25 December 1830
No. 43 Wilton Crescent
Belgrave Square
London, England
Dear Cassin,
I write you on the evening of Christmas, sitting alone in the attic studio of my aunt’s home in Wilton Crescent. Just a few lines I hope, after which I’ll pen notes to my mother and brother.
Happy Christmas, my lord. Our hasty farewell has weighed heavily on my mind, but it has taken me these many weeks to muster the wherewithal to put pen to paper. What better time than Christmas?
I struggle to imagine Christmas morning on a tropical island, but with any luck you have arrived safely and are settled in. I hope you have managed to take a special meal and have a song or two to celebrate. This letter will not reach you until late January or possibly February, but please know even now that my thoughts were with you on Christmas, et cetera, et cetera.
After a day of window-rattling winds and intermittent sun, the night has gone cold and still. I can scarcely make out the trees and pathways of Belgrave Square. My aunt has arranged a workbench for me in their studio, and I drift to the window so frequently they tease me about laziness. They do not know the spectacular view of trees and parkland to which I was accustomed in Leland Park, nor how intrigued I am, even after weeks in London, at the rush of city life on the street below.
How correct you were to warn of the differences between country and city life. London is as different from Surrey as night is from day. But I am quite taken with the pace and crowds of it all, dazzled, you might say. From the crush of street stalls to the museum exhibits and theatres, I devour each new sight and experience.
Tessa and Mr. Chance are married now (more on that in the postscript), and his paddle steamer should be nearly to you. Now that I have both friends with me, exploring the city at my side, I can but marvel that my dream actually came true. Never fear about homesickness, there’s none of that here. Well, with the exception of dear Perry. I have suggested that she may eventually view the noise and the commotion as vital and progressive, but I cannot say that she values vitality or progress as I do. She is a country girl at heart. I would not say that I prefer the city to the country, but I do so relish the discovery of a way of life so different from what I have known.
And of course the access to craftsmen and artisans in London is far greater than ever I had dreamed. My aunt has included me in calls to what surely must be every workshop and studio in the city, and I am astounded at the variety and splendor of the fabrics and carpets, the art and stonework. And the international markets! Spilling over with furniture and decorative pieces from around the world. I feel we shall never see it all, and new ships arrive daily with more treasures. I can scarcely sleep at night for the colors and textures spinning in my head. I cannot take down notes or sketch quickly enough to record the onslaught of inspiration. Best of all, the new Belgravia homes in which we might place these treasures are blank canvases just waiting to be adorned.
But I will not bore you with my wide-eyed wonderment. London is all that I dreamed it would be and more, rest assured. I doubt I shall ever find the words to thank you for making it possible for me. (My mother has discovered my intention to live and work with her estranged sister, by the way. Her reaction was one letter, very nasty in tone, declaring that she would not visit. Precisely what I had expected, and so be it.)
But since I am speaking of letters, I should let you know that I have received a missive from your mother and sisters, as you suggested I might. I’ve taken you at your word that I may respond in kind, and we have begun a lively correspondence. Never fear; I go to great pains to be vague about our relationship and gloss over their requests that I might visit Yorkshire.
Your mother’s letters demonstrate her very great affection for you, Cassin. I was careless in this regard, I fear, but my eyes are opened now. Our convenient marriage was a betrayal, in a way, of a hopeful and loving family. Even now, their confusion and disappointment is so clear. It is but another reason you struggled with the decision. For this, I am sorry.
I can also add that, in the days and weeks since our wedding, I have come to regret the awkward and terse manner in which we parted ways. I could say more—my defenses and assumptions, et cetera, et cetera—but the truth is I evicted you from my bedroom . . . and when your intention had been only to review plans and logistical matters. Of course these were topics to which I had endeavored to restrict us all along. Here, too, I am sorry.
I hope you and Mr. Stoker have found the mining to be speedy and effective (and tolerable). Certainly I would welcome a letter from you, if you have the opportunity to write us. As for this letter, please forgive the length and, if it offends you—the personal tone. I am sentimental, perhaps, on this day. Happy Christmas, Cassin.
Sincerely,
Lady Willow Caulder, the Countess of Cassin
PS: By the time you read this, likely you will have learned of the circumstances of my friend Tessa St. Croix—now Tessa Chance. Yes, ’tis true; Tessa is expecting a child. I am not at leave to discuss the father of the baby, but you may be assured that he is no longer a consideration and has not been for many months. We do not expect to hear from him ever again, and good riddance. We will welcome a new baby here sometime in the month of May.
I find myself quite without words to explain or justify Tessa’s condition to you, and it is my great hope that you can view both her secret and Mr. Chance’s revised future with some measure of compassion.
Although loyalty to Tessa prevented me from discussing her condition with you at the time (Surrey, etc.), please believe me when I tell you that I was unaware that Tessa had not revealed her condition to Mr. Chance. Sabine and I were led to believe that he knew all along. Only after their wedding did Tessa tell us that she told him about the baby for the first time that very night.
