Authors: Lisa Andersen
His Grace and Monica continued their
dance,
and all the while Monica was wondering where in the Lord’s name she was going, and furthermore, why His Grace was reacting the way he had. She was behaving in a monstrously
impudent
way, and yet His Grace, far from being offended or aghast, seemed curious. He looked at her as one who looks
at
something one has never seen before, a mixture of fascination and a hint of fear upon his countenance. “Do you truly wish to know how I acquired this scar, my lady?” he said.
“Yes,” Monica said, her mouth dry.
They kept dancing, and nobody, upon casual observation, would’ve guessed that anything other than proper and mundane words
were
being exchanged between them.
“Very well,” His Grace said, as they spun around the floor. “I was in France, as you know, for a horribly long time. I was in France longer than any man should be in a place of death. The days were long and
boring
until they weren’t. We had just faced off against a rabble of the Frenchmen, and we were tired. We collapsed upon the battlefield, surrounded by corpses. My lady, I fear this is a story entirely improper and unsuited for your delicate ears.”
“My ears are not as delicate as some would believe, Your Grace,” Monica said, and then squeezed his hand. “Please, continue.”
Did you really just squeeze a duke’s hand? Monica, what has possessed you? You are like a changed woman! What if Mother saw? Even worse, what if Auntie saw? You would be an outcast! You would be shunned from high society! Your whole family would, again!
But she didn’t feel guilty or ashamed. She didn’t
feel
as though she’d made a disastrous mistake. If anything, she felt wild and free. She felt like she had finally been emancipated from a prison in which she’d lived since Father’s death. She knew that this dance would have to end, but for the moment, she was living
within
a timeless
place, wherein all that existed was her and His Grace.
“Anyway,” His Grace went on. “There was one man who was not … as we had thought. I approached him to release him
from
his suffering when he came up with a blade and gave me this gift. Never before had I realized just how dangerous an injured man could be.”
Monica’s heart was pounding hard in her chest now, as though it would break through her ribs. “Did it hurt, Your Grace?”
“Oh, yes,” His Grace said.
He opened his mouth to say more, but the dance ended. He relinquished his hold
on
her and retreated into a fray of noblemen and women. Monica watched him go with a profound feeling that she had lost something,
that something
irreplaceable had been taken away by that meeting. After a moment of thought, she knew what it was. It was her ability to tolerate her infuriatingly mundane existence. Her existence was, after all,
a monotonous
affair in which nothing much happened: in which all that really existed was day and night, and conversations with Mother, and the blessed relief of spirit which Marie supplied.
Mother looked
more alive
when Monica retook her seat.
“That was His Grace,” she whispered. “Wasn’t it, Monica?”
“Yes, Mother,” she said.
“What did you speak of?”
Monica shrugged. “Courtly things, Mother,” she said. “Nothing world-changing.”
But that was a lie, for Monica knew that her world had been immutably changed now. She knew that when they returned to their homestead, she would feel trapped, isolated, stifled. She knew that His Grace had changed her forever. He caught her eyes some time
later
when he was entertaining a small circle of lords and ladies. He was about to look away when he paused and smiled at her.
That smile fueled two months of dreams.
*****
From June to late August, the Burrows existed in a world apart from high society. There was nothing for Monica to do but read French novels and think
over
her short time with His Grace. Like a snowball rolling down a snowy hill, the event grew in her mind until it was something cataclysmic and magical. No longer was it just a startling event; now it was something akin to an earthquake. She found herself unable to become interested in daily things. Sitting in the drawing room with Mother and Auntie was intensely
boring
, and even playing with Marie lost some of its
charm
. Always, in the back of her mind, she saw His Grace.
The dance was outwardly insignificant. She knew this. But she would also say to anybody who claimed she should “get over it” that they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that her life, for the longest time, had been one of isolation and boredom. They didn’t
understand
that she had felt trapped in
a life
that had branded her a mouse. They didn’t understand that a dance and a conversation with His Grace had been more
interesting
and stimulating than seven years of minor parties and social invisibility.
It was late August, and finally the monotony of
diurnal
existence was disturbed. Mother walked into the drawing room with much more speed than was the norm this afternoon. August sunlight burst
through
the window like an overripe plum, splashing light over the chairs and shining in thick shafts upon the paintings. Monica sat near the window with her hands
on
her lap, trying and failing not to think of His Grace.
“Mother, what is it?” Monica said, her reverie momentarily shattered.“Mother?”
Mother grabbed the back of the armchair as though she would fall without its support. “A letter has come,” she muttered. “A letter has come for us. It is—a strange letter. It is a letter I would not think the Burrows would receive, even before your poor Father’s death. It is a letter that is wholly unlike anything anyone of our standing has received. It is bold and
bad
and—and I do not quite know how to take it.”
“Let me read it, Mother,” Monica said, moved by her mother’s state. “Come, sit down, and let me read it.”
