Page 56 of If I Loved You
As it is, I will operate completely on instinct, though additionally I have it on good authority (courtesy of Mrs. Smythe) that casual correspondence is meant primarily as a way to keep persons informed, in their absence. As you’ve done just that, so I shall endeavor to return the favor.
First, to answer your question, I cannot imagine a child, or any person, who might not enjoy a fair. Though, truth be told, I’m not entirely sure all that a fair might encompass. However, I would trust Bethany in your care for such an outing.
As you have been apprised, the Smythes and Langdon have indeed come to the Daisies. We are all quite over the moon to be reunited finally. They are, as I feared, quite dismayed to learn they haven’t really any profession within my household, save to keep me company and assist with the small upkeep. But as the weather is fine, and the summer fully upon us, we’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time out of doors. Langdon has already been several times up to Benedict House. He returned once, very happily, with a new nag and cart for our use, courtesy of your Mr. Talley. Assuming the instruction for this came from you, I thank you for the loan of the vehicle. And please be advised that Langdon was quite sincere in his vow to take very good care of both animal and cart to please the stablemaster.
Yesterday, the Smythes and I and Bethany, too, drove into Perry Green. I introduced the Smythes to the butcher and Mrs. Carriere, the modiste, and then to Mr. Crandall at the mercantile.
Bethany has picked up a new word this week. I wish she hadn’t. It’s horrible. That’s the word, horrible. She has employed this as her response to any and all questions or comments, which makes even the very mundane, ‘Did you have fun reading your book with Mama Smythe?’ an exercise in futility. It really is horrible. Perhaps when you return, you might teach her a new word, as our efforts thus far have proven unsuccessful.
Cordially,
Emma Ainsley
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, with news to impart, Emma did not await a reply, but sent off another letter to the earl.
DEAR LORD LINDSEY,
Writing quickly (and pardon my poor penmanship, as I’ve so little occasion to use it over the years) to get this sealed before we head into town, where I can drop it off at the post, without waiting for the boy. Saves me tipping him as well, which is awkward for me, as I was forever on the other end of gratuities.
Oh, but I must tell you! As agreed while we stayed in London, George Fiske visited me yesterday. Lord Hadlee and I had a charming tea in the drawing room. Officially, he is my first guest to the Daisies, and I was quite excited to have tried out my tiny, learned hostess skills, but I fear they may have been wasted on the poor man. He was interested and consumed only by those letters, for which I had run up to Benedict House and collected from Mrs. Conklin, and which I have dutifully returned to the sad man. I think he is lonely and considers me a connection to something he lost and mourns still. True, the connection is nebulous, but I feel he understood how deeply those letters had affected me and stayed with me. He promises to visit again in the next month or two.
In other news, Mr. Smythe is appreciative of your efforts within the orchard and has found a new love, I dare say. He spends countless hours there, in that wicker chair when not pruning and growing and watering. And not two days ago, he was gone for three hours to Perry Green by himself and returned, flushed of face, and still excited for the lengthy conversation he’d had with the grocer, who apparently manages his own orchard rather successfully, so that Mr. Smythe promises more apples and pears than we’ll know what to do with. (I see pies and cakes and tarts in my future.)
Honestly, this letter writing is fairly easy. I find the words just spill out on the paper. (Do you care for this stationery? Mrs. Smythe and I found it in town, while Mr. Smythe wondered what was wrong with plain white vellum.)
Cordially,
Emma Ainsley
Postscript. The scribbling on the next page is from Bethany, who is just now learning what letters are all about. I’m sure you can imagine that her fingers were stained with more ink than the page. And that, my lord, is all that I am bound to pen just now, as I’m hoping to make the stationery last as long as you are in London.
EMMA RECEIVED ANOTHERletter from the earl not two days later. Privately, she wrestled with the thrill that accompanied the arrival of his correspondence, though she was sure it had more to do with the letter itself and attached no particular significance to the sender. However, knowing he was likely busy in parliament for as many as ten or twelve hours a day, she felt a certain fluttering in her belly that he’d taken even just a few moments to send a missive her way. Today her delight was only heightened by the small parcel that accompanied the letter, delivered by a different post boy than Emma was accustomed to, that she wondered if the earl had employed a private messenger. This raised Emma’s brow, as the messenger must have cost more than the extravagant pennies she laid out to send each letter.
Emma tore at the wax seal and perused the earl’s words.
MISS AINSLEY,
I might suggest, as my stay inside the city might surely be of an extended duration, that we employ your lad Langdon to carry notes back and forth. He can make use of a different mount each trip—good exercise for the horses—come and go as his other chores necessitate, and you needn’t then worry about the tuppence put out for each letter sent.
Yesterday was frightfully long and tortuous. At one point, Sir Lionel of the Tories spoke non-stop for over six hours. I understand how important some of these measures and debates are, but still I was hard-pressed not to cry out that he could have managed his entire argument in four sentences. A more harried, pointless, and overdone speech, I vow I have never sat through.
I hope the parcel found its way to you as well. Do not, for my sake, scrimp on the words to save the paper. I look forward very much to your exceedingly entertaining news from the Daisies. (Honestly, I neither chose nor approved the parcel-ed item, only gave direction as to what was necessary to keep my sanity while ensconced and enslaved in the city.)
Shall I send down ink as well? New pens?
Until next time.
L
LESS CURIOUS, AND MOREconvinced that she knew what the package might contain, Emma tore through the brown paper and found as she’d suspected, as his words had hinted—a box of stationery paper, in the softest shade of blue imaginable. She hugged the package to her chest, though wasn’t sure why she should be so excited over a box of paper.
DEAR LORD LINDSEY,
I thank you, genuinely, for the gift of the stationery and, as you see, have set aside the old to make good use of these fabulous sheets. Is it me, or does the ink flow more easily over this paper?
When I was very young, when my mother lived, she read to my sister and me quite often. But honestly, since mother has been gone, I cannot remember that I’ve read a book in all those years. But I have, just yesterday. Bethany was napping, and the Smythes had gone to Benedict House to visit with Mrs. Conklin, as she’d invited them to make use of the dairy next to your fine kitchens for butter making. So there I was, all alone, and had already written a letter to you, that I hadn’t anything to occupy me. And then I considered the books, offered so prettily upon the shelves of the study. Oh, and what a wonderful way to spend a rainy summer day, tucked into the parlor, and with a cup of hot tea to chase the chill, and with a book called Robinson Crusoe. What a fabulous hero! What a wonderful adventure!
Do you enjoy reading, My Lord? For pleasure? If you were trapped in an empty house, no work to be done, might you find yourself digging your brain and your time into some dusty old tome? It seems to me you are not the sort to be idle, though I shouldn’t think exercising your brain with words is truly useless. But then I do not know you very well at all, do I?
