Eastwell Park, Kent
Bannock,
A letter addressed to you arrived today by private messenger. When I told him you were not home, he informed me the sender was someone called Lady Viola Nancarron from Fern Vale in Cornwall. He’d been ordered to stand by, waiting to return with some reply. I informed him that you were in France, so he rode on; but he asked that you respond via post to Fern Vale in the Cornish town of Helford.
Who is Lady Viola Nancarron and why is she writing you?
D.
July 20, 1813
Lumbres, France
Dear Danielle,
Regarding the messenger from Cornwall: chuck the letter into the bin or drop it into the fire.
Lady Viola Nancarron is my mother. Or perhaps better stated, “the mother of my birth.” I believe that is how you refer to the Spanish princess who gave birth to you? She is the woman who bears the title but who never played the role in life.
I think I mentioned to you that Lady Viola Nancarron has made several attempts to contact me since the fanfare surrounding my alleged heroism. I cannot say what she wants. Certainly, she never cared enough to inquire before I was the Crown’s favorite man overboard. You may destroy the letter, as I’ve said, and put it out of your mind.
What news of Eastwell Park? Livestock fat and happy? Brother and sister-in-law come and gone? Fernsby’s letters primarily discuss Miss Broom and the war, two topics I could easily absorb in two sentences or fewer. But at least he writes to me.
Are you happy with Abbott and the staff? What of the lady’s maid I assigned you—Jules? If nothing else, let us hear about the rotted attic again. It is undignified, how acutely I anticipate a letter from you.
My only news is the countdown to Surcouf’s house party. There are five mercenaries now in my employ, but they have too much other work to sit idle in rural France until mid-August. They come and go as other jobs present themselves. We’re debating various diversions that will allow for more time and access when we mount the rescue. Ideas range from dancing girls to kitchen fire.
Thank you for writing. Any letter from you, even a terse, mildly jealous one, is a gift.
With love, your husband,
Luke
July 31, 1813
Eastwell Park, Kent
Dear Luke,
I was not jealous of Lady Viola Nancarron. Just to be clear. It’s simply that I didn’t realize I was expected to collect your mail in addition to everything else I do.
But thank you for the speedy reply. And, I apologize—I could not, in good conscience, destroy the letter. As you know, my own family—new, old, surrogate, and found—is precious to me. I will never take the notion of family lightly, even in the broadest sense. If I had a letter from the mother of my birth, I would not chuck it in the bin, I would read it. Immediately. And that is what I have done with the letter from your mother. For better or worse.
I’ll not transcribe her words here; but I can tell you that it was perfectly cordial—warm even. The tone was reserved, but I would expect nothing less from a woman of rank who is also an estranged relation. Reading around her formality, what struck me was her humility and her sadness.
She simply said she was making another attempt to contact you. She wanted to say how very proud she was of the recognition you received from St. James’s Palace and of the acts of bravery that elicited the fanfare. She admits to having no right to this maternal pride; she acknowledges that your success has been earned with no influence from her. She said a friend in London informed her that you’d been awarded an estate in Kent and had recently married. She sent her felicitations. And that is all.
You’ll be cross that I read the letter—I can guess this—but I don’t know how cross or to what end. We are strangers in many ways, aren’t we? I am uncertain of your limits.
However, in the spirit of revealing things rather than hiding them, you should know that I didn’t only read her letter, but I also replied to the woman.
A sense of indulgence pervades your letters to me—my sister, Elise, has pointed this out—and she encouraged me to take advantage of it. Does this indulgence extend to my writing to Lady Viola Nancarron? I cannot say, but you’ve asked the wrong person to ignore letters from long-lost family. I’ve been exiled, hidden, sheltered, obscured (and let us not forget abandoned); but I’ve also enjoyed the most glorious reunions and blending of families. I do not burn letters from beseeching mothers.
What I did instead was introduce myself as your new wife in a short note; I thanked her for her well-wishes; and I informed her that you were out of the country.
And to answer your questions: yes the sheep have come, the cattle have come, my brother and his wife have come.
We are all well, Luke. My family have colonized every area of my heart except for one.
