Preface:

     The skies are gray, the rain has  hardly stopped all year--the heavens weeping for remembrance of a time long ago when poets still wrote and lovers still laughed in a world without regret and pain. With the heavens I, too, have longed for a world where love lives on despite disaster and sickness and poverty. I send these epistles to every heart-sore man, woman, and child in hopes that something might be stirred in the depths of their soul to make them remember how to truly live. How to love, or even to be loved. And if my letters touch even one soul I shall not have toiled in vain, for the knowledge--even the hope--of a changing world will be my reward.

      Therefore I beg you, look inside yourself for that bit of your heart that has not been captured by this our society of greed and lust. Try to find truth within yourself. Try, once more, to be human.

A Gentleman's Correspondence:

To my darling love,
   
       I have valued myself as nothing and thrown my affection around where neither they nor I deserved and you have shied away because of it. But before I go on remember this: I do not write this letter with the object of your forgiveness in mind. Pray, don't melt and fall at my feet after these words, but only listen awhile and hear my struggle.
      I have felt, before, of my own insignificance, but never have I been less than as I now am without you. Others have compared their love to flying, but mine is a weight that grips me to the earth so much that a single step is a labor on my heart. Never are you gone from my mind, and while my thoughts are filled with you, I know I am ever absent from yours.
      My heart is gone to you, love, and I know I must learn to be content to live without it. But, oh, my plight is not a hopeless one and I live with the ever present longing for you to see me as I am and share my heart back with me, not for your pity for me at these words, but for your own heart's relief.

           Ever waiting,
      Your adoring servant.


Thomas leaned back, took one more surveying glance at the letter, and threw it in the fireplace.

A Conversation with the Lady:

      "Love at first sight," she sighed. "Why can't it be true? I mean, maybe everyone else just saw all the wrong things first--like they were looking for all the wrong things to begin with. Of course, if you're talking about it superficially it could mean anything. For example, what if the first time you saw someone you noticed only his wristwatch, or his hairdo. All my best wishes to whoever that couple is, the 'in love at first sight--with your neck-tie' type," she said with no little amount of sarcasm. "And yet, what if he never does his hair the same way, or wears whatever it was ever again? Does that mean you stop loving him, or do you just pick something new each time you see them, so that you love a hundred different things about him but never more than one at the same time? And even if you are content loving a different thing every day, would it really be love? Would you really love him or just his suit jacket?"
       Now this is where her friend interrupted her. "I'm confused, I though you said you believed in love at first sight."
      "Oh, and I do." She replied. "Just as long as we're talking about the same 'sight'. When I say love at first sight, I mean that time when you first see the person, not their appearance, not the way they talk, just who they are. It's that moment when you first catch a glimpse through their eyes to their soul and it shows you the secret you've been dying to know; that moment when you can see their personality and passions and the things they are adamant in believing come to life; that moment when you see them go to any and all lengths for someone who's been crying all day to laugh; that moment when you first see them and you feel something tugging your heart and feel like you're falling from a great height and praying there is something at the bottom to catch you--that's what I call love at first sight."

The Gentleman's Plight:

Dearest Love,
      
      For years I have held myself back. I have shrunk into myself when you were near for fear of forcing my affections upon you, and you frightening away because of it.
     I have done this in private as well as in public, hiding you--my deepest of desires--in the back of my mind because even the hope of what I knew could never be was too painful to bear. It has been years since first I saw you and loved you, but the ache of you has never left as I prayed for my own sake it would. I think I knew very little of myself then to hope to forget you--to forget the pain of loving you--but I understand myself now. Now after all these years of growing pain I know I am nothing but yours--even in death if the passing years demand it. 
      A thousand times over I have written this letter, and a thousand times over I have ripped it to shreds knowing the words were not right--knowing you would never read them. Even now, as I write this, I can never know if it will reach you, but, pray, if it does, let it not reach your eyes to read it, nor your ears to hear, but let it reach your heart and end my torture.
      For torture it is: never before have I known the degradation one word could bear until I have been called "friend" by you. Be it as a truth, the word was once one of felicity in childhood, yet with each time you  have directed the word at me, it rings in my ears as though laced with disdain as fatal to my heart as poison. 
      As many times as I have written this letter, I have wanted to abandon my plight. Love, I cannot tell you how many times I have tried to leave this my hometown and never return for I have reasoned it is better to live without love at all than to have love and merely be a friend.
      There. I have said what I would. Take it as you may, but know this: be not swayed in your actions toward me, for I have seen the fallacy of my thinking. I have told you I have tried to leave, yet never left. Have you not wondered what has held me back? It has been the impossible hope of you--the sweetness of your torture.

