The scene below takes place in a sitting room that is for the private use of Charlotte and her sister Louisa. I thought this picture looked like it could be such a room. I also liked that this room is in Oxford since that is location around which His Sensible Heart takes place. The hero is still in school at Oxford. The heroine is at her father’s estate a few miles outside of Oxford.
This book is the sixth and final book (so far) in my Touches of Austen series. It’s an almost forced betrothal and marriage sort of story, a he falls first story, a she doesn’t like him (or so she says) story, and a story about how utterly sacrificial true love can be. There are nods to and mentions of Sense and Sensibility in this book, but it is a completely original story (as are all the stories in this series).
I’m including a full chapter of the story in this post to hopefully give you a good feel for who each of the main characters are.
Enjoy!
Chapter 6
A warm breeze, bearing the sweet fragrance of new blooms, fluttered the thin curtains that muted the brightness of the sun in the upstairs sitting room of the Wesleys’ home. Charlotte closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Was there anything better than the freshness that came with spring? Flowers were blooming. Trees were once again gloriously green. Lambs, chicks, foals, and calves added a new note to the noise from the pastures. Everything was alive and bright. Life in the spring felt hopeful, and that was an emotion which she needed to wrap in her embrace and cling to with all her strength.
There were rumors circulating about her. Her mother’s good friend Mrs. Levy had heard them.
“For you, Miss Wesley.”
Charlotte opened her eyes to see Mr. Hillier, the butler, standing before her and holding out a letter.
“Is it from Grandfather?” Louisa asked eagerly. Correspondence of any sort, especially that which was not delivered to their father, always piqued Louisa’s curiosity.
Charlotte looked at the address. “It is not from Bath.” It was from Oxford, but it did not look like any of her friends’ handwriting, and whoever had written it had not included his or her name on the outside of the envelope. Charlotte turned the missive over and studied the seal.
“Where is it from?” Louisa joined her on the sofa near the window and propped her hands and chin on her sister’s shoulder while Charlotte ran a finger over the seal which was embossed with a large C on a field of entwined vines.
Could the letter be from Mr. Chapman? She had never seen his penmanship before, but the C on the seal seemed to point to him as the writer. She flipped it back over to look at how neatly her name was written on the front with just enough flourishes to make it look regal. That did seem to be how Mr. Chapman would write.
“Where is it from?” Louisa repeated as she snatched the letter from her sister. “Oxford!” she cried. “I bet it is from Mr. Chapman.” She clasped the folded and sealed paper to her breast and sighed. “I should like it very well if Mr. Green would write to me.”
“My letter, if you please.”
Louisa took a moment to admire the envelope before handing it back to her sister “What do you think he has to say? Perhaps it is a poem.”
“I doubt it is a poem.”
She certainly hoped it was not a poem, for Mr. Chapman did not seem the sort of gentleman who wrote poetry. It would be a dreadful thing indeed to have to pretend to him that his efforts were enchanting if they were not, as she suspected they would not be. She broke the seal.
“If you do not mind, Louisa, I would like to read this before you do. Not that I can promise I will share it with you until I have read it, of course.” She made a shooing motion, indicating that her sister should move to the other end of the couch on which they sat.
Louisa liked to be included in everything that was happening, and she rarely waited to be invited to join in on anything she found intriguing or fun.
“Did Father give Mr. Chapman permission to write to you?” There was a hint of annoyance in her sister’s tone as she flopped in the corner of the couch away from her sister.
“Not that I have been told.” However, she and Mr. Chapman were nearly promised to each other, so the fact that he had written to her was not so bad as it would have been if he were merely a gentleman to whom she had spoken at a few soirees.
“Will you tell Father about the letter?”
“Why would I not?” Even if she wanted to keep such a thing a secret – which she did not – Louisa knew about the letter and Charlotte never knew when such a delicious morsel of information might pop out of her sister’s mouth.
“It might have something terribly romantic in it that would be embarrassing to share.”
While Charlotte was loath to admit it, her sister’s fascination with all things romantic might just prove that, for some ladies, there actually was such a thing as reading too many novels. “Would you, kindly, allow me to read what is written in it before you make any further suppositions?”
“Is it from Mr. Chapman?”
Charlotte scanned down to the signature. “Yes.”
“Could you read quickly?”
Charlotte sighed. “I will read as quickly as I am able.” She turned her eyes back to the letter. She hated to admit it to anyone, even herself, but she was excessively curious about what Mr. Chapman had to say, and she was feeling more than a little flutter of excitement over the fact that he had written to her at all.
Miss Wesley,
I know that it is most improper to be writing to you when I have not gained permission to do so from either you or your father, and I would not condemn you for reading no further than here, though I would be sorely saddened to hear that you did not read my letter.
“He has not been given permission to write to me,” she said with a glance at her sister. “He admits it in his opening.”
The information did little to quell her sister’s interest. In fact, it brought an unrestrained look of excitement to Louisa’s features.
I have sent a second letter to your father informing him of my forward action in sending this to you, and I hope that he will not hold it against me and remove his tentative approval of my suit.
“He has sent a letter to Father telling him about this letter.” If the rumours Mrs. Levy had heard were to grow, there would be nothing tentative about Mr. Chapman’s suit. It would then be best to accept his proposal outright without any period of waiting.
Louisa’s enthusiasm faded somewhat. “That was very good of him, I suppose?”
“It was.” And it raised him in Charlotte’s eyes. He was attempting to be all that was proper. Of course, it was entirely possible that behind his façade of being a dandy, he had always been so. It would fit nicely with what she had learned about him three days ago when he had admitted to riding a pig just to spare a friend some humiliation. To be honest, she had been hanging all her hope on that one example of his goodness. For three days, she had not questioned herself about her admiration of him. Instead, she had indulged herself and allowed several daydreams about a happy future with him.
