Introducing Mrs. Collins
Dear Charlotte,
I write to you from the offices of the harbour in Portsmouth.
You might laugh to see my state at present: quite far from the smart soldier you met at Rosings a year ago.
I have been here waiting for a ship for some days, but until I am called to it, my time is my own.
Therefore, I have let my whiskers grow long, and I have no access to a bath: I am aware I look and probably smell somewhat like a pirate, albeit a pirate with little gusto and sadly lacking in treasure.
For now, I am taking advantage of the luxury – or, more accurately, the curse – of having no one to impress.
Forgive me, Charlotte, for writing to you.
I know that you wished for silence between us, for both our sakes.
I want to obey you. I want to make our parting as easy as it can be for you, but I feel like I cannot breathe, cannot think, without speaking to you, even if that speech is unanswered.
I see things every day that I want to tell you of.
I meet people whom I wish to introduce to you.
I imagine you by my side, often. If it sounds as though I am losing my senses, I do think it is possible.
Being here, on the edge of the land, alone, awaiting a journey that takes me back to hell, can drive a man a little mad.
The lady who runs my lodgings reminds me of my aunt, except that she has an income of about ten shillings a week (most of those mine).
She is marvellously pompous – but pomposity sounds much better in the Hampshire accent.
She disapproved of me at first, but I think I have improved in her esteem the last few days.
She asked if I were running away from something, and I told her no. She didn’t believe me.
I have never been much of a scribe, but I think about Parker and missed opportunities. I do not intend to miss one again. And after all, not even the French can stop me writing a letter.
I hope the ship comes soon; although I am loath to travel farther from you, I have been in limbo since we parted, and I sicken of waiting for the next chapter. I think of you every moment.
Yours, always,
RF