16th August 1800
Early morning
“Miss Vane…” She did not move, sprawled on her back, the soft fluttering of a snore. “Miss Vane!” The small rise in volume did little to stir the woman– she simply rolled onto her side, pulled the sheets up to her chin. Finally Bridget reached forth and shook Ophelia, her tone sharp, “Miss Vane you must wake up at once!”
She groaned, eyes flickering open, heavy with sleep, and fixed the lady’s maid with a most unkind stare. “What on earth calls for such an ungodly hour? I’ve hardly–”
“I don’t mean to be alarming, Miss Vane, but your father has asked you to be awoken and prepared for departure at once… You’re headed back to Southampton by noon today. There– Oh! Well, there’s been a fire at Ranport House!”
The paper is messy, far messier than she would have allowed under any other circumstances. There is a smudge of ink, lined with the print of her thumb, in the lower left corner, a drip of ink at the top near his name, her penmanship is uneven and drawn together…
My dearest Harry,
I do wish I could have spoken to you in person, but you could not be found at your residence. In fact I do wonder where you might have been at such an early hour, but I will divert that question to never mind. Instead, I am forced to simply write the circumstances in which I find myself this morning. Our country home has purportedly caught fire. No one will say the damage for sure, but Papa is determined to return home at once. I do believe he is quite anxious about the event, and with no chaperone remaining in London I, too, am forced to retreat to Southampton.
It pains me to leave you, for I already miss the sound of your laugh and the brightness of your smile. I shall not think of other, more intimate affections or I will surely make myself truly miserable–
“Ophelia! We must be going, darling! Now!”
If you are at all compelled, Harry Cadogan, do come find me. I will be waiting.
On her way out the door, Ophelia hands the letter off to one of the staff, instructing them to take it next door immediately. But in an awful twist of fate, the correspondence is not delivered to the right of the Vane residence, but to the left, where the footman quickly disposes of it.
19th August, 1800
Ranport House, Southampton, England
Afternoon Tea
The house was abustle with workman, their heavy boots loud, their hammers even louder. The south wing of the house had been damaged. Largely the kitchen and servants quarters, though the flames had licked into the dining room. It would be quite some work to get it restored, but really, they were quite lucky.
Ophelia wished the whole thing had burned to the ground.
Not really, but she was sulking, dropping sugar cube after sugar cube into her tea, mixing it, and starting again.
“Would you please stop that?” Her father looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, a book on Greek architecture open in his lap.
She stopped, but would not look at him. The stones of disappointment were heavy in her belly, an array of emotions poised to crack open her chest every time she paused to think. It had been three days and he had not come, had not written. Reaching forward, Ophelia sipped at the sickly sweet tea.
Finally, she glanced up at her father, finding his dark, keen eyes upon her. A near match of her own, save for the prickle of tears that caught at the corner.
“I did not even get to say goodbye.”
24th August, 1800
Early Evening
Ophelia sat in the grass near the edge of the pond with half a stale loaf of bread beside her. Tearing off chunks, she tossed them into the water, watching as the mallards dashed to scoop it up, their flat bills clattering in thanks.
Her eyes were dry, and the sun warm on her face, but Ophelia’s thoughts remained stuck in London. She thought of the gardens, the wrought iron fence that had once separated them on a warm summer night of whispered confessions.
Had she been foolish in thinking his delay in asking for her hand was out of respect? He had said when the time came, she would know, but now she was here and he there, and time was nothing but a mocking reminder of his silence, his absence.
In a surge of sudden frustration, the woman threw the remainder of the loaf into the water, sending the ducks flapping to the other side of the pond. And with a sigh, she laid back on the grass, eyes closed to the bright sky.
22 August 1800
Afternoon, mostly
He took Merlin, three shirts, two trousers, and a spare hat, upsetting both Mother and his valet in his hasty exit. For a moment, the thought to call on Jeremiah or Archibald or even Richard came to mind: companion for the road, a spare set of hands in his quest. Any would be willing, he felt certain. It was for love, or at least some summer-fed delirium. How could there be any other way?
In the end, he declined. Brushing and then saddling Merlin, Harry led the roan bay out of the stables within the hour, and made it to the open road not long after that. He was an expert rider, and as the pair hit their stride on the road south, they seemed to share a singular thought:
22 August 1800
Approaching summer twilight
There was an inn just beyond Afton; he poured himself into a bed that night.
23 August 1800
A reasonable hour of the morning
The road was heavy with summer traffic, caravans and carriages riding to Bristol. Merlin dotted around most but on a particularly gaudy pair of carriages, determined to ride aside, they remained stuck.
With a click of the reins, Harry led him off the path and into a glen, and made up several beats of time.
23 August 1800
Outskirts of Southampton
His hat wilted, horse tired, and the bread and cheese he had taken that morning long-since eaten, Harry stopped on the outskirts of the city. The pair -- horse and man -- took to water like they had been in a desert, and not the English countryside, and were asleep not long after.
24 August 1800
Forsyth Tavern
Outskirts, Southampton
Harry woke to birdsong and fell back asleep for several hours.
He finally rose with a start, and a pounding in his head. Trudging to the basin of water, he caught a glimpse of himself in a wavy mirror: hair bedraggled, skin pecked with the dirt from the road. With a groan, he washed his face.
That quickly lead to washing his neck, which lead to a shocking line of dirt and clean skin. Peeling his shirt off, he discarded it on the floor, and began to sponge over his body: his forearms, biceps, the expanse of his chest. The water began to cloud in the basin, cold upon his skin as he continued until even the space between his toes shone clean.
Harry drank two heavy cups of water, and went back to sleep.
When he awoke, the heat of the day had burned off, the room beginning to fill with the cool damp of summer evening. He rose in blue shadow and dressed to the light of a single flame, brushing his hair until it shone, selecting a jacket and a dark red ribbon to tie back his curls.
At the tavern board, he drank a honeyed ale and ate more than his share of potatoes and turkey, before departing -- much to the chagrin of at least two of the taverngoers, with whom he had made easy friends -- into the night.
The estate was a sore sight, and he was pointed -- with a knowing, crooked smile by its owner -- toward a glimmer of water down a hill. Leaving Merlin at the paddock, he walked on foot: first through stone paths, then low grass, then high reeds.
He stopped at a splash of gold amidst it, and forgot for a moment how to breathe.
It came out as a whisper, choked, his voice foreign to his ears. Harry took three steps forward -- strides.
He had read stories, tales, princesses in walled gardens, fearless knights in pursuit. With her eyes shut, she looked last every bit of it.
