Chapter 42
My dearest Thea,
As per your suggestion, I have begun naming the tools in the shop.
The spade is now Mr. Diggory, the rake answers to Miss Finch, and the harrow (being the most temperamental of the lot) goes by Your Ladyship.
The workmen think me touched, but the implements have been in far better humor since I began addressing them properly.
Unfortunately, I fear my efforts to evict the draft in my rooms have proven futile.
It slips through the shutters no matter how I wedge them and rattles the panes as though it is afraid that I might forget it is there.
I suppose I must accept its presence and treat it as another tenant, though the bounder makes an awful racket at night and has yet to pay me a farthing in rent.
Still, I suppose it is a blessing in disguise, for I cannot claim that I am lonely with such a determined guest. Between that and the clatter of the forge next door, with hammering that begins at sunrise, there is always company.
I must be the most industrious man in Haverford, if only because Mr. Cobb’s apprentices make certain I never sleep past dawn and the ledgers demand my attention well into the night.
Please, do not pity my new pew. Clearly, my humor fell short in my previous letter, for I am quite pleased with it.
From there, I have a perfect view from the east windows, which provides excellent entertainment when Mr. Tudor is being particularly pedantic.
It affords me a view of the lane that runs just beyond the churchyard wall and all the souls who choose not to attend the services.
They wander along quite leisurely until they draw within sight of the church, and then—oh, the transformation!
—their steps quicken until they are nearly running past, as though their brisk pace will render them invisible to the congregants inside.
I confess, their efforts amuse me greatly, for I do not care one jot how they choose to spend their Sabbath, though they look like naughty little schoolchildren as they scurry past the window.
You would think they could simply take another route, but apparently, they prefer embarrassment.
Tell me, is Mrs. Timmons still peering at you from over the garden hedge?
I cannot help but imagine the edge of her cap fluttering about as she hides every time you look up.
And I am so very pleased to hear that your efforts to take in mending are bearing fruit.
I cannot help but smile whenever I imagine telling your mother about your enterprise, but that would necessitate her acknowledging my existence.
Business stirs, though faintly. A farmer hired one of the new harrows last week and returned it with all its teeth intact.
I took that as proof that I am slowly securing Providence’s good opinion once more.
The customer even paid in full, which is all the more miraculous.
I never appreciated how much time tradesmen spend hunting down the money owed to them.
There are days when it feels like the venture may yet take root, though the evenings are long and the sums never quite reach what they ought. I tell myself that endurance is a success in its own right, even if the ledgers disagree.
There are moments when the noise of the forge fades and the shop lies still, and it feels as though I might turn and find you here beside me. It’s a foolish fancy, but I cannot help it. Know that I fall asleep to thoughts of you and our life together.
Yours always,
Frederick