Unknown

“How long am I to sit here, John?” Honora whines from beneath the white, lace bonnet I designed for her. She swats at a fly that lands on her cornflower-blue bodice.

I hadn’t expected the unseasonably hot English day and, as the beads of sweat upon my brow threaten to run into my eyes, I wish I wore linen instead of silk.

“He’s almost, nearly finished,” Julia squeals. “It is a perfect likeness, John. You are a master!”

I sketch the last detail of her angelic, fine-featured face on the miniature portrait and bring my chin back to look at it from a farther angle. “Yes, I’m finished, but I fear I haven’t done you justice in the slightest.” I wish I had made her smile so I could include the faint space in her pearl grin that I love so much.

Honora gets up stiffly from among the tall grasses in the wildflower meadow and, rather ungracefully, trips on her long petticoat at every other step.

“Julia, I think Honora is in need of a pudding cap to keep her from toddling injury.”

I take the painting, pretending to hide it, and she drops her skirt-holding in an attempt to wrangle it out of my hands. Enjoying the game and her closeness, I pull it back and forth as she giggles, then I let her win. She looks upon it and simply smiles. “Well done, John. It will look lovely above my vanity.”

“Oh, no, dear girl. I have made this for myself, because if ever you shall miss seeing your face all you must do is get a looking glass. It is a tragedy that I cannot do the same, and so I have drawn you out of necessity. And although this is but a shadow of your luster, it will get me through the hours I am forced to be away.”

Julia spins around, clutching her chest. “What a lovely way to put it, John!”

“If I had known it wasn’t for me I would have sat half so long,” Honora says, with a smile.

“No, this shall never leave my breast until my last breath, and even then, I hope it will turn to dust with me.”

Julia puts her arms up in the air above her pink bonnet, with its rows of lush ruffles imitating the way her shining auburn hair curls under it. “I have a poem coming to me!”

Honora and I have been trained to wait during her moments of inspiration, and I count her many lovely freckles as she stares off into a poesy-dream world. She moves invisible words around in the air until she is satisfied, and her light-brown eyes sparkle with emotion as she begins:

“While with nice hand he mark’d the living grace,
And matchless beauty of Honora’s face
Th’ enamour’d Youth the faithful traces blest,
That barb’d the dart of beauty in his breast;
Around his neck th’ enchanting Portrait hung
While a warm vow burst ardent from his tongue”

Honora smiles happily at her best friend and praises, “Another wonderful poem! That is your third today.”

“Yes, another spurt of brilliance, my dear Julia. You put us both to shame.”

“Both? I am devoid of any inspiration. I am merely your grateful audience.” Honora says, “I am not the one memorizing Paradise Lost at nine years of age.”

Julia acts offended. “Untrue. Your very presence is inspiration for us both. Our beautiful muse.”

Honora blushes in accepting the flattery as Julia takes her hand and pulls her into a run toward the giant weeping beech tree near the lake. I give them a good head start, for their dresses impede their speed, and take in the Litchfield air and countryside. Grand estates litter the hills along with servant’s tiny thatched cottages, and a white, steepled church that tells me it’s three o’clock with its reassuring chimes. I take off running and scream, causing the girls to nearly trip in anticipation of me catching up to them.

They reach the sanctuary of the weeping beech cathedral. I part the lush curtain of branches in order to enter the cool hideaway. The girls begin at once to climb the branches that hang so low they touch the ground. I run and jump on the highest limb I can reach, shimmy up the rest of the branches until I’m halfway up the massive tree, and finally have some sun shining down, dappling my face.

“John, no fair! You know we can’t reach you in these wretched skirts!” Julia cries, frustrated, as she nearly tears one of her petticoats.

Honora seems pleased on the first branch she climbs to and sits there sweetly, like a happy, fat sparrow.

Such joy buzzes through me—a feeling of such perfect contentment that I must live through it, create a perfect moment. I turn and swing my way down while reciting a poem I wrote the night before:

“How weak is my rage his fierce Joy to control.
A Kiss from thy body shoots Life in his Soul.
Thy frost too dissolv’d in one Current is run
And all thy keen feelings are blended in one.
Thy limbs from his Limbs a new Warmth shall acquire;
His passions from thine shall redouble their Fire
‘Til wreck’d and o’erwhelmed in the Storm of delight
Thine ears lose their hearing, thine eyes lose their Sight.
Here Conquest must pause tho’ it ne’er can be cloy’d
To view the rich plunder of beauty enjoy’d,
The Tresses dishevelled, the Bosom display’d,
And the Wishes of Years in a moment repaid.
A Thousand soft thoughts in thy fancy combine
A Thousand wild horrors assemble in Mine;
Relieve me kind death, shut the Scene from my View,
And Save me, oh save me, ere madness ensue!”

At the last line, I swing right beside Honora on the curved branch as Julia squeals in utter delight.

“Honora, will you have mercy on me and let me keep my sanity, sparing me the thought of another man who shall win you, by saying you will marry me one perfect day?”

“Oh, how horribly romantic! Under the weeping beech!” Julia claps in excitement. “Honora, you lucky girl! And how handsome he looks!”

Honora appears half so enthused, but even in such low light I see her bright green eyes sparkling, giving me some promise. She smiles. “It is so romantic, John, but we cannot eat romance, live in it, or raise children on it.”

“Oh, Honora, you have ruined the moment.” Julia plops to the ground in a circle of skirts, her shoulders hang in sympathy for me.

“Julia, you know father wouldn’t allow it. John would have to be more sensible.”

I take her hand and try to catch her eyes with mine. “I will be sensible. I have been working at my father’s horrid accounting house for months.”

“You say you feel compelled to join the army, since you despise accounting so.”

“Honora, if you promise to marry me, I assure you, I will be the last one leaving and the first one arriving. I will toil away in a sea of vapid numbers, swim through them, and bring some home to you. Please, I cannot imagine my life without you there, making every instant heaven at the sight of you.”

Julia has now perked back up and reels as Honora nods trustingly. I grab onto her in such a fever that we lose balance and fall to the soft-mulched ground, where I feel no pain of gravity.