Entwined (2 page)

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June 1825

Dear Lady Luella,

I have in my possession a portrait of you, provided by my father, perhaps in an effort to promote moments of romantic longing. Unfortunately, it is quite useless, as you appear to be no older than eight in the study.

Even so, I imagine you thusly: Your prim little nose is always in the air, not a wrinkle nor scuff mars your pretty dress, and multiple ribbons likely adorn your hair. A perfect Luella.

When, really, I believe you are a terror in secret. Or perhaps only to me?

Regardless, I shall do you a favor and call you Lu. No girl named Lu could possibly remain so high in the instep.

—E

P.S. Why is “horse” the answer to every question?

P.P.S. You appear to fancy long, pedantic words. Try this one: honorificabilitudinitatibus. Should you divulge its meaning without cheating, I might gain a modicum of respect for your intellect.

August 1825

Dear Evernight,

“O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.”—Costard,
Love’s Labour’s Lost

You bore me. Really, one would think you had some notion of my father’s character, or your father’s, at the very least. Their shared love of Shakespeare is the reason for their initial bonding. Well, before they became embroiled in fisticuffs with an entire gaming hell, that is. I do hope you have better restraint.

High in the instep indeed. That is rather the pot calling the kettle. And I do not recall giving you leave to address me with such familiarity. We may be betrothed but that does not allow you to behave with impertinence.

P.S. My friends address me as Luella. Not that you may do so. I am simply pointing out a fact.

P.P.S. Thank you kindly for the clever little iron horse. It is astonishingly life-like. Wherever did you get it?

P.P.P.S. “Horse” is the answer to all questions because I love them to distraction. Obviously.

—L. L. M.

October 1825

Dear Lu,

I make it a point never to pay too great attention to anything my father says. After all, look where that has brought the two of us. Were my father to have his way, not a thought would rattle about in my brain box, nor a sentence pass my lips that did not start with “Yes” and end with “Father.”

Having never considered a horse more than a beast of burden or a means of moving from here to there, I must ask, what is it that you love so much about the animal?

—Evernight

P.S.

Lopado-temacho-selacho-galeo-kranio-leipsano-drim-hypo-trimmato-silphio-parao-melito-katakechy-meno-kichl-epi-kossypho-phatto-perister-alektryon-opte-kephallio-kigklo-peleio-lagoio-siraio-baphe-tragano-pterygon. Try to solve that one. Your knowledge of Shakespeare will not help you here.

P.P.S. You are most welcome. My brother Eamon made the horse. He is quite pleased that you admire it.

Eamon grinned wide as he set down his quill then closed the cover of the dusty, heretofore ignored, tome that rested beside him. Ha! He could not wait to read her reply to this letter. The only thing that could make his satisfaction sweeter would be to see her when she read it. Likely, her pretty face would scrunch up unbecomingly, and she’d stomp her little foot. Most excellent. He really couldn’t wait. Giddy anticipation had him whistling as he put the old book away and left the library.

November 1825

Dear Evernight,

Now I know you are jesting with me. That is not a word! I won’t believe it. Furthermore, it is not even in English.

As for horses, well, I suppose I love their faithfulness. A horse will run for its rider until its heart gives out. Can you imagine such devotion?

And stop calling me “Lu.” We are to be married, for pity’s sake. One does not refer to one’s wife in such an undignified manner.

—L. L. M.

P.S. It appears as though your father makes you feel as my family does me. As though you are a constant disappointment. If that is the case, I highly suggest you take up horse riding, if only as a means of escape. That is, if you do not ride already. Don’t all gentlemen ride?

December 1825

Lu,

It is a word. And we never stipulated terms. Not once did we say the words had to be in English. I dare you to discover its meaning. If you do, I shall send you another present.

Of course I ride. Though I do not find the same solace in the activity as you do. In truth, I have a dislike of riding, as the horses seem to despair of me. However, when I put down my quill, I shall take to the saddle. And I shall think of you. Do you suppose I shall find peace? I think not, but anticipate the exercise regardless. Will that make you happy, Lu? If I do as you ask?

You have to know, Lu, that I would do anything to bring you happiness.

—E

P.S. I cannot help but notice that you insist on referring to yourself as my future wife. Are you, then, finally conceding to the eventuality? Or shall you continue to plot against fate?

P.P.S. Were you to be my wife, I would call you Lu every day. I would call you Lu as I pulled out your hair ribbons and replaced them with lilacs. Purple, to complement your dark locks.

* * *

With a soft, happy sigh, the girl the world knew as Lady Luella Moran sat back against her window seat and watched crystalline rivers of water play over the glass.
Lu.
Aidan thought of her as a Lu. And she found she rather liked that. It was special because only he knew of it.

On the carved ivory mantel stood a little black iron horse so perfectly rendered that it appeared as though it were running over a lake of cream. Aidan’s gift to her. And now another. A tiny, delicate steel lilac. It was utterly beautiful. And hers.

“Lu,” she whispered with a tremulous smile. He’d put purple lilacs in her hair.

As if feeling his touch, her hand drifted to the dark locks hanging about her face. With Aidan, she could be someone else entirely. Someone new. A girl who could ride free across an Irish meadow. And a wife who would have a clever husband to tease her before he slowly pulled the ribbons from her hair. The idea was seductive, and she decided then and there that she would think of herself a Lu.

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February 1826

Evernight,

I find myself softening on the subject of marriage toward you. I don’t know why. It must be a temporary form of madness, for I still find you too forward and altogether too pithy. And yet I quite like it. Yes, I must be mad.

Will you think less of me now that I have exposed my weak underbelly? Will it shock you to learn that last night I dreamt of lilacs, and felt the brush of your fingers through my hair? I am stopping now before I say too much.

—Lu

P.S. I am determined to discover the meaning of that “word” you have sent me. Do not think otherwise!—Even if I still suspect skullduggery at play.

P.P.S. First an iron horse, now a steel flower? You are spoiling me. Or rather your brother spoils me. Perhaps I ought to set my cap to him.

March 1826

Lovely Lu,

You honor me. I read your note with equal parts joy and dismay. Joy that you found something in me that caused you to change your regard. Dismay that I could not receive your acceptance in person.

Think less of you? You are all I think about. I dream of hair like black satin. Of petal pink lips that do not simper, but move quickly with sharp wit. I could grow to adore such lips.

—E

P.S. To me, you shall always be Lu. Whatever fate may bring for us, in my heart you shall always be mine.

P.P.S. I would never dare assume you have given up your quest. And stop creating reasons to fail. The word is real, and therefore yours to find. Now, hurry up!

P.P.P.S. Should you throw me over for my brother, he would be the happiest of men. Of that I have no doubt.

April 1826

Aidan,

May I call you Aidan? It hardly seems fair, you calling me Lu all this time and me remaining so formal. It rained today. I love the rain, have I told you? Which is rather a blessing, given how often it rains here in Scotland. Tomorrow, we go to London so that, in Father’s words, the ton might see Evernight’s bride. I believe you know how very much I detest being treated as cattle.

I’ve only been to London once before, as a young girl. It is horrid there. The air is black and foul and the streets mucky. I cannot breathe in London.

My only recourse is to think of you, wandering the rolling green grass of Ireland. Mayhap one of the reasons I adore you is that you detest the city as much as I do.

Yours,

Lu

P.S. Just two more seasons, and we shall be together. Do you long for it as much as I do? Or have you forgotten me already, now that you are of age and frequenting parties and the like?