Hi All! So this will be a short 4 part story, (definitely only 4 parts, this time, haha).

I had meant to be more prepared with it, but the third trimester of pregnancy has rather got in the way and knocked me for six. Anyway, I have scribbled part 1 tonight really fast in a matter of a few hours, so it will doubtless be littered with errors and be super simple, (you know me, I hate things being too simple), but I hope to have parts 2-4 out between Sunday-Tuesday, but we'll see.

A quick history on Valentine's cards:

As we know, the history of St Valentine goes back all the way to the third century, and while we believe the story to be an old and established one, we often assume that card giving is a modern tradition. However, while the commercial concept is a very new thing, people have been passing cards about for much longer.

In the 1830s in Britain, the country saw a boom in trade and travel, meaning that many products could be mass-produced and sold both quickly and cheaply. One of these was Valentine's cards, and after a few were shared in the royal circles of London, the fad soon swept the nation, bolstered by a renaissance in romantic literature and art.

There is even a reference to this in the TV adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's, Cranford, in which a mischievous man sends cards to a whole host of ladies, leading to misunderstandings and mortification.

So, while this story is dedicated to that history, as the short tale unfolds, it would be interesting for us to think about the giving and receiving of Valentine's cards in the Victorian period, and the advantages and disadvantages that could have brought, both practically and romantically.


HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

Part 1 of 4

From Before We Were Us


It all began one unassuming day on February the 14th, 1851.

There was nothing remarkable about it, the day was proving to be as humdrum as any other that had preceded it that week. However, in spite of the monotony of the morning, John Thornton found himself in a foul mood as he went about his tasks, the foulest that had ever plagued him.

It was not unusual for the master of the house to be out of sorts and afflicted by a dose of ill temper, since such angst was in his nature, intrinsically woven into the very fibres that made up the sum of his being. Nevertheless, he could not deny that on this particular Thursday, he was feeling abnormally irritable.

At first, he sought to blame it on the interim closure of the mill, a temporary and aggravating situation, no doubt, but one which was beginning to get on his nerves. He hated seeing his factory lying empty and the machines sitting still in lethargic boredom. John found that he sorely missed the noise, that constant hubbub of spinners, workers and carts, each toiling away to transform the cotton from buds to strands and ship it off around the country, around the world. It was a clamour that brought him peace, that calmed his soul, and without it, he felt deafened by the silence of inactivity.

But no, that was not it.

He tried instead to account for it by contemplating his recent lack of sleep. John had been unable to rest of late, to find relief at the end of a harassed day by drifting off into an uncomplicated realm of oblivion where there was nobody and nothing to pain him, to pester him, to pressure him. It had been many weeks now since John could say he had enjoyed a night of peaceful and unbroken slumber. Every time his head hit the pillow, he would toss and turn frantically, tormented by a succession of distorted images flitting through his mind of tea cups; disobedient bracelets; curled brown hair escaping its clips, rosy lips that pouted when he spoke; and a tapered finger brushing his, the sensation of which made him deliriously hot and bothered, as if his skin were on fire. It left him feeling weary when he woke, unable to focus, unable to function, just fixated all the day long with wanting to go back to bed, just so he could dedicate himself to dreaming of those entrancing things once more.

But no, that was not it.

He tried to tell himself that it was all down to a bout of mild inebriation. The evening before had been the Thornton's annual dinner party, during which the master had regrettably drunk rather more than he usually would. It was most unlike him, given that John was not a man prone to gluttony of any kind, but he had felt horribly uncomfortable all evening, his cravat too tight, his palms sweating, his pulse racing, and so, he had perhaps swallowed a mouthful or two more of the flowing and fine wine than he ought. Therefore, it could well be that his displeasure today had been caused by colic of the stomach and a confounding of the mind, knocking his finely-tuned faculties out of kilter.

But no, that was not it.

No, if John were brutally and bluntly honest with himself, he knew the reason for his malady, for his madness, and it was all down to −

'Will you stop that incessant prattling?!' John shouted suddenly, his voice rising high into the air and roaring like a lion.

