Please, do not pity my new pew. Clearly, my humor fell short in my previous letter, for I am quite pleased with it. From there, I have a perfect view from the east windows, which provides excellent entertainment when Mr. Tudor is being particularly pedantic. It affords me a view of the lane that runs just beyond the churchyard wall and all the souls who choose not to attend the services.
They wander along quite leisurely until they draw within sight of the church, and then—oh, the transformation!—their steps quicken until they are nearly running past, as though their brisk pace will render them invisible to the congregants inside. I confess, their efforts amuse me greatly, for I do not care one jot how they choose to spend their Sabbath, though they look like naughty little schoolchildren as they scurry past the window. You would think they could simply take another route, but apparently, they prefer embarrassment.
Tell me, is Mrs. Timmons still peering at you from over the garden hedge? I cannot help but imagine the edge of her cap fluttering about as she hides every time you look up. And I am so very pleased to hear that your efforts to take in mending are bearing fruit. I cannot help but smile whenever I imagine telling your mother about your enterprise, but that would necessitate her acknowledging my existence.
Business stirs, though faintly. A farmer hired one of the new harrows last week and returned it with all its teeth intact. I took that as proof that I am slowly securing Providence’s good opinion once more. The customer even paid in full, which is all the more miraculous. I never appreciated how much time tradesmen spend hunting down the money owed to them.
There are days when it feels like the venture may yet take root, though the evenings are long and the sums never quitereach what they ought. I tell myself that endurance is a success in its own right, even if the ledgers disagree.
There are moments when the noise of the forge fades and the shop lies still, and it feels as though I might turn and find you here beside me. It’s a foolish fancy, but I cannot help it. Know that I fall asleep to thoughts of you and our life together.
Yours always,
Frederick
Chapter 43
22 August 1802
Darling Frederick,
You will never believe today’s great triumph. I am quite ready to hire myself out as a man-of-all-work. Last week, the latch on the kitchen window refused to catch, and rather than send for help, I marched to the smithy and begged for advice. Old Mr. Phelps lent me a file and showed me the trick of tightening the hinge, and the latch now shuts with the neatest little click. It is a sound that fills me with excessive pride.
Meanwhile, the cottage improves by degrees, and rather than falling to pieces around me, it feels as though the place finally tolerates my presence. And perhaps even approves of it.
This morning, Mrs. Prowse sent her boy round with a basket of eggs, saying the hens had been overgenerous. I suspect she was more concerned that I burnt my supper again. Still, I thanked her and offered her a loaf in exchange, which she declared “far too pretty to eat,” though I somehow managed to get an air pocket in the dough, which caused one side to bubble out in a most absurd manner.
Your last letter grieved me more than I can say. How I wish I might’ve been there—if only to sit beside you and let you rest your head for a while. It breaks my heart to be so far from you. Yet know that I am there in my thoughts and prayers. When the days weigh heavily, remember that you are not alone, my love.
Forever yours,
Thea
Chapter 44
24 April 1803
My Dearest Love,
My first instinct was to write something cheerful and light, all laughter and triumphs, and pretend the world was kind today. Or to avoid writing altogether and spare you from my dark mood. But every time I think to do so, your voice rings in my mind, calling me a fool and insisting that I share this with you.
So forgive me if I write with more honesty than I ought.
More disappointments. More failures. I feel as though everything I have done is for naught. The soil is so sodden that the work has slowed—meaning they haven’t any use for my shop. One customer managed to return a harrow in such a state that I suspect he used it to clear stones rather than soil, meaning it is both out of commission and requiring repairs. Yet another month with no profits.
I had thought myself prepared for the ebb and flow of trade, but this blow landed harder than expected. The shop feels colder and darker than usual, and it’s as though Cobb is using my head in his forge, instead of his anvil. I catch myself counting thehours till he retires for the night, but the silence is worse in its way, for I am left with nothing to distract me.
I try to meet it with good humor—heaven knows I have ample practice doing so—but today the pretense is too difficult to manage. It is a dreadful thing, Thea, to feel as though I battle for every success, only to have them overshadowed by failures. I cannot bear the thought that our wedding must be postponed for another season.
Forgive me for writing so gloomily, but you were right, as ever. Somehow, it helps to share the truth. Your faith in me steadies my heart more than you can know. To borrow your words: I will be better tomorrow; I always am.
With all my love,
Frederick
Chapter 45
30 September 1803
