know you do. I saw your eyes after I played the pianoforte. Perhaps you didn’t know, but they were filled with tears.”
“Perhaps they were tears of gladness, knowing you’d finished for the day,” Ella said, lending a soft grin.
“That really isn’t your style, is it?” Peter returned.
He had a very good point. She allowed her chin to fall to her chest. Peter reached for a piece of her curls and snaked it behind her ear. Then, one of his fingers traced down her cheek, cutting through the wet. She glanced back up at him, at the glow of his eyes. He so yearned for her to return his love. And she wanted to say it back, yet she wanted to be guarded about it — to ensure that her heart remained within her chest, so as not to be injured out there in the world.
“Perhaps you’re authentic,” Ella murmured, sweeping her tongue across her bottom lip. “Perhaps I can trust that these emotions are your own, and not some passing fancy, due to your loneliness.”
