Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dearest Fairy,
Enclosed please find a bank draft for fifty-two pounds, the sum of my quarterly allowance, less the six pounds paid to George Honeycutt for my apprenticeship and three pounds for survival.
Namely, to supplement Mrs. Honeycutt’s repulsive beans and bread.
I swear she is trying to kill me. Also, seven to replace the clothes I’ve outgrown, two for stationery and the post, and three pounds for bribery.
The clerk at Eton has proven dependable at intercepting my father’s quarterly letters—dispatches of profound paternal affection, the depths of which brings tears to my eyes.
As with the last draft, place it on account at Cox’s Goldsmiths where it will be safe from my spendthrift inclinations.
Speaking of, I purchased a lavender silk suit, which my friend, Kit Greville, advises I keep hidden from the rest of the men, who’d beat me to mince if they saw it.
But it’s sure to send The Earl into spasms. When, you ask?
I, prodigal son, have been invited to Easter.
Only two years since the last invitation, but my mother has prevailed.
Oliver relays she ceased eating and as my mother is the only legitimate pot from which another son can be stewed (highly unlikely), he conceded.
I have finished my instruction on caulking hulls.
Grueling business, pounding oakum between the planks and then, tarring the seams. Yesterday morning, I was promoted to Carpenter’s Minion (my term, mind) wherein I do my damnedest to hammer, cut and scarf with perfection while avoiding men’s fists.
Not always successful with the latter. I sport a blackened eye as I write, and my right shoulder still aches from its temporary dislocation.
What violence has to do with teaching me shipbuilding, I’ve no idea, except men thrive on cruelty.
To their credit, I now possess the ability to laugh in the presence of excruciating discomfort.
How many foxes has the old man killed since last week? Have you learned to make Bach bearable on the pianoforte? Is Father Dunlevy to preside over your Easter Mass? I’ll never tell. Sketch me your lovely smile, Kitty. I miss it.
Yours in Bruised Perpetuity,
Julian
Notfelle, March 17, 1754
Dearest Julian,
If ever I meet the brutes who blackened your beautiful eyes, I will take my father’s fowling piece to them.
To think of you forced to laugh at your mistreatment, I am feeling positively murderous.
Which, I did confess to Father Dunlevy on his visit to Notfelle this Thursday past. My penance was two delicious cherry candies which the Good Father forced me to eat. If only he were my real father.
Uncle William was over the moon with my questions on the mechanics of business, particularly where profit is concerned.
(At first, he just stared at me as though I’d two heads.) But now Georgiana wishes I had never brought up the subject, for it is the sole topic during my visits and reduces her time spent riding her horses because I refuse to budge from his study in order to absorb every drop of his counsel.
There is the matter of capital, from which all businesses must stem.
And like a flower, a business must be fed this capital like water and fertile soil, lest it die.
Otherwise known as insolvency. He who has the most capital devours, your uncle says.
A lion to rabbit was his analogy, with gory details on the devouring.
I’ll never eat rabbit again. There is also skill, influence, connections, daring, and cunning.
More to come. I promised Georgiana I would sit vigil with her this evening. Her mare is to deliver her foal at any time.
Yours in Conspiracy,
Kitty
Southampton, April 1, 1754
Dearest Fairy,
Daring and cunning, we can agree I possess in spades. Skill, I’m acquiring. For influence and connections, I must needs spend more time with my brother, Oliver. This Easter is a good place to start.
Enclosed is a goldsmith’s draft for nine pounds, ten shillings, which I won, wearing my next-best suit of blue superfine, a fresh shave, and loads of cunning, at a gambling hell. Thank God, you were not my opponent.
Yours in Loo,
Julian
London, April 21, 1754
Dearest Fairy,
I have arrived in London for the movable feast of Easter. Jesus died for our sins, and while others might celebrate the Eve of the Glorious Resurrection with quiet reflection, I visited a London gambling hell with my old friend, Anthony Philips.
Enclosed is a bank draft for twenty-two pounds, which I won wearing my lavender suit and a new tie wig, and my ever-abundant wealth of cunning.
Yours in Christ and Cards,
Julian
Notfelle, April 25, 1754
Julian,
Father Dunlevy lost consciousness upon his lamb chop at Easter Dinner.
This on account of whisky in celebration of, not the resurrection, but my father’s gift of one hundred pounds for the cleric’s Efforts in Restoring the True Faith.
