The first time he fell in love, it was during the weekly gathering of the Greater London Gentlemen’s Literary Guild. He had been a member for several months at that point, but he rarely participated in the lively discussions for which it was known. In truth, he had not wanted to join the club at all, but the president had been a business associate of his father and was, by all accounts, still a “friend of the family.” According to William’s mother, it would have been both rude and ungrateful not to accept the invitation.
Still, if she could badger him into attending, she could not force him to speak. Membership was limited to men only, and without Anne there to goad him, William spent most of his time cloistered in a distance corner, listening to the conversation but making no effort to contribute to it. The other gentlemen rarely tried to entice him. Under the sharp eye of their leader, they were unfailingly polite. However, it was obvious they found William’s behavior off-putting, and they avoided his corner as though social awkwardness was a disease that might be catching. It was just as well.
The topic on that particular evening was John Keats, and the general consensus seemed to be that he was an overrated sop. William did not agree with this assessment at all, but he felt too shy to say anything. He sat fiddling with his teacup and trying very hard to pretend he was invisible, until suddenly a voice said heartily, “Well now! I do believe we’ve offended Miss Underwood!”
William’s eyes lifted from his cup. The “Miss” to which the speaker referred was the Guild president’s daughter, Cecily. Of Arthur Underwood’s three girls, she was the only one old enough to help play hostess during social affairs, and aside from her mother, she was the only female in the room. Just then, she was standing at Walter Rathbone’s elbow, frozen in the act of freshening his tea. As the gentleman had noted, she did seem offended.
“Do you feel we are being unfair to Mr. Keats, Miss Underwood?” Walter asked. His tone was properly deferential, but predictably condescending. Daughter of the host or not, she was, after all, only a woman.
Cecily blushed but answered stoutly, “Your only complaint against him seems to be his romanticism.”
“Is that not enough?”
“I should think not, when his verses are so beautiful—so—so full of genuine feeling—”
“No doubt he wrote some truly exceptional lines, my dear,” Victor Chattoway said finally, speaking for Walter, who by now was looking rather stunned. “Yet you must concede that for the most part he is too steeped in sentimentality. For the modern male reader, examining his works is rather like wandering through an endless maze of rose trees—all perfume and no purpose, you might say.”
“Which is precisely why a woman would find him appealing,” Daniel Reade put in, completely disregarding Cecily, who had looked as though she were about to speak.
The other gentlemen laughed—the conversation moved on as before—and poor Cecily was left standing red-faced and forgotten with a half-filled teapot in her hand. After a moment’s pause, she gave a sigh and resumed her duties without another word.
Later, when William was making ready to leave, Cecily fetched his hat and coat for him.
“You’re leaving so soon,” she said politely, as she saw him to the door.
“Oh, yes. I—I always leave early, a poor habit.”
“I thought perhaps you were ill.”
“Not inordinately. Miss Underwood—” This last he said with some urgency, for she had begun to retreat.
“Yes, Mr. Pratt?”
“Nothing—only—I wanted to tell you that you were right. About Mr. Keats, that is. I quite agree with you.”
“Do you?” Despite the open door and his supposed intention of leaving, she lingered before him, looking suddenly interested. “You like Mr. Keats’s poetry?”
“I do, of course. Endymion—The Fall of Hyperion—they are among my very favorites.”
“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” Cecily quoted, and in the instant before she turned away, she smiled at him.
It was only a small exchange and likely of no real importance. Nonetheless, it was enough. For all the rest of that year, his heart wasn’t his own.
“Oh, God. Please tell me you’re not lying there dead from last night’s concussion.”
Buffy’s voice—full of genuine concern—startled him awake at once, but it was a least another minute before William could see where it was coming from. His eyes felt swollen and hot, the lids painfully dry. Even when he opened them, it seemed as though the world would never come into focus.
His fingers closed around clumps of dewy grass and he willed the unsteady landscape to stop rocking beneath him. He felt so dizzy he feared he might be ill. Had he really taken so much laudanum?
