‘Captain Carter? Is he the soldier from the beach? Young, handsome?’
‘Young, yes. It’s not for me to say he’s handsome.’
‘Send him my very best regards in return.’
‘Fraser, you must help me. Miss Heywood, she’s a woman of refinement, poetry. You know such things, please?’
‘Why?’
‘As a friend and fellow officer, Declan.’
‘Alison Heywood sent a letter, searingly eloquent, worse still, she’s enclosed a poem.’
‘And?’
‘She’ll expect me to reciprocate. Any poet I know is Handel.’
‘Handel’s a composer’, Declan pointed out.
‘I cannot have her thinking me a fool, Fraser. All I gotta do is prove myself worthy of her.’
‘These are my favourites, I carried them with me throughout my time on the battlefield.’
‘You do not strike me as a man who would be interested in flowers.’
‘What kind of man do I strike you as, Miss Heywood?’
‘Typical soldier. Spartan, coarse, unrefined?’
‘And who would not seem unrefined beside you, Miss Heywood?’
‘Do I gather you were pleased with Captain Carter’s letter?’ he asked.
‘It is as if he can see into my soul. He is both a hero and a poet.’
‘A hero?’ he asked.
‘He spoke of his brave actions at Bidassoa.’
‘You can’t do this.’
’ Why not? I love her, she loves me.’
'I’ve heard you say that before. More than once.’
'It’s not the same. She’s different.’
'You are not. You’re the same Carter who fell in love with all those other girls in all those other towns.’
'Can a young man not grow up and realize the qualities he requires in a wife?’
'How about the qualities a wife might require in a husband? Which is honesty. You have wooed her under false pretences.’
'What does it take to make a man so cynical, captain? Have you ever known tender feelings of your own?’
'Absolutely not. I’m a typical soldier. Spartan. Coarse. Uncouth.’
'I suspect there is a beating heart somewhere beneath that uniform.’
'You will search in vain.’
'There is someone. I knew. What is her name?’
'I cannot say.’
'Then tell me what is she like.’
'She is a rare creature indeed. Delicate, yet strong. Guileless, yet wise. And then truth, I’m quite undone in her company ’
'Does she know about your feelings?’
'No, no, no. No good could come of that, Miss Heywood. Her heart belongs elsewhere. Besides, I know she could never look on me with tenderness.’
'I believe the right person is out there for all of us. Luckily, I’ve found mine. Are you not happy for us captain?’
'Would that I could be, Miss Heywood. And yet, my conscience compels caution. Can you call it true, Miss Heywood, if he barely understands who you really are?’
'The colonel said he was not at Bidassoa. He says he’s never seen battle of any kind.’
'Of course he was. There were so many men there, the colonel is misremembering.’
'I don’t think so.’
'I know my William. And I know he’s not a liar. You and Captain Fraser are jealous of what we have. I’m not going to let two bitter loveless cynics spoil my happiness.’
'You cannot swim. You would’ve let me drown.’
'No! When Captain Fraser arrived, I was just about to dive –’
'Stop! No more lies. Charlotte was right, you were never at Bidassoa. Were you?’
'And you, you knew, and you said nothing.’
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“My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.”
― Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac
“I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter in all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both.”
― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility
"I ne’er was struck before that hour with love so sudden and so sweet... Will you not finish the verse for me?"
― Alison Heywood, Sanditon
“How obvious it is now--the gift you gave him. All those letters, they were you... All those beautiful powerful words, they were you!.. The voice from the shadows, that was you... You always loved me!”
― Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac
“I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start—
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.”
- John Clare
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