Page 2 of A Governess' Forbidden Flame
Yet, she hadn’t. She knew why that was. It seemed that everyone knew why that was, and this was proving to be a stain on her reputation that she would not be able to wash away that easily,regardless of the fact that she had done nothing wrong, other than act upon her own sense of morality and righteousness.
Once again, she felt the heavy grip of unfairness on her throat, making it increasingly more difficult to breathe.
She calmed her breathing, closing her eyes, and feeling the grip of the quill pen between her fingers. This act always managed to soothe her. Writing letters and a diary had always been an outlet for her thoughts, a way to have a conversation almost with her own self and provide some solace and advice from an objective point of view.
In this instance, she knew one thing. She was powerless to fight, but not powerless to run away. Sometimes, one had to become aware of the fact that, in order to win a war, one had to lose a battle. And this was the battle she had agreed to lose, in hopes that somewhere down the line, she would emerge victorious, with her dignity intact.
She placed the tip of the quill on the paper and started to write, allowing the words to pour out of the very depths of her heart.
My dearest Rosalind,
As I sit with a quill in hand, I am filled with both a sense of duty and an ache of melancholy. The carriage presses on toward Ravenscroft Manor, and I find myself reflecting on the years that have woven the tapestry of our friendship.
It seems like only yesterday that we, two young souls on the precipice of womanhood, forged a bond that time and distance could never sever. How many afternoons have we spent in the garden, sharing laughter and secrets beneath the dappled shade of the oak tree? The echo of those moments, the resonance of our shared joys and sorrows, reverberates within my very being as I write this.
The news I bring is twofold. Excitement and trepidation are intertwined like the threads of our dearest embroidery. The Earl of Ravenscroft has extended an invitation for an interview, an opportunity that holds the promise of a new chapter, where I would once again be able to do what I love to do. My heart swells with the prospect of this venture, but at the same time, it constricts at the thought of leaving behind all that is familiar, including the warmth of our enduring friendship.
Rosalind, you have been the confidante of my dreams and the sanctuary of my fears. The thought of being miles away from your comforting presence feels like a poignant farewell to a cherished part of myself. As I write these words, the ink on the parchment seems inadequate to capture the depth of my emotions. How do I convey the bittersweet pang that accompanies the anticipation of change? The bond we share, my dearest friend, transcends the limits of space and time. Though I may be physically distant, the essence of our friendship remains eternally intertwined.
As I pen these words, I am keenly aware that the miles between us will only strengthen the bond we share. I promise to write diligently, sharing the details of my new adventure, and eagerly await your letters filled with the news of our beloved town and the everyday wonders that make up our lives.
Until the quill meets paper again, know that you remain in the forefront of my thoughts and the chambers of my heart.
Yours in loving friendship,
Amelia
Just as she finished her letter, the carriage rattled to an unexpected halt, the abrupt cessation of its rhythmic movement sending a shiver down Amelia’s spine. She instinctively gripped the letters tightly in her hands, the act mirroring that of a drowning man clasping at last straws that might save his life.
This was the last thing she needed…more obstacles.
Chapter 2
Peering out of the window, she was met with a foreboding scene. The darkness was gradually descending, casting long shadows across the countryside. The once-charming landscape, now obscured by the encroaching night, seemed to transform into an eerie tableau.
The gnarled branches of the trees, silhouetted against the darkening sky, took on a haunting quality, threatening to reach out to her at any moment and snatch her away into the darkness.
In the dimming light, Amelia strained her eyes to observe the tall coachman as he valiantly worked to free the horses from the clutches of the deep mud. His silhouette emerged from the encroaching darkness, a rugged figure with a weathered hat perched firmly on his head, its brim casting a shadow over his determined features.
He almost seemed like a tree himself, tearing its legs out of the ground like roots, in an effort to come to her rescue.
Amelia tried to banish this thought from her mind. Penelope always thought she had a vivid imagination, and imagining men as trees certainly fell into that category.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, bringing herself back to the present moment.
The answer to her question was obvious. Still, she couldn’t handle the oppressive silence any longer. She could almost feel it gripping her own throat, demanding silence of her as well, until they were all swallowed into the darkness and eternal quietude. She needed to hear the man speak, even if it was to share bad news.
The man turned to her, lifting his hat only enough to reveal a part of his face. Despite his rugged features, she was grateful not to be alone in this place. “Stay inside, miss,” he instructed patiently, instead of replying to her question. “We got stuck in the mud.”
“Maybe I should get out?” she suggested. “And take out my bag to make the carriage lighter?”
The suggestion sounded silly. She was not nearly as heavy to be the one responsible for keeping the carriage stuck in the mud, but she hated feeling helpless while she watched the coachman do all the work. Besides, she could not waste a single moment longer. She needed to arrive at her destination on time. Otherwise, she would never get the chance to rectify the blemish of a bad first impression.
“No, no,” he assured her, waving his hand in the air. “You might soil your nice clothes and shoes. Stay inside. I can handle this. We’ll get back on the road in no time.”
The coachman’s broad shoulders moved with a rhythmic effort as he tugged on the reins, his muscular frame highlighted by the dying sunlight and the little threads of light it was leaving in the distance. A worn coat, bearing the signs of countless journeys and unpredictable weather, draped over him like a second skin.
His hands, calloused and stained with the residue of labor, grasped the leather reins with practiced precision.
