Page 1 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Unrequited love was a devil of a thorn, but Samuel Harding was determined to remove it from his side forthwith.

He inhaled the smell of damp earth after rain, fortifying his resolve with each step along the footpath.

Samuel had lived in Harewood all his life, and still he did not tire of the walk from his house to the High Street, where he could visit his cousin, Eliza, and her husband at the blacksmith’s forge.

Eliza was not currently expecting him, but she was never averse to his visits.

Today he hoped to find her in a particularly helpful mood.

Samuel had the notion that if she could give him some idea of how to endear himself to her good friend Ruth, perhaps Ruth would give him a chance to prove he was more than an empty-headed dandy.

He had depth. He liked to dress well, yes, but that did not mean he was a simpleton.

He and Ruth had been friends once. Good friends, in fact, until he began to make his interest in her known. If Ruth could see him as a friend again, maybe he stood a chance.

And Eliza very well could be the way to make that happen.

Samuel sidestepped a puddle. Blue sky overhead promised a break in precipitation, but the path was not yet recovered from the previous weeks of unrelenting rain.

At least the snow had fully melted. Tall trees swayed in the late winter wind, the early green leaves fluttering silently, too small to make any rustling yet.

Samuel came upon the kissing gate punctuating the long stone wall and let himself in.

He stepped into the center and pushed the wooden gate to the other side, then paused.

Down in the mud at his feet was a folded white square of paper, its corner dipped into the earth.

It appeared someone had dropped a letter.

He bent to avoid hitting his head on the stone wall and lifted the letter from the mud, wiping the glob along the top of the wooden swinging gate.

Surveying the countryside and the lane in either direction, he saw no movement.

Whoever had dropped the paper had long since gone.

The only sounds were the wind whispering through the tall, dead grass lining the path and the distant bleating of sheep beyond the trees.

Samuel turned the paper over but found no name or direction written on the front, despite the fact that it had been folded much like a letter.

The person who had dropped this would likely return for it.

He assumed they would realize they no longer had it and come searching, unless it was merely a list for the shop or some such thing.

If that were the case, a quick peek would not be harmful.

He could glance directly at the bottom of the page to look for a name.

If it appeared to be anything other than a letter, he would know straightaway it was unimportant.

If it was a letter, he would know who had dropped it from the signature and decide how to proceed.

Checking again to ascertain he was alone, Samuel unfolded the note along the top of the stone wall, glad the mud had not reached the interior of the thick paper so it was still legible.

His eyes sought the bottom of the sheet at once, and he frowned. It was unsigned. He supposed whoever had written it was in a hurry, for they had neither sealed nor addressed the front and must have dropped it in their haste.

Samuel folded it again, chewing his lip, when a word reached from the page and seized hold him.

He froze.

It had not been intentional, of course, but he had noticed. Now that he had seen it, he found he could not unsee it. In fact, he felt it was his duty not to leave this letter behind for just anyone to find.

Samuel finished folding the note, making certain it was not carrying an excess of mud, and tucked it into his pocket. Then he pushed back through the kissing gate and turned toward home. His visit to Eliza could wait.

Despite being well past the noon hour, Father was only just waking when he opened the door and let himself inside the house. Gads. Samuel was not an early riser, but he still had standards.

Father stalked down the last of the staircase, shadows pooling darkly beneath his eyes, a frown bending his lips.

“Rough night?” Samuel asked, hoping sarcasm did not fully bleed into his tone.

“Hm,” Father grunted, heading toward the parlor, likely to eat.

They passed each other without another word, and Samuel swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth as he climbed the stairs. He let himself into his room and turned the lock. He understood what he was about to do was unethical. It wasn’t right to read another person’s correspondence.

But that word . He identified with it so well. Understood it. Lived it, himself.

He could not help but smooth the paper on his writing desk, sunlight pouring through the open window before him. It was immediately apparent this was the handwriting of a woman. It was elegant and fine, that of an educated person .

It was addressed simply to Paul. Samuel knew no one by that name.

He chewed his lip, leaning back in his seat and rubbing a hand through his golden hair, tormented.

He should not continue reading. What if it held professions of affection?

Deep secrets of the heart? A good man would fold the letter exactly the way it was, walk directly to the kissing gate, and drop it in the mud again.

But then anyone could find it. And that word, the one that jumped from the page, searing his eyes and branding him with instant camaraderie, would be sitting in the open for anyone to discover.

Samuel couldn’t do it.

Evidently, he lacked self-control entirely. He was not a good man. He straightened in his chair, dragging his hand down his face and letting out a groan.

Samuel was going to read the letter.

Dearest Paul?—

It has been too long since I’ve written, and for that I’ve been remiss.

My father would have done a far better job than I of keeping you abreast of the goings on in my life, but alas, the task is left to me.

Forgive my neglect, I beg of you. Furthermore, I hope you will pardon the hopeless tone of this letter.

It would be prudent for me to confide in someone closer, but there is no one else who would understand precisely how isolated my position is—indeed, how utterly deserted I feel.

Day after day I am faced with people, yet I will never have the satisfaction of another’s companionship. I am lonely.

Samuel cringed. There it was, the emotion that plagued him as well. It was so deeply rooted, he feared it would never be healed. In the quiet moments of the night, when the sound of his parents’ arguments rang through the corridors of this grand house, he stood an island, so utterly isolated.

Lonely. Deserted. It was a hopeless person who wrote these words, and he knew the feelings intimately. Samuel wanted to reach out to this person and tell them they weren’t alone—that they were not the only person who could be constantly surrounded by others but feel like an island.

He continued to read.

I’m not certain what I hope this letter accomplishes, Paul.

Perhaps I only want to be reminded that you and I are the same.

Or perhaps I am selfishly aware that you are the only person who is able to read these sentiments and not hold them against me.

The distance between us, both geographically and in age, have provided me with that salve.

Forgive my melancholy. I am not unhappy. This is my lot, and I am content with the path I’ve chosen. Sometimes, I merely wish I had the luxury to share it with another.

It was left there—a mark, perhaps, that the writer had not finished their thoughts?

Or merely that they did not wish for their identity to be revealed.

Samuel had no sooner finished reading the final words than he had pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and his quill pen.

His reply formed itself, his hand moving at the whim of his heart without any effort on the part of his brain.

He wrote to the person from the depths of his soul without reservation.

To the unwitting recipient of my thoughts?—

First, I must apologize for reading your letter. It was wrong of me. I can admit that. A better man would have left it in the mud and walked away, but I am not a better man. I am a lonely one, however, and I understand the feelings you expressed so poignantly.

Perhaps it is wrong of me to write this.

I suppose it might never reach you. Or, worse, could end up in the wrong hands.

If it makes it to the right person, I want you to know you are not alone.

I too am surrounded by family and servants and friends, a constant barrage of people, but still my soul is lonely.

Still I yearn for something to fill my heart and bring me to completion, to bring me happiness and peace.

Do not give up.

Yours respectfully,

Your new ally and friend.

Samuel did not risk leaving his name. He could not when he hadn’t any notion who this letter would be discovered by.

If it had the same fate as the first one, it would end up in the wrong hands.

He sanded, folded, and sealed it, leaving the front blank.

Then, with both letters tucked into his pocket, he returned to the kissing gate.