Page 51 of Rescuing Lord Inglewood

After their ride, he disappeared for a time to work in his study. Esther avoided her sitting room and its paints, opting instead to see to her household business with the servants. At dinner that evening, Silas asked if she would accompany him on a walk the next day, weather permitting. She accepted.

But when Mary woke her by drawing back the curtains, she was not as pleased by the cloudless sky as she was the vase of blooms upon her dressing table. Silas had even gone the extra step, staying true to the idea of courtship, and tucked a card between the stems. They were flowers from the gardens, of course, and that made the gesture sweeter.

I look forward to seeing you today.

-S-

She covered her grin with her hand, though no one but Mary was there to see.

The walk was followed by taking tea together, then he left for his work while she kept another appointment with the seamstress. The lengths of black fabric brought in by the woman sobered Esther for a time. When everything was whisked back into trunks by the seamstress and her apprentice, Esther was left with a hollow feeling in her belly and her eyes burned with tears.

Silas found her that way, almost as though he had been waiting for such a moment to appear at her side. He brought her a gift. It was a book from their library, full of John Donne’s poetry. He offered to read it for her, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I cannot say I have read anything penned by him,” Esther said, taking a seat in the parlor where she had seen the seamstress. Silas sat beside her, one arm stretched on the back of the couch while he held the book out in front of him.

“As you were sent to a respectable finishing school, I imagine not.” He grinned wickedly and then proceeded to read to her verses that were both shocking and quite humorous.

“Where,” she asked, laughing after Silas recited a ribald poem criticizing other poets, “did you find these? I cannot imagine such verses being encouraged at Cambridge.”

The way Silas shrugged and turned another page, reading rather than answering her question, would have been infuriating had he not made her laugh again. She laughed until her sides ached.

Silas snapped the book closed and pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, offering it to her. “I am thoroughly relieved that you find Donne as diverting as I do. You know, in later life, he became a priest.” Silas waggled his eyebrows at her, a crooked smile in place.

“Oh, do stop. A priest?” Esther dabbed at her eyes. Even the handkerchief’s black border did little to dim her merriment. “Did he repent of his poetry?”

“No, he wrote more. Just of a religious nature.” Silas leaned back against the couch, leaning his head back. “That is actually how I came across this volume this morning. I was trying to remember a few verses I read many years ago. From one of his more serious pieces.”

Esther leaned back as well, though it was hardly proper to allow her posture to sag so. “And did you find the poem you sought?” she asked, matching her tone to his.

“I did.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye, then removed his arm from the back of the couch to rest upon her shoulders. “I cannot say it is the sort of poem one should repeat to the lady he is courting.”

“We are an unusual case, my lord,” she said, laying her head upon his chest. “I should like to hear it.”

“Very well.” He rested his cheek upon her hair, and when he spoke again she could feel his breath tickling her ear. But the words… The words were stirring and beautiful.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

…

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Esther stilled, letting his voice and words from centuries past wash over her soul. She could well imagine a priest writing such words. It seemed the poet Donne had overcome whatever mischievous muse had guided his earlier work.