Read Online From the Charred Remains by Susanna Calkins - Free Book Online Page A

for anyone. And the poem is unsigned. Aren’t poems signed? Even if just with ‘Anonymous’?”
    Miss Rivers smiled, a sad pitiful smile. “I know you mean well. But I can prove the poem was intended for me.” She smoothed out the woodcut. “See, it’s an acrostic.”
    Like the London Fire poem, Lucy realized. She watched as Miss Rivers put a delicate finger on the first letter of each line.
    N ow, Dear Hart—
    A s the poet says, come to the garden in spring. There’s wine and
    s weethearts in the pomegranate blossoms.
    R emember!
    I f you do not come, these do
    N ot matter.
     
    I f you do come, these do not matter.
     
    M y rose will bloom, among the
    H earty pineapples,
    e ven in the first freeze of autumn.
    R ose, my love—
    E ven kings can wrong a fey duet.
    “N-A-S-R-I-N-I-M-H-E-R-E,” Lucy spelled out loud. “I still don’t get it.”
    “‘Nasrin, I’m here.’ That’s what it says. He was speaking to me.” Seeing Lucy’s puzzled look, Miss Rivers continued in a more hushed tone. “My name is Nasrin, in Persian. You see, my name, ‘Rhonda,’ actually means ‘wild rose’ in Welsh. My parents’ tribute to my Welsh lineage, I suppose. When I told my sweetheart that, he wanted to give me a special name, which also meant wild rose, which only he and I would know.”
    “Nasrin?” Lucy tasted the name. “How did he come up with that, I wonder.”
    Miss Rivers smiled slightly, her voice thick with tears. “You see, my sweetheart he is—was—Persian, from the land of the Shah.” She shook her head. “He must have traveled here. ‘Nasrin, I’m here.’” She dabbed at her eyes. “He must have been hoping to surprise me. Now he’s gone!”
    “Yes, it would seem so,” Lucy said, chewing on her lower lip. “However, the poem was only published by mistake—because I had asked Master Aubrey to include it in the London Miscellany. Why didn’t he just tell you he was here? Why did he need to inform you by poem?”
    Miss Rivers was silent for a moment. When she spoke, it was with the air of someone seeking to share a heavy burden. “My father would never allow him to see me, I’m afraid. Certainly, he would not let me be courted,” she said. “I met Darius, you see, in the court of the Persian shah. My father, an Oxford scholar, wanted me along because of my expertise with languages. Not that he would admit to that completely, of course.” She took a sip. Revived, she continued. “Even though we lived graciously, my father could never quite view the Persians as his equals. I am ashamed to say it. He was keen enough to study their culture and their literature, but become connected by blood? This he could not do.” Her voice shook a bit. “We had traveled to Persia with another of my father’s colleagues from Denmark. I think my father may have hoped the Danish gentlemen would become smitten with me, or I of him, to keep that valuable connection close to our family.”
    Lucy grimaced. She knew well of the expectations that gentry had about marriage. They married for property and connections, usually giving little thought to love and friendship.
    Miss Rivers continued. “Instead, I met Darius, one of the translators at court. We fell deeply, madly in love. From him, I learned about life, love, and the poetry of the great mystics.” She gulped. “We often wrote poems to each other. My sweet Darius must have intended to send this poem to me. To let me know he was here.”
    “So he wanted you to know he was here in London,” Lucy said gently. “Yet he doesn’t say where he is, or how to meet him.” She paused. “Or does he?”
    Miss Rivers studied the poem again. “I’m not entirely sure. In the first part, Darius is referring to the words of Rumi, an ancient poet. This passage was one I loved most deeply. When I heard the poem read, I just knew he had written it.” Closing her eyes again, the woman recited, “‘ Come to the garden in spring. There’s wine and sweethearts in