His words are mine

A rooster crowed in the distance and carriage wheels scraped against the dirt road, birds chirped but she never heard it. Mariella scarcely heard any noises, while she slept or while she read. Words on pages, transported her to a world beyond the walls of her stoic home. Until the quiet tap on the door that morning.

Next to her beloved bookshelf, the door stood ajar. She strained to listen for another sound. Did I imagine that? The noise came again and it startled Mariella. I must have fallen asleep again. She grasped her books from the mahogany table, Waverly by Sir Walter Scott and a small book of poetry by Lord Byron. Mariella clutched the books to her chest, like treasure she didn’t want to share. She lowered her nose and inhaled the musky scent. My dearest love. How many times you've saved me, you'll never know.

   The sun shone in through partly drawn shades, her heart raced. What if I get caught reading again? Mom always says I live in the clouds. She tells me if I don’t pull my head down to where I am, I’ll never find a suitable husband. Louisa her servant, peered into the doorway.

   “Miss Mariella, you must return to your room," Louisa said. Louisa, always composted, always polite, her red hair controlled and perfect, like her. "The misses will wonder where ya’ve gone off to, but I know ‘ya well. I knew ‘yad be in here, sleeping in that chair, dozing after reading ‘ya book. Up ya go, best get you to yer room and change those clothes.” Even in her worry, Louisa’s voice is fine and cheerful, I wish I felt so cheerful.

   “Okay, okay. I’m awake,” Mariella groaned. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and followed the wide sway of Louisa’s hips down the hall, past the paintings with large frames of the Duke's past. Disheveled hair covered Mariella’s face, she swiped it back from her eyes. Then, Mariella arrived in her own room, delicately embroidered blankets covered the bed, and a small fire burned in the fireplace. How I long to sit near the fire, reading in its warmth and soft light. The light wavered, the coals burned, red and black. Louisa handed Mariella a pleasant yellow dress as she shivered in the coolness of the morning, then slipped it over her head. She pulled up fresh underthings. Mom will never know I read all night. Mariella splashed cool water on her tired face. After she dressed, she threw a shawl over her shoulders to cut the chill. Where did I put that book? Seeing it on her bed, she calmed. A few moments later, Mariella’s mother entered, dressed as any fine lady would be with a white linen dress; it wasn’t the favorite of Mariellas', she preferred the kind her mother wore to the balls. A lady always has to appear reformed in all situations, Mom always says. I can’t wait until I’m out in society, three days from now. 

The days moved like water in winter and Mariella’s mind moved like the rivers in spring. Once I'm freed from these rules, I'll find love. While she waited, Mariella longed to escape into the literary world, to loosen the clutches of an ordinary educated woman’s life. She rehearsed his words, she’d memorized last week, of her dearest love, her Lord Byron. “The dew of the morning, Sank chill on my brow- It felt like the warning, Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.” She paced the room, with the rhythm of the stanza. As Mariella searched her mind for the next verse, her mother entered the drawing room. She quieted, but it was too late. Mariella’s mother heard her ramblings and rushed to the table at her side. Like a sudden storm waiting to swallow a ship at sea, she grabbed the books in a fury. 

“Get your head out of the clouds Mariella. You cannot expect to find love. I thought like you, once. A perfect waste of time. You will marry and it will be for duty. Get these ideas out of your stubborn head." Her mother’s words pierced her like a dagger. Mariella ached in the recesses of her soul; the deep places where hope dwells and longing germinates. Her mother threw the book of poetry into the flames, the fire ignited inside her heart. The book burned bright like a shooting star. Mariella tried to pull the book from the ashes, the flames seared her delicate fingers. My dear Lord Byron, what will I do now that you're gone? She realized the the futility of her efforts and rose from her knees, the ashes of her beloved clung to her hands. Her throat ached, her face burned. You killed him. The words of Byron's beautiful poem left her mind and anger flooded it instead. Her mother appeared apathetic. Mariella ran from the room, tears poured from her eyes. The paintings on the wall blurred as she blinked through the tears. She knew the paintings disapproved of her too. So foolish. She shoved open the door and flung her body onto her bed. That day, she mourned the death of her greatest love. How could Mom do this to me?