My father sold my mother’s silver and Julian, he demanded I give him my mother’s wedding ring for his stupid ambitions.
I have never hated Jesus more.
Yours in Sacrilege,
Kitty
Berkshire, May 1, 1754
Dearest Heretical Fairy,
Enclosed is a goldsmith’s draft for sixty-one pounds, six shillings, which I won wearing a frown reflecting on your heart and how it must have broken when giving that fox-killing papist your mother’s ring.
How to make you smile has been the sole focus of my thoughts—when not bleeding Anthony Philips and his friends dry at cards and dice. From the fortune I send you, you can surmise their skill less than mine and their fathers’ allowances far greater.
One day we will be the owners of St. Clair Shipwrights. I will tell my father to shove his nobility up his arse, and you, you sweet and clever girl, will rule the world.
Yours in Revenge,
Julian
Notfelle, September 21, 1754
Dearest Julian,
I received your draft of forty-nine pounds and the news you will not be visiting us this fall.
I hope Mr. Honeycutt’s daughter’s bright eyes do not distract you from our purpose.
I’ll admit I write to you in bed because I cannot get out of it, my heart so heavy at the image of you walking alone with a girl of six and ten, with a creamy complexion, golden-silk hair, and ripe, arousing cleavage.
My hair is still witch-black (my father tells me I will cover it when it comes time to find a husband), I gained five freckles courtesy of the summer spent Without Seeing Your Face Once, and my cleavage is as ripe as a plank you fix to your frame to make a ship’s hull.
Your uncle has lent me a book, The Prince, to assist with my economic studies and after three readings, I believe the brutes who abuse you might be rabbits compared to the author, Machiavelli.
My summary: Crush your opponent by any means necessary.
(Capital being the primary means.) Those crushed (more violent descriptions from your uncle like bleeding a man dry) will be quite insulted, but fear will keep them in line as people generally prefer breathing and eating.
Focus your energies (capital) upon those who do not benefit from the old order to gain their support, and they will respect you.
And, ever important, fear you. Terribly awkward but, per Machiavelli, effective.
And please don’t worry for your conscience, Julian. If you your aim is sound, how you achieve it has no bearing.
Yours in Justifying the Means,
Kitty
Southampton, October 2, 1754
Dearest Fairy of Thirteen,
Get out of bed please. Miss Honeycutt proved a bore.
I am now on to Mrs. Smith, made a widow at eighteen by an unfortunate incident in bed, and I could not even report to you the color of her eyes, hair, or the number of freckles on her cheeks.
In truth, her face does not matter. As prescribed by Machiavelli, I focus my energies on the parts from which we both derive benefit.
Thank you for the self-portrait. Kit Greville is now in love with you. I tried to explain that the likeness is vague but then only because you are prettier in person and so, gave up explaining lest he talk about you even more.
Included herein are the figures I copied from Honeycutt’s ledgers. Please review and with your infinite cleverness allow me your thoughts on gaining capital.
Yours in Bed,
Julian
Notfelle, October 10, 1754
Julian,
Exciting news! I learned from Mr. Faversham (he trades in wool, remember) who visited Notfelle this past week with Father Dunlevy that nearly every large business has partners: individuals who join together in an interest. For a portion of the profits (a percentage or share), one invests money into a venture and by two or more partners combining their funds, the business has more capital to purchase their materials and labor, finance their growth, and defend against those devils who wish to crush you.
Your uncle William, himself with many partners, has confirmed this.
I have enclosed an example of how this partnership might work. When you aren’t ignoring Mrs. Smith’s eyes, please review! Also, what are the benefits you share with Mrs. Smith? Is it partnership? Does she have money to invest?
It has been over a year since I have seen you last. What was this unfortunate incident that took Mrs. Smith’s husband? Should I be worried I might suffer the same?
Yours in Fear of Beds,
Kitty
Southampton, October 22, 1754
Dearest Curious Cat,
I look the same. Except larger in all parts. This has offered more pleasurable opportunities in my life, within and without Honeycutt’s shipyard, including the esteemed task of fitting the deck of a first-rate ship of the line.
Upon closer inspection of Mrs. Smith’s accounts, she hasn’t pleasing enough assets to invest, and I am currently exploring a potential partnership with two other widows, Mrs. Teakle and Mrs. Mabry.