My Dearest Emily,

I am writing in response to your horrendous accusations against me. They were completely unjust and I feel, as a man of honor, that I need to refute them once and for all.

Although it is true that I sometimes lack a sense of…tact, I am, by all intents and purposes, a man of great decorum. You need not fear my ability to communicate effectively with others. I am capable of holding my tongue. In the case of Mr. Scott and the unfortunate incident in the garden, well, I do not feel that any man could have backed down from such an insult. I do not know precisely what it is you think you heard that evening, but you must not have witnessed the beginning of our conversation or you would find me entirely blameless.

You also mentioned my inability to commit. If that were the case, my dear madam, why do you think I proposed? It is true that, in the past, I have courted a lady or two, yet that hardly justifies the word that you used…what was it? Aw yes, philanderer. You specifically spoke of Miss Thompson as if she carried some special significance. I am not quite sure why you mentioned her name seeing as I only spoke to her once in passing, and it was to wish her a Merry Christmas. How that could be seen as a flirtation, I do not know. Nor can I comprehend the reason this carries such weight in your eyes.

Your final accusation, I claim as the highest insult. You suggested that I carry no feelings for you—that I am merely after your dowry. I assure you, madam, that had I been after your income, I would have spoken not to you, but to your father. But you are not a business transaction. My affections for you are not the work of a day or even a week, but months of pining.

I have viewed you from afar for quite some time now. I must confess that it was your beauty which first drew me to you. I happened to have passed by your father's fields as I was traveling one morning and I spied you running free through the wildflowers, your hair let loose to fly behind you like a golden banner. I watched you spin and sway to some unknown music that only you could hear, and I was mesmerized.

Later, I spoke to Mr. Gammersfield at the county store, in hopes that he could give me more information on your family. Our towns are far enough apart that I did not know of your family fortune or even your name. When I learned of your father's business dealings, I thought nothing of the income, but rather became excited about the prospect of meeting with him on a regular basis, in the hopes of being introduced to you.

At that first dinner, you were the perfect lady—formal in speech, quiet in words, and polished beyond reproach. But I remembered you in the field. I had seen you with your hair down, carefree and wild, and that thought sustained me through that evening and the next three.

Do you remember when you first laughed in my presence? I do. It was the night of the Michalads' ball. You were stunning in your white muslin dress with blue ribbon, the color bringing out the rosy glow in your cheeks and making your eyes sparkle. I had wanted to ask you to dance that evening, but it seemed a line of men was always before you. I bode my time, content merely to dance in your set. Your smile was always friendly, but I had yet to see the light in your eye that I knew must exist in you somewhere.

It was during the fourth set, when you were dancing with Mr. Miller, that I finally was rewarded for all of my patience. You were dancing so elegantly next to that buffoon (forgive me, but it is hard to be charitable when my feelings were so full of jealousy that evening). About halfway through the reel, your partner tripped over his feet, landing him face first in the middle of the floor. You tried to restrain yourself, but the laughter bubbled out regardless. Quickly, you regained composure and dutifully ensured his successful reintroduction to the dance, but my ears had been blessed by the music of your laughter and I could not wait to hear it again.

I resorted to following you in hopes of hearing it repeated, but my hopes were in vain. I often wondered why you tried so hard to hide your true self. I witnessed your loving acts of kindness to the children in your neighborhood, helping them pick berries or fixing their kites. Your actions were slightly freer then, yet it was almost as if you pretended you were someone else. Once you were with your parents, your mask returned and it was difficult to receive more than a courteous smile from your soft lips.

I have seen the real you, Miss Spencer, the one behind the mask; and it is that woman that I hope to marry. I do not need your dowry, as I have more than enough for the two of us. But I do need you.

I realize that I have not given you the opportunity to become acquainted with me as I have with you and I beg your forgiveness. Please know that my ardent affection for you has caused me to shy away from you in a way that is contrary to my normal demeanor. If you would do me the honor of allowing me to rectify that mistake, I would open myself up to you, make my feelings more adamantly shown.

Say you will reconsider. I will not be content with any other.