The deceit was unforgivable, although it appears that Mr. Chance has, God bless him, managed some manner of forgiveness. At the very least, he did not annul the marriage or flee England in a rage. Nor did he betray her to her family. The wild sort of amorousness of their courtship has now ceased, obviously, and I cannot speak to their plans for future contact. It has been very difficult to coax the details from Tessa all along, but she is heartbroken, that much is clear.
I cannot think of more to say on the matter, except that we all had our own reasons for leaving Surrey, and Tessa’s was perhaps the most pressing, followed by Sabine’s. My reasons seem insignificant and almost selfish when compared to the dire circumstances of my friends, and yet . . . And yet I have realized my dream just the same, and oh how I relish it. It was always a reckless and outrageous scheme, Cassin, but please know that I never meant to go so far as to keep secrets from you. I will conclude here by simply saying that we are all so very grateful.
***
Monday, 1 January 1831
Bridgetown, Barbadoes
British West Indies
Dear Willow,
I write to inform you that Stoker and I have arrived safely in Bridgeport, Barbadoes, a fortnight ago.
We set to work almost immediately, taking rooms for ourselves and letting a small warehouse for the provisions we brought from home.
Next, we set about hiring able-bodied men to work as our mining crew.
The work, such that it is, will be hot, grueling, and monotonous. Wretched, in other words. But we intend to pay wages high enough to interest anyone willing to take on the work. Recruiting solid men who will work hard, keep out of fights, and won’t steal us blind is worth our time, we believe. Our goal is forty laborers, a cook and medic, and perhaps a few interpreters. (Between Stoker and me, we can manage French and some German. When Joseph arrives, he will add his fluency in Italian and Spanish. However, we’ll need a translator for Dutch, the West African dialect of Bajan, Vietnamese, Chinese, and Arabic, just to name a few.)
Because our island can only be reached by a half-day’s sail from Barbadoes, any man we hire must also commit to make camp at the mining site for seven days at a stretch. After seven days of work, we will return the men for a two-day furlough while we replenish supplies. The island (which we have dubbed “New Pixham,” in honor of its patronesses) could not be more primitive.
But I risk boring you with tedious detail. A shorter version of this explanation is this: The mining has not yet begun, but we are otherwise underway.
Although the work is arduous, and life in the tropics is far removed from cool, predictable England, we remain optimistic about the venture and eager for what progress each new day will bring. We anxiously await the arrival of Joseph, however useless he may be, considering what is surely malaise-inducing lovesickness. He was very caught up, he and Miss St. Croix, when we left, and marrying her could have only accelerated this condition. I regret that I could not attend what was surely the wedding of the century. I am still in disbelief that their pairing became a love match.
It feels imprudent to add the next bit, but I shall do it anyway. How often I think of you, Willow. I hope you are safe in London, that you are happy and well. I hope the city is all you dreamed it would be. I hope that you enjoyed a warm and spirited Christmas with your aunt and friends, and that you were not lonesome for Surrey or . . .
I hope that you are never lonesome for anything.
And finally, I hope that if (and when) your thoughts turn to me, they are not bitter or regretful. The more I think of the weeks before we set sail, the more I see my own selfishness. For this, I am deeply sorry.
Certainly I would welcome some brief word about how you are getting on . . . if you have the time.
Sincerely,
Brent Caulder, the Earl of Cassin
***
15 January 1831
No. 43 Wilton Crescent
Belgrave Square
London, England
Dear Cassin,
Pray forgive a second letter so quickly on the heels of the last, but I felt it would be prudent to inform you that your uncle, Mr. Archibald Caulder, has called on me in my aunt’s home. Three times, in fact. Do not be alarmed; we have managed him, but the letters I receive from your mother suggest that he is badgering your family in Yorkshire as well. I could but write with this news.
The circumstances of his visit(s) were as follows: I was out of the house on the occasion of his first two calls (thank God), touring new construction with my aunt and uncle. He left his card with staff. His third call, however, caught us unprepared. He discerned from a careless butler that I was at home and demanded to be seen. I saw no way to get around receiving him.
Based on your own descriptions of Mr. Caulder, I believe I can say without offense that he is a wholly unpleasant person. His voice alone unsettled our otherwise quiet household; the length of his stories; the rap of his cane on my aunt’s marble floor—jarring, all, and this says nothing of the tediousness of the topics he addressed.
He presented me with a belated wedding gift, which he insisted I unbox while he watched and over which I was clearly expected to gush. (A pair of ceramic ostriches with jewel-encrusted beaks; see sketch below; I could not resist.)
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?
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
***
10 February 1831
Island of New Pixham
via Bridgetown, Barbadoes
British West Indies
Dear Willow,
I have just received your letter dated 15 January regarding the visit of my uncle. Thank you for writing to alert me. It is clear from your description that you handled the situation deftly, despite the unpleasantness, and I am mortified that Archibald has imposed himself. Please accept my most sincere apologies. As you make your new life in London, you’ve certainly no use for a verbose relation sniffing around with repeated calls and thinly veiled interrogations.
