Sir Edwin, the Softie.

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“Sir Edwin, might you be ill?” inquired Beatrice, the Captain’s eldest servant. He had been bed-ridden for three consecutive days now, worrying everyone in Berkshire. They feared the worst, but the Captain was not ill—not with the sort of illness that could be easily cured, to say. Rather, it was an impeding illness of heart.

Ever since that poignant evening at the Rumblage Estate which now seemed so long ago when the Captain had had the pleasure of playing the magnificent ensemble alongside the breath-taking Catherine, he had been unable to rid her grace and beauty from his thoughts. He loved her in every way imaginable—he always had. And he had seen in her soft, grey eyes then, when that wily Stratton Brownsmith took her by the hand for a waltz, that his love for her was not unrequited.

Oh, what a fool he was! He sprung up from his bed and strapped on his boots. “Beatrice, I’ve got an important matter to settle. Please send word to the King that my health has returned. However, shall Mildred inquire upon me, speak not of my departure. I shall return.” Confused but relieved, Beatrice reassured the Captain that his orders would be carried out immediately. With that, he readied his horse and set off hurriedly into the sunrise to make his intentions known before dusk.

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