After we praised the ostriches at length, he embarked on a treatise about the great profitability of coal mining. It was a topic so randomly selected (and yet also so pointed directly at you) that I could but nod. Next he described what he had eaten for breakfast and luncheon in detail and then ticked off the names of his sons, their wives, their children, and homes.
Honestly, I could not discern a purpose for his visit other than to make my introduction (the stated reason) and otherwise appraise some potential in me (unstated). Potential in what, I cannot guess. He asked direct questions about my family, my life in London, you, your business in Barbadoes, your mother and brother and sisters, and what I knew of Caldera.
Never fear, I was as discreet as possible, walking the fine line between vagueness and ignorance. He left here with little if no new information other than the personal introduction to me and whatever his shrewd scrutiny of my aunt’s drawing room may have provided.
I can only hope I have dealt with him correctly. I have instructed the staff to turn him away, should he ever call again, and Perry has cleverly fashioned the ceramic ostriches into small planters for two indoor ferns that she is cultivating. I am quite fond of them now, actually.
If you have further instructions regarding Mr. Caulder, please advise.
Oh, but Cassin? Please do not worry. Distressing you was not my purpose in writing. I am unharmed and unfazed. The meeting left me little more than annoyed, although I do take offense at his keen interest in your business matters and in Caldera.
In closing, I hope your progress is brisk and your health is well. Time and distance emboldens me, I suppose, and so I shall raise my “suggestion” that you write me to a “request” that you do so. Please send some word, if you have the opportunity. I hope that you are remembering all that you see and hear so that you may, assuming our reunion permits this sort of thing, relay it to me.
As for me, we continue to devour all that London has to offer. My aunt has promised to take us to Vauxhall Gardens before Tessa’s confinement. We are counting the days.
Warmly,
Willow
***
Sunday, 30 January 1831
Island of New Pixham
via Bridgetown, Barbadoes
British West Indies
Dear Willow,
I am writing you from the dim interior of my rattling shanty tent on the wind-whipped isle of New Pixham. The persistent island gales, although far less noticeable in the baking heat of the day, make it nearly impossible to sustain candlelight, even with a glass lantern, but I persist.
We have only just returned from our furlough to Bridgetown (a weekly sailing that I have timed to the arrival of the mail packet from Falmouth), and beside me on my trunk is your letter dated Christmas Day.
I am gratified to learn that you are safe and contented. My visit with your aunt and uncle in November assured me that they would welcome you in every way.
Thank you for writing to my mother and sisters. Judging by the sheer number of letters I, myself, receive from Yorkshire, my mother must put pen to paper twice daily. Any correspondence diverted to London is a welcome respite.
As you noted, Christmas has come and gone, but I can relate that Stoker and I celebrated the holiday in high style, taking a full meal in an actual tavern. Quite a switch from our miserly practice of buying produce from market stalls and eating in the warehouse. We were surrounded at the tavern by inebriated sailors (inebriated sailors are our constant companions in the Caribbean). While we ate, the owner’s pet iguanas, which are lizards larger and more prodigious than your mother’s dogs, prowled the sandy floor at our feet.
Thank you for your willingness to receive letters from me. I shall endeavor to be less prolific than my mother, although no written description, long or short, can do justice to the challenges we face on New Pixham.
The island is small, measuring little more than a mile in every direction, an easy thirty-minute walk from one side to the other. Its topography, assuming it bears any distinctions beyond sandy flatness, is entirely obscured by the great, hardened heap of guano, which rises like a large bluff, two hundred feet into the sky.
In its current state, the bluff is as hard as rock, and the top is too steep to climb. This means it is also impossible to get at it with an ax. So our first orders of business have been to discover (1) how to ascend the bloody thing, (2) how to safely work at the top, and (3) how to remove the guano we chip away without losing half of it to the wind or the sea.
The first week we spent on the island was devoted to studying these problems and then ultimately constructing a network of scaffolding and chutes.
Now we dig terraces up the side of the bluff, working the full detachment of hired men including Joseph, Stoker, and me. The lot of us—forty-five in all—swing the axes from sunrise until sunset. (And yes, I see the irony of sealing mines on my own Yorkshire estate only to become a miner myself halfway across the world, perhaps the first ever nobleman to have done so.)
Certainly I am the only earl to mine bird excrement. Doubtful this is an irony my tenants would enjoy, nor should they, but when I write to Caldera, I have new insights and sympathies that my brother might pass along to them. If nothing else, I hope they can see that I am trying. I did not seal the mines and leave them to struggle without making considerable effort to provide some other, safer way.
And now comes the portion of this letter where I risk both my pride and your impression of me, if ever it was positive. You’ll indulge me, I hope, as I’ve little else to occupy me here but thoughts of you.
You are always on my mind, Willow. Constantly, it seems. The memory of you is with me in the heat of the day, when my arms are so tired I cannot lift the ax again, when my hands bleed through my gloves. And you are with me in the night, when I am alone outside my pathetic tent, staring up at an endless sky, frosted with endless stars.
I entertain myself by guessing what you might be doing in that exact moment. Your impression of London, as described in the Christmas letter, captured the spirit of a great explorer, and I have read it more times than I can count. Looking back, I think how I might have—how I should have—remained in London, even for one day, to accompany you on one turn ’round Mayfair or Hyde Park. The blind rush was my loss, obviously, as you have clearly made your own way (a triumph I never doubted), but I am jealous of your friends. They share with you the pleasure of discovery; they know the delight of turning the corner and seeing some unexpected tableau, distinctly, timelessly London, and yet so new to you. I wonder what you have made of the British Museum. Of Green Park, which is my favorite park, the green openness most like Yorkshire. Have you seen the new London Zoo or London Bridge?