She rose to her feet and guided Mother to the cushion of the chair upon which she
leant
. When she was seated, Monica took the letter from her. Her hands, Monica noticed as she took the letter, were shaking slightly. Monica patted Mother on the back of the hand and laid a kiss upon her forehead, which was coated
with
a thin layer of
cool
sweat. Monica had not seen Mother this disturbed since Father had told her of the loss of Monica’s dowry. Since then, she had existed in icy distance from the world.
Monica read the letter; when she finished, her hands had begun to shake, too.
*****
Dear Mrs. Burrows,
The tone of this letter will perhaps upset or distress you, and for
that,
I apologize. I realize that this is not the way things are done – that my forwardness is not acceptable – and yet at this late
hour,
I do not care. I write this past midnight, and even the
clear
sky cannot illume my study. The candle is
low
, and the smell of wax is
strong
. My eyes are straining toward the page. I admit I have taken some wine.
I was in France for seven years. I believe I left for France the same month that your husband died. (You have my condolences.) This is to say that I missed the fallout that resulted from his death. There was, I believe, some scandal. This does not concern me. If, before I went to war, I was a man concerned with social niceties and propriety,
I
admit I have been thoroughly corrupted. Indeed, one could not endure what I have endured without being corrupted. I make this excuse now, for what I am about to say will disturb your
sensibilities,
as it would have disturbed mine before the war.
I am fascinated by your daughter, Mrs. Burrows. Monica (yes, I shall use her Christian name) is an infinitely fascinating creature to me. I cannot account for it. We shared a dance and exchanged words, that is all, and yet months later I cannot banish her from my thoughts. She haunts my dreams. She is constantly there. When I awake in the
morning,
I imagine she is lying beside me. Yes, I know, dear lady! I know how that sounds! I am writing this letter as a desperate man.
I wish to see Monica again.
I wish to
see her again and talk
with
her. I am coming to Weston-Super-Mare, to stay at the seaside for a time, and I mean to visit with you if you would have me.
Yours apologetically and sincerely,
Roland.
“Roland!” Monica cried.
“Oh, I know,” Mother said. “I know, Monica, dear. How mad is that letter! I feel as though the carpet of the world has just been pulled from under me, and I am falling, falling, and there is nothing to catch me. This situation is quite unprecedented. I have never read a letter so forward and devoid of shame. He just comes right out and says that he is fascinated with you.”
“It is fortunate we are already ruined,” Auntie said from the doorway. Mother and Monica turned in surprise. Auntie shrugged and walked into the room, seeming to take up half of it. “I do not see the reason for panic, sister. His Grace is a rich man. We are a poor family because of that husband of yours. We should be happy that he is interested in Monica.”
“Happy! May as well be happy if the local livestock sprouted wings and flew into the heavens!”
“Sister!” Auntie cried. “Please, do not be melodramatic.”
“Melodramatic,” Mother huffed. “Melodramatic. Did you not read the same letter that I read, dear sister?”
“Yes,” Auntie said. “You must forget the old ways. These men who have been to war … It has changed them. Can you blame a scarred man for forgetting social protocol? Anyway, he is a duke. His Grace is allowed a certain degree of impropriety. He is not like other men.”
“No,” Monica said. “No, you are right, Auntie. He is not like other men at all.”
Mother and Auntie went on and on for about an hour, but Monica tuned them out. All she could think about was His Grace coming
here
, to
her
, specifically to meet with her. He was fascinated with her. She felt as though she had discovered a great truth and then had
discovered
that somebody else knew it, too. It wasn’t just Monica who felt the
inexplicable
connection. It wasn’t just Monica who was fascinated with His Grace.
He felt it too!
Suddenly she wished he was here, and she wished they were alone, and she wished he had the gall to lean in and kiss her. In the mood she was in, she didn’t even know if she would stop him.
*****
His Grace arrived a week later with surprisingly little pomp and circumstance. He
arrived
alone in a
carriage
and dismissed the driver when he reached their door. Mother had spent half of her meager savings to hire a footman. They couldn’t exactly have Lyla, their
solitary
remaining maid, serving His Grace. Mother was desperate to hold onto some degree of propriety. They were in the drawing room when the footman brought His Grace through.
Marie
leapt
to her feet when His Grace entered. She ran to him and curtseyed, looking like the tiniest lady in the world. Mother gasped, and Auntie made as though to grab at the girl, but both were too slow for her eagerness. Monica could not help but smile. Her sister would be an impulsive woman, she thought, who would run her husband either into ruin or profound happiness. His Grace looked down at her with a warm smile, the scar on the side of his face creasing. “Well, hello, my lady,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Your Grace,” Marie said, in her high-pitched voice.
Then Mother, Auntie, and Monica curtseyed. There was a murmur of “Your Grace” and then His Grace bowed dramatically and greeted each woman in turn. When he came to Monica (who he contrived to greet last, despite her position in the middle of the
three),
he bowed even deeper, so deeply that his chin seemed to touch the floor, and smiled warmly and stared into her eyes. “My lady,” he said slowly, drawing it out. “It is a pleasure to see you again.” A stream of light beamed through the window and
lit
His Grace’s face. For a moment, Monica could not define his
features, and
then the beam dissipated and she saw that his smile had slipped, and something like strife flickered across his countenance.