The Love Letter
Art-inspired fiction
I wrote this imagining last year.
In a week when ‘Love’ has been the perpetual theme, I re-read the story. Previously, I was underconfident about sharing my fiction - to be honest, that state hasn’t changed much, but I couldn’t resist editing my words and this version feels sharper. Remarkably, I am on the cusp of 300 subscribers to this small personal project, so this is my quiet celebration that some folk want to read my words. Thank you for being there - it is a great encouragement.
So, deep breath, and I am sending it afresh.
The parlour smelled of roses. Her Mistress grew them, displayed them on tables throughout the house, and wore fragrances fashioned from their petals by French perfumiers in Grasse. The heady musk - a favourite of her Mistress’s mother - was overpowering. It was not to her taste, but she was only a maid so what did she know? It was not to his taste either, she understood. As for the music, the tunes that intruded from the parlour were mournful. There was no doubting her Mistress’s competence with the cittern but could she not play something a little more joyful? The tiled walls and floor emphasised the harshness of her playing, abrupt melancholic sounds that rendered gentle moments caustic.
It had been this way since her mother succumbed. Her passing had hit them hard. As winter gave way to Spring, the young mistress of the house had at last given up the dark hues of mourning. Yet clouds of sorrow still hung on her shoulder, cloaking the household in gloom.
The maid was by nature light of spirit, joyous. Her family had encouraged her to read, learn and relish the arts. The painful loss of her beloved parents had led her to this place, to this employment. ‘We cannot afford for you to stay idle, dear niece’. Those words kept her feet on the ground but in her daydreams she pictured herself in her Mistress’s shoes. She imagined an alchemy of lightly scented fragrances, silk next to her skin, time to think, and read, and play. Time to love.
She masked her emotions, turning her beautiful green eyes to the black-and-white tiles as she handed over the letter. Moments earlier the musky envelope had been withdrawn from a leather purse secured to the sword belt hanging about his slim waist. Her mistress slid the letter from her servant’s hand as the maid had taken it moments before from his strong grip.
“Did he look well?”, the lady of the house enquired.
How to answer, the young woman mused. Leave out the details, she decided. No need to trouble her mistress with her thoughts on his open smile, or the way his eyes sparkled as she curtsied a greeting. Her mistress need know only that he is smartly dressed, looking well - very fine, she could say - and in good humour.
“Very well, my lady”.
The young lady turned the envelope over in her hands, setting her instrument to one side to concentrate on his correspondence. Their families had agreed on the match before her mother had been taken from them. It was a good match. Marriage to the son of a wealthy merchant would secure the future of her household.
The question startled the maid. “Is he stirred by love?”. Her mistress prised the wax seal apart, slowly unfolding the vellum. The silence hung heavily while the girl turned the word over in her thoughts. The luxurious paper rustled, releasing the tension of the moment, and breathing emotion into the silence. “Does he crave affection?”. It felt strange to the young maid that questions of intimacy could be voiced with such emotionless indifference.
The young maid, who in another life would have been the mistress of a household, fought to control her breathing. Her thoughts raced with the remembrance of his affection. Her body still trembled with the stirrings he evoked when his strong arms drew her close. Her eyes sparkled as they had when he whispered the words, as his breath caressed her slim neck and the hand that clutched the envelope stroked her lower back. She could feel the flush in her cheeks as she had felt it when his lips met hers with the urgency demanded by the constraints of convention. Her heart pounded with anticipation.
“He asked after you, my lady. He promised to write when he reaches the Indies”.
Her mistress sighed, losing herself for a time in his elegant script. The writing was familiar to the maid. She had studied every curve, every mark, every line of a different note pressed into her hand last month. She knew word for word the invitation he had extended. She treasured the language of love, his love for her.
“Ask him to wait for my reply?”.
“Yes, my lady”. Even as she answered, she knew that he was waiting only for the return of his lover, for the moment he could throw her hastily packed valise over his saddle. All he was waiting for was the feel of a maid’s arms tightening around his waist.
Second reply - got myself confused and initially offers plaudits against your teaser ... This is a wonderful imagining of the story behind the painting. Intriguing and engaging and such things clearly offer inspiration and play to your literary talent. Well done and there's definitely a rich seam to exploit here. There's another Hopper that might inspire you. Will share in a couple of days and let's see if it offers a spark ...
Does she or doesn’t she? I’m not sure how much is the maid’s imaginings or her reality! Finally starting my catch up on Substack! I love this, there’s a deeper story unfolding waiting to be told, so much contained in the painting and this cameo!