There is very little in life that depresses a young heart quite as much as lost love. Mrs. Fitzwilliam had told her niece so time and again; given her current circumstances, Flora had no choice but to believe that her aunt’s words were true.
Roger Easton had loved her. He had loved her despite their difference in fortune and status; he had loved her despite the presence of a girl equally as clever and infinitely more beautiful.
All these weeks in his presence, she had never realized it. Now he was gone and she would not even have the comfort of a message in Lucy's letters to cheer her.
Flora lay in bed, staring at the morning rain pattering against the window. It was past her hour for rising, but she felt no inclination to dress and make her way downstairs to breakfast. It would take all her faith to face today with a sense of anything but despair.
With a sigh, she sat up and gazed through the open curtains at the wet ledge just beyond the window frame. Where was Hetta Harwick today, she wondered– the lovely, clever, and bitterly broken Miss Harwick. Perhaps by now she was en route to Germany with her family, escaping the dwindling sum of their fortunes.
Was she thinking of the handsome young shepherd when she whispered her advice? No one would ever know, for she possessed a heart adept at keeping secrets.
There was a clattering noise downstairs as someone dropped a piece of crockery, interrupting Flora's gloomy reflections. She reached for her dressing robe, making her way slowly towards the stairs as she unwound her hair from its braid.
From the landing, she could hear the sound of Marianne's voice downstairs at breakfast. She was perusing the latest notes for Flora's book, sharing the details aloud with her family at breakfast.
"Do you think it's so terrible to climb trees, Papa?" she complained. "I don't see why it's so unladylike to play outside, since gentlemen do. But Flora writes there shall be a whole chapter on not playing like boys."
"For the one thousandth time, Marianne; I am pleading with you to give up this discussion," answered Sir Edward. "Please attend to your breakfast for once, instead of nonsense."
"I heartily agree with you on the trees, Marianne," said Giles. He was breakfasting with their father this morning. "But I confess, I wish Flora would give up this project and find another hobby to occupy her time."
Flora grimaced at this remark, her hand resting upon the rail. Before she could go down, the front bell sounded. She ducked out of sight as Madge hurried to answer it, not wishing to be seen in her dressing gown.
A moment later, she heard the housekeeper address Sir Edward.
"Lord Easton, sir." Roger followed her through the entryway, in a cloak and hat damp with rain.
Flora started at the sight. Roger? Here in England?
"Well, sir," said Sir Edward, his face etched with concern. "I thought you had already set off this day past for France. Is all well?"
The young man nodded, although his features looked tired and drawn. "There is nothing the matter, sir. I merely wished to take leave of your family before I go; I must leave instructions with my solicitor at his home nearby."
He took a slip of paper from his pocket. "Will you give this to Miss Stuart for me?" he asked. "It contains a few lines I thought might be of interest to her." He bowed and turned to go.
Crouched behind the rails, she listened until the door closed. Then turned and hurried down the stairs, pulling her robe around her.
“I’m here, Papa! Give it to me, please,” she said, taking the note from her father’s fingers. She dreaded what must lay inside, almost as much as she burned to know the answer.
"Flora, what is this about?" asked her father. “Surely this note is from Miss Easton and not her brother?” He surveyed Flora’s attitude with a stern glance, to which she paid no heed.
She unfolded the note, revealing a few lines scrawled in Roger's handwriting.
Dear Miss Stuart: I cannot take my leave without saying farewell to you. After all we have been to each other in the past, it is impossible for me to leave things as they were last time we met. Although I do not fully understand the reasons behind what you have done, it does not change the way I feel, although I wish it could.
For I have found my heart occupied by you, Flora. Have loved you and heartily regretted that you could not return those feelings. I had a glimpse of hope, I believed, in those moments we shared in Donnelly Hall. And your words at the ball gave me encouragement I had scarce dreamed of, given your seeming coolness in my presence until recently.
To know that it was only because you feared I would devote my attentions to Miss Harwick–a stranger to me until this year–was indeed painful. Perhaps you intended the act of discouraging me from her better acquaintance as a gesture of friendship. I know well that there are stories of her character, accounts of her unkindness towards Lord Nighton, that would give any friend concern.
But for me, the pain lies in your manner of doing it. The carefree emotions behind your own actions cut me deeply, how little affected you seemed by the whole project. The clever Miss Stuart, whose heart was so untouchable, conquered another's without caring.
I wish it had not been a game for you. But I will remain your friend so long as I am alive, for I cannot help my heart. I wish you well in all your endeavors. Your sincere friend, Roger Easton.
She drew breath sharply as she read his words. Clutching the piece of paper between her fingers, she clung to its words as her mind raced in a thousand directions.
"Are you all right?" asked Sir Edward. He was staring at her with evident concern. She shook her head wildly.
"No," she answered. "No, I am not–he has already gone. How can I–how can this be?" Pressing her hand to her mouth, she paced frantically in the entryway.
"Flora, what is the matter?" Her brother Giles appeared at the door, with Marianne behind him.
"What did the note say?" Sir Edward demanded. "Is there some tragedy–some impropriety in that letter? You look positively ill."
Was this her chance for happiness, delivered to her in answer to prayer? The memory of Hetta Harwick's words returned to her: "Do not lose such an opportunity if it comes your way again."
"I cannot let this be," she gasped. "I have to find him–I have to speak to him one more time." She hurried towards the stairs, brushing past her father as she ran.
"Flora, are you mad?" her father demanded. “Where on earth are you going?”
"I can't explain," she called, pushing open the door to her room. She hastened to dress slipping on the dress left draped over her chair, fumbling with the buttons to fasten it until she gave up halfway. Sliding her feet into a pair of shoes, she twisted her hair into a quick knot at the same time.
Strands of hair pulled free as she hurried downstairs to the entryway again. Which street did Roger’s solicitor live on? At this distance, would she have time to find him before his carriage departed for the port?
Her brother grabbed her arm as she reached for her cloak. "You can't go out there half-dressed," Giles argued. "This reaction is ludicrous, whatever the note said–"
“It is too late to dissuade me, Giles,” she answered, pulling away as she opened the door and escaped.
The rain poured steadily as she stepped into the street, tugging her cloak around her shoulders. Hoping that she was not too late to catch him, desperate to figure out what to say when she did. If she failed, however–but she could not bear to think about it.
"Flora, come back here!" Sir Edward demanded. But his voice was lost in the noise of the city as his daughter vanished around the corner.