1 The Wild Man

The first time I actually saw him, I was watching out my window, admiring the spring flowers in the moonlit park on the edge of the ridge. It was not directly behind our house, more behind the houses of those who lived down the street, but my bedroom window gave me a lovely view of the expanse of beautiful flower gardens and cobblestone paths, lit by regularly spaced gas lamps with lovely black metal benches set around for people to relax on.

During the day, it was filled with other members of the "ridge folk" as those who lived below the ridge called us, or "upper strata" as those who lived on the ridge preferred to be known.

At night, though, the park was empty. I enjoyed seeing the beauty without all the bustle of men and women flaunting their fashionable clothing and the latest bits of gossip.

And then, there was a figure ambling casually along the paths. It was a man. A large man, from what I could tell. Tall and broad-shouldered with longer hair than was currently fashionable for men. And when that man took a seat on a bench near the edge of the park closest to my window, directly under one of the lights, I knew.

His dark hair, his casual stance, and his large stature were obvious clues. But who else would be walking a park on the ridge late at night? It had to be Harford Wenson Deldin Convarta, or, as the ridge folk had dubbed him, "the wild man".

Everyone knew his story. He had grown up on the ridge, part of a large, powerful, wealthy family. When he was 10, like most boys in the upper strata, he had been sent to boarding school on an island near the famed Raythorne Academy. Unfortunately, when he was on his way home for his summer break 6 years later, his ship had gone down in a storm.

Everyone had thought him dead. His mother and father had passed away only a couple years later from an illness that swept the city, and his older brother had died the year after that in a duel.

With his immediate family gone, his grandparents had retired to the island of Talar and left their estate in the capable hands of his uncle and family.

When Harford Convarta reappeared on a merchant ship over 7 years after his disappearance, no one had believed it was really him, but he had had the birthmark and scars to prove himself and so had been reluctantly accepted by his uncle.

Since that time nearly 2 years ago, he had re-acclimated to life amongst people. He had apparently spent the 7 years he was missing surviving alone on a small, deserted jungle island until he was picked up by a boat and managed to work his way home.

One rarely saw him in public, though. He was rumored to spend large amounts of time in the woods below the ridge as they reminded him of his time on the island. He was, of course, very sought after by all the romantic young ladies of the upper strata, who felt he was quite the dashing hero. The fortune left to him by his parents and brother certainly helped.

I had thought him an interesting, yet sad figure since I heard his story. To have survived the loneliness and fear of being alone in the wild for 7 years, to have worked his way home, and then to have been confronted with the news of his entire family's deaths must have been very hard for him.

When I saw him, sitting alone on the bench in the warm lamplight, I felt my heart sing. At that moment, I knew he was going to become an important part of my life. My heart never sang for anyone or anything that would not contribute to my ultimate happiness.

Unfortunately, in the four months following my midnight spying, I did not see him again. I watched for him in the park every night. I kept my eyes open as I walked with my maid, as I shopped with Mother and Fernillia, and at every stupid party I was forced to attend. I even started taking daily rambles along the edge of the ridge, hoping to spot him down in the trees.

And then, finally, four months to the day from the first time I saw him, he appeared again at the park. I nearly donned my cloak and headed out to see him, but my common sense stopped me. Now was not the time.

After that, he began coming to the park every night and sitting on the same bench. He seemed, though it was hard to tell from such a distance, lost in thought.

And every night, I sat in the window seat of my bedroom and watched him and wondered what he was thinking about.

I often dreamed of how we would finally meet. Would he sweep me off my feet for a dance at a ball? Would we run into each other in the street, our eyes connecting across the crowds, and share a moment? Would he hold a door open for me as I entered a store?

Another four months passed like that. Every night, I watched him and wished that he might look up and somehow see me, sitting in the window of a dark room. Every day I walked around in a haze, looking for his face in everyone I saw, daydreaming about our first meeting, and thinking up new ways to put myself in his path.

I was almost ready to give up when at last, the day arrived. We entered another grand ballroom for another evening of dancing and gossiping and showing off. I wore my favorite gown with long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and the high neckline that had been part of all my gowns for the last two years. The lovely sapphire tone of the material brought out the blue in my blue-grey eyes and set off my fair skin and dark hair better than any other color.

As we entered the room, we found everyone in a tizzy and it was soon evident why. On the dance floor, his arms around the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, whirled Harford Wenson Deldin Convarta himself, tall and stunning in a navy suit and silver waistcoat. He was here! Finally we would meet!