Chapter Thirteen
My Dearest Husband:
While I do love England, I wish my country would spare my beloved his parliamentary duties this season. Alas, one more week until you return from London, and three weeks, according to the midwife, until our child is born. I know you worry about me, but please don’t. The midwife assures me that our unborn and I are progressing very well, even though I feel as if I’m as large and lumbering as one of our milk cows.
Little Bella checks every few hours during the day to see if her new sibling has arrived. She is delighted when she places her hand on my stomach and feels the baby kick. “I think it’s trying to get out, Mama,” she said this morning. She has already named her sibling Philomena. When I suggested that she may have a little brother, she replied that Philomena would do for him as well. Yesterday, we drew coccinellids together on my bed, and I have included her darling picture for your pleasure. It’s a family portrait. The coccinellid on the left is you. “You know he’s Papa because he has more spots,” she told me. I shall let you interpret that as you may. She explained that I have another wiggly coccinellid inside me, and that is why my ladybird takes up the entire right side of the page. See how Bella has drawn herself between us, holding our little insect hands. “I love Mama and Papa more than anyone else in the world,” she assures me and warms my heart. I sometimes think my heart can’t hold any more love—that I have gorged on love and now I’m full—and yet, my heart swells anew with the idea of holding our new one.
Thank you for recounting your delightful dinner with Phoebe and her husband. I always thought that a dashing young gentleman with a passion for the theater would sweep away her heart. It’s rather ironic that she would fall passionately in love with a staid barrister. Alas, what he lacks in drama, he makes up for in kindness, adoration, and taking such good care of her. Her letters are filled with droll domestic stories, and still the ever-glorious Phoebe, she keeps me abreast of the latest London plays. Her accounts are far more amusing than the newspapers’ versions.
I’m grateful that Aunt Sally and her other daughters have come to us. She is recovering quite rapidly from her husband’s death and has been a great help to me in my confinement. She goes into the village and performs the charitable works that I would normally do. Already, she has made numerous friends. All ladies must consult her before buying fabric or having a gown made. I daresay, when you return, you will find that we are becoming the most fashionable village in all of England!
My love, I fear I must take you to task. You did not warn me that our new curate was excessively handsome and single. Before anything could be done about the alarming matter, Shelley’s heart fell victim. Now, the poor man is beyond consolation because he feels he cannot properly provide for her. As I blame you for this sad state, so you must rectify it. I think a wedding in the late summer should tidy up the situation nicely.
Last Friday, I received a letter from Mr. Visser congratulating me on my book’s publication. I had tears in my eyes as I read his fine praise of my work and my father’s. He asks me when I shall publish a second volume. I am wildly flattered, yet I fear that I haven’t the time, but still my head whirs with ideas. My father left so many papers, and the fields and moors here teem with beauty. My father would have loved it here. Sometimes, I imagine him and Mother walking arm-in-arm along the paths.
I love you, my dearest husband. I pray for your safe return to us. A part of me is missing when you are gone. I glance at your dining room chair thinking you will be there, or I start to search for you when I read an interesting article, and then I remember that you are gone. The nights are the cruelest. Away from me, you are even more present in my mind. It is simply not enough to console myself with memories of your tender embraces. I have stored up weeks and weeks of kisses and tender embraces for you when you come home. I’m so impatient that I fear that I will bestow them on you all at once when you arrive. Until that sweet moment, I keep you in my heart.
Your loving wife.
The End