Imprisoned Hearts
By ItsAdmiralActually
Chapter One
04 May, 1728
There is nothing quite like spring at Wolbrighton Hall. I like to think of it as the season of new beginnings. Just the very thought of nature bursting from its confines of wintry slumber into an entirely new and vibrant creation somehow always lifts my spirits.
Sometimes I wish my life were like the four seasons. To have the power to simply hide from the world for a time, and then to awaken again into something teeming with so much life that its beauty outshines the ugliness would be wonderful.
But then again, do not our transgressions committed in the past often play an integral part in who we become in the future? If we were to consider the matter further, I believe the whole of mankind would realize we are more like the seasons than we thought possible—that the very essence of life itself speaks volumes of it!
Spring, as we know it, becomes summer—life flourishes for a fleeting moment before the coming of autumn. Then everything wrinkles and dies, losing its luster until it is like dust beneath our feet. It is a morbid concept, but death is something not even the best of us can avoid. As the leaves fall from their trees, colorful as they are, they essentially perish in the end.
Thus, so shall we.
A part of me perished eleven years ago, when I allowed myself to surrender to the innocence of my youth and gave my heart to someone who was but a boy himself, trying entirely too hard to become a man.
Shakespeare once said, "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."
Well… I have loved and lost, and lost myself in the process.
Like autumn turning to winter, I suppose I too have grown cold to what life has to offer, caring little for the demands and customs required of someone of my birth. My heart has essentially gone dormant inside a wall of ice and I am no longer the same person.
The old Anna Sharpe is gone. Where she is… I hardly know.
So here I am,
Still waiting in that long winter's night.
Waiting for the slightest hint of my own spring
When I shall finally bloom again…
—A.S.
Here I am; wandering about the stately Gardens of my ancestral home, lost in the remnants of a past all but forgotten, as noted in my diary only moments ago. The gravel path grinds beneath my feet. The birds flitter about my head, filling the cloudless sky with a variety of songs, each one unique to its own kind.
Mama's flowers look exceptionally well this year. The rose bushes and posies are in their own pots at the foot of the steps. The lilies and the daffodils are in their own little beds planted along the Garden's inner perimeter of perfectly trimmed hedges. The azaleas, pansies, and petunias encircle the water fountain that is filled with exotic fish imported from the East Indies. Our cat, Isabella, is reclining upon the ledge, ignoring the little creatures darting about the lily pads, trying to tempt her into chasing them. She flicks her tail with subtle interest, but appears overall content to remain in place. I would imagine she is in no mood to risk wetting her silky, snowy white fur.
The Garden is paradise—the fragrance alone is heavenly!
I pass beneath the arched trellis entwined with shrubbery. The river winding its way across the length of the grounds lies before me, fed by the deep blue waters of the lake. The small hill beyond the Garden gradually slopes downward into a cluster of trees surrounding its northern end. Peeking from behind the grove is the red brick oval structure of the old Music House, looking quite lonely on its island.
I toy with the idea of seeking refuge within its familiar walls, but decide against it. I want to enjoy the air. It feels remarkably fresh, washed clean by last night's rain, and the warmth of the sun is perfect on my skin.
I make my way to the great Palladian bridge poised over the river, passing beneath the curtain of the weeping willows swaying gently in the cool breeze. I return to that moment in time when a bold, handsome youth—a sailor on shore leave—captured my innocence… and my heart. We had known each other since childhood, but that summer, our friendship blossomed into a love unlike anything I have ever known. Youth in and of itself flourished unchecked that year; unfettered and free from the disapproving eyes of a society governed by the austere laws of decorum in which we were raised.
"Will you wait for me?"
His question forms in my head, his voice as familiar as it was so long ago…
"… Anna, why must you be so difficult?" the sailor protested. His deep voice was as smooth as velvet—a voice I noticed grew deeper and more powerful with each turn of the season.
"James Norrington, you are positively barbarous!" I cried, feigning indignation, not at all committed to my comment and even more satisfied by its effect upon him. "I assure you, I am not being difficult."
I rose to sit atop the blankets where the seed of our passion had just been sown, my face still flushed from the heat of our fervor. I reached to pluck my chemise from amongst one of the many piles of discarded clothing. As he stirred behind me, I twisted round to behold his entire manly splendor, not at all ashamed of seeing him nor of myself for baring my own naked flesh to his lustful gaze.
"Yes. You are," he countered flatly, pouting like a child. He sat up and plucked his shirt from another pile of clothing and shook it out. A few blades of grass tumbled from within. "For heaven sakes, Anna, I beg you would not keep me in suspense! Are you going to wait for me or not?"
"No, I will promise no such thing!" I said. "You of all people ought to know me well enough by now to know that the depths of my loyalty run much deeper than mere words."
"Indeed," he scowled with a disapproving flick of his brow.
I turned with the intention of locating my left stocking— it seemed to have disappeared—only to find myself being pulled back into his arms and pressed onto my back. His face was mere inches from my own. I peered into those deep pools of cloudy green gleaming down at me, those same eyes dropping for a moment to steal a glimpse at my bare breasts. I pushed them forward teasingly, my nipples pert from the cool breeze sifting through the trees. A wanton grin spread across my face at his flash of interest… but to my disappointment, his look faded just as quickly as it had appeared.
