Letters by Candlelight
5
The meetings repeated themselves, cautiously at first.
Always in public spaces where propriety could be maintained, at least on the surface. The library became their sanctuary, the smell of old books their incense, whispered conversations their prayers.
In the public garden, where they walked slowly beneath bare trees, Eleanor learned that Julian had been raised by his mother in a single room in Southwark. That he had educated himself by candlelight with borrowed books, had somehow earned a position as a teacher through sheer determination, only to lose it all when society decided his birth made him unfit to educate their children.
"What did they accuse you of?" Eleanor asked one grey afternoon as they sat on a bench far from the main paths.
Julian's jaw tightened. "Nothing specific. Everything implied. When you're born without a father's name, Eleanor, people assume the worst of you. They said I was 'unsuitable.' That my presence was 'corrupting' to young minds." He laughed bitterly. "As if poverty and illegitimacy were contagious diseases."
Eleanor felt anger rise in her chest—clean, pure, and righteous. "That's monstrous."
"That's society." He looked at her with something like wonder. "You really don't care, do you? About my birth, my circumstances."
"I care about who you are. Not where you came from."
He was silent for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was rough: "I wish everyone saw the world as you do."
But he always stopped himself before drawing too close, and would change the subject whenever she asked certain questions about his family, his childhood, the specific details of his dismissal.
Sometimes they communicated through letters hidden between the pages of borrowed books—words that couldn't be spoken aloud, thoughts too dangerous for daylight.
He wrote to her about literature as if books were living things, about beauty found in unexpected places, about the loneliness of seeing the world differently than everyone around you.
She wrote to him about the suffocating weight of expectation, about her mother's death and her father's distant grief, about dreams she'd never dared speak aloud.
One evening, she found this note tucked into a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
"You asked why I hide parts of myself from you. The truth is, Eleanor, I am afraid. Afraid that if you knew everything—every mistake, every scar, every shameful corner of my past—you would look at me differently. And I cannot bear to lose the way you look at me now, as if I am more than the sum of my failures."
She wrote back, leaving her letter in a book of Keats:
"Julian, we are all more than our pasts. You've shown me that every person has a story worth hearing, a heart worth knowing. Don't you see? You've already given me the greatest gift—you've made me feel seen. Let me return the favor. Let me see all of you, not just the parts you think are presentable."
But still, he held back. And she began to sense there was something specific, something particular he couldn't bring himself to reveal.
6
The truth came uninvited, as truth often does.
At a formal evening hosted by the Hawthorne family, the hall blazed with gaslight and glittered with jewels. Eleanor sat at the piano playing a Chopin nocturne, her fingers moving across the keys while her mind wandered to Julian, to their last conversation, to the way he had looked at her before turning away.
Her father stood by the fireplace with a group of gentleman, discussing railway investments. The ladies gathered near the windows, their voices carrying across the room in that particular way women have of speaking loudly while pretending to whisper.
Then she heard it.
Julian's name, spoken with the casual cruelty that polite society has perfected:
"Have you heard about that Moore fellow?"
"Oh, the writer? If you can call him that."
"I heard he's illegitimate. His mother was a servant in Lord Ashworth's house."
"Yes, and when she became pregnant, she was turned out without references. Disgraceful."
"The man himself is no better. Was dismissed from teaching after some scandal at a boys' school."
"I heard he made inappropriate advances—"
"My dear, we shouldn't speak of such things."
"Well, regardless, he lives in squalor now, writing articles under assumed names. A cautionary tale, really."
Eleanor's hands stilled on the keys. The music stopped mid-phrase, the silence sudden and jarring.
Every face in the room turned toward her.
But she saw no one. The words echoed in her mind: illegitimate, scandal, inappropriate advances, cautionary tale.
No. Not Julian. They were wrong. They had to be wrong.
But even as she thought it, she remembered how he'd always deflected questions about his past, how he'd said "if you knew the truth, you might hate me."
Her father's voice cut through her thoughts: "Eleanor, are you unwell?"
She stood, the piano bench scraping loudly against the floor. "I—excuse me. I need some air."
She walked through the crowded room, aware of every whisper, every glance. In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, her breath coming short.
Mrs. Daphne Crawford, one of her father's oldest friends, appeared beside her. "My dear, you look quite pale. Let me fetch you some water."
"Mrs. Crawford," Eleanor heard herself say, "what do you know about Julian Moore?"
The older woman's expression shifted—concern replaced by something colder. "Enough to know he's not fit company for a young lady of your standing. Why do you ask?"
Eleanor's mind raced. She couldn't admit to knowing him, but she had to understand. "I... I overheard the ladies talking."
Mrs. Crawford sighed. "A sad case, truly. The boy was born out of wedlock to a housemaid. No father would claim him, though there were rumors. He managed to secure a teaching position through some connection or other, but it ended badly. There was talk of him forming an inappropriate attachment to one of the older students—or perhaps it was the boy's mother, I can't recall. Either way, he was dismissed without references. Now he lives hand to mouth, writing radical articles about workers' rights and other unsuitable topics." She patted Eleanor's hand. "But you needn't concern yourself with such unpleasant matters, dear."
Eleanor felt sick. Not because she believed every word—she knew how rumors twisted and grew in London's drawing rooms. But because she understood, suddenly, why Julian had been so afraid to tell her. Why he'd looked at her with that mixture of longing and resignation.
Society had decided who he was, and nothing he did could change their minds.