For all my loyalty to Yorkshire, I have always quite enjoyed London. My father made it a priority to convey the family there several times every year. We did not visit enough to justify a residence, but enough that I could confidently orient the city by the time I traveled there as a student in university.
But I digress. I hope your next letter brings further details about your explorations of the city and continued delight.
On the topic of Tessa St. Croix, now Mrs. Tessa Chance, I, too, find myself at a loss for words. Joseph was in a very bad way when he arrived in Barbadoes after the wedding. Angry for the deceit, disheartened, frustrated with his prospects for the future. Worried. I must confess it is an upset (if not an anger) I share; I am loyal too, after all.
Stoker and I are not accustomed to quiet sullenness from Joseph; he has been irrepressibly cheerful, one might say annoyingly cheerful, since our first meeting in university, some fifteen years ago. It is alarming and worrisome to see him so detached and angry and unforthcoming. He refuses to discuss the circumstance of Tessa’s condition and will only say he learned of her secret on the night of their wedding. He was taken completely by surprise—we all were.
I appreciate that you addressed the topic in your letter. I believe you when you say that you were never apprised of what Joseph did and did not know. I understand your loyalty and your discretion. It is a very delicate situation indeed. I am responsible for three sisters, and I shudder to think of one of them in Tessa’s condition, although I pray God that my sisters would come to me rather than marry a stranger. It does not appear that this was an option for Tessa in her own family, and how lucky she is that the stranger she married was Joseph Chance.
Although Joseph’s life has been forever changed, I am, in no way, surprised that he did not abandon her when her secret was revealed. He has not intimated as much to me, but I have every confidence that he will provide for her and the child. He is a gentleman of the highest order.
I conclude by saying that we said all along the scheme was outrageous. And yet you seem to be happy in London,the mining has become a reality, and my estate in Yorkshire survives the winter because of you.
So much good, I have come to think, has happened because of you.
If I sound selfish and unconcerned about my friend or your friend, perhaps I am, in a manner. You have made me that way and for the first time in my life, perhaps. And I don’t regret it.
But I may regret speaking so freely here, so I shall close.
Warmly,
Your husband, Brent Caulder
***
1 February 1831
No. 43 Wilton Crescent
Belgrave Square
London, England
Dear Cassin,
Your letter of 1 January arrived yesterday, a day so cold and wet I could scarcely tear myself from the fire. I did not expect a letter—I have not known what to expect from you—but it was a welcome bright spot in a truly abysmal day. How grateful and cheered I am to hear from you.
I read parts of the letter out to the girls. We eagerly await more news and to learn how goes the mining when you are underway. (And we wholeheartedly approve of the name of the island!)
We are all still quite well here in Belgravia, having settled into a daily routine with purpose for us all. After breakfast together with Aunt Mary and Uncle Arthur, Tessa and Sabine discover some diversion in the city—shopping or gardens or tea in a cafe—while I join my aunt and uncle on morning calls to homes under construction or newly completed. The pace of new-home construction in Belgravia is maddening, with entire blocks of lavish residences put up as fast as workers can build them. The master builder even fires his own bricks out of the mud excavated from the very marshland drained to build Belgravia itself. But I digress.
We call upon at least one of these new homes each morning, sometimes several, and Aunt Mary and Uncle Arthur consult on paneling and plaster for the walls; carved and forged decoration on banisters and balustrades; wood or even marble for the floors; paint; fixtures and fittings for lanterns and chandeliers; and eventually tapestries and rugs. They’ve not hesitated to make me a part of every meeting, an inclusion for which I am incredibly grateful, and I follow along beside them, taking detailed notes. Frequently they even ask for my opinion. (For better or worse, I am never without one.)
After we have seen the homes under construction, we return to the studio, where I file my notes, and the three of us render sketches and draw up commissions for craftsmen. If there is time at the end of the day, my aunt and I may call upon an artist or auction house to consider furniture or decorative pieces, while my uncle works in his shop to handcraft his own highly sought-after furniture.
The days pass in what feels like five minutes, truly. And then it is suppertime, and we are together again around my aunt’s lovely table. Tessa and Sabine bring their stories of the day, and we share ours. The meal rapidly devolves into a jumble of exclamations and questions and laughter. My aunt and uncle bear it so nobly, bless them, and they boast to their friends how young we make them feel. I pray this is true because I adore our new life too much to worry that they regret taking us on.
They send their best regards to you and the other men, by the way—Mr. Fisk too.
And oh—I feel compelled to report that Perry has become more accustomed to London life. I have learned to forestall much of her rambling complaints by allowing her to style my hair to her exacting specifications. If she is exceedingly homesick, I enlist Sabine and Tessa for the same treatment. Whether we are on the forefront of fashion or victims of an indulged country maid, I cannot say.
As this overly long letter finally draws to a close, let me say again how gratified I was to receive your first letter. By no means do I think of you or our last time together with bitterness or regret; please be assured. Quite the contrary. If I’m being honest, I relish every moment we shared together, and I am bolstered by the knowledge that you think of me. When I said I am fond of you, it was true—then and now.
Oh, and please do not hesitate to write me. The post is painfully slow but it seems to be reliable. I continue to exchange weekly letters with your mother and sisters, and they report also to have heard from you. Any word is awaited with impatience and hope by us all.
Your wife,
Willow
