18 August 1800
129 Keen Street (though rather close to the property line)
Late
He threw a stone at the window and waited for a reaction. One, two.
The moonlight filled the garden and Ophelia his thoughts: particularly her scent, and if it was the same as the garden, or if he just so associated her with the violets and tulips and lilacs that grew there, that they had become inextricably linked in his mind.
Staring up at the dark window, he reached for another pebble and tossed it. Rap, it hit the window, tumbling to the ledge and then the ground below. And again, he waited for an answer.
He tried six more times before yawning, and opting to foray into the larder in lieu of a goodnight kiss.
19 August 1800
129 Keen Street, Second Bedroom
After noon, before luncheon
Leaning out the window, Harry peered down into the garden. The neighboring house was differently-kept (which was to say better kept, but Harry had little interest in tending to grounds he did not own). From this vantage point, he could make out the edge of a dining table through the first-floor window, the sliver of her doorway from the second-floor. He stared into it, his eyes fighting against the brightness of the day.
But the house was all stillness and peace. He saw the wisp of a maid’s dress, and sighed. Harry Cadogan had no interest in maids.
19 August 1800
Hyde Park
A little after that
The park was bustling, even for the late stretch of the calendar. Every Sunday for weeks on end, the bells at St. George’s rang out, announcing marriage upon infinite marriage. “You would think that would declutter the place,” Harry muttered to Lord Kinnaird, the pair strolling along the wide lanes. The Scotsman only laughed.
“But truly!” Harry continued, undeterred. “What is the sense in staying here once your journey has concluded? There is naught here save for matchmaking and water-milk!”
“Parliament,” said Kinnaird, with a concillatory bob of his head. “Meetings of the House do hold some sway.”
A flash of blonde caught his attention, and he tapped Charlie’s arm quite suddenly. “Excuse me.”
Bounding down the lane, Harry canted into a light jog as he caught up to her. Blue dress, blue ribbon, blonde waves that seemed to shimmer like sand beneath waves. Relief swept him. “Finally!” He proclaimed, stepping alongside and then just past. “I have been looking ever–”
The woman beside her – older, he realized latently, and unfamiliar, he noticed a second too late – gasped, and pulled the girl closer. Harry’s face fell as the woman did not materialize into Ophelia, but instead one younger, with childhood still in her cheeks. “I– I apologize,” he stuttered, but they hurried away with distaste all the same.
He found he could not care, for the emotion overwhelmingly sweeping him was not shame, but sadness.
19, 20, 21 August 1800
Morning, afternoon, and quite late in the evening
There began to be a pile of pebbles on the ground outside Ophelia’s window.
22 August 1800
Mid-morning
“Have you called upon the Vanes of late?”
Asking Primrose was a last-ditch option, and he hoped that doing so over morning tea would sweeten her response.
It did not. She stared, and buttered a scone, and rolled her eyes.
“They left London six days ago,” said Primrose. Harry nearly spat out his tea.
“Hah!” Harry scoffed, eyes wide and wild in disbelief. “That cannot be so. It simply–”
Primrose turned away, returning to the latest Whistledown.
He knocked on the door twice, and then a hesitant third.
The house next door was pleasingly similar, all Grecian details and proper, English practicality. It had never once made him feel small, but uncertainty swept over him, then. For the first time, he questioned if he was unwelcome.
A maid answered the door, and he felt his mouth dry. Just beyond, he could see white draping across the furniture. The air held not even a hint of her perfume.
“Is–” he began, not knowing what to say, for he knew the answer. Harry cleared his throat.
“I am looking for Miss Vane.”
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.