Darling Frederick,
You must think me neglectful, for I have allowed far too many of your letters to go unanswered. I promise it was not from a lack of desire but the happy chaos that Mina’s visit brought. It has been a joy to have her here, though I’ve scarcely had a quiet moment to put pen to paper.
Mina brought with her a host of watercolors and pencils, and we explored every corner of the village, capturing it all. The wildflowers in the fields. The creek that runs through the meadow. I’ve found it nearly impossible to keep up with my work, but it has been so lovely to indulge in my art. I haven’t been able to replace my supplies since I left Haverford, and I have missed it dearly.
I am certain that Mr. Mersey will learn quickly: he sounds like a good lad with a quick wit. I have no doubt that it is difficult to hand over tasks you’re so accustomed to doing—to say nothing of the patience it takes to watch a clerk struggle with something so simple—but as you said, the business is growing, and it is foolhardy to think you can manage it all on your own.
When you were describing his bumbling, it made me think of the Larkers. I have spent many an afternoon at her home, watching Mrs. Larker guide her children through the chores to be done and how often they make a muddle of the whole thing. It takes her a fraction of the time to do it properly, yet she must allow them the opportunity, else they never learn. No doubt Mrs. Brinn had to exercise similar patience when she taught me.
Though it isn’t Mrs. Brinn any longer. I do not know if I will grow accustomed to calling her Mrs. Huntsman. How is she faring with her new husband and home?
I love you, Frederick. And I miss you so very much. The work keeps me occupied as there is always something to mend or some errand to be run, but even in the noise of it all, you are there. I catch myself wondering if you’ve eaten, if the shop is warm enough, and if you’ve remembered to rest. You are the thought that lingers in my mind day and night.
You would think that after so long apart, the distance might grow easier to bear, but it hasn’t. In the beginning, our reunion was so far off that I simply had to accept the time apart and force myself not to dwell on it. I could live with the waiting because there was nothing else to be done.
But with the time drawing close, I find my patience slipping from me. The more certain I am that the time no longer needs to be counted in years but months, the harder it becomes to endure the hours. Soon, I tell myself. Soon. And yet the word feels heavier every day.
All my love,
Thea
P.S. I was thrilled to learn about your new niece. Phoebe’s letter arrived not long after yours, and I am so relieved to hearthat she is well and the babe is thriving. So many prayers have been answered.
Chapter 46
5 June 1804
Beloved,
I know it is the height of foolishness to write this, but as you call me a fool quite often, I suppose it is fitting. This letter may not reach you before you board the stagecoach, but still, I cannot help myself. My hand keeps reaching for the pen as if it has a mind of its own.
Every tick of the clock sounds louder than the last, as though time itself mocks my impatience. I can think of nothing else but you. I find myself laughing at nothing and smiling at the thought of you in my arms—of seeing you once more.
Come quickly, my love.
Frederick
Chapter 47
The coaching inn stood at the edge of town, its whitewashed walls glowing against the green of the fields and the darker line of hedgerows beyond. Sparrows darted under the eaves, and somewhere in the yard, a groom whistled as he filled the troughs.
A sensible man would wait inside, but Frederick couldn’t move from the courtyard, his eyes scouring for any sign of the coach. Every sound—the rumble of a passing cart, the metallic jangle of tack in the stables, the wind stirring the sign overhead—drew his attention, and the disappointment that followed pressed heavier against his chest. A shout set his heart racing, but it was only the ostler calling for a missing harness. Then came a clatter from the stable door, a burst of laughter, the quick rhythm of hooves against cobbles.
Again, nothing.
Frederick drew in a slow breath to calm his fidgeting limbs. He had imagined this moment a hundred times: seeing the coach crest the rise, watching her step down, hearing her voice again after so many years of ink and paper. He had thought himself prepared, but with the moment so near, his composure deserted him entirely.
Then—at last—the sound came.
Hand rising to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, Frederick squinted down the road ahead. A low, distant rumble swelled until it filled the air. There was no mistaking it: the coach was coming. Frederick laughed, an unsteady, breathless sound, and his hand went to his chest as though he could steady the wild beating there, but the pulse only grew quicker and sharper as the vehicle came into view.
The stagecoach thundered into the yard as the guard’s horn called out its bright, triumphant note. Dust billowed around them, veiling everything for a breathless moment as the driver called for the ostlers to steady the team, but Frederick was already moving, every sense fixed upon the door. It burst open, and in a flurry of muslin and wool, Thea flew from the coach, and Frederick caught her, the force of her descent driving the breath from his lungs.
And for an instant, the world stilled.
The feel of her in his arms, the scent of her (mixed with the dust and dirt of travel) rushed into his senses with dizzying familiarity. Breathless, she laughed and cried in turn, saying his name again and again as if to make certain he was real, but Frederick couldn’t speak. He could only hold her, feeling the tremor of her heartbeat against his chest, the warmth of her cheek near his own.
When at last they drew back, Frederick’s hands lingered at her waist, unwilling to let her step away, and for a moment he could do nothing but look at her. A loose curl clung to her cheek before she brushed it aside, and those warm brown eyes that had filled his every dream in the past three years met his with such gentleness that it left his legs weak and trembling.