***

The day of the ball, Louisa entered Mariella’s room. Mariella’s eyes looked puffy and red. The hope inside her chest, now dead like a winter’s night which kills the harvest. Mariella stared at herself in the mirror. Louisa twisted the strands of hair, and fastened it with pins, until it cooperated. Mariella's elongated and graceful neck, displayed small wisps of brown curls after Louisa finished. The dress, one her mother’s tailor's creation, with blue ribbons and white lace, covered her body. No one can tell I’m in mourning, I should be wearing black. Mariella managed a weak smile for Louisa. “Ya look beautiful,” Louisa said. 

Mariella glanced at herself, “pretty enough to attract someone Mom approves?” Louisa nodded. 

“Best y’er moving, it’s time to leave,” she scolded. 

“Thanks, Louisa,” Mariella said. 

“Don’t be sad, sometimes love can find us, even surprise us,” Louisa said. “Don’t give up yer hope.” The two women hugged, then Mariella walked to the front hall. 

Outside the grand doors, a black carriage with large wooden wheels halted in front of her house. Mariella’s mother stood alongside her, quiet as a hidden mouse. Long, elegant gloves graced their small hands and arms. Mariella’s nerves grew more unsettled by the minute. 

   “Ready?” her mother asked. 

   “As ready as I can be,” she said, fighting a sob. Mother and daughter rode in silence. The carriage stopped again, at an expansive house with neatly trimmed shrubs and bushes. A wide and regal house, it took Mariella’s breath away. "Wow," she uttered under her breath.

   “Richest, most affluent man in the country,” her mother mentioned. Will I ever find another book of Byron's poetry? She glanced outside the carriage, a large pond reflected soft moonlight in quiet lines. A young man grabbed her hand and drew her attention. Who is he?

   “Pardon, I thought you were another. Forgive me.” He disappeared as quickly as he appeared, his blonde curls bounced into the night. Mariella shook her head.

   "That was strange.”.

   "Yes, strange indeed," her mother smiled. Mariella followed as her mother led the way inside the great house. I must be obedient, get this over with. It’s only one night. After a servant took their cloaks, a man bowed to the women. 

  “Mariella, this is the Duke of McKinzie,” her mother said. 

  “Pleasure,” Mariella uttered. 

   “Welcome to my home. Thank you for coming,” the man said. After the introduction, her mother moved away from her side, after she noticed her friend near the punch bowl. Quick to forget her daughter, and new to society, Mariella stood against a wall. I’m so alone. Then her eyes rested upon a bookshelf on the balcony above.

   “Would you like help supporting this great wall?” A young man asked, his features angular, yet his eyes filled with warmth and laughter. 

   “My name is Fitzgerald McKinzie. My friends call me Fitz,” he offered his hand. She placed hers in it. 

   “I’m Mariella. Oh, wait. This is your house?” He nodded. She fidgeted, her hands cold and clammy. Unsure of what to say, her mind returned to the bookshelf. “Do you read?” she asked him.

   “Yes, many adventures are found in spaces between bookends,” he said. 

   “I love reading, mostly I love poetry,” Mariella said. “Do you know of Lord Byron?” Her heartache threatened her composure, she cleared her throat. Maybe I should let the dead rest, undisturbed. My poor Byron. 

   “You were you, and I was I; we were two before our time. I was yours before I knew, and you have always been mine too,” he said. Oh, the very words of my Byron. Mariella and Fitzgerald exchanged knowing glances and smiled. A newfound hope, fluttered in her chest, a feeling of joy reborn. Something else warmed her- like that fateful burning fire, only this time the fire burned like a rekindled flame. Maybe Lord Byron wasn’t dead after all. 

  "Would you like to see my favorite books?" He asked. He held out his arm. She accepted and they moved together through the crowd. Their arms joined, they laughed. They've been together ever since.