Beguiling the Beauty

CHAPTER 10

My Darling,

The Rhodesia is a wasteland without you.

I spent most of the day at the aft rail, though Queenstown long ago receded from the horizon. My corporeal self is here before the writing desk—upon which we made such memories last night—but the rest of me is in Ireland, with you.

It will be a long night ahead, in these rooms that have known you so well. The very air sags from your absence; my blindfold is a tired scrap of silk that has lost its purpose in life.

Has Queenstown been hospitable? Have you been provided with a hot supper and a warm bed? Men have laid cables and connected continents separated by vast seas; would that the engineers discover a way to connect two people thus. I’d empty my coffers—and borrow extravagantly besides—to be never again without your news.

Your servant,

C.

My Darling,

I have arrived at my house in the country, the home I hope to share with you in the not-too-distant future.

Be advised that the manor had been conceived primarily as a showpiece, to awe and overwhelm. It is not and will never be a cozy, intimate residence. The height of the ceilings is such that no matter how diligently the coal scuttles are replenished, many of the public rooms remain unremittingly frigid in winter. Thankfully the family wing provides better warmth and comfort, and thus far no one has suffered chilblain—yet.

The grounds are large and very English in the arrangements of woods and gardens. Have you ever visited the Englischer Garten in Munich? If that is to your taste, then you will derive much pleasure from the estate.

But of course it is the quarry that you will enjoy the most. I paid a visit to it this afternoon, checked the digging implements stored in a nearby shed, and ordered a sharpening of the chisels. They will be ready for you when you come.

Your servant,

C.

P.S. I’d thought our separation would be easier to bear on the second day. I could not have been more wrong.

My Darling,

I write to you from my stepmother’s house in Cheshire. I find the dowager duchess and Mr. Kingston in admirable health and spirits. My own flagging spirits revived somewhat in their excellent company. Would that I had you with me: They are the most sensible, amiable, and agreeable of friends.

And you’d have thoroughly impressed them with your presence, your warmth, and your wit. I would have been the proudest man alive.

Your servant,

C.

P.S. I grow accustomed to the ache in my chest.

My Darling,

The dowager duchess asked earlier this evening to whom I was writing. Fortunately Mr. Kingston spoke to her at the same time. I switched to a new sheaf of paper, and by the time she remembered to ask me again, I was able to answer truthfully that I was replying to a German geologist by the name of Otto von Schetterling.

I wonder, had Mr. Kingston not said anything, whether I’d have confessed. Very likely so: I have a terrible, almost irrepressible urge to speak of you. To boast of my remarkable luck in happening upon the same ocean liner as you.

So far I have restrained myself. For how much longer, I do not know.

I have never known such happiness, shot through with such misery. Only four days have passed, they tell me. But that is not true. It has been decades since I saw you last.

You will find me a stooped old man when we meet again. Perhaps I might even need a pair of spectacles to recognize your veil.

But I remain always,

Your servant,

C.

My Darling,

Today the dowager duchess gave me a list of young ladies she considered suitable to be my duchess. I very nearly informed her that I’ve already pledged my hand, but, with much difficulty and regret, refrained: She might worry that I am chasing a mirage.

But you are not a mirage. You are a true oasis, worth this wandering in the desert, this anxiety of never finding you again.

Tomorrow I depart for London, to arrange for our dinner at the Savoy Hotel. At last, something for you—for us.

I have an odd, giddy sensation that I will run into you. If you should see me, please come and introduce yourself, so that I may at least give you my letters. And if you will also take my name, I will be the happiest man who ever lived.

Your servant,

C.

P.S. It has been, admittedly, peculiar to be in a one-sided correspondence, but I feel closer to you when I put pen to paper. Needless to say, I will do anything to be closer to you.