Chapter 44
My Dearest Love,
My first instinct was to write something cheerful and light, all laughter and triumphs, and pretend the world was kind today.
Or to avoid writing altogether and spare you from my dark mood.
But every time I think to do so, your voice rings in my mind, calling me a fool and insisting that I share this with you.
So forgive me if I write with more honesty than I ought.
More disappointments. More failures. I feel as though everything I have done is for naught.
The soil is so sodden that the work has slowed—meaning they haven’t any use for my shop.
One customer managed to return a harrow in such a state that I suspect he used it to clear stones rather than soil, meaning it is both out of commission and requiring repairs. Yet another month with no profits.
I had thought myself prepared for the ebb and flow of trade, but this blow landed harder than expected.
The shop feels colder and darker than usual, and it’s as though Cobb is using my head in his forge, instead of his anvil.
I catch myself counting the hours till he retires for the night, but the silence is worse in its way, for I am left with nothing to distract me.
I try to meet it with good humor—heaven knows I have ample practice doing so—but today the pretense is too difficult to manage.
It is a dreadful thing, Thea, to feel as though I battle for every success, only to have them overshadowed by failures.
I cannot bear the thought that our wedding must be postponed for another season.
Forgive me for writing so gloomily, but you were right, as ever. Somehow, it helps to share the truth. Your faith in me steadies my heart more than you can know. To borrow your words: I will be better tomorrow; I always am.
With all my love,
Frederick