Chapter 43
Darling Frederick,
You will never believe today’s great triumph.
I am quite ready to hire myself out as a man-of-all-work.
Last week, the latch on the kitchen window refused to catch, and rather than send for help, I marched to the smithy and begged for advice.
Old Mr. Phelps lent me a file and showed me the trick of tightening the hinge, and the latch now shuts with the neatest little click.
It is a sound that fills me with excessive pride.
Meanwhile, the cottage improves by degrees, and rather than falling to pieces around me, it feels as though the place finally tolerates my presence. And perhaps even approves of it.
This morning, Mrs. Prowse sent her boy round with a basket of eggs, saying the hens had been overgenerous.
I suspect she was more concerned that I burnt my supper again.
Still, I thanked her and offered her a loaf in exchange, which she declared “far too pretty to eat,” though I somehow managed to get an air pocket in the dough, which caused one side to bubble out in a most absurd manner.
Your last letter grieved me more than I can say.
How I wish I might’ve been there—if only to sit beside you and let you rest your head for a while.
It breaks my heart to be so far from you.
Yet know that I am there in my thoughts and prayers.
When the days weigh heavily, remember that you are not alone, my love.
Forever yours,
Thea