My Confession - 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕥 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

Wattpad 2015 Valentines contest entry.

"A courier, My Lady, with a message from his Lordship." announced the footman.

Meredith, Countess of Hartwell, looked up as the man was brought in, gave her the message, received the gratuity she gave, and left.

Examining the missive, she recognized her husband's handwriting. Handsome, titled and wealthy, Vincent had inexplicably chosen her, a mere baronet's daughter. They had been given the first year of marriage tradition required, before the war took him back. She had grown to love him dearly and Meredith was certain he was fond of her also. While he was not loquacious or demonstrative, he had written regularly. This was unusual.

Breaking the seal, she pulled out a single sheet of paper, opened it, and read:

My Dearest Wife,

I have been severely wounded. My recovery is dubious. Yet, while that is the impetus to this letter, it is not the purpose. So, to the point, while I have the strength.

I left you with no more than a formal farewell. Now that I may never see your sweet face again, I find that I regret that staid parting. I should have held you, Meredith, and kissed you thoroughly. Then I would have that memory to comfort me. But I was a fool.

I was raised steeped in the traditions of my forebears. Born of a political union devoid of affection beyond tolerance, I was trained never to show emotion in public and rarely in private. You, with your loving home, might find that hard to comprehend, nevertheless it was my childhood. While I sometimes felt ephemeral longings, I never knew precisely what for. When I judged it time for me to wed, I had a list of suitable candidates.

Then I met you. Lovely, kind, warm-hearted Meredith. The first time you smiled at me, I knew you were different. While I didn't realize it immediately, the other young women had from that moment lost their luster. You were not the youngest, nor the prettiest. At first you were not even under my consideration. Yet, I was inexplicably drawn to you. Each dance, each conversation made me more and more sure that you were who I wanted for my wife. It surprised society and dismayed my parents but what I found in you was far more meaningful than your title or heritage.

It was not your intelligence, your forthrightness and your loyalty although I admire those traits in you. It was something I could not quantify or define, yet it drew me like a moth to a flame. While I could not put a name to it, it grew ever stronger. Not until now, when my time may well be spent, did I realize what it was, and that I must tell you.

I love you, Meredith. I wish I could have whispered it in your ear.

Love, Vincent

Days later, Vincent shifted in his cot. He could yet live, the cleric told Vincent's aide when he thought his patient slept, if he could shake the melancholia that gripped him.

The sounds of voices came to him from outside, an occurrence unremarkable in itself - why, then, did his heart beat faster? Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his obviously delusional mind. The tent flap rustled, his nostrils flared at the unexpected scent - he opened his eyes, slowly.

"Vincent." Meredith came floating toward him, her smile brilliant. Kneeling by his cot, she framed his face in her hands. "My dearest husband. I love you." She kissed him, and he fervently kissed her back.

"I think he'll recover nicely now," said the cleric to the aide.