Dear Lord Morley,
From what I have read, the Knollwood party was quite exciting. I suspect I will have to depend on reports from the gossip pages, as I doubt your head is clear regarding the sequence of events.
It sounds as though my mother’s decision to keep me at home was justified. My season may be dull, but I hold out hope of attracting the attention of a very different type of gentleman than my father has proven to be. Perhaps next season will be kinder to me.
Write back, if you will, as I have spent the past fortnight in the clutches of my mother and her renewed attempts to teach me French. It is such a lovely thing to have a friend.
Mes meilleures amitiés,
Mademoiselle Eleanor
Henry rolled over, pressing his pillow against his face. Why did he forever attempt to convalesce from his debauchery in London, the noisiest place on earth? He threw his pillow at the curtained windows, as though somehow this would end the strident discussion taking place between two chimney sweeps on the street below.
Despite having been in London for a week, he still had not recovered from the Knollwood party, but not for the usual reasons. Typically, he left these events feeling elated, full of stories about his exploits, only a fraction of which were true. The scandal sheets enjoyed exaggerating the tidbits of information dropped by industrious servants, but the notion he had enjoyed the company ofmultiplewomen during his visit?
Normally, he would enjoy the bit of fame accompanying the tale, but not this time. He could not muster the desire to seduce a woman, or even drink himself into a tizzy with his companions. He drank alone, sneaking bottles of whiskey into his room or dark corners of the estate, consuming liquor until sleep consumed him.
Ithad pushed in again. Henry referred to it as The Darkness, the black matter creeping into his soul from the edges, blurring out any sense of joy or purpose in his life. In the past, he had countered the debilitating lows by seeking higher highs, levels of detachment he had never reached.
But it never worked.
The only ray of light breaking into the darkness were the letters. The brief correspondence made him smile as he decoded each phrase and word for hidden meaning until the shapes of the letters etched themselves in his mind.
Returning the missives was a torturous process. His tutors had spent hours haranguing him for his poor spelling and handwriting, and despite his best efforts, his words were a hideous scratching on the page. A response to Eleanor's correspondence took hours of poring over a dictionary to ensure proper spelling and pages of paper until he managed an acceptable copy.
It was worth it.
He would never admit he was writing to a woman he had only met once, who had vomited on him and then disappeared.A woman who would never normally attract his notice. She was intelligent and quiet, her presence on his arm unlikely to incite jealousy in other gentlemen. And a girl looking for marriage, which was as far from Henry’s future as a trip to the moon. Besides, this girl had discounted him as a prospect for marriage from the start, surely a sign of her above-average intelligence and impeccable taste.
A girl like Eleanor deserved a man who would cherish her, would challenge her mind as an intellectual equal. A man to be proud of. Still, Henry could pride himself on being considered her friend, a title no woman had given him before.
To the outsider, Henry had quite a bit to his name. A title and a wealthy earldom upon his father's death, an event he prayed would not occur for several decades more. His pedigree earned him a place at all the gentlemen’s clubs in London, as well as admission to Oxford, like his father and grandfather before him. While many of his peers suffered through their days to enjoy their carefree nights, Henry actuallyenjoyedgoing to class.
He needed stimulation to fill his days, and drinking at White’s was not enough to keep him entertained. The classroom provided just enough structure to keep him engaged, and Henry’s status as a peer provided sufficient pressure for the university to overlook his habit of not actually finishing any course of study before jumping into the next. As long as tuition was paid, Henry could pretend to forget his friends had graduated and left him behind.
Henry threw back the covers and plodded to his desk. He lifted her most recent letter and read it once more, the paper already becoming soft from frequent handling. How badly he wanted to share how he felt when The Darkness grabbed hold of him, how he fought against it, but it only grew stronger. How her words were like a lighthouse in his storm.
But he could never do such a thing. He was the court jester, making everyone else feel better by comparison. If his scandals continued to make him a subject of interest, if they kept his darkness hidden, then he wouldn’t refute them. If no one expected anything from him, he could never disappoint.
22 January 1896
Dear Lady Eleanor,
It has taken until the last week for my head to cease throbbing and even longer to write letters of apology to all I have offended. Fortunately, most of the guests were in similar states and can barely recall my actions. I admit a certain amount of satisfaction in hearing about my exploits after the fact; many times I have been witnessed committing acts of debauchery in different locations on the estate at the same time! It seems to be a gift of mine.
Yours,
Henry
25 January 1896
Dear Lord Morley,
Or should I say Henry? While my mother would have a fit, it seems right to share a different level of familiarity once one vomits on the other’s shoes.
Perhaps we could have tea next time you are in London?
Yours,
