Jonathan sat on a scholar's chair, the wooden legs creaking softly against the floorboards as the small hearth beside him burned with a gentle crackle. His modest room carried the faint scent of smoke and ink, a reflection of the life he now led as a young man in training to become an estate steward. Books on land management, ledgers filled with notes about rents and boundaries and folded maps of various properties were scattered neatly across his desk. On the small table by the hearth stood a candleholder and a half-filled cup of tea that had long gone cold. It was a simple room, yet tidy and purposeful the kind of quarters commonly given to men in his line of training.
He held a cigarette in one hand, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling while his other hand gripped a pen. A folded sheet of paper lay before him, its surface half-covered in neat lines of ink. For months, he had ignored Margaret's letters, each one bearing her delicate handwriting and the familiar seal of her family's manor. But tonight, something within him stirred, perhaps guilt, perhaps nostalgia! and he finally began to write back.
He apologized for his silence, blaming the long hours and demanding lessons of his training. "Becoming an estate steward is not an easy task," he wrote, "but I am learning much. I wish to be a better man for you, one capable of providing for our future." He filled the letter with words he believed she longed to hear, promises, endearments, vows of love and devotion. Yet as the words flowed, his heart felt strangely still. The passion he once carried for Margaret seemed distant now, like a song fading in the wind. He told himself it was merely exhaustion, that he still loved her. But in truth, London had changed him.
He liked the freedom of the city, the rhythm of its carriages and the hum of its streets. Here, no one watched him with the stern eyes of his father and no one reminded him of duty or expectation. He was his own man and that newfound liberty was intoxicating.
The following morning, Jonathan folded the letter carefully, sealed it with wax and carried it to the post office. The streets were misty with dawn and the smell of baked bread drifted from nearby shops. After sending the letter, he went to his usual breakfast place, a small café along Brookside Lane, where he had taken his morning meals every day for the past two weeks. His breakfast was always the same: a plate of eggs and smoked ham, a slice of buttered bread and a cup of steaming coffee served in porcelain.
But this morning, something different awaited him.
A young woman, perhaps in her eighteenth year, walked toward his table carrying his breakfast. She was beautiful, no, beyond beautiful. Her figure was graceful, her eyes bright with youth and charm. The morning sunlight caught the loose strands of her golden-brown hair and for a moment, Jonathan forgot to breathe. He had never seen her before. Not even Margaret, nor Clara, the lively young woman he and his cousin had once befriended at a London pub could compare to this girl.
"Good morning, sir," she said softly, placing the plate before him. Her voice carried a melody that seemed to dance through the air.
Jonathan stammered, "Good morning, beauty." His words slipped out before he could think and he flushed with embarrassment. Trying to recover, he added with a small smile, "I have not seen you here before, though I have taken breakfast here these past two weeks."
The young lady smiled. "I have been away for a while," she replied, meeting his gaze without shyness. "I went for chef training at Whitmore House on the other side of the city. But now I am back."
Before Jonathan could say another word, someone called her name from across the room. "Evelyn!" the voice said. The lady, Evelyn curtsied politely to Jonathan and said, "Please enjoy your breakfast, sir. I must attend to another customer."
He watched her walk away, his thoughts wandering as she disappeared behind the counter. He repeated her name "Evelyn" he likes the way it sounds from his mouth, rolling out like a spring breeze. He tried to eat, but his attention kept drifting toward her. Whenever she passed by, he found himself smiling unconsciously. Her laughter, her gentle grace, everything about her seemed to tug at something inside him.
When he finished eating, he called for her again. "Miss Evelyn," he began as she approached, "might I have the pleasure of seeing you later today?"
Evelyn hesitated for a moment before replying, "I have an outing with my friends this night."
Jonathan, not wanting to lose the chance, said quickly, "Then may I join you? Only if you do not mind, of course. I should like to know you better."
She studied him with amusement, then nodded. "Very well, sir. We shall meet at the Assess Ground by nine o'clock. You may join us from there."
Jonathan thanked her warmly, paid for his meal and added a generous tip before leaving. As he walked away, Evelyn watched him with a smile. Perhaps she liked him too.
All through his day at the training hall, Jonathan could not stop thinking about her. He made mistakes in his notes, stared absently during lessons and even his instructor, Mr. Henry Ward, a senior estate steward, noticed. "You seem unusually cheerful today, Mr. Hargrave," the man remarked. "Has London given you some fortune?"
Jonathan merely smiled and shook his head. "Something of that sort, sir."
When the day's work ended, he hurried to a clothing shop near Hanover Street. He bought some new trousers, some fine shirts, a kangaroo hat and a bottle of rose-scented oil. Back at his apartment, he bathed, tried on several outfits and stood before the mirror longer than he ever had before. He wanted to look perfect. He wanted Evelyn to notice him.
By the time he reached the Assess Ground, he was an hour early. The evening breeze carried the scent of flowers from nearby gardens. As he waited, a little girl passed by carrying a basket of roses. She paused and looked at him with a knowing smile.
"Waiting for a lady, sir?" she asked.
Jonathan laughed. "How do you know that?"
"This is the Assess Ground," she said confidently. "Ladies bring men here to see if they are worth their time."
Jonathan chuckled at her boldness. "Then tell me, do I look presentable?"
The girl grinned. "You look very handsome, sir. But buy a rose and she will think you are a gentleman."
Amused, Jonathan offers to buy the whole basket of roses. "One is enough," she said wisely before skipping away.
Soon after, Evelyn arrived with her friends, six cheerful young men and women dressed in simple yet elegant clothes. They greeted Jonathan kindly and together they went to an underground bar called The Velvet Cellar. The entrance was dimly lit and Jonathan hesitated at first, unfamiliar with such places. Evelyn reassured him. "Do not worry, they will allow you in. You are with me."
Inside, the bar pulsed with quiet music and murmured laughter. Gentlemen in tailored coats and ladies in bright silks filled the room. Evelyn's friends ordered drinks, martinis, rum punch, brandy with lemon and one even asked for a mix called "The Widow's Kiss." Jonathan, eager to please, ordered the same drink as Evelyn.
As the evening unfolded, they spoke of their lives. Jonathan told her of his training, omitting the part about Margaret. Evelyn spoke of her time at Whitmore House, how she loved the art of cooking and how London's lively streets had captured her heart.
When he asked if she had someone special, Evelyn smiled teasingly. "If I did, would I have invited you here?" she said. Then, with a touch of sadness, she added, "I ended my last courtship at Whitmore. I found my beau with another girl. Since then, I prefer my own company or with my friends"
Jonathan felt a rush of joy at her words. He leaned forward slightly. "Then perhaps I might take the place he lost," he said softly.
Evelyn looked at him, her lips curving into a smile. "Perhaps you might, Mr. Hargrave. If I did not like you, I would have refused you this morning."
Her honesty disarmed him. He confessed, half-truthfully, that he once had a betrothal but it had ended. "She lives far away," he said quickly. "It is over now."
Evelyn studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Then let us not speak of the past," she said gently.
Jonathan smiled, though a flicker of guilt passed through his heart. But as the night deepened and laughter filled the room, guilt faded away. For the first time in months, he felt alive.
And as he walked Evelyn home beneath the soft glow of the gas lamps, he wondered if perhaps London had not only changed him, but claimed him entirely.