Hunting
Dearest Liza,
As you’ve pointed out—on several occasions now, not that I’m keeping track of such things—your expertise with matters of a more… delicate nature are superior to my own. Especially when it comes to the less fair sex. (I jest, naturally!)
To speak plainly, I fear I may have wounded Mr. Cresswell in a manner even his brava do would have trouble recovering from.
It’s simply… he drives me utterly mad! He’s been a perfect gentleman, which is at once intriguing and maddeningin itself.
Some days I’m sure we would live as happily as the Queen had with her be loved Prince Albert.
Other moments I swear I feel my autonomy being ripped from my fingertips as he insists on protecting me.
However, back to the matter at hand: I scolded Mr. Cresswell greatly.
He’d informed one of our professors that my constitution was not quite sturdy.
Which doesn’t sound that outrageous, except it was the second time he’d tried to interfere with my independence.
Such unmitigated gall! Our classmates were quite amused, though I was (and am) anything but.
My angry response may have alienated Mr. Cresswell’s affections.
Before you ask for the lurid details, I explained—quite harshly—that I would rather die alone than accept his hand.
Were he of any mind to offer it, that is.
Please assist me with any advice you may possess. I’m much better equipped to extract a heart than encourage one, it seems.
Your loving cousin,
Audrey Rose
P.S. How are you getting along in the country? Will you be heading to town soon?