The two women to whom he spoke, and who had been sitting at the other end of the table, jumped in their seats, startling at his unforeseen outburst. One of them frowned, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed her brother with thinly veiled contempt, whilst the other merely covered her mouth with her gloved hand and giggled shrilly.

'Why, Mr Thornton,' Miss Hamper squealed, 'you are such a brute!' said she, letting out a breathy sigh as she ogled the man who had just reprimanded her with savage uncouthness. He was all muscle, all animal, all master, his colossal form and tempestuous temper enough to make her swoon. How she could drink in those eyes all day, all the while wishing she could thread her fingers through his thick hair and pluck a few to take away for safekeeping beneath her mattress where the snooping maids would not find them.

Fanny Thornton crossed her arms and stomped her foot. 'You can say that again,' she mumbled, loud enough that her friend heard her quip, but not so loud that her brother could, his wrath so formidable that she dared not poke the bear, especially when he was being so terribly prickly.

John lifted a hand to his temple and massaged it, willing the ache that beset him to go away and never come back another day. He had been sitting at the Thornton's large dining table for the past hour, trying his darnedest to work through a stack of tedious mill papers, but his cares and concentration had not been on trade, but on pleasure, the most excruciatingly exhilarating pleasure he had ever known. As his eyes scanned the words before him that spoke of dreary bills and complaints about delayed orders, all lacklustre monotonies, his mind had been wandering, thinking of something, or rather, someone, much more pleasing.

With a satisfied smirk entertaining the right corner of his mouth, John had thought of a pair of pretty blue eyes; the flow of an icy dress as it draped over shapely curves; and the swell of plump skin that was pinched and hoisted, as white as unblemished snow. He had been quite happy to be distracted by such teasing images as they floated in and out of his subconscious dreamily, enticing him like a siren's spell. However, the melodic voice that beckoned him come hither into her warm embrace, a song that was not composed of a rough northern twang, but a soft southern tone, had been rudely interrupted by the chatter of superficial frivolity.

John had glanced up, as if from a daze, and he had observed his sister and Miss Hamper gawking at him like an exhibit in a zoo, their eyes wide and watchful. He had been furious, nearly soaring to his feet and stampeding off, but he did not move, because he had every right to sit here, and so he would stay, asserting his ground and digging in his heels, tenacity surging through his Thornton veins.

'I cannot imagine what you are talking about that is causing so much amusement,' he snarled, growing tired of their relentless sniggering.

The two women looked at each other and smirked before rising from their seats and stalking towards him, leaving John feeling vulnerable and outnumbered as they drew close and surrounded him like predators circling their helpless prey.

'Then we shall tell you,' his sister pledged, not that he was really that keen to find out, of course, but that would not dissuade her.

'We are looking at Valentine's cards,' Miss Hamper told him, waving a collection of overly-trimmed squares of paper in his face and dropping them on his lap. 'And we were wondering what tall, dark, handsome young man might send one to us,' she crooned, fanning herself feverishly.

Picking up the discarded items, John sifted through them, and as he did so, his eyes sharpened into tetchy slits of disapproval, not at all impressed with what he saw.

'What?!' he sneered. 'What is this nonsense?' he asked, scrutinising the mawkish words that were gilded by a crowded frame of fat flowers and equally fat winged babes, a sickening sight of overt sentimentality if he ever saw one.

'We just told you,' Fanny sighed impatiently. 'They are Valentine's Cards, John, surely even you must have heard of them,' she mocked, thinking that despite his reclusive and boring ways, her brother could hardly be that oblivious to the fashions of the day. 'If it is good enough for the likes of the Princess Royal, then I suppose it is good enough for me,' she told him crossly.

Dragging out the seat that sat next to him and sitting herself down with an abrupt thud, Miss Hamper positioned herself alarmingly near to John, the skirts of her dress billowing about them and covering his thighs like a giant, pink meringue.

