Albion, South of Hadrian's Wall

Word Count: 1861



My Dearest Aedan,

         You were right that I would enjoy it here. I have, truly. It’s a welcome change from the ragged pace, but lately the rain falls like chips of ice. Like ice skates across my skin, sharp blades slicing my face. The drops glide under my collar and slide down my spine. It’s April, but still, the gray steel of the sky stretches across the fields. They say the weather will change soon, that it’s nearly May. It’s nearly time for a fiery ball of light to hurl itself across the sky, but not yet. Now it’s still cool breezes sweeping across the shore.

         Surreal colors chase each other through the dark. They flash in the night, showing the heather swaying to unknown music on the bank of the lake. The lichen on the trees drips along the wet bark, a foamy testament to the weather and the day. Fog continues to creep slowly through the forest, swirling around the trees in a sensuous dance. The tendrils aren’t as scary as they appear; instead, they caress all that travels near. Dirt hangs heavy in the air, the smell of rain mixing with the scent. It brings me outside when all others hide under blankets indoors. Spring seems so close, you could reach out and grab on with both hands, but it’s slippery. Like an eel from the lake, it keeps falling away, right when I’ve determined to catch it. It reminds me of you, ever present, yet so far away.

         For now this place, it’s a Technicolor movie. I can see the players moving across the screen as though I were part of the scene. Velvet and taffeta, burgundy and black gowns, make-up, and wine flow through the show. When it’s too cold to leave the house I stare at the grounds through the windows that peak onto the lawn. I see the heroine. I can’t help but long to be her. A long, flowing, white dress trails behind her as she crushes the plush grass beneath her bare feet. She darts into the trees before pausing with a guilty grin, one slender hand brushing the stalks of grass. A quick shrug moves her slim shoulders adorned in simple muslin night wrap. She speaks to me even as the stones of the mansion glare disapprovingly. I push my fingers against the frosted glass, but when she turns away she doesn’t look back.  I can only watch as she leaves.

         Ducking through the woods, her dress clutched in hands above knees, a length of pale leg flashes as the wet grass slaps lightly against her body. She runs through the mist, away from the house on the lake, away from the stones that glare and moan. Excitement leaves a trail as she dances through the trees where freedom roams. Through it all, I try to follow along.

         I can’t help but see it play again and again. I walk the grounds, sit on the shore of the lake, and stare back at that gaping brown stone mansion. The door always holds my attention, it knows so much. Turquoise and faded, it connects the garden to the house and opens on the grounds. It stands like a sentinel, a testament of how silently she often crept out. All the warmth is drowned out in the ice rain and shadows of the day. Though, I’m not sure it was ever there to begin. Only that door radiates warmth, it burns.

         I see her blonde hair trailing down her back, turbulent emerald eyes flashing as she runs. Pursued by the dark man on the devil’s own horse. I feel them crashing through the trees, only to meet at the edge of the wood. In the drizzling mist and swirling fog, I see them clashing together to become whole. Constantly hiding from the disapproving world, they are so reminiscent of me, and you.

         I see it so clearly but I’m the only one; as you knew it would be. The others, they see only the surface in our time here. They delight in the brogue of the Scots who’ve moved across the border, begging for steady jobs and food. They laugh lightly at the snobbery of the proper English butler. My stomach rolls in protest when they enter the room. They don’t look deeper to see the inside of the house where we stay. They don’t feel the spines of the books that sit primly on the shelves in the study, and know only dust sits between the crumpled pages.

         I alone see farther, to the cyclonic emotions of the girl lounging in slippers and taffeta gown. Biding her time, mussing her perfectly coifed hair, all in the hope of escaping the ugly chaos of the pounding crush, and screeching violins downstairs. I see her there, in the room with the shelves full of unread books, and dust. Her careful capturing of one red-spine novel, tucked under the hoops of a skirt trimmed in lace. An empty book she filled with knowledge, poured from her fingers page by page. All on how to live, and how to get away.