“I suppose I must have fallen asleep,” he said finally. Hardly a courteous greeting, but given that his brain currently felt like a mound of wet cotton, he was relieved he could speak at all. The inside of his mouth tasted sour, like cherries gone to rot, and his head was heavy. He did not bother trying to sit up—he hadn’t the strength—but he turned his face a little to one side lest his breath offend her.
If it did, she gave no indication. She was leaning over him, her elbows in the grass on either side of his shoulders. Her back was arched and her face just an inch or so away, and although she wasn’t touching him, somehow he felt trapped, lodged between her body and the damp earth, walled in by the silky hair that fell on each side of her face—and by virtue of their proximity, on each side of his own. He wondered why he liked it so, the feeling of being beneath her. He wondered if it meant something was wrong with him. Should not men prefer to subjugate women?
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Her fingertips grazed his temple, brushing the hair aside to expose an injury he didn’t even remember suffering.
“You’re late.” The words came out harsher than he intended, almost accusatory, but she did not seem insulted.
“Am I late? I guess I didn’t realize we had a schedule to follow.”
“It’s dawn soon. You normally don’t wait so—and I thought—”
The resentment in his tone was too strong for her to ignore. She sighed. “I know it’s late, William. I’m sorry. I got held up by something really unpleasant—not to mention totally unavoidable.”
Her manner of speech was not much more refined than that foolish maid’s, but it never occurred to him to feel annoyed. She shifted her weight slightly, laying a hand against his rumpled shirtfront in a cajoling sort of way—but lightly, as if she knew too much pressure would cause him to cough.
“You aren’t mad at me, are you?”
Anger was long gone by then, but he could not quite bring himself to tell her so. He liked the apologetic expression in those green eyes. Trivial as it was, he liked having the power to make her feel remorse. If he could do that, it must mean she cared about him at least a little.
He looked down at her hand and wondered if she could feel the frenetic throb of his heart, the strange liquid rattle that was just beginning to plague his breathing. If she did, would she realize what it meant? Unable to bear the thought of her pitying him, he covered her fingers with his own and attempted to pry them away. Unfortunately, she misunderstood his motive and refused to budge. He couldn’t force her. She really had extraordinary strength for a woman.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” She dropped her head against the crook of his shoulder, whispering her next words into the side of his neck as though they were a secret. “I brought you a present, so you can’t keep being mad at me. It isn't good manners.”
A present. Did she mean a gift? He tried to muster some curiosity, but it was difficult with her practically straddling him in that fashion. His thoughts were—elsewhere.
“What on earth are you thinking about?” Because he still hadn’t spoken a full minute later. He was lying with his eyes half-closed, completely oblivious to her bewilderment.
“I was thinking…you smell lovely…”
Not at all what he had intended to say, but he could tell she was flattered from the way her flesh warmed against him. Her fingertips played along the knot of his tie, the buttons of his shirt, though she seemed very careful not to disturb any of it.
“And what do I smell like?” She lifted her head until her mouth lay almost against his ear, and he could not quite stop himself from squirming.
“I—I couldn’t say, exactly—but—it’s exquisite—” The fingers of his left hand were splayed across her nape now, though he hadn't the faintest idea how they had gotten there. For a single, foolish moment, he thought about doing what every aching nerve in his body was pleading for him to do. He thought about telling her.
Then he remembered what happened the last time he confessed his feelings to a woman, and he knew he could not.
Instead, he forced a completely insincere laugh and said, “I thought you said you had a gift for me. Where is it?”
It came as a relief when she finally drew away. At least that was what he told himself while he waited for his erection to subside.
Meanwhile, she was fiddling with a lopsided bundle tied to the back of her saddle. It was large and unwieldy, and if the horse’s reaction when she unfastened it was anything to go by, it must have been quite heavy, too. However, Buffy lifted it with apparent ease and swung it over her shoulder.
"Okay," she called as she walked back over. “Before I can give you what’s in here I need you to promise me you won’t show it to anyone.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” he swore. Nevertheless, he blushed. He couldn't help but remember her necklace, which he had not only stolen but also shown to someone. Just a servant boy, but somehow he doubted she would approve.
