4. Womanhood Draws Us On High

"Eternal womanhood draws us on high."

-Goethe, Faust

I realized at some point that I'd never likely experience real love, I devoted myself to books and education instead.

As the doors drew open, I couldn't help but wonder at why the queen chose me to be the diamond of the first water for the Season. I still didn't understand….. I didn't think I looked so different from any of these lovely young ladies. We were all the same age and fairly good-looking in my opinion. But I pondered if it was something else; something that did set me apart from arguably every woman here…..

Most women never born in Britain never leave the island. This is where I was the rare exception. Father was beside himself with grief when Mother died. She had died in childbirth with my last sibling, Hyacinth. Out of depression, he one day soon afterwards announced that he could no longer stay in England. He was to go abroad like on his grand tour in his youth. And that's just what he did, bringing Benedict and I along with him; Anthony was left home to keep an eye on things.

For months we travelled through the Netherlands, France, Italy, and Spain. It was a remarkable time and one I scarcely talked about- it wasn't proper for young ladies to travel so extensively. I think….. I think that's where my love of learning really began. I discovered that there was so much more to life than simply being a wife and mother. The world was so much grander, so much louder…. And I also saw for the first-time well-bred couples who fell in-love and decided to get married.

I saw real young love blossom on its own accord.

It is also in Europe that I got into contact with my friends, Jane Austen and Mary Shelley- among others. Jane never married; she was matched by King George III, and rejected her fiancé before they reached the alter. She wrote books about protagonists who, like those European ladies, fell in love and weren't restricted to arranged marriages. I helped her with these scenes, writing to her of what I witnessed on the mainland and how young courting couples acted around each other.

I too expanded my own education on love. I read extensively the romantic German and classic novels banned in England. Finding English copies were impossible, so I read them in broken German, Greek, and French. Many a rainy day afternoon were sent pouring over Goethe's, The Sorrows of Young Werther, and Voltaire's, Candide. I also read the great philosophers too and what they had to say about love. I suppose you could say I was preoccupied with the subject, but it gradually dawned on me that I'd never have a romance like that…. Not realistically anyway. I wasn't free to choose for myself like the characters in Jane's novels; I would return to England and marry whomever they selected for me. That left a bitter taste in my mouth…..

But I had a secret. I knew what it felt like. Well, not to the same extent men experience before they're forced to wed, I'm certain, but I knew what it could feel like possibly. When we were in Spain, I had gotten into the habit of visiting local nunnery for their library. It was summer and I was not used to the Spanish heat; it wasn't good for my condition. So Father and Benny left me at the nunnery while they went off to go strolling by the seaside. Little did any of us know that work was being done on the building; I thought it was unusually quiet as the nuns were all downstairs while the male labourers got to work. Of course I was unaware of this, going toward the library.

At some point, some dark clouds rolled in, and a thunderstorm was on its way. Father had not returned for me, and I wasn't about to leave on my own, so I took refuge inside one of the towers. Still, as the first flash of lightening and roar of thunder came from the distance, I knew he'd be by to pick me up anytime soon. I'll never forget it- how frightening it was descending those slick, grey cobblestone steps without a railing to hold onto. Rain droplets were leaking down from the patchy wooden roof, making the stones all the more slippery. I don't know how I got down that narrow, wet staircase, but somehow, I did. Though there was no time to relax as I was still pretty high up in the tower. I winced, too afraid to take another step. All I could think about was how I would likely fall, break my neck, and my family would never know what happened to me.

That was until a figure appeared from around the corner. My eyes shot up to see this soaked, tan, Spaniard blinking to me. His body froze and he stared at me with equal surprise. A plank of wood which I guess he was fixing the roof with was resting overtop one of his shoulders, and his other arm was hanging free at his side. He was handsome, with thick black hair and stubble; he looked to be nineteen or so.