         I see her first glimpse of the dark haired man. He leans against a stout tree in the garden as she slips down the path trailing ribbons. An electrified exchange as he clears his throat, a pause in her race for the stables. I watch how he smolders as she lifts her gown past decent ankle to dash away. A grin lights his face as she kicks off slippers only to hide them stealthily in the garden shrubs. Her partner in secrecy though she has yet to learn his name. With a finger to ruby lips she asks for indulgence when her name is called from the terrace. I feel his need to follow her retreating figure, a quick step in her direction, stopped by some boring fop hailing him from the opened ballroom doors. He is forced to turn away as the ribbons trail from view.

         I see the helpless fascination creep into his apathetic face when she appears a short time later in the ballroom. The heat in his eyes as he surveys her flushed face, the product of a quick ride across the moor. His disgust with the clumsy gentlemen who kiss her gloved hand, and her politeness as she rejects their advances. The clash of two wills in the most inappropriate place as he approaches and is introduced. The lightning that cleaves them from one to two, it sizzles in the air until no one else attracts their care.

         I hear him whisper to her during the waltz, as they dance too closely, and too often, for politeness to be thought. I see him steer her from the crowd to the darkest corner of the terrace. A few moments of captured time. His hands against her neck, leaning close enough to taste her breath. Flames lap at them as they touch. Embers ignite in his eyes with her sharp inhale and the liquid feel of her against his skin. Her acceptance of another who shares her will.

         No one else feels the rooms as I do, or knows the emotions that pervade her haunts. The gardens where the flowers hid her from view, the path she crept down, the stable she often escaped to, and the stones. The blue washed stones from time long gone, where they sat together and talked deep into the night. Snuggled, with their backs against the rocks, they curled together until dawn lit the sky. Each place has its own story to tell, their story; but I’m the only one to hear. I’m the only one reading about them in the things they touched.

          The secrets of their courtship are made plain to me. Perhaps because after that first glimpse of them together I wished to know more, I wished for the whole story. That door, it tells so much, what they felt and how they ran. It was more than bodies moving together in the night; it was more than the light flirtatious dance of aristocracy. I see it all. I feel it all. Their faces and feelings wash against me, they haunt me with their beauty. Such strong emotions swirl around me and drag me through the story of their lives, so intertwined with mine. Aedan, I think we are them, in another place, another time.

         The stables where they came together the first time, I can see it as though I’d stumbled upon them in full light. I see his long tan fingers in calloused hand loosen the ties that hold her bodice in place, see his hand slip beneath the hem of her dress. Feel the slide of palm against untouched skin. I see her white neck arch as her head falls, inviting the caress of his hungry mouth. In silence and heat they meet.

         Her hands slip around his back, lifting and pulling at his white lawn shirt. Moving breeches aside with hands that tremble, he lifts her against him. That first deep thrust inside. The shock that penetrates both their brains with her tiny cry of pain, a resistance against his advance that quickly gives way. The way their eyes slide closed and their bodies strain, the mesmerized expression painting her face as they came together that way. The triumph in his eyes as he saw her fall off the peak, and as though he were in agonizing pain, his body contorted as he pinned her to the wall. He stiffened and came. I know they ran away.

         As surely as they met in mystery that night, shared love and madness against the wooden stable walls, I know they snuck through that gate and rode far away. She dared not approach her parents about her dark lover. “An Irishman!” she knew they would have exclaimed. His wealth would scarce impress them when they heard him speak. They feared the separation that was sure to come their way. Penning a note she gathered her clothes and stole away. I see them riding into the darkness of the night, wrapped together in his cloak as they journeyed toward his country home. They must have reached it, for in the darkness of the night I feel them creeping out of sight along the dirt road at the end of the cobbled drive.

         Perhaps one day I’ll come back here again. For now I wish to escape from this place, however beautiful it may seem. I wish to escape, as she did when he came for her on that long ago onyx night. I’m ready to come home again; I’m ready to overcome this dark plight. I know this place would speak to you, as it has me; as you knew it would to me. I know you will be the one to truly understand what I have heard, what I have seen. But one last thing, he told her that night in the barn, Tá mo chroí istigh ionat. My heart is within you, as you have often said to me.



                                                           

A Ghrá, My Love, I will return to you soon.

Daniella