Inferno Hearts

The letter- Part 1

Hey guys, so this is one of the first novels that I've done so please be patient with me. The first part is short as it's just the letter part but hope you like it. 

Please give me some feedback as I love to hear what you guys think! Thanks

Scratching on the sheet of paper, the ink splattered as he struggles to write so quickly. The quill hung onto the ink, swaying, turning, and passing the strokes of the feather as it was dragged about the page, like a lion to its master. It was rushed, but you could tell what it said which was the most important thing. He was not ready for what he had to tell her. The letter. One letter will change everything. Every look, every dance, every passing moment they spent together, falling for each other more and more every day, crumbles to the words she will read that his hand once wrote.

Dear my darling Miss Clarabelle Ella Rushford,

He had begun the letter.

It brings me the uttermost grief and sadness that I have to inform you of this information. I am not to be who you are to think I am. I am no Lord. I am not your night in shining armor. As much as I wish I were, and as much as I wish I could be with you till my heart may give out on the command of God, I cannot offer you, my hand.

These were words of the man, so true and loving. So caring and passionate about his feelings. He had never felt such things with another. Never felt too attached, so truly knowing and comfortable around another, he was her as his second half. She was his happiness, the light of his day. She was so close to his heart, so close that even the slightest of things like a smell, a hint of rose reminded him of her. Yet, so close, would never be enough for him. He wanted to consume her and be hers officially and let everyone know that she was his and he was hers. That anyone to try and break that would simply perish in hell. The tears did not obey his commands to stay, and they crept down his face, hinting to anyone who may look, he was deeply in love to the sadness of the words he had to break out.

I know you may be confused; you have the right to. You may be angry, and upset, as I know that you feel too what I feel. Love.

The word stayed and lingered in his mind like a bad smell. Love.

Like John Keats said, I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days — three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

He is right, like butterflies we shall flourish, though ugly at the start, we may blossom and become what is most admired in nature. Even if I were to spend only three summers day with you my love, that would be more than enough. No time in the real world can make up for the love I have for you.

Sir Casper McNamara re-read over the word love, like a ringing in his ear, it was in the background, lingering, but it was always there. Tempting him, itching him, pestering him.

I come from Trento, Italy. I work for a Man of which his name is not to be said. I did not come to London for my studies, I did not come to start my own life, and most of all, I did not come here to find love. And yet, 

I did.

I came to London on a job, that job was to gather information about someone. A spy, I suppose you could call it. My heart would have been different to my brain when making decisions, but this one I had no choice. I had to come here, had to be fake, pretend, made up.

Yet I have never felt more like myself.

He couldn't believe himself as he wrote, he didn't plan what he was saying, it just sort of, happened. like a river flowing, it has no route, but it still works, flows, carries the tied.

I now leave you but hold you in empty space. Know that I am here, not physically, but in soul and heart. I hope to see you again in another life, where love can be what it is without question.

Goodbye, my love,

Sir Casper McNamara. 

And there he put down the quill, folded the delicate piece of paper in half, and placed softly into an envelope. He sealed it, pouring the hot red wax onto the fold, and pressing it with the Duke's stamp.

And with that he sent it away, wishing for the future to be molded into something happier, something with desire.

Something, he thought. Anything, with her.

Thanks for reading!