Letters by Candlelight
3
The next day, as rain drummed against the windows in monotonous rhythm, Eleanor went to the public library—the only place where she felt free, where she could disappear among books without anyone asking about her marriage prospects.
Her father thought she went to charitable meetings with the vicar's wife. It was a small deception, one that pricked her conscience but not enough to stop.
The smell of old paper and ink was familiar and comforting. She walked between tall wooden shelves, her fingers trailing over book spines, until she saw a man standing with his back to her in the literature section, reading as if searching for an answer rather than a book.
He was tall, wearing a simple dark coat unlike the elaborate ones favored by men of her class. His hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd run his hands through it while thinking. There was something in his posture—something that spoke of both hesitation and solitude.
When he turned, their eyes met.
Grey as London's sky.
Calm.
And holding something that resembled an apology.
Eleanor felt the recognition like a physical thing—a tightening in her chest, a sudden understanding that reached her before thought could.
He paused, as if he hadn't expected to see her, then spoke in a low, careful voice:
"Miss Hawthorne..."
Her heart stopped. How did he know her name?
She took an involuntary step backward, her hand gripping the shelf behind her.
He raised his hands slightly, a gesture of peace. "Please, don't be alarmed. I—" He stopped, seeming to struggle with himself. "I believe I owe you an explanation."
"I don't know you, sir." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"No. But I know you." He glanced around the empty aisle, then back at her. "Or rather, I know what it's like to stand at a window every evening, watching a world you cannot reach."
The blood drained from her face. "The letter. You wrote—"
"Yes." The word was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. It was presumptuous and improper, and I have no excuse except..." He looked down at the book in his hands. "Except that I saw in you what I see in myself. And I thought perhaps... perhaps you might understand what it means to be lonely in a crowded room."
4
His name was Julian Moore.
A writer.
A former teacher.
A man carrying a secret too heavy to speak of easily.
They didn't speak long that first day. Eleanor's sense of propriety warred with her curiosity, and curiosity won by only the smallest margin. They stood in the poetry section, speaking in hushed tones while rain continued its percussion against the high windows.
He told her he lived across the street from her townhouse, in a modest flat above a used bookshop. That he had seen her standing at the window for months now, always at the same time, always with that same expression of quiet yearning.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said, his eyes searching hers anxiously. "But I... I saw something in you that I knew well. The feeling of being trapped in a place your heart doesn't belong."
Eleanor should have been angry. She should have been frightened. She should have left immediately and told her father about this strange man who watched her windows and left mysterious letters in her locked room.
But she didn't.
Instead, she heard herself ask: "How did you get into my room?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The ivy that grows along your wall reaches to your window. And the latch is old—it doesn't quite catch."
"That's—" She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "That's burglary."
"Yes." He didn't look away. "I'm aware. If you wish to call the police, I wouldn't blame you. But I couldn't... I couldn't reach you any other way. And I thought if you knew there was someone else, someone who understood..." He trailed off, looking suddenly vulnerable. "I thought it might help. It helps me, knowing you're there."
The truth of it struck her like a bell. Here was a man who had risked arrest simply to tell her she wasn't alone. It was mad. It was improper. It was possibly the most honest thing anyone had ever done for her.
"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why me?"
He looked down, then back at her:
"Because I knew there must be someone like me. Someone living in a beautiful cage... dreaming of flight."