          Enduringly yours, 
             Your ever faithful 'friend'. 


Thomas thought at the final result.
Too forceful.
He crumpled it and threw it aside.

Breakfast with the Lady:

      Forks clinked against plates. Other than that it was silent.
      The morning was bright and stifling. Cecilia waited in agony for her mother to speak. She knew she would. It was all a matter of when. You see, there had been a ball last night.
      And Cecilia had danced.
      With a gentleman.
      The clinking lessened. She looked up. Her mother was dabbing a napkin at the sides of her mouth. Mamma looked back down at her plate. She scooped up another bite. And then--casually, as if she was stating a common know fact, she asked a question. "How is Mr. Bradley?"
      Back to eating her sausage.
      Cecilia hid a smirk. "I hardly know." She was teasing, but her mother didn't know.
      A fork was dropped loudly on the table, Mamma couldn't contain herself any longer. "You hardly know?! You danced with him did you not?! Then, pray, what, in the name of heaven, did you talk about?"
      Cecilia shrugged--a highly unladylike thing to do-- and said in between sips of tea, "The weather, among other things; the refreshments, his fiancee...."
      Mamma pursed her lips and gave a little snort. "Well, we shall just have to try harder next time."
      Next time. Cecilia inwardly cringed.
      It was always like this; Mamma picked the boys, Cecilia gave her best effort--that is her best effort to deter them. But there was to be no avoiding it. They had received another invitation--another of the perks of the London Season. Another ball.
    At least she wouldn't be left completely destitute.
    Thomas would be attending. He at least wasn't a threat like the others.
    He was just Thomas. And she liked it that way.


    Just Thomas.

The Gentleman's Ailment:

Thomas had had enough. If he had to beg for an end to his torture, so be it. And he was determined, this time, that he would make it beyond his writing table. But the struggle was too great and the words came out harsher than ever before.

Jailer of my heart;

      Years of thinking have accumulated to this moment. I have finally found that great mystery of life that men have been searching for since the dawn of time, and though I know I am not the most learned of persons, I now know this: that love which poets praise and writers glory in is false. It is a fictitious device created to quench the pains of the love they felt. For they have felt only what I have felt--the utter despair of love. 

       I now know exactly what love is. Love is a disease. A parasite which feeds on one's soul until they are nothing but the hunger and longing for requital. 

      If only this letter could find a cure for my pain. If only I had within my reach a tonic for my illness. And if, by chance, there were such a cure, it would be held within your grip and be refused me before I had chance to ask it of you.

      And yet, after thinking this I am glad you hold it rather than I, for in my weakness I know I would have taken it and forgotten how I adore the hope of your requiting me of my struggle for the reason that you have suffered through love's pain for me, and we together shall conquer the illness which degrades us.  Until then I will be glad to suffer for the hope of you.

      Until then,

       Your adoring love

Thomas sighed. If love was a disease, he was glad to be afflicted. 

He threw the page into the fire along with the rest of his mapped out heart.

