Chapter 23 #2
There is more to say, but I’m determined to limit myself to no more than three words to your every one.
With love, your husband,
Luke
July 11, 1813
Eastwell Park, Kent
Bannock,
A letter addressed to you arrived today by private messenger.
When I told him you were not home, he informed me the sender was someone called Lady Viola Nancarron from Fern Vale in Cornwall.
He’d been ordered to stand by, waiting to return with some reply.
I informed him that you were in France, so he rode on; but he asked that you respond via post to Fern Vale in the Cornish town of Helford.
Who is Lady Viola Nancarron and why is she writing you?
D.
July 20, 1813
Lumbres, France
Dear Danielle,
Regarding the messenger from Cornwall: chuck the letter into the bin or drop it into the fire.
Lady Viola Nancarron is my mother. Or perhaps better stated, “the mother of my birth.” I believe that is how you refer to
the Spanish princess who gave birth to you? She is the woman who bears the title but who never played the role in life.
I think I mentioned to you that Lady Viola Nancarron has made several attempts to contact me since the fanfare surrounding
my alleged heroism. I cannot say what she wants. Certainly, she never cared enough to inquire before I was the Crown’s favorite
man overboard. You may destroy the letter, as I’ve said, and put it out of your mind.
What news of Eastwell Park? Livestock fat and happy? Brother and sister-in-law come and gone? Fernsby’s letters primarily
discuss Miss Broom and the war, two topics I could easily absorb in two sentences or fewer. But at least he writes to me.
Are you happy with Abbott and the staff? What of the lady’s maid I assigned you—Jules? If nothing else, let us hear about
the rotted attic again. It is undignified, how acutely I anticipate a letter from you.
My only news is the countdown to Surcouf’s house party.
There are five mercenaries now in my employ, but they have too much other work to sit idle in rural France until mid-August. They come and go as other jobs present themselves.
We’re debating various diversions that will allow for more time and access when we mount the rescue.
Ideas range from dancing girls to kitchen fire.
Thank you for writing. Any letter from you, even a terse, mildly jealous one, is a gift.
With love, your husband,
Luke
July 31, 1813
Eastwell Park, Kent
Dear Luke,
I was not jealous of Lady Viola Nancarron. Just to be clear. It’s simply that I didn’t realize I was expected to collect your
mail in addition to everything else I do.
But thank you for the speedy reply. And, I apologize—I could not, in good conscience, destroy the letter. As you know, my
own family—new, old, surrogate, and found—is precious to me. I will never take the notion of family lightly, even in the broadest
sense. If I had a letter from the mother of my birth, I would not chuck it in the bin, I would read it. Immediately. And that
is what I have done with the letter from your mother. For better or worse.
I’ll not transcribe her words here; but I can tell you that it was perfectly cordial—warm even. The tone was reserved, but
I would expect nothing less from a woman of rank who is also an estranged relation. Reading around her formality, what struck
me was her humility and her sadness.
She simply said she was making another attempt to contact you.
She wanted to say how very proud she was of the recognition you received from St. James’s Palace and of the acts of bravery that elicited the fanfare.
She admits to having no right to this maternal pride; she acknowledges that your success has been earned with no influence from her.
She said a friend in London informed her that you’d been awarded an estate in Kent and had recently married.
She sent her felicitations. And that is all.
You’ll be cross that I read the letter—I can guess this—but I don’t know how cross or to what end. We are strangers in many
ways, aren’t we? I am uncertain of your limits.
However, in the spirit of revealing things rather than hiding them, you should know that I didn’t only read her letter, but
I also replied to the woman.
A sense of indulgence pervades your letters to me—my sister, Elise, has pointed this out—and she encouraged me to take advantage
of it. Does this indulgence extend to my writing to Lady Viola Nancarron? I cannot say, but you’ve asked the wrong person
to ignore letters from long-lost family. I’ve been exiled, hidden, sheltered, obscured (and let us not forget abandoned);
but I’ve also enjoyed the most glorious reunions and blending of families. I do not burn letters from beseeching mothers.
What I did instead was introduce myself as your new wife in a short note; I thanked her for her well-wishes; and I informed
her that you were out of the country.
And to answer your questions: yes the sheep have come, the cattle have come, my brother and his wife have come.
We are all well, Luke. My family have colonized every area of my heart except for one.
I respect your urgent mission in France.
I hope you may soon have Mr. Welty out of harm’s way.
All my best,
Dani
August 8, 1813
Lumbres, France
Princess,
Please do not read letters from Cornwall. Please do not write to Viola Nancarron.
My God, Danielle, I waited nearly two months for something more from you than roof repairs and sheep, but this is not the
discussion I envisioned.
I implore you: Leave it.
