Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
Bois-de-Bas, Armorica,
7 January 1018
Dear Jack,
I have just received your letter of 26 October, and I wish first of all to assure you that we would be delighted to have you come to us and be Uncle Jack for a time—at any time and at every time. I’ve no doubt you could build a place for yourself here in Bois-de-Bas that’s less dusty than the War Records Office, and would keep you profitably occupied; yes, and you might even attract the attention of a young lady or two. Substance matters far more than flash here.
In the mean time, I must tell you that there has been a great change here in Bois-de-Bas: I have been supplanted as mayor. It seems that I have been gone too often and for too long, and sentiment has been rising for some time—not against me, precisely, but in favor of putting someone into the job who is more likely to be available.
The precise phrase I’ve been hearing is that my “legs are too dry”: which is to say, I’ve not been a regular at the hot springs of a Sunday afternoon. The hot springs, after which the town is named, where it has long been the case, as you’ll recall, that all decisions of any importance are made.
It’s been an extremely sad affair—for Marc Frontenac, that is to say, not for me—for he’s been elected to the position by general acclaim: by virtue of his war record and his status as Onc’ Herbert’s heir, because he is my close associate, and because he is one of the owners of Tuppenny Wagons.
I tried my best to maintain a regretful and solemn mien on all public occasions associated with this transition—regretful, that is, that I was unable to continue in the role to the satisfaction of my fellow townsfolk—but after the third time one of the old folks of the town congratulated me on getting out from under moments after congratulating Marc on his election, I gave up. It’s a job I was honored to be given, and I pass it along gladly and with all speed—and my fellows here would expect nothing less.
It does mean that I must forfeit Onc’ Herbert’s old spot in the hot springs—which is to say that instead of sitting there of a Sunday afternoon with Marc at my right hand, I shall sit in Marc’s old place at his right hand.
My fellow townsfolk were kind enough to throw a rout for me at the town hall, a rout at which I was lauded and roasted in turn—for no one in Bois-de-Bas wants their mayor to think too well of himself—and at which the food and drink were plentiful and the music sprightly and lasting well into the night. If it was a tad chill in the town hall, being that we are well into winter here, so be it; all the more reason to dance vigorously and drink hot drinks.
Looking back, I am pleased with what I accomplished as mayor. In my time we grew considerably, built the town hall, and now have what in a Cumbrian town we would call a “high street”, with a variety of shops where before we had only the one. And of course we now have Tuppenny Wagons, which is bringing prosperity to the entire town.
I have sent you this letter on the Amelie with my dear Mama, who, as she has told me ever so many times, has truly enjoyed her visit, but who, as she has told ever so many more times, is eager to return to Yorke “before the season ends”. Myself, I am not certain whether she simply wishes to avoid the snow, which is rather an overwhelming presence here in Bois-de-Bas during the winter, whether she is tired of being confined in a small house, which she has been on account of the snow, or whether she is pining for one Grandmaster Netherington-Coates. All three, quite likely.
I’ve given the Amelie’s captain orders to wait on you in Madrigal Court; and should you wish to visit us he will be delighted to bear you hither.
All my best,
Armand
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Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 