    

A Post-Ball Entry:

Cecilia did not attend the ball.
      Instead she sat in her bed, captivated by the stomach-flu. When, however, her mother came up the next morning to tell all about it, it seemed as though she hadn't missed much at all. She commented at this under her breath, and her mother waved it off and said, "Oh, don't be silly, dear! Why, I heard at least a dozen young men lament your absence. Indeed I have not seen so many forlorn men since Genevieve Harrison went out of circulation--and you know what a beauty she was!"
      And so their conversation went. Cecilia did not for a moment believe anything her mother said. No doubt her mother had made those men say those things. She was like that. Always pulling words out of people who never intended to say anything of the sort. And still Mamma went on.
      Cecilia was surprised to hear  Thomas's name among the list of men Mamma recited had given her their most emphatic feelings on the loss of their dear Cecilia.
      She perked up at this. She suddenly felt the need to say something terribly sarcastic.
      "Oh, Thomas was there?! Now here is the only drawback of my having missed the ball last night. I do hope you remembered to send him my condolences." Cecilia hid a smirk.
      Mamma froze. "Condolences?"
      "Yes. Thomas has long been mourning the death of good sense and conversation in such social affairs, and I'm certain that without me there to comfort him he was left quite destitute. Bereft even. It really is a tragedy."
      "Well!" Mamma was left quite speechless. And that was an end to it.

An Encounter:

Cecilia woke early the next morning, slipped into a dress, and took to the gardens. She didn't even take a second thought of not having done her hair or makeup. A breath of fresh air was all she needed.
      She had just rounded the corner in to what she liked to think of as "the maze", though really it was just the outer-gardens which blocked the house from view, when she heard a faint whistling coming down the path toward her.


Thomas had waited as long as he could. The news of her illness the night of the ball had unsettled him tremendously. He didn't wish to seem impertinent, however, thus his staying away, but he could not refrain any longer. He must see if she was well.
      He realized, of course, that he wasn't nervous of seeming overeager to Cecilia--they were friends, after all. No; he was more worried about the mother. Cecilia had never really minded Thomas's laid back approach to society, but her Mamma had always been a stickler to customs and protocols. If he were to arrive unannounced....
      Thomas resolved to slip in through the back. He knew the way well enough--he'd snuck in more times than he could count.


Cecilia almost had to hold back a groan when she saw Thomas coming. She saw his grin flicker for an instant, but it was soon replaced again with his unwavering ease. "That pleased to see me, are you?" he questioned. Clearly he'd heard her groan.
       "Forgive me, that's not it at all. It's just: here you are half way through you morning visits--for I know we are third on your list of obligations--and I've not even begun readying myself for the day!"
       "Oh, hush, Lia. You look wonderful. I, in fact, have only come to see if you were well again, and here I see that you have recovered splendidly."
      She gave a smirk. "Well I shall give you, but splendid I will not allow."
      "How's that?" Thomas was intrigued by her meaning.
      Cecilia gave him a very long sideways glance. "If you must know, it means I look terrible--and what's more, I know it. My hair is in knots, my eyes all baggy from sleep, and let's not even mention my nose still red and puffy from the illness. In short, your flattery does not work on me, Mr. Thomas Roudington, and you would do well to remember that." Cecilia knew it was a very unforgiving speech, but she meant every word of it.
      Thomas, at first, was quite taken aback, but then he began to laugh heartily. "Ah, but now I know you are well," he said as he recovered his breath, "for you are back to scolding your dearest of friends again. Only do promise to save some for dear Wendy this time."
      Cecilia nodded gravely, "You are quite right, Mr. Roudington. She has quite a bad habit of being a tad too sweet, you know." Thomas couldn't help himself from smiling.

A Conversation with the Gentleman:

Thomas decided all he needed was to keep his mind occupied. A  good dose of hard work and sensible conversation seemed to be just what the doctor ordered. There was only one place Thomas could go for both of those indulgences. . . .
      Half an hour and three paces round the block later, Thomas stood on the front step of his brother's home. If there was anything in this world Thomas could count on, it was that Percival could take his mind off of. . .things. . . no matter the cost. And it had been said many times: all is fair in love and war.