“I know you are not reading, for I can see that your eyes are not moving,” Louisa scolded.
“It is my letter, and I will read it however I choose.”
Her sister sighed and scowled. “I would think that a lady who is nearly betrothed to a gentleman would be more eager to read what he has written.”
“I am only nearly betrothed to him because his father started rumours about me, and my reputation is not what it should be.” That thought still stung. How could someone declare another unworthy without even knowing the person whom he maligned beyond the fact that her ancestors had not been gentry?
“Did you pay attention to Mr. Chapman at all when we were at soirees?” Louisa’s tone was condemning. “He has been in love with you since he first met you.”
“He has not.” He was infatuated but not in love. The two were very different. One was steady and true while the other was fleeting.
“He has, too. A gentleman would have to be utterly in love to keep returning to the lady who rarely gave him a smile and spoke no more than a word or two to him – and then, those words were only spoken when she was absolutely required to do so.” Louisa nodded when Charlotte looked at her in surprise. “Yes, you were that horrid. Do you not remember me suggesting that you should be more welcoming of Mr. Chapman?”
“You tell me that about every gentleman who begs an introduction.”
“Only because you can be rather dowdy and stern.”
“I am not dowdy. I dress very well – just as well as you do.”
Louisa shook her head. “I am not talking about your clothes, my dear sister. I am talking about your air.”
“I am not dowdy,” Charlotte muttered. She was circumspect and particular. Neither of which was a horrid thing to be. Added to that was the confusion of wishing to like Mr. Chapman because he was handsome and entertaining when she knew, as any sensible lady does, that she should admire him for something far less superficial. She had not known what to do with such feelings. She was not certain she knew what to do with them now. “Do you wish for me to read this or not?”
“I am not stopping you from doing so.”
“Yes, you are.”
Louisa pressed her lips together and fluttered her lashes.
“You were,” Charlotte said as she turned her eyes back to Mr. Chapman’s letter.
It has come to my attention, at a very unfortunate time since I should have been listening to Mr. Green explain some geometric concept to me, that beyond knowing, from my observation of you, that you are kind and beautiful and all that is charming, I know very little else, and I am eager to learn what I can.
You are, my fair Miss Wesley, a far more delightful subject to study than anything taught at university or researched in a medical journal. But alas, my need to apply myself to my studies and the somewhat bothersome distance between your home and my accommodations makes courting you, as I would wish to do, nearly impossible.
She smiled. Perhaps he was capable of writing poetry, for his ability to convey his sentiments was good and his style of writing was engaging.
“What did he say? Is it romantic?”
Charlotte’s cheeks warmed. “A trifle. Now, let me continue reading.”
It is for these reasons that I am writing to both you and your father to request that we take up a correspondence about our days and our pasts. While I know that I have, to this point in my life, always been more than eager to talk about myself, I have never wished to share myself with anyone. (They are not the same things. I assure you.)
I have flaunted my abilities and entertained with stories to gain attention for myself and my father, but I have never revealed my soul to anyone but Tom, my truest and dearest friend. Since I am determined that you and I shall one day be more dear to each other than any two mere friends could be, I would be honoured if you would allow me to tell you about my foibles and follies, as well as my hopes and fears, and I would be whatever word means beyond honoured to be trusted with knowing the intimate workings of your mind and heart.
I lay at your feet my complete and utter trust and devotion, and I await your reply.
Yours,
M. Chapman
If she were a less skeptical sort of person, she would have to say that Louisa was correct, and that Mr. Chapman was in love with her. But that made no sense. He admitted in his letter that he knew little about her. One could not fall in love with someone whom one only imagined but did not know. Still, the less practical part of her wanted to believe it and swoon dramatically against the back of the couch while she fanned herself with his words of “complete and utter trust and devotion.”
“May I read it?” Louisa had scooted back to Charlotte’s side.
Charlotte looked at the page she held. “I do not know.” Did she want to share a letter that felt so private with her sister? Would doing so be offensive to Mr. Chapman?
“Is it terribly romantic?”
She nodded. “It really is.” He wanted to know her. He wanted to share himself with her. He wanted to be dearer than any two mere friends could be. If he did not find success with Mr. Norman, helping him compile and publish his research, Mr. Chapman should consider taking up his pen to write on matters of the heart, for he seemed to have a flair for it.
“Please, may I read it?” Louisa begged. “I promise never to mention it to anyone but you.”
Charlotte bit her lip as she considered sharing the letter. It would be nice to have someone in whom to confide. She and Louisa had often shared secrets when they were younger. It was only Louisa’s tendency to forget that a secret was a secret that worried her.
“It is not an improper letter, is it?”
“No, not at all.” While each sentence had conveyed a great amount of Mr. Chapman’s desires, none of it had been presented inappropriately.
“How will I ever know what a proper romantic letter should be if I am not exposed to examples of such? Is that not why Miss Felding made us study some prescribed literature before she allowed us to choose our own books to read?”
Charlotte chuckled. “I am absolutely certain that reading Mr. Chapman’s letter to me cannot be compared to examining examples of literary greatness.”
“I think it can. Please, Charlotte, please?”
She looked again at the letter she held. Louisa did learn better when given examples to follow. “I cannot promise to let you read any other letter he sends me.”
“Will you share bits of them with me?”
“I really do not know if I will be able to.” She held Mr. Chapman’s letter out to her sister. “You will understand why when you read this.”
“Oh, it must be horridly romantic for your face has never been so red.” She took the letter. “He writes very prettily – though I suppose I should say he has a handsome hand so as not to offend his gentlemanly sensibilities.” She peeked up at Charlotte. “Do you love him?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not yet.” But there was hope that one day, maybe even soon, she would.