'This is how it is done,' she started, inclining closer to him as if to spill a secret, and John leaned backwards, desperately trying to escape her, the smell of her excessively applied perfume enough to make him gag. John was a powerful man, one who had no need to be afraid of anyone, but even he could admit that he was troubled by the fanatical twinkle in Miss Hamper's eye as she let her hand slide along the polished wood of the table and creep ever closer to him.

'When a man likes a woman, he sends her a card,' she explained simply, thrusting one of them in his face, her preferred style, in fact, just in case the mill master needed any ideas of how best to woo her. 'It is sent in secret, for it is not usually signed, and the woman must guess from whom it is from.'

John snorted. 'And what is the point of that?! What is the point of telling somebody how you feel if they do not even know it is from you? It is ludicrous!' he proclaimed, returning to his papers and choosing to ignore their childish and girlish gibberish.

Fanny threw her hands up in the air, bored to tears with her stick-in-the-mud sibling, who could no sooner find enjoyment in anything than he could sprout wings and fly. 'That is not the point, John,' she snapped. 'It is about having a bit of harmless fun. It is flirtatious, but within the bounds of propriety. Some courting couples send them, so I am told, but it is the unmarried man and unattached woman who might truly relish such a game,' she went on.

'I believe that a man may have many reasons as to why he does not feel able to easily confess his feelings to a woman. Her parents may not approve and their love may be forbidden. He may not be in a position to propose yet. He may be shy. Or he might not even know how she feels about him. It is like testing the water without sending your ship to sea and watching it sink needlessly.'

John whirled round in his seat and was about to respond with a brutal rebuttal, but then he unexpectedly halted and stared at them in a most unnerving way, his mouth agape and his eyes flickering as the cogs turned in his astute mind.

'John?' his sister pressed, panicked by his uncanny stillness and manic expression.

'You say that women like this sort of thing?' he asked after a while, eyeing the cards sceptically.

The two friends exchanged a quizzical look and then nodded in undisputed agreement.

'A lady would appreciate receiving one of these? Even a respectable lady?' he checked.

'I should think every woman would welcome such marked interest from an eligible beau,' Miss Hamper answered, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. 'It is extremely romantic.'

John furrowed his brow as he thought, the hairs of his dark eyebrows knitting together. 'And a man can use it to tell a woman whom he admires how he feels without having to come out and say it publicly? To test how she might feel about him? To ascertain whether or not he may entertain the idea that she too might return his affections before he asks her and potentially makes a fool of himself? In other words…,' John paused tentatively, his voice wavering with the trembling chords of both doubt and self-doubt.

'To find out whether he dare hope that she might ever come to love him?'

Again, the two ladies shared a knowing glance and grinned. Then, tilting forwards in unison, they both placed a hand on each of his arms, and gently squeezed in guileful reassurance.

'Exactly,' they whispered in chorus.


John swept along the high street like a hurricane, blustering as he went. He had just left his gentleman's club where he had hoped to gather some useful information from his peers about their response to the strike and to gain whatever titbits of hearsay he could marshal about the rumours that were buzzing through the town about an impending demonstration. John sighed, that was the last thing he needed, a riot at his mill, those hooligans smashing up his property, unsettling the Irish workers, and frightening his sister half to death. Good Lord! The thought of Fanny descending into a fit of hysterics was enough to make him want to give in and offer all his workers their jobs back at double the rate of pay, just to save himself from such an almighty palaver.

However, notwithstanding his best efforts, his fellow masters had been as useless as a lemon lampshade, proffering nothing but jokes and jibes, each sloppy remark delivered amidst a symphony of burbs as they drank and ate themselves under the table. They had all been too preoccupied with their distasteful brandy, cigars and women to heed John's words of concern and warning, so he had left under a cloud of frustration, none the wiser, his precious time wasted.

Marching back towards Marlborough Mills, all a disheartened John could think about was how discouraged he was. The mill was closed, he was not producing anything, his workers were being unreasonable, his customers were growing increasingly displeased, and yet, all he could think about was her. He found himself wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, what she was wearing, and the contemplation of each brought him immeasurable fascination and a sense of comfort and contentment as he prowled the streets of Milton in his restless state of agitation. She was like a soothing tonic for the storm that raged inside him, but then again, she was the storm, the very thing that had whipped his heart up into such a frenzy of foreign feelings.

