Chapter 19 #2
As we prepared to leave, little Mary approached me with a carefully drawn picture—a house with flowers around it and stick figures that might have been a family.
"This is for you," she said solemnly. "Mrs. Hartley said you might help us make our house bigger."
I knelt to her eye level, struck by the matter-of-fact way she had accepted my potential assistance. "It's beautiful, Mary. I'll treasure it."
"Will you come back to see us?"
"I think I will. Very soon."
Walking back to Lavender Cottage, I found my mind churning with possibilities. But it was Lady Joanna who voiced what we were all thinking.
"Christmas will be upon us before we know it," she said thoughtfully. "And then Twelfth Night. The whole season of celebration."
"Have the children experienced a proper Christmas before?" I asked.
"Most haven't," Diana replied sadly. "For many, the holidays were times of particular hardship—less work available, harsher weather, families struggling just to survive."
"We managed a modest celebration last year," Sophie added, "but with our limited resources, it was rather sparse. A few small gifts, a special meal, but nothing that truly created the sense of family and belonging these children deserve."
"They need to understand what it means to be wanted, to be part of something larger than themselves," Mrs. Hartley had said during our visit. "The Christmas season through Twelfth Night—that's when families come together, when traditions are shared, when children learn they belong somewhere."
I thought of my own childhood Christmases—the greenery brought in from the estate grounds, the special foods prepared for the season, the gifts exchanged not just on Christmas Day but throughout the twelve days of celebration.
The warmth, the continuity, the absolute security of knowing I was loved and wanted.
Victoria, Georgiana, and I had been fortunate to have that foundation, especially after our parents died when we were still quite young.
Aunt Cecily had made certain we never felt truly orphaned, that Christmas remained a time of joy rather than loss.
These children deserved that same sense of security and belonging.
"What would it take to give them a proper Christmas season?" I asked.
"More than we currently have," Lady Joanna admitted. "Space for proper celebrations, funds for gifts and special foods, enough hands to organize entertainments that would last through Twelfth Night."
"And perhaps," I said slowly, an idea beginning to form, "the involvement of people who understand what it means to create family traditions when blood relations are... limited."
Diana gave me a knowing look. "You're thinking of your sisters."
"Victoria and Georgiana lost our parents quite young.
They know what it's like to depend on the kindness of relatives, to need someone to ensure that holidays remain special despite loss.
" I paused, considering. "They also have considerable experience organizing social events and creating memorable occasions. "
"That's rather brilliant," Sophie said. "Who better to help plan Christmas celebrations than people who've had to rebuild their own sense of family?"
I tapped my chin. I was lost to the thoughts of making this something special for the children. "It would require coordination with the church, cooperation from local families, probably involvement from the major estates."
Sophie turned to me. "Including Lord Avebury's." Her voice was soft, but the effect was less than gentle as I considered how I would approach our interactions.
"You're planning something," Diana observed with amusement.
"Dangerous thoughts," Sophie said with a grin. "Before you know it, you'll be completely absorbed in orphan welfare and forget all about brooding over masculine failings."
"Would that be such a terrible outcome?"
"Not terrible at all," Lady Joanna said seriously. "Though one hopes you'll eventually address the masculine failings as well, rather than simply avoiding them."
"You think I should forgive Julian?"
"I think you should decide what you actually want your life to look like, and then determine whether forgiveness serves those goals better than continued anger."
"What if I don't know what I want?"
"Then this work will help you figure it out. Purpose has a way of clarifying priorities."
That afternoon, I wrote several letters.
The first was to my sisters, explaining that I was well but needed time to think without interference.
The second was to Mrs. Fletcher, requesting that she send my correspondence and estate papers to Lavender Cottage.
The third was to the architect who had designed improvements to the vicarage, asking if he might visit to discuss expansion possibilities for a charitable institution.
When Lucy returned from delivering my messages, she brought with her a packet of correspondence from Wyndham Hall. Most were the usual estate matters and social invitations, but one letter bore handwriting that made my pulse quicken despite my best efforts to remain indifferent.
I set it aside until I had dealt with the other correspondence, but eventually curiosity—and perhaps something deeper—compelled me to break the seal.
Eliza—
I know I have no right to ask for your attention, much less your forgiveness. But I cannot let silence stand between us when words, however inadequate, might begin to bridge what my deception has broken.
I was wrong to let you discover my identity as you did.
I was wrong to allow you to struggle with concerns about propriety when I could have resolved them with simple honesty.
Most of all, I was wrong to value my own desire to be known without the complications of my title over your right to make informed choices about our friendship.
If you will permit it, I would welcome the opportunity to explain—not to excuse my actions, but to help you understand them. You deserve that much, at least.
Whatever you decide about my request, please know that every moment of regard I showed you was genuine. My feelings were never false, even when my circumstances were incompletely revealed.
I remain, in hope of your eventual forgiveness, Julian
I read the letter twice, my emotions warring between the anger I had carefully cultivated and the unwilling warmth his words stirred in my chest. There was no excuse-making in his message, no attempt to justify his deception—only acknowledgment of wrongdoing and a request for the chance to explain.
It would be so much easier if he had been defensive or dismissive. Instead, he had written exactly the sort of letter that made forgiveness seem possible, even when I wasn't certain I was ready to grant it.