With the greatest admiration,

Henry James Lockholm III

~~~~ … ~~~~

Emily folded and unfolded Mr. Lockholm's letter for the third time that morning. She could hardly believe that such words could be hidden in his heart. He, who had said scarcely more than five words to her in their entire acquaintance prior to his sudden declaration, had written such tender sentiments.

She could not deny that she was flattered by his attention. He was highly sought after by the other females in the neighborhood. He was handsome, in a conventional way: tall, with thick, dark hair that he kept trimmed in the latest style. His eyes carried a seriousness to them that overshadowed all else when he was near her, however, she had seen him laughing with other women. She had simply inferred that he did not deem her worthy of his attentions.

Miss Thompson certainly thought she was worthy of his attentions. She had told several ladies that they were courting secretly so as not to upset her father. Emily was tempted to believe her, but she could not believe anyone capable of writing such a letter in an attempt to tease. Mr. Lockholm would need to be very wicked indeed.

Perhaps it was a form of revenge. Emily had not reacted kindly to his original proposal. If he had been observing her for quite some time as he claimed, then he should have known not to encroach upon her respite in the fields. It was the one place where she felt free to loose the bonds of society and let herself live. For him to approach her as she was picking wildflowers felt incredibly intrusive and entirely too familiar for the acquaintance as it had been.

Yet she couldn't help but be sensible to the humiliation that he was risking in asking her a second time. A blush bloomed on her cheeks as she considered his proposal in the light of the quest for her hand, however disfigured it may be. Perhaps he truly did seek her love and not the dowry as others had in the past.

Tucking the letter into her waistband, she dusted off her dress before heading back into the house to change. Mr. Lockholm had requested an audience with her for this evening. She had not yet determined her feelings, but she was looking forward to their meeting with a greater anticipation than she would have thought possible.

~~~~ … ~~~~

Henry waited impatiently in the parlor for the arrival of Miss Spencer. He almost turned back around, but he would not let his cowardice get the better of him. He loved her. He had to hope that the letter had invoked some feelings in her heart.

Perhaps he should speak with her father? The thought was banished before it was fully formed. He wanted her to love him, not feel a sense of obligation.

As he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, Mr. Lockholm mapped out what he would say. When he was around her, his mind froze and his lips refused to move. Writing was much easier.

He was on the third recitation of his greeting when she appeared in the doorway. Miss Emily Spencer was dressed in a simple, yet elegant evening gown. She had attempted to dress up her appearance which bode well for him. Her cheeks carried a blush of embarrassment and she refused to meet his eye. This was a glimpse of the woman he loved; the mask was not in place tonight.

"Good evening, Miss Spencer."

"Good evening, Mr. Lockholm."

They stood together in awkward silence for some moments before he recollected his manners. "You look well. How is your family?"

She smiled at his attempt at conversation and his heart skipped a beat. "They are fine. Thank you for asking. And your family, how are they?" she queried, moving across the room to sit by the fire. She gestured for him to sit as well, and then quickly pulled back her hand in embarrassment.

He looked now and saw the reason for her discomfort. In his presence, she had always worn gloves, even with the most informal attire. Now he could see why.

Her left hand curled to form a slight claw shape. The flesh was wrinkled and rimmed with a deep red, almost burgundy color from old scar tissue. Although she tried to hide it from his view, he could see that her ring finger and pinky finger had been removed at the joint.

To any other eyes, her hand up to her forearm would have been grotesque. Yet, Mr. Lockholm viewed it through the eyes of love. This explained her mask, her unwillingness to become more than superficially acquainted with her male suitors. He now felt he understood her better than ever.

He slowly stretched out his hand to hers. Instinctively, she pulled away, but he was persistent. His eyes pierced her soul as he moved once more to grasp the damaged hand. Without removing his eyes from her face, he bowed and brushed his lips across the knuckles. Her flesh was surprisingly soft and warm; he drank in the luxury of being close to her.

At last he bent down on one knee, and, with many heartfelt expressions, begged her to allow him the chance to prove his devotion to her as her husband.

Tears slid down her cheeks as the façade that Emily had so carefully carved, shattered with the overwhelming effects of new-found love. She could not speak, but the smile on her face shone of her acceptance. He had passed her test. As he slipped the ring over her scarred finger, she knew that they had a love that would last forever.

.

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A/N: This story was written for the Review Game's November Writing Challenge Contest.

The prompt was: "Writing comes more easily if you have something to say."quote by Sholem Asch

Unfortunately, I had to cut out a little of their interaction to make this fit the word limit. For those of you who are counting, Word gave me a word count of 1,938.

I hope you enjoyed this little piece. If so, please feel free to head on over and vote for me in the Writing Challenge Contest sometime this week :-D.