Neither of us said a word; I doubt he could speak English anyway. I didn't put together that this man was here to fix the nunnery, and he must have wondered what I was doing there in my fancy, foreign clothes which were now getting drenched by the rain. He saw that my legs were trembling in fear, as were my lips. I didn't know what to think when after a moment of examining me, he set down the board he was carrying and took a step my way. His hand reached out open palm for mine. Still shivering and unsure what his intentions were, he acted slightly annoyed and rolled his eyes. Without a single word he took my hand firmly in his. He didn't hold it with delicacy like I imagine an English gentleman would. This man had working hands, tough from manual labour, and held things with an iron grip…. Including me.

That was also the first time in my life I remember blushing on account of a man. This handsome stranger grabbed my hand, and my face went beet red. My lips spattered, unable to come up with a single word to say as he proceeded to guide me down the tower's other staircase. This one was wider, so we weren't walking too close to each other- thank goodness. I was only a mere girl of thirteen but that was old enough to know that what we- or rather he- was doing would be considered scandalous in well-to-do society. But…. and I hate to say it, a part of me- a large part- was enjoying it too. It hit me like a title wave that I liked it….. the feeling of his hand holding caringly onto mine. I still had no idea who this man was, but I knew I was safe with him. He wouldn't do anything to harm me; I was safe…. I was safe.

The man brought me all the way down to the bottom of the tower. My young lips parted once we were down to thank him, but I was still unable to speak. The man paused to look down at me. He wasn't smiling, but his expression was one of concern, as if he was unsure whether to leave me. He did notice that my hair was fairly damp by now, as was my dress. Still keeping hold of my hand, he reached over to a nearby towel laying on a table. My cheeks sizzled again when he suddenly draped it over my head, covering my hair. He didn't tell me that was for me to dry my hair with, but I got the idea.

We said nothing and my head lowered a little. As if to make sure I got the memo, his free hand lifted up to rub the towel against my hair. The whole time his lips refused to smile; maybe Spanish men just don't smile much, but I felt my heart skip a beat when his own head slightly lowered. He took a step away, finally tearing his hand away from mine. Taking one last look at me from over his shoulder, the man then walked off, never to be seen again.

I still remember that feeling- I never forgot it. I could never forget it. I didn't love that man; of course I didn't. I wouldn't even say I had a crush on him. He were together all of a minute and a half, but I remember every second of it. That wasn't love, but I realized what it could be like. If he and I had talked, if he had stayed, even for a moment longer….. Is this what European girls experience? Is this what they are blessed to have? And us English roses never to know, to taste…? I wanted my husband to hold my hand like that. I wanted him to look at me one last time from over his shoulder. I wanted to experience the sensation I just had in a nunnery of all places. I wanted a greater love….. I wanted… I wanted…. I wanted more out of life, out of marriage.

It's been six years since then, and while I remember the feeling he gave me, I scarcely remember the man's face. I never told a soul, letting his image slip from my mind over time. It was the tingling that another person could give you I retrained. No one has ever made me feel that way since, and I started to believe a long time ago that no man ever would. This was not Goethe's Frankfurt, or Candide's Paris. This was Britain, and here love matches were something we read about in Jane's books. They weren't the norm, and I didn't expect my life to be as such. Still….. My hand closed on my father's arm. Still, I know. I remember…. Unlike all these ladies here I know what it could be like to have your heart racing and your cheeks burning. I know what it's like to look at another and want to know them more, but to become speechless in their presence. I'll never forget those feelings, even if I only experience them once.

What I learned while on the continent is that real emotion, real love cannot be forced. It grows naturally between two souls who understand each other, want to be near one another. I've seen it so many times over there, and wished it for myself. But I also realize that I cannot force my husband to feel the same way, especially if he does not want to marry me in the first place like that horrible Mr. Basset. If he hates me then I'll simply return to my books, just I did after that day back in Spain. I let the Spaniard's hand go….. I let him go all those years ago, but I still remember.

I may not remember his face, but I remember what it's like to hold somebody else's hand.