Our mission is set for the early morning hours of 15 September. We’ve learned that Surcouf’s house party will culminate with
a ball on the 15th. We’ll move in after the candles are gutted, the dogs are asleep, and the guests are drunk. I’ve no idea
if Welty can run or climb or even stand upright; we’ll improvise this bit when we discover him. There are other risks; Surcouf’s
guest list abounds with French military officers, and where there are officers, there are security detachments.
Even so, I am confident this is our best opportunity for success. I should like to add that I’m horrified at my own poor judgment
in ever thinking that I should bring you to France for any part of this. It will be almost entirely unscripted and very dangerous.
Finally, I should like to make one thing clear: I am not cross with you, and I do not view you as a stranger. You feel as
known as any person in my life. Aspirational, perhaps, but entirely known. What I do not yet know, I consider the happiest
research of my life.
With love, your husband,
Luke
August 20, 1813
Eastwell Park, Kent
Dear Luke,
What quarrel have you with Lady Viola Nancarron?
Also, please find enclosed a wedding ring—my gift to you. It was not simple to find a man’s ring with a sapphire embedded
in the band, but I received a similar piece once upon a time, and I treasure it. I’ve been determined to find a matched ring
since you’ve gone.
Love,
Dani
August 30, 1813
Lumbres, France
Danielle,
If I don’t survive France, please know that my last hours were spent answering your demanding questions about bloody Viola
bloody Nancarron.
Here is the truth: There is no quarrel with Lady Viola Nancarron. In fact, I don’t really know Lady Viola Nancarron. I’ve
only encountered her face-to-face once or twice in my life, and that was years ago. I have, on occasion, seen her from afar—also
years ago. Could I pick her out from a crowd? Not likely.
Lady Viola Nancarron lived high on a cliff, not five miles from the beach where I was, quite literally, snatched from the jaws of starvation and neglect by Linus Welty.
She is an indulged heiress who lives on an estate called Fern Vale, the finest home on Cornwall.
While Linus scraped together sustenance for the two of us, while he taught me everything from maths to sailing, she provided nothing and cared not at all.
I knew that she was the mother of my birth because my grandmother mentioned it—frequently, she mentioned it—as part of the narrative that no one, including my grandmother herself, wished for me to have been born.
After Welty taught me to read and look things up, I investigated how a boy might be the son of a fine lady but also live in
squalor on the docks. In hindsight, this should’ve been left unexplored.
What I learned is that Lady Viola is the only daughter of a powerful aristocrat called the Earl of Canham. I learned that
she loved her family’s estate so very much, she chose to remain a spinster and grow old there rather than to ever leave. And
being an unwed mother would have, certainly, forced her to go.
To give credit where it’s due, someone inside Fern Vale did, ultimately, hire tutors to expand my education beyond what Welty
could teach me. It was meant to be a secret arrangement, but I make it my business to know most things. I can concede that
the advanced education has been crucial to my success in life.
But not so crucial as the foundation provided by Linus Welty. And that is why I’m risking my life to recover him and—more
importantly—that is why I tore myself from you. Perhaps it seems bitter or harsh to ignore the letters of Viola Nancarron,
but try to understand: My childhood was not spent in the loving care of Miriam and Silas Dinwiddie and fifty cats. It was
as different as you can imagine. I was only spared a truly wretched existence—in fact, I was spared certain death—because
of a chance encounter with a shipwrecked boatbuilder who was willing to open his life to a terrified, lonely boy.
Right. I’ve said too much. And now I have added incentive to survive the attack on Surcouf’s castle.
I cannot die with “terrified, lonely boy” as your final impression of me.
A cleverer man might invoke swimming in open seas for days or fighting sharks, but I haven’t the time.
Our rescue mission is a little more than a fortnight away.
The men I hired have returned, and we’ve begun tireless training and strategy.
We’ve decided to forgo any diversion and will dress simply as members of staff.
Danielle, I am so incredibly eager to leave France. I’m eager to cease my charade as a Bavarian. I’m eager to do everything
in my power to, if I survive, earn your forgiveness and the opportunity to be near you—to be with you always; your husband
in earnest. You mentioned a tone of “indulgence” in my letters. Please know that indulging you is all I want in life.
If I do not survive, I’ve left instructions with your new steward for how to claim the remaining value of my estate and also
your dowered land in France. I take solace in the knowledge that your new and old family will look after you. But allow me
to cease the allusions and be perfectly clear: I want to look after you myself.
For the first time in a year, it is my very strong preference not to die.
I thought I had no reason to live, and then you made me want life.
So very much. Honestly, I thought I deserved to die.
But then it dawned on me: Maybe, possibly, remarkably, I survived for the purpose of being a proper husband. To you.
Now, off I go to, God willing, survive another day.
With love, your husband,
Luke
P.S. Thank you so very much for the ring. It will never leave my hand.