It was as he was strolling past Fordlow's, that something caught John's attention as it dashed past his peripheral vision, dancing impishly across his mind's eye. Halting, John retraced his steps and came to stand before the window, being sure to take a well-measured step back so that he could inspect his findings properly.

With a shrewd gaze, he spied an assortment of cards displayed handsomely in the window, each one propped up on its own pedestal of white wood, giving an air of wholesomeness to it all. Each card was different, unique with their distinct fonts and flourishes. He let his gaze train over them appreciatively, then finally, he paused as one arrested his interest. There, in the corner, was something rather lovely. It was a small card of modest ivory, adorned with a simple yet sweet arrangement of yellow roses decorating the fringes like a trellis. But best of all, in the middle, were two hands, a pair that held each other in an eternal embrace, never having to part, never having to let go.

John looked about him warily, his combing glare hooded by the brim of his hat. The street was busy, but everybody was minding their own business with their heads bowed low against the winter wind or turned away from him as friends and family talked as they walked. Peering into the shop, he saw too that it was miraculously deserted, the owner being the only other person there. Gulping, John decided to act now and seize the day, so off he went, letting his feelings rule his reason for the first time in his life.


Mrs Thornton was sitting quietly in her parlour and sewing when she heard the heavy front door open and close with an ear-splitting bang. Nodding her head, she knew exactly who it would be, for there was only one person in the house who could affect such a ruckus with their strength.

'John?!' she called out in surmise. 'John? Is that you?'

The mother had begun to wonder about her son, not worry, just wonder, because he ought to have been back by now. He had said himself this morning at breakfast that his day would be laboured with undertakings, yet despite his lack of leisure, he would go to his club to speak with the other masters and try and glean as much insight into the tide of affairs in the town as he could.

Snorting, she had said that there was nothing negligent about spending his time in such a way, but what was wasteful, was squandering it by going to the Hale's tonight. He had no need to do such a thing, he did not require their company, good opinion or support, so why bother with them at all, especially when he was so busy?

Nonetheless, her son had merely glowered and asserted with a terse reply that he would be going tonight, there was no disputing it, and so that was that. Nevertheless, when he had left, he had assured her that she should expect him back soon from his errand, as he had no intention of staying there a moment longer than necessary with that dissolute bunch of buffoons.

However, as the clock ticked away, the mother had noted that time was hurrying along, and with every chime of the quarter-hour, John had not yet returned. She was not his keeper, he was a grown man who could go where he wanted and do what he pleased, but all the same, his absence was unsettling.

That is why Mrs Thornton had breathed a weighty sigh of relief when she heard his firm footsteps tread along the corridor, heralding his arrival at long last. She was about to ask where he had been and what had kept him so long, but before she had a chance, he had skulked into his study and closed the door behind him, barring her and everybody else from the privacy of his solitude.

Sitting in their parlour with nobody but herself for company, Mrs Thornton had been smothered by the oppressive air of silence that had enveloped her, but every now and again, she could have sworn that she heard a tapping. It was a strange noise, a repetitive, continuous, irritated rhythm, almost like a foot or a pen was drumming with impatience. She then jerked and nearly stabbed herself with her needle when she heard what sounded very much like books being hauled from a shelf, tossed onto a table, and then flung open. She could hardly fathom it. John was usually so careful with his books, so it made no sense that he should treat them with aggression now.

All of this in itself had been odd, but what had really thrown her, was that not twenty minutes later, John had emerged once more from his study, and with a resolute step, he had funnelled back down the passageway and towards the door. In normal circumstances, she would have thought nothing of this, but the mill was closed, all his papers were in the house, so where-oh-where would he be off to now?

'John?' she had shouted with mounting concern. 'John, what is the matter?'

'I have to post something,' was all that he said in frank reply, and with that, he was gone again, as suddenly as he came.