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The next decent conversation I was able to have with Mr. Wellington was three weeks later. It was the middle of November and unseasonably warm that day, so my father allowed me to go outside to enjoy the last warm weather before winter’s frost set in. So I walked to a remote part of the estate with an old blanket and my story. I sat under a large maple tree, its leaves a beautiful mixture of golden orange and crimson red. It was unusually late for the trees to be changing color, and this one had been the last of all the trees on the estate to do so, but it had the most gorgeous leaves I had ever seen. I smiled as I smelled the autumn scent dancing with the wind. It was so peaceful, out here all alone with nothing to disturb my thoughts or imagination.
I sat under the tree for quite some time waiting for an idea to come into my head so I could write on the page before me. I sighed as I ran my hand over my hair. Nothing had come to me yet. That was one of the frustrating things about writing that I did not enjoy: waiting for the inspiration. There was nothing more tormenting than having an idea in my head that I knew was good, but not being able to access it.
I let my thoughts wander, hoping that it would spark something and catch fire. My thoughts wandered to Mr. Wellington. I thought that father would have sent him away by now, not that letting him stay bothered me that greatly, quite the contrary. All that I could gather was that father had been talking to him about his fur company in hopes that Mr. Wellington would be generous enough to ask him if he could join he and Mr. Jenkins in their enterprise. Not that father needed more money. I also think he allowed him to prolong his stay because, other than Emiline and Diana’s fiancés, who were not much in the way of conversation, Mr. Wellington was the only other man of equal status and more than equal intelligence in a three mile radius.
Once I overheard my mother talking to my father about Mr. Wellington, apparently she had played a part as well. I sighed as I recalled the discussion.
“You have spoken to him before Mr. Harrington. He is a wealthy businessman, surely he has enough money in the bank to support Jane with plenty to spare. Besides, he is intellectually inclined and extremely witty. He and Jane should get along perfectly together. Come now, Mr. Harrington, surely you do not disagree with me. He is wealthy, smart, and handsome. What more could Jane ask for in a prospect for a husband?”
The thing that troubled me the most was that she was right. After watching him, I realized that he was everything that I was looking for in a husband and it seemed too good to be true. I had tried to suppress this subtly growing attraction for if my mother caught wind of it, I would be hearing wedding bells before my sisters. Some of the time it was not that difficult, he came across so aloof and arrogant. At other times, however, I could not help but allow myself to be drawn in by him, to be attracted to his elegance, his intelligence.
I suppose to encourage my attraction or at least the desire to find a husband, my mother had prodded my father to throw a ball to celebrate my coming to society. It would be in late April, a month before my sisters’ weddings. I was anxious for it, but at the same time dreaded it all the more. I felt as if something was going to happen around that time, something that I did not know yet. I had to finish my story before the ball or all my hopes of becoming an authoress would be destroyed. I smiled as an idea came into my head. That was it.
Now that I found my inspiration, I wrote, trying to keep my pace with the ideas that ran through my head. It is hard to describe, the pleasure that I take in writing. It is almost like the art of language is a drug, a powerful drug, to write is an addiction, something I could never bear to pull myself from, not in a million years. Suddenly I heard a soft voice come from behind me. Panic flooded through my veins as I recognized what it was...my story.
“‘She looked across the vast expanse of wasteland, carrying the infant in her arms. How would she be able to reach home with the child alive when times were so hard and pressing?’” the voice said. I jumped up and stormed over to Mr. Wellington.
“What do you think you are doing?” I demanded as I tried to grab the paper from his hands. He simply held it out of my reach, cocking his eyebrow in a teasing manner.
“I could be asking the same of you, Miss Harrington,” he replied, and I was momentarily stunned by the sound of his voice, it was so sweet and seducing.
“Please, Mr. Wellington, give it back,” I said as I made another grab at it. He simply backed up a step, still making sure the page was out of my reach. “Please!”
“I wonder what your father would think if he knew you were working on a story,” he said threateningly, though his voice made it hard for me to comprehend the threat, though it was there just the same.
“Please, do not tell him. I have been working so long on it,” I begged, looking at him with imploring eyes, “Please, give me back my story, Mr. Wellington, it means more to me than you could ever know.”
“Start acting like a reasonable adult instead of a child, and I will give it back,” he replied, his voice full of mockery.
I stood back, no longer reaching or grabbing, waiting for him to make his next move. This was so humiliating. He smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth. For a moment I stood there, confused. Had some of his teeth seemed sharper than the others? I blinked, but by that time he was no longer smiling. I shook my head. No, it was just my imagination.
