Hunting
Dearest Cousin,
Allow me to be quite frank. Since I’ve read every novel by the immeasurably talented Jane Austen, and because I am three months older than you, I obviously have a vast amount more romantic knowledge.
I don’t fancy myself a poet, but I have been flirting (quite shamelessly, I daresay) with an intriguing young magician—and escape artist—who performs with a traveling circus, and, well…
I shall tell you all about that another time.
Anyway, we were discussing romance one afternoon near the pond, and he spoke of love being akin to a garden. Do not roll your eyes, Cousin. It’s not becoming. (You know I adore you!)
His advice was this: Flowers need plenty of water and sunshine to grow.
Love, too, needs attention and affection, or else it slowly withers away from neglect.
Once love’s gone, it’s as brittle as a dried-out leaf.
You pick it up, only to discover that it’s turned to ash beneath your oncecareful touch, gone on a swift wind forever.
Do not turn your back on a love that could jump the barrier between life and death, Cousin.
Like Dante’s valiant journey into darkness, Mr. Thomas Cresswell would descend into each circle of Hell if you needed him to.
You are the beating heart inside his rib cage.
It’s a rather macabre way of saying you complement each other—though that’s not to say you aren’t whole on your own.
Unlike my mother, I believe all women should stand on their own without needing anyone to hold them up. Surely a wife worth having is one who is secure in who she is? That is a discussion for another time, I’m sure. Back to your dearest Mr. Cresswell…
There’s something powerful in that kind of love, something that deserves to be kindled and tended to, even when its embers are flickering dangerously close to darkness. I implore you to talk with him. Then write and tell me each delicious detail. You know how much I adore a grand romance!
Do not allow your bountiful garden to turn to ash, Cousin. No one wants to stroll in the aftermath of neglect when they could be dazzled by a lush garden full of roses.
Yours,
Liza
P.S. Have you reconsidered returning to London for the holiday?
It’s positively boring without you here.
I swear that if Victoria or Regina attempts to boss us around during one more tea party, I will toss myself from the Tower of London.
At least then Mother won’t cluck at me to practice, practice, practice for my coming-out ball.
As if society would condemn me for stepping right instead of left during the waltz!
If my future husband would be appalled by such trivial matters, then he wouldn’t be worth having.
He’d be the sort of dullard I should like avoiding at all costs.
Imagine if I told Mother that? I shall wait until you’re home so we may have the pleasure of watching her flush devil red together. Something to look forward to.
Kisses and hugs.—L.