It is my great hope that by the time you receive this, his visit will be all but forgotten and that he has not been heard from again. If for some reason he does return, please reiterate to your aunt’s staff that he should be turned away without backward glance. Invoke Mr. Fisk to be ruthless, if you must.
At the risk of boring you with family politics, Archibald appears to be hounding my mother and brother in Yorkshire as well. He and one of his sons have made the journey to Caldera for an extended stay, and they seem disinclined (as of her last writing) to leave. They’ve installed themselves in the family wing of the castle and make repeated visits to tenants and the sealed mines. My mother is at a loss for how to evict him. My brother is a mild and bookish young man, far more suited to his work as a historian than family protector, and he, too, seems powerless to drive our uncle out.
I would return to England and deal with him in person (and I may do this yet), but we are making such progress. We’ve tweaked the system of scaffolding and chutes, eliminating nearly all waste. We are sealing thousands of pounds of guano in barrels. We may have double the haul we expected.
Each of us has fallen into informal roles in the operation—Stoker manages anything to do with the ship, Joseph coordinates the logistics for making port in London and distributing the guano to buyers, and I oversee the actual mining, but we all swing a jackhammer, we all shoulder barrels of cargo, we all toil daily, and no man can be spared. With every new threat from home, I curse Archibald’s name.
Then again, he did give you cause to write me, and for this I am grateful. If I’m being honest, I live day to day for any word from Belgravia. I welcome any reason you may have to write, even news of Archibald.
Although my work here is for my family and for Caldera, it would be a lie to say that I do not also believe that, somehow, if you will allow it, I work also for you and me. This is either folly or selfishness or both, because we’ve made no promises—or it should be said that I made no promises—and you are obviously making precisely the life you wanted in London, but still, it could not go unsaid.
And so now I’ve said it. And now I will cease, except to reiterate how very much I miss you, Willow.
Yours,
Cassin
***
15 February 1831
No. 43 Wilton Crescent
Belgrave Square
London, England
Dear Cassin,
Please overlook another letter so rapidly on the heels of my last and forgive my brevity and haste.
I am trying desperately to seal this and see it carried to the Barbadoes mail packet that leaves the General Post Office in St. Martins Le Grand on the first Wednesday of the month. (Yes, I have committed the schedule to memory.)
But here is my urgent news. I pray God it is inconsequential, but only you may be the judge of that.
Your uncle has returned to Belgrave Square, several times in fact, although I have refused to receive him. I keep out of sight when he calls, but the staff summons me so that I may listen to his exchange with the butler without being seen.
Yesterday he called late in the day, oddly late, a new level of rudeness, and my aunt’s butler struggled to remain cordial before I intervened. Archibald was wildly insistent, biting and impatient. He was so set on seeing me that I finally emerged and demanded to know his purpose.
He claimed that he required a signature—your signature—on “important documents” pertaining to Caldera. When I asked how I might provide such a signature, considering you were half a world away, he said that he himself intended to sign on your behalf—“by proxy,” he said—and needed only to view some other official paperwork that bore your signature.
Cassin, I believe he meant to forge your name.
When I pressed for more detail, he said that he had just recently returned from Yorkshire, and the situation at Caldera had grown very dire indeed, that the winter had been punishing on the castle and your family. He bemoaned your absence and your (alleged) “indulgent lack of interest” in your responsibilities. That said, he assured me that he had discovered a new and inspired strategy to save us all. (Clearly he includes me in Caldera’s dire state, whatever it may be.)
In the beginning, his manner was breezy and light, and he suggested the documents for your signature were inconsequential. But the more I questioned and resisted, the more impatient he became. When I asked that I might read the paperwork for myself, he flashed a thick portfolio of official-looking documents, literally pages and pages of text, and then quickly snapped it shut.
Ultimately, my refusals sent him away. He was angry and sputtering, bemoaning the ride to Yorkshire he would now be forced to make. I can only guess he means to approach your family for these “proxy signatures.” This leads me to fear for your mother’s wherewithal and stamina against him. At the risk of alarming you, I can recount that he came very close to grabbing me up and shaking me, Cassin, just to make me see. (Never fear; Mr. Fisk hovered just outside of view. I was in no real danger.)
As soon as he’d gone, I dashed off a note to your family and sent it to Yorkshire by private courier. Hopefully this warning will reach them, and they will stand firm against him.
Regardless, I worry for whatever scheme he may have concocted. I worry for paperwork signed “by proxy” that may bind you or Caldera to God knows what. I worry for your dear mother. I know you are committed to the island and whatever windfall the mining may bring, but if you can be spared, even for a week, I believe that nothing short of your physical presence in England may waylay your uncle and whatever he has planned.
By the time you read this, it may be too late, but I could not, in good conscience, not report it to you. I will await word from your mother and, if necessary, travel to Yorkshire myself to endeavor to help in any way I can.
I await your direction in the meantime.
And I miss you.
Yours,
Willow