"Still, a verbal affirmation would not go amiss," he added as he cradled me in the crook of his arm.
He tucked a strand of my golden hair behind my ear, brushing his finger against my cheek and tracing the gentle curve of my jaw. Then he leant down and pressed his lips to mine in a tender kiss.
For a moment it seemed as if we were the only two people in existence. His touch set my skin ablaze, his kiss igniting something within. Its warmth crept into my core and farther down—I reveled in the prospect of being ravaged by him again, though time was of the essence. One could only stow away with one's lover for so long without inciting suspicion. My parents were not home nor were my siblings, but Mrs. Lennox, my governess, would certainly begin to worry once she awoke from her afternoon nap, and would no doubt be extremely displeased with my debauchery. It was a delicious concept from which I derived far more amusement than I ought.
"You… will wait for me, won't you?" he asked as he drew back, his voice soft; timid, even. Yet in his eyes was a certain look that suggested his was more than just a mere question of my being here at Wolbrighton in the future. It sent my heart racing.
In a rare moment, he had left his fortress of stone to allow himself to be vulnerable in my presence. He was not quite a man yet, he being just seventeen years of age, and I still but a girl at sixteen, but he was becoming a fine young gentleman before my very eyes—what any woman with good sense would dream of marrying someday… what I myself hoped to marry.
"What exactly are you asking, James?"
His eyes were aglow with a look that spoke fathoms more than what mere words could not, as if I were his most cherished possession. "I love you, Anna. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. I sail with the tide tomorrow night and it will be quite some time before I return. I want to know you'll still be here when I do."
"Is this… a proposal?" I hesitated, distrustful of my own voice and completely terrified at the prospect of making a fool of myself.
My regret was immediate, and I grew increasingly ashamed of myself. All these all the memories we had made together, the fascinating and rather refreshing conversations as he shared his vast knowledge of the all, all of the practical jokes, the dances, concerts, riding about the countryside, the late-night strolls about the ground and Garden… our first time in said Garden… if it was all undone by my foolishness, I would never forgive myself.
Yet in his eyes was no judgment, no perception of offense or indignation from my impertinence. There was neither reserve nor evidence of potential flight, no validation to my shame. How could this be? But I needed neither a century nor even a minute more to find the answer to my unspoken question, for the very look upon his face confirmed it.
He tried to suppress the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his deep voice vibrating throughout my entire being. "Will you say 'yes' if it is?"
Would I say 'yes…' does he know what he asks of me?
I did not expect this. I never expected him to propose at all, even though I have dreamt of this moment from the first time we laid together. Now that it has come, I am rendered speechless, quite uncertain of what I should do, or what I should say. They say prudent wisdom comes with age, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I suddenly found myself at a crossroads, trying to discern what is wise and respectable for someone in my position in contrast to the desires of my heart.
Prudent wisdom alone suggested that I ought to refuse him outright; if not for the fact that his offer was completely unorthodox, but also because he was beneath me, in terms of class. I am the daughter of an Earl, and while his parents are part of the Peerage, their rank is incompatible to my own. A union between us would be exceedingly frowned upon… and yet I know it is a poor excuse. One might ask where this line of reasoning was when I allowed his attentions, to say nothing of our current state of undress.
For certain, it would all bear significance if I were of proper age.
Legally, I could not consent to marriage without the approval of my parents. I was not technically "out" in society yet. I was to be presented at court by my mother next year; yet even so, I was beyond certain that my father would never approve, especially if he knew that we were… that we had already… he would, undoubtedly, kill James if he found out. But what is so wrong about lying with the man you love? Do not Mama and Papa do the same?
Perhaps, in time, Papa would understand. Perhaps by this time next year, he would see that we were in love and were ready to marry. James would be of age to formally ask for my hand and in doing so he would therefore earn his respect. Would not that be enough to blot out the sins of youthful passion? And would not it make an honest woman of me?
I dare to hope!
As I lifted my eyes to behold my lover's face, all my fears became less significant. They did not fade completely, but they were far less effective. How he managed to quiet them, I do not know. It was always the case whenever we were together: he was the calm to my storm, my sense of reason when nothing else made sense.
Truly, I cannot imagine my life without him. When we are apart, it is agony, and my soul cannot be quieted, cannot be consoled, until I have laid eyes upon his person once more. Yes, I have experienced with him the primitive and altogether beautiful ritual associated with that which is natural between a man and a woman, and in that respect, I understand I am no longer innocent. Yet I feel the very act is innocence in itself. It is pure, the joining of our bodies; it is what God intended, is it not? What's more, my feelings for him exceed far beyond the sinful nature of the flesh; and if I were ever certain of anything in my life, it was this simple truth: I love him.
And in this moment, the simplicity of love was all that mattered.
Prudent wisdom forsook, I was going to follow my heart. I wanted to marry James Norrington—I was going to marry him! And I had not an ounce of guilt or shame in this confession.
"Yes, James. I shall wait for you. I shall always wait for you. I promise."
That was eleven years ago.