If his expression betrayed his guilt, Buffy did not appear to notice it. She opened the top of the bundle and upended it, dumping its contents onto the ground beside him.
Books. A great many of them judging by the looks of it. He stared up at her in confusion.
“Well, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “They’re not going to bite you.”
Perhaps not, but they were certainly not like any books he had ever seen. They had pasteboard bindings and shiny paper jackets ornamented with photographs. Color photographs no less. He hadn’t known such things even existed.
She was watching him carefully. “You can touch them, you know. In fact, if you want to be really adventurous you might even try reading a couple.”
“Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s only…” His voice trailed away as he began sorting through the volumes. The pre-dawn light was dim, and he had to squint to see them properly. They had titles like The Late Victorian Era 1870—1901, A History of the 20th Century, Chronicles of the 20th Century, Great Moments in World History, and The Dawning of the New Millennium. He glanced over at Buffy as she sat down beside him, but she merely shrugged.
“Don’t feel obligated to read them if you aren’t interested. I just thought you might want to know a little bit about where I come from. It’s a crazy world, but—”
“You’re sharing it with me.”
“Something like that.” Her smile was wistful and tender, full of enough warmth to break his heart. William couldn’t look at it.
Instead, he looked back down at the books. Out of half a dozen volumes, only one stood apart. It had no jacket, just a plain blue binding with a few words embossed across the front in black. He traced his fingertips over the lettering as he read the title.
E.E. Cummings
1904-1962
“Poetry?”
“Just the one. I know you said you don’t write poetry, but you seem like a guy who might still enjoy reading it. If you don’t—”
“No,” he said quickly. “I do. I like it.”
“Good.” She reached out to touch the cover, placing her fingers where his had been only a second before. “I think you’ll like this guy. I like him, and I’m not even all that big on poetry. We studied him in school.”
“School?”
“College. Freshman year—my only year, actually—I took Introduction to Poetry.”
He tried not to let his surprise show. “And did you enjoy it?”
“I did. I mean, I wasn’t going to run out, buy a black turtleneck, and start beating bongo drums at the local coffeehouse…but I liked it.”
“What was your favorite?”
“My favorite kind was haiku, because it's short. But I guess in terms of real poetry my favorite would be…” She pulled the book from his grasp and began hastily flipping pages. She looked so eager William didn’t have the heart to tell her haiku was real poetry.
A minute later, she passed the book back to him with one page dog-eared.
He read the verse carefully—read it twice, in fact, because the poet’s style was so unique, so unlike anything he had ever seen, it took him a second reading to understand. When he looked at her again, his eyes were wet.
“That’s extraordinary.”
“I know,” she answered. “It is.”
She would not visit the next night.
Buffy didn’t tell him this until she was about to leave. Perhaps she had thought he would take it badly. Frankly, he did. He watched her mount her horse in the red light of the sunrise and he insisted, “But you must!”
“But I can’t,” she repeated. She gathered her reins and looked at him, and even his poor self-esteem couldn’t refute the genuine regret in her eyes. “It isn’t my fault, William. I have a job to do, and I’ve been slacking off too much as it is. Trust me when I say I have people telling me that every day. I need to—”
“You needn’t work. If it’s money you want, I could give you—” He felt almost ashamed to offer, but she didn’t take it in the wrong spirit. As a matter of fact, she laughed.
“Thank you, but I'm not doing it for money. It isn’t that kind of job. It’s—” She hesitated.
“What?”
“Well, it’s important. People need me.”
I need you! He would not have said it for anything in the world, but the thought was there. The terrible, weak, desperate thought—
He sighed.
“If you are depended upon, I suppose you must go.”
“And it’s only for the one night.”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered stiffly. But he was lying. He did know, and it produced the very result he desired: she climbed off the horse.
“William...” She was standing so close he could feel the heat from her skin. He could smell that delicious, intoxicating scent—
“What?” he breathed.
She picked up the bag of books from the ground and flung it against his chest, almost knocking him flat.
“Stop being such a manipulative ass and go home!”
There seemed to be little else to say after that. He went.