The Night We Met. Tara Quinn Taylor
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mind would not be quiet.
The envelope had to be dealt with. I could throw it in the trash. Perhaps that was how I passed this test.
But what if he had something to say that I needed to know? Some insight or revelation that would bring clarity back to my heart. What if he was sick? Or injured?
He’d never shown any inclination to be anything but proper with me. Our association was a moment in a lifetime—there, and then gone. We’d been brought together to strengthen each other, I told myself, to bless each other’s lives, and then move on. Only my obsessive inability to let go of my earthly thoughts was a problem.
I picked up the envelope.
I was not going to tarnish the gift of Nate’s brief friendship with the dark side of human nature. Of my nature.
After waiting until my stomach felt calm, I slit open the envelope. Two sheets of folded paper slid out. There was writing only on the inside, but through the paper I could see that he’d written more than one paragraph.
Looking around to make sure I was still alone, I unfolded the long sheets.
My dearest Eliza,
My heart skipped a beat as I read the greeting. I wasn’t his. But it felt good to read the words, anyway—as though I had a special, sacred friend. A friendship outside the boundaries and beliefs that defined my life. Outside the opinions and judgments of others.
My hands were shaking so hard it took me another second to be able to focus on the next words.
Please forgive my intrusion. I have struggled with myself since leaving you at the convent gate on Sunday night, knowing that when I walked away it had to be forever. And yet something inside me compels me to contact you, to speak of my heart, and let fate, or your God, or whatever powers that be take us wherever they must.
The rest of the world faded away and I read on as though my entire being rested on these next moments.
Had you known me more than a day, you’d know that I’m a man who always thinks before he leaps. I carefully plan before I step. There’s a reason for everything I do, and I’m aware of the reason before I do it.
Until now. I have no idea why I feel I have to write this letter, but I won’t rest until it’s done.
I don’t have an explanation for what I’m about to do and have no way to convince you that I’m fully sane as I sit here. I know only what I know and it is this:
I love you. I believe you are my soulmate. I would give this more time, not to convince myself of the rightness of what I’m feeling, or because I have any doubt, but to give you time to know me more completely. I would attempt to court you according to societal expectations, except that in one short week you will be lost to me. I know that once you make a commitment, you make it fully.
In this untraditional and inadequate way, I must ask, Will you marry me, Eliza Crowley?
I read those words and can’t believe I’m doing this. You have me so tangled up I hardly know myself.
And as I consider what I’m asking, I must, in all fairness, tell you about myself. I have a temper, but most times have pretty good control over it. I cannot promise not to get angry with you. Nor can I promise to make every moment for the rest of your life a happy one. I can’t assure you that I won’t ever make you angry or disappoint you. I can tell you that I’ll try always to listen to both sides and to consider you fairly in every decision I make.
I can also promise that I will love you until the day I die and beyond.
I don’t say any of this to pressure you. I do not intend to contact you again, or to try in any way to convince you to accept my proposal. As I said, I believe you are my soulmate but don’t know if we’re meant to be together in this lifetime. If not, I will wait until we meet again.
Yours,
Nathanial Grady
Joy unlike any I’d experienced before coursed through my body. It was followed by a sense that something in my life had just settled into rightness.
The sensation lasted about ten seconds, until my eyes focused on the letter and I read it a second time. It was a fairy tale, better than most of the stories my mother had read to me when I was a child—with the exception, maybe, of Jane Eyre.
It was the stuff that dreams and magic—not lives—were made of. Like my association with Nate, it was a moment, not solid, not sustainable.
I couldn’t possibly marry him. I didn’t even have to ask myself before I knew the answer to that. I’d committed myself to vows of chastity. I truly wanted the life I’d chosen for myself.
But even if this episode with Nate was supposed to show me that I wasn’t meant for the convent, I still couldn’t marry him. No matter how badly I wanted to. He’d been divorced.
If I were to marry Nate, I wouldn’t only have to leave the convent, I’d have to leave the Church.
If I was going to seriously consider this proposal, I would have requested counsel from the Mistress of Postulants, but I was in no doubt as to my response. It wasn’t uncommon to have a trial present itself just before entering into the religious life. This was a test of my faith, no more.
Leaving Nate’s letter on the thin, hard mattress, I sat in the plain chair at my small writing table, picked up pen and paper, and started to write. He’d said he wouldn’t contact me again and I knew he wouldn’t, whether I replied to his letter or not. But it wouldn’t be kind to leave him hanging. He’d given his heart to me. I wanted to explain to him what was in mine.
And then I’d put the interlude behind me and focus on the life that was to come.
I got as far as Dear Nate before I began to cry. When I was finished, I dropped my pen, reread what I’d written and started to shake.
There was only one sentence.
Yes, I’ll marry you.
Chapter 4
I had a telegram from Nate the following Thursday. He was flying in to see me for a few hours on Friday afternoon. He told me what time to expect him—and nothing else.
Holding the only book in my possession that was almost as dog-eared as my Bible, my mother’s copy of Jane Eyre, I hugged it to my chest that night—thinking about the next day.
Had Nate changed his mind? He’d probably never expected me to accept his crazy proposal.
Or did he think he was coming to take me away forever? I couldn’t go. I was only a semester away from my teaching degree.
I was scared to death to see him again. And I was so excited at the thought of his arrival that I couldn’t concentrate on my studies.
Dressed in jeans and a hand-knit pullover, I was waiting nervously at the convent gates when he arrived.
Afraid that he was going to pull me into his arms, and that I wouldn’t know how to respond, I was surprised—and a little disappointed if the truth be told—when he just stood there, looking at me as though he’d be content to do that for the rest of his life.
“I don’t own any makeup.”
This is the first thing I say to the man I’ve agreed to marry!
“You’re beautiful without it. Genuine.”
Had he looked at me that way the previous weekend? I hadn’t noticed. But then, I’d avoided his gaze more than I’d met it. A sister kept custody of her eyes.
That heavy weight was back in my stomach. It had been there constantly since I’d mailed my letter to Nate the week before. I wasn’t ever going to be a nun.
Only the sisters and Nate knew that. Only Nate knew why.
“Are