To Mr. Barrett.
Eliza dipped her pen into the inkwell at the corner of her desk and gathered a large drop of ink, then let it fall onto the name, rubbing the black smudge around until she could no longer see the letters.
Dear Mr. Barrett.
Again, it just didn’t sound quite right. Another drop of ink, another swirl of the pen and again it was gone.
Dear John.
Eliza sat back and smiled at the paper on her desk, satisfied that she had found the right opening for the letter she felt so compelled to write.
But what else could she put in it? As she pondered, she turned her head to peer out the nearby window. Outside the schoolhouse the workers’ lunch hour had just begun and the street was bustling; people strode by on foot and on horseback, and vendors sold their wares from carts on the corners—fruits and breads, newspapers and tonics, all the things that one might need to pick up in a hurry.
Craning her neck a bit, Eliza strained to get a better look at a group of noisy men gathered just outside the window. Talking and laughing, she could just see the tops of their heads, their ruffled coifs, the dirt smudges on their ears. Their foreheads were tanned, as though they spent most of their days outdoors, and were those bits of sawdust she spied in their hair?
Is one of them my John? she thought, remembering the glimpse she’d stolen of him that morning as he’d paused in the street to let her pass. Unfortunately, too caught up in conversation with her friends, she hadn’t realized it was John until she’d passed him by, until she was almost inside the schoolhouse. At that point, her teacher would not let her go back out, but she’d longed to run to him and say hello, to remind him of their meeting the day before, to do or say something that simply would let him know that she had seen him, that she was there. But it was impossible. She’d been ushered into the classroom, and John had been lost to her.
At least, for the time being. All morning the vision of him had danced around her mind—his brown hair, his green eyes, the way he’d pulled his horse to attention before her, so chivalrous, so proper. Did he see me? she wondered over and over. Did he know who I was? She couldn’t help but think that he had, that he wouldn’t have stopped like that for just anyone.
“Miss Anceaux,” the teacher said from the front of the room, eyeing Eliza suspiciously. “Are you working on your assignment?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Eliza said sternly, sitting up straight again and turning back to her desk. Leaning over her paper, lest anyone see it, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and began writing again, quickly and quietly, the words that had been tormenting her restless mind.
Dear John,
I hope that you will remember me, though we have only met twice. Yesterday, at the lake, it was my good fortune to find you waiting to break my fall as I rushed past you, en route to the boat yard. Your exemplary manners and, if I may say so, impressive physical strength kept me upright at a moment when I was most embarrassed by my lack of grace—which, I must confess, was not entirely accidental. I hope that this revelation does not shock you, and that you are instead flattered that a young woman would go to such lengths to make your acquaintance.
Our second meeting, if you could call it that, was just this morning, in the road outside the schoolhouse. I am sorry that I did not realize it was you right away, as I would have liked to stop to talk to you again. I am not sure why, but I feel as though, were we given the chance, we would have much to say to one another. I can (and do!) envision us engaging in long, meaningful conversations about all manner of subjects—life, love, art, business, anything and everything that comes to our minds. I wonder if you see this for us as well.
In closing, John, I will tell you two things. First, I do not hope that there is a third meeting in the stars for us. In fact, I know it to be so. Do not ask me how. It is just a feeling that I have.
Second, please forgive the familiarity of my greeting at the start of this letter, but nothing else I tried seemed quite right. John, I must tell you that from the moment I first saw you I felt as though we were connected. Something draws me to you in the oddest but most delightful way, and I hope—I hope and I pray, truth be told—that you are feeling the same way about me.
Until next time,
Eliza Anceaux
While reading back over the lines she had written, Eliza waved her hand above the paper, fanning the ink to dry it. She grinned to herself, pleased with the thoughts she had expressed and thrilled by the thought of John reading them. She could not say why, not even to herself, but she was just so sure that he would feel the same way about her, that he had sensed the connection between them just as she had. How could he not have? When they’d looked at each other, it had been incredible, powerful…
“Electric!” Eliza whispered, looking out the window again, at the people who now hurried back to their workplaces. She shivered at the memory of the zing she’d felt when she’d first laid eyes on John, and then again the first time that he’d touched her. She couldn’t wait to feel it again. She had to find a way to make it happen.
“The lake,” she told herself, squinting up at the sky outside the window. The sun was just coming out, creating a promise of a beautiful afternoon. Surely, on such a day, John would return to the water for a rematch with his boat-racing friends—or, at least, to find Eliza. Wouldn’t he?
Eliza paused.
Wouldn’t he?
In her doubt, she turned back to the classroom, the dreary, serious reality in front of her. As usual, the teacher was watching and, upon catching her eye, signaled for Eliza to continue with her assignment.
He would, Eliza told herself with a secretive smile, quickly folding up her letter and slipping it into her sleeve. She then opened up her lesson book and pretended to read it, sure that this would be the longest afternoon of her life.