Thomas remained at his brother's house for a grand total of three hours; nothing like the 'impromptu' week-long visit he had planned in his head. Thomas stood at the edge of the street, top hat being crushed and un-crushed a thousand times over in his clenching fist. With frustration raging through his body, he replayed the last hours in his mind.
      It had all started out marvelously according to schedule: a surprised greeting and clap on the back from Percival; a hug and a kiss on the cheek from his sweet wife, Miriam; a bombardment of children begging to be played with, only to be disappointed when their father shewed them away so that he and his brother might talk man to man. It had been the perfect family reunion, by golly. And then it went and ruined itself.
      The brothers had gone out into the garden to discuss 'gentlemen's matters' (or at least that is what they told the rest of the household). After their talk of business and billiards had dried up--about three minutes after having left the house--Thomas conveniently noticed the very poor condition of his brother's garden and took up the idea of improving its appearance. A quarter of an hour later, he was interrupted from his work by this sentiment from his brother:
      "Alright, let's have it. What's on your mind?"
      Thomas was all innocence. Looking up from weeding around a welting tomato plant, he formulated his response. "I don't understand. . . . What do you mean?"
      Percival pulled Thomas up by his collar. "What I mean is: I know you better than anyone. You don't just show up for a week of empty chatter, you want to talk about things. And that's just the half of it: I happen to know that you love vegetables."
      Now Thomas was truly confused. "What have vegetables got to do with any of this?"
      Percival seemed incredulous, as if he hadn't ever have believed it would take this much prodding for a confession. "What have vegetables--! Why, you've just spent nearly half an hour thrashing my good tomatoes to pieces as though your life depended on it! If I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to avoid something."
      Thomas bowed his head in penitence, and brushed the dirt from off his hands. "You know, I came here with every intention of spouting off all my troubles onto your chest and leaving with a clear mind, but now that I'm here, it's suddenly impossible to say what it is that's bothering me. The whether is fine. The stocks are good. Mother is in excellent health. The world is as it should be: you here with your wife and children, and me at Roudington Hall. . . ." Thomas let his sentence fade away. He knew exactly what the problem was. Percival had suddenly turned into a sympathizer.
       Thomas knew what was coming even before his brother gave him that look. "Oh, dear." Percival sighed. "You've fallen in love, haven't you? I'm afraid I can't help you there, brother. You've got to do all the heavy lifting on this one."
      "Aye, but what am I to do? I feel as though I am on fire and surrounded by ice all at the same time and both of them trying to out do the other! It makes for a very worn battlefield, I can tell you that."
      Percival had only one thing to tell his brother. He knew exactly how he felt, but he feared his advice would fall on deaf ears. "Ah, but this is madness! You know exactly what to do. Tell her, by Jove! Leave her a message, write it in a letter, sing it to her if you have to--just tell her!"
      All Thomas could do was shake his head. "It's no use. She doesn't think of me like that. I'm just a frie--"he stopped suddenly. His eyes grew wide, realizing he had said too much. But it was too late. Percival knew. He knew everything.
       "Oh, Tom. Not her. Not Cecilia. You promised. You promised you'd gotten over her. It's been years, Tom, years since you told me you were done with her. Has. . . has it always been like this?" He couldn't even answer, all he could do was grab his hat and walk out the front door.



Standing there, on the streets of London, it suddenly became quite apparent that if Thomas could not count on Percival, there was nothing in this world he could count on. It seemed not everything was fair in love and war, after all.

A Stroll with the Lady:

Cecilia had gone to bed late. But before she climbed into her bed, she spent a long moment staring out the window at the night air, just thinking. But she must have thought very hard, for she had what she thought was the strangest dream of her life.


The moon hung bright overhead and asked her why she was all alone amid the sparkling lights that night.
      She hung her head in response, just to keep walking. She was ashamed of where she was going; where she had been. She was ashamed to be her. It wasn't until all her friends had gone away and left that she had an answer for the moon.
      She strolled once again alone amid the city's stillness and awaited the question. But when it came, when she knew the answer, there was a new question. Not, "why are you alone" but, "why are you here."
      But she found she did know the answer. "I am here because this is me: the stars in the sky, the lights in the river, the smell of life while the city sleeps. It calms my soul."
      And then the moon smiled, because the girl had figured out the riddle of the sky. The girl asked the moon why she smiled, and it was simply stated: "not every girl can talk to the moon".


Cecilia awoke with a strange sort of tightness in her chest. It felt as though someone had given her soul a hug.