“It is best that I remained here,” Margaret stated firmly. “Had I gone with him, I only would have been hurt worse. I would have grown more attached, and I don’t know how I would have endured that. It would have been devastating to watch him sail away.” And now she was angry with him.
“What do you intend to do?” Penelope finally asked.
Margaret shook her head. Why had he written? She’d been doing so well! “I’m going to do absolutely nothing.” She would spend a lovely Christmas with her family and do her best to forget Sebastian Wright. She wouldn’t hear from him again. He’d sailed already and would be exploring all the things he’d longed to explore.
“It was only a fling.” If only she could convince her heart of this, then perhaps she could move on.
The Atlantic Ocean, December 8th, 1828
Maggie,
I can’t send this now because I’m writing from the ship. Perhaps I won’t send it at all. This crossing is everything I imagined but also so much more and also so much less.
I think you would want to know the things a person missed while on a ship.
Land. It seems like an ironic sentiment. There is an exhilaration that comes along with being surrounded by water but also the sense of knowing one’s feet are set upon a firm foundation.Also, lying in the grass with Maggie, under the sky.
Fresh air. Again, this one seems ironic. Some days, the air is fresh but depending on the wind and the extent to which we use the engines, soot permeates everything. For three days last week, smoke hovered in the air along with a musty, moldy smell.I’d do anything right now to bury my face in your neck. I should have stolen one of your handkerchiefs or stockings when I left. That way I could remind myself of your scent when I lay in bed at night. Which brings me to number three.
Maggie’s hair. Nothing in the world feels the same as Maggie’s hair, or her skin, or her lips. And number four.
Sex. An obvious one, I’d imagine.
Maggie.
Ignore my ramblings. I think you get the gist of life at sea.
Yours,
Sebastian
The Atlantic Ocean (still), Dec. 14th, 1828
Maggie,
Wind kicked up the day after I wrote last, and I’ve hardly had a moment to myself since. I’ve come to have enormous respect for Captain Elmer Edwards (Eddie). Before we set sail, I made it known that I would not sail as the owner but as part of the crew, but he insisted I have my own chamber, and I’ll admit I’m grateful for that. These men work every damn minute of every waking hour (which is most of them if we happen to be weathering a storm.) There’s no rest,luv,and few of them ever complain. Day and night, in the wind, waves crashing on deck. Never a moment without something to do. Now that we’ve passed through the storm, everybody paints. Every. Damn. Board. Every accessible board. The ship smells of paint now. What I’d do to be walking on the beach with you right now.
When I take you sailing, we’re going to do it in the summer. The wind is cold, the water is frigid, and an eternal chill has settled into my bones.
Things I miss.
A hot bath.
Sleeping on a bed that isn’t moving.
Hearing your voice, your opinions, your ideas.
Sex. (Don’t hate me for being honest)
Yours,
Sebastian.
New York City, Christmas Eve, 1828
Maggie,
I sit here, in an elegant chamber of the magnificent home of Mr. Peter Evans, an American industrialist, wondering what you are doing. I am picturing you with your niece and nephew around you, sitting by the hearth and reading them a storybook. I think this would make for a happy Christmas for you.
