The deceit was unforgivable, although it appears that Mr. Chance has, God bless him, managed some manner of forgiveness. At the very least, he did not annul the marriage or flee England in a rage. Nor did he betray her to her family. The wild sort of amorousness of their courtship has now ceased, obviously, and I cannot speak to their plans for future contact. It has been very difficult to coax the details from Tessa all along, but she is heartbroken, that much is clear.
I cannot think of more to say on the matter, except that we all had our own reasons for leaving Surrey, and Tessa’s was perhaps the most pressing, followed by Sabine’s. My reasons seem insignificant and almost selfish when compared to the dire circumstances of my friends, and yet . . . And yet I have realized my dream just the same, and oh how I relish it. It was always a reckless and outrageous scheme, Cassin, but please know that I never meant to go so far as to keep secrets from you. I will conclude here by simply saying that we are all so very grateful.
***
Monday, 1 January 1831
Bridgetown, Barbadoes
British West Indies
Dear Willow,
I write to inform you that Stoker and I have arrived safely in Bridgeport, Barbadoes, a fortnight ago.
We set to work almost immediately, taking rooms for ourselves and letting a small warehouse for the provisions we brought from home.
Next, we set about hiring able-bodied men to work as our mining crew.
The work, such that it is, will be hot, grueling, and monotonous. Wretched, in other words. But we intend to pay wages high enough to interest anyone willing to take on the work. Recruiting solid men who will work hard, keep out of fights, and won’t steal us blind is worth our time, we believe. Our goal is forty laborers, a cook and medic, and perhaps a few interpreters. (Between Stoker and me, we can manage French and some German. When Joseph arrives, he will add his fluency in Italian and Spanish. However, we’ll need a translator for Dutch, the West African dialect of Bajan, Vietnamese, Chinese, and Arabic, just to name a few.)
Because our island can only be reached by a half-day’s sail from Barbadoes, any man we hire must also commit to make camp at the mining site for seven days at a stretch. After seven days of work, we will return the men for a two-day furlough while we replenish supplies. The island (which we have dubbed “New Pixham,” in honor of its patronesses) could not be more primitive.
But I risk boring you with tedious detail. A shorter version of this explanation is this: The mining has not yet begun, but we are otherwise underway.
Although the work is arduous, and life in the tropics is far removed from cool, predictable England, we remain optimistic about the venture and eager for what progress each new day will bring. We anxiously await the arrival of Joseph, however useless he may be, considering what is surely malaise-inducing lovesickness. He was very caught up, he and Miss St. Croix, when we left, and marrying her could have only accelerated this condition. I regret that I could not attend what was surely the wedding of the century. I am still in disbelief that their pairing became a love match.
It feels imprudent to add the next bit, but I shall do it anyway. How often I think of you, Willow. I hope you are safe in London, that you are happy and well. I hope the city is all you dreamed it would be. I hope that you enjoyed a warm and spirited Christmas with your aunt and friends, and that you were not lonesome for Surrey or . . .
I hope that you are never lonesome for anything.
And finally, I hope that if (and when) your thoughts turn to me, they are not bitter or regretful. The more I think of the weeks before we set sail, the more I see my own selfishness. For this, I am deeply sorry.
Certainly I would welcome some brief word about how you are getting on . . . if you have the time.
Sincerely,
Brent Caulder, the Earl of Cassin
***
15 January 1831
No. 43 Wilton Crescent
Belgrave Square
London, England
Dear Cassin,
Pray forgive a second letter so quickly on the heels of the last, but I felt it would be prudent to inform you that your uncle, Mr. Archibald Caulder, has called on me in my aunt’s home. Three times, in fact. Do not be alarmed; we have managed him, but the letters I receive from your mother suggest that he is badgering your family in Yorkshire as well. I could but write with this news.
The circumstances of his visit(s) were as follows: I was out of the house on the occasion of his first two calls (thank God), touring new construction with my aunt and uncle. He left his card with staff. His third call, however, caught us unprepared. He discerned from a careless butler that I was at home and demanded to be seen. I saw no way to get around receiving him.
Based on your own descriptions of Mr. Caulder, I believe I can say without offense that he is a wholly unpleasant person. His voice alone unsettled our otherwise quiet household; the length of his stories; the rap of his cane on my aunt’s marble floor—jarring, all, and this says nothing of the tediousness of the topics he addressed.
He presented me with a belated wedding gift, which he insisted I unbox while he watched and over which I was clearly expected to gush. (A pair of ceramic ostriches with jewel-encrusted beaks; see sketch below; I could not resist.)