“There you go, much better,” he purred as he handed me the page, which I eagerly snatched from his pale hand.
“You will not tell my father about this, will you?” I asked, gathering my other papers together and putting them in a leather bag before he could snatch any more from me.
“I do not plan to do anything of the sort. I can tell how much you value writing,” he said.
I smiled and looked down, relieved not only at his compliance, but also by the fact that no one else seemed to notice this obsession of mine.
“However, I am quite curious, Miss Jane, why did you choose to write? You could have been a fabulous artist or designer and gotten a tremendous amount of praise because you are extremely talented. Why choose to do something that is strictly considered a man’s hobby, especially when your father disapproves of it so?” he asked, kindly picking up the blanket and folding it over his arm as he began to walk off at a leisurely pace.
I walked beside him in silence for a few moments, not sure how to answer in a way that would make sense to someone who was not as avid about writing as I was. I tucked a few stray hairs behind my ear as I turned to look at him. The wind blew gently, carrying the deep smell of autumn musk into the air.
“To simply put it, Mr. Wellington...writing is my life.”
*~*
That night, a terrible snowstorm came and shut us in the house for the duration of the winter, except for the few intervals when we were able to travel to Hertfordshire to purchase goods and send out the invitations to the ball. We looked for Mr. Wellington’s companion, Mr. Jenkins, but we did so in vain. We were never able to find him, much to Mr. Wellington and my father’s dismay. Though after the visits we made, Mr. Wellington always seemed to be in a better mood and more willing to spend time with me.
But the conversation I had with him that fateful day was what opened the world of communication between Mr. Wellington and I. We would spend hours together talking in the drawing room, whether it be sitting in the armchairs by the fire or at the piano while I practiced some of the music I had written. Sometimes we would even be able to escape to the library where, much to my father’s disapproval, we would pour over books for hours and talk about their meaning. I believe that I grew more intellectually and as a person in those few winter months than I had in my life.
He opened my mind to an entirely different way of thinking and looking at life. This view did not restrict or oppress what my views already were, but rather enhanced them and widened my vision as to how I looked at things that went on about me. This only nurtured the affection and admiration I had previously had for him, making it grow into a beautiful flower that let off the sweet fragrance of love. Many times I watched him and wondered if he could possibly love me. A childish supposition, I know. I was chronically ill, headstrong, and not attractive in any way. What would he see in me that would make him love me? But, even beyond my doubts and denials I hoped beyond a hope that he would and did love me. I believe that it is every young woman’s dream to fall in love with someone who is as madly in love with them as they are. He would be a man of princely state and always a gentleman, both proper and mysterious: tall, dark, and handsome. Ah, if such a man existed!
But for me, he did. Which is probably why it hurt me so when I began to notice that no matter how close we became, there always seemed to be a wall, some great secret that divided us. Especially as we began to approach the end April, he became more irritable. We had not been able to make a trip to Hertfordshire in four weeks and with every passing day, his face seemed to grow paler. I worried, anxious that his health was failing. He began to spend less time with me and more time asleep. There was one time he did not come downstairs until three in the afternoon and by that time, I was engaged in my lessons with Caroline, which were becoming more centralized about things I would need to know for the ball. He became sensitive to light, always complaining of headaches before going to his room. That was where we spent most of the time when we were together, the heavy winter curtains drawn shut. He would lie in his bed while I sat in an armchair by the fireplace, so distant and far apart, much unlike the days that we used to spend in the library where we would sit side by side, so close our arms constantly brushed together when we moved in our chairs. This was so unlike him, so unlike the Mr. Wellington I had come to know. It scared me. These unusual actions of his were not caused by a medical disease because we had Doctor Milling come in to examine him and he was in perfect health.
That was what made me desperate. I wanted to do something, anything that would help his condition improve and return to me the Mr. Wellington that I once knew. I felt so powerless, watching him day by day and not being able to change anything, watching him grow weaker and paler, more corpse-like than human. Finally, I could not stand it any longer. If he would not tell me what was wrong with him, I would find out myself. I did not know at that time as I sat by the fire, glaring determinedly at his face while he slept, that I was making a choice that would impact the rest of my life and ultimately lead to my death.

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Okay...so that's part one of Chapter Four. Sorry it took me so long to update...I've been busy with graduationand all that good stuff. crying gonk (really stressful, but worth it) The next two chapters are long as well, so I'm going to have to split them up as well. Anyway, I hope you liked it! Please read and review! Much love for all of you! heart ^_^

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