kurenohikari
My dear Miss Featherington,
I hope you will forgive the liberty of this letter, but I have discovered that certain gratitudes grow restless if left unspoken, and I find mine has been pacing the length of my mind for some time now.
I wished to tell you-properly, and without interruption-how much I owe you.
Do you recall that afternoon in the gardens, some months ago now? You were waiting for my sister, half-hidden by the hedges, the late sun catching in your hair as though it had conspired to set you alight. I remember thinking you looked otherworldly-like some fiery fairy who had lost her way and settled, briefly, among mortals.
I sketched you then. I did not intend to at first; my hand simply moved before I had thought better of it. And I continued to do so, on other days, from other angles, always when you did not see me. Until, of course, you did.
I confess I expected embarrassment-perhaps even reproach. Instead, you looked upon the sketch as though it were something precious. You said it was beautiful. More than that, you told me I should pursue such work if it stirred me so deeply.
No one had ever spoken to me thus before. My family indulges my drawing as one might indulge a child's fondness for toy soldiers-amiable, harmless, and entirely temporary. You were the first to suggest it might be more. That it might be mine.
It was shortly after that I resolved to apply to the Royal Academy of Arts, having at last concluded my studies at Eton. I do not flatter myself into believing I shall set the world alight-but I am going, Miss Featherington. I am choosing something for myself.
And for that courage, such as it is, I have you to thank.
Yours most sincerely,
Benedict Bridgerton.