Page 33 of Better Love Next Time
CHAPTER EIGHT
Southampton, March 7, 1754
Dearest Fairy,
Enclosed please find a bank draft for fifty-two pounds, the sum of my quarterly allowance, less the six pounds paid to George Honeycutt for my apprenticeship and three pounds for survival. Namely, to supplement Mrs. Honeycutt’s repulsive beans and bread. I swear she is trying to kill me. Also, seven to replace the clothes I’ve outgrown, two for stationery and the post, and three pounds for bribery. The clerk at Eton has proven dependable at intercepting my father’s quarterly letters—dispatches of profound paternal affection, the depths of which brings tears to my eyes.
As with the last draft, place it on account at Cox’s Goldsmiths where it will be safe from my spendthrift inclinations. Speaking of, I purchased a lavender silk suit, which my friend, Kit Greville, advises I keep hidden from the rest of the men, who’d beat me to mince if they saw it. But it’s sure to send The Earl into spasms. When, you ask? I, prodigal son, have been invited to Easter. Only two years sincethe last invitation, but my mother has prevailed. Oliver relays she ceased eating and as my mother is the only legitimate pot from which another son can be stewed (highly unlikely), he conceded.
I have finished my instruction on caulking hulls. Grueling business, pounding oakum between the planks and then, tarring the seams. Yesterday morning, I was promoted to Carpenter’s Minion (my term, mind) wherein I do my damnedest to hammer, cut and scarf with perfection while avoiding men’s fists. Not always successful with the latter. I sport a blackened eye as I write, and my right shoulder still aches from its temporary dislocation. What violence has to do with teaching me shipbuilding, I’ve no idea, except men thrive on cruelty. To their credit, I now possess the ability to laugh in the presence of excruciating discomfort.
How many foxes has the old man killed since last week? Have you learned to make Bach bearable on the pianoforte? Is Father Dunlevy to preside over your Easter Mass? I’ll never tell. Sketch me your lovely smile, Kitty. I miss it.
Yours in Bruised Perpetuity,
Julian
Notfelle, March 17, 1754
Dearest Julian,
If ever I meet the brutes who blackened your beautiful eyes, I will take my father’s fowling piece to them. To think of you forced to laugh at your mistreatment, I am feeling positively murderous. Which, I did confess to Father Dunlevy on his visit to Notfelle this Thursday past. My penance was two deliciouscherry candies which the Good Father forced me to eat. If only he were my real father.
Uncle William was over the moon with my questions on the mechanics of business, particularly where profit is concerned. (At first, he just stared at me as though I’d two heads.) But now Georgiana wishes I had never brought up the subject, for it is the sole topic during my visits and reduces her time spent riding her horses because I refuse to budge from his study in order to absorb every drop of his counsel.
There is the matter of capital, from which all businesses must stem. And like a flower, a business must be fed this capital like water and fertile soil, lest it die. Otherwise known as insolvency. He who has the most capital devours, your uncle says. A lion to rabbit was his analogy, with gory details on the devouring. I’ll never eat rabbit again. There is also skill, influence, connections, daring, and cunning.
More to come. I promised Georgiana I would sit vigil with her this evening. Her mare is to deliver her foal at any time.
Yours in Conspiracy,
Kitty
Southampton, April 1, 1754
Dearest Fairy,
Daring and cunning, we can agree I possess in spades. Skill, I’m acquiring. For influence and connections, I must needs spend more time with my brother, Oliver. This Easter is a good place to start.
Enclosed is a goldsmith’s draft for nine pounds, ten shillings, which I won, wearing my next-best suit of bluesuperfine, a fresh shave, and loads of cunning, at a gambling hell. Thank God, you were not my opponent.
Yours in Loo,
Julian
London, April 21, 1754
Dearest Fairy,
I have arrived in London for the movable feast of Easter. Jesus died for our sins, and while others might celebrate the Eve of the Glorious Resurrection with quiet reflection, I visited a London gambling hell with my old friend, Anthony Philips.
Enclosed is a bank draft for twenty-two pounds, which I won wearing my lavender suit and a new tie wig, and my ever-abundant wealth of cunning.
Yours in Christ and Cards,
Julian
Notfelle, April 25, 1754
