Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
21 June 1023, Achin Court, Nexing Cross, Nexinghamshire
My dearest husband,
I trust that Cathy Sloane-Price doesn’t really have your brother Octavian under some sort of enchantment?
I spoke with Octavian today, though it took some doing to find him. His duties take him all over your father’s lands, and as he and your father are not speaking Sir Alexander could give me no guidance at all. Your father directed me to his man of business, Burnham, who said, “I believe he was planning to attend to some matters at Corncrake Farm this morning, but after that I can’t say.”
And so, borrowing one of your father’s hacks I rode out for Corncrake Farm, where I found that Octavian had been talking with his tenant Mr. Rounder about the sheep shearing. I say “had been” for he had already been and gone. Rounder was able to direct me to Octavian’s next stop, however, and so I rode on for Boswell Farm. After Boswell I visited Waxing Farm, and then Hidden Brook Farm; and finally at about two in the afternoon I ran your brother to ground at Halfmoon Cottage, where he has been living this past age.
You will be pleased to hear that Octie is well-regarded by his tenants, though they agree with Sir Alexander that it is past time for him to marry.
Your brother answered my knock. “Amelia!” he said warmly. “I am so glad you have come.” He led me to a small sitting room, where his man brought tea and a mound of larger scones than I have ever before seen. “Farmer’s scones,” your brother said, noticing my look of surprise, “to go with a farmer’s busy life. Go on! If you’ve been chasing me about, you’ll need them.”
“Do you consider yourself a farmer, then?” I asked, taking one.
“Oh, yes,” he said over his tea cup. “I’m not herding the sheep or plowing the fields, but it comes to the same thing. If I don’t keep up with things, I can’t be of any use to those that do. Now, tell me about all your doings, yours and Maxie’s.”
So I told him about our life in Toulouse, and about the Royal Wedding and the ley lines and so on; and also about your mother and father, whom it is clear he misses most severely.
And then, when we had quite finished our scones, for which I was very and truly thankful, I said, “So, Octie. You wanted to see me.”
“That I do,” he said. He put down his teacup, and turned his head to the side as he collected his thoughts. His face displayed a mixture of worry, hope, and something close to despair.
“You know my father wishes me to marry,” he said at last, still looking to the side.
“Indeed, yes. I understand that it has caused some little strife.”
“I wish to marry too, but I cannot. Not now. Not like this.”
“I suppose not. But are you speaking of her existing marriage? Or that she won’t open the door to you.”
He shook his head. “Not Mrs. Sloane-Price, though of course you would think so. She is the reason why I cannot marry the one I love.”
I believe I blinked a great many times. “But Octie, your parents are quite sure you wish to marry Mrs. Sloane-Price. And when I arrived on her doorstep two days ago, her brother thought it was you come to entreat her.”
His mouth twisted. “And so it might have been, any time this past five years. But not now. Not if I can help it.”
I blinked again. “Octie, I am now entirely bewildered.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he said. “I am entirely bewildered myself.”
It took me some time to determine the whole story, for he was quite unable to speak plainly—a fact that gives some credence to his conjectures. I will summarize.
He danced with Cathy Sloane-Price at our engagement ball, and soon after began to make excuses to drop by The Attic as he went about his rounds, just to speak to her. At first she greeted him kindly, but then began to send him away, and when at last he asked her to marry him she told him he was a fool.
“And I was,” he said.
That’s when the disagreement with your father began. Sir Alexander got news of his visits, and was horrified, for of course Cathy is a married woman, even if to all appearance she has been abandoned by her husband. He remonstrated with Octie, and I gather called her names, and they soon grew heated.
“I cannot bear to hear anyone speak ill of her,” he told me. “I am a peaceful man, I think, but if I hear ill words about Mrs. Sloane-Price I soon grow enraged, and I say things I later regret. It is not at all like me, but that is what happens.”
I put that together with his eager questions about your parents. “You left Achin Court so that you wouldn’t say anything unforgivable to your father.”
He nodded eagerly. “Yes! Yes, that’s it entirely.”
It seems that for the past several years your brother has been continuing to court Cathy Sloane-Price rather against his will. He knows she will not have him. He would prefer to forget her. And yet, when the fit takes him—or when anyone actively discourages him from his pursuit—he grows deeply, desperately angry. He cannot help himself.
“And then I met Sally, and discovered that what I had thought was love and esteem must be something else entirely.”
“Sally?”
“Sally Markham, the sister of Mrs. Davidson whom you met at your picnic yesterday.”
I poured myself another cup of tea.
“Miss Markham is the one you wish to marry.”
“She is.”
“And yet you still feel this pernicious attraction to Mrs. Sloane-Price.”
“I do. When the fit takes me, I do. The rest of the time—”
And then his face screwed up and his eyes blazed and he opened his mouth wide, and then turning away he gasped and breathed deeply for several moments.
Much became plain in that moment. In sum, Max, though Octie is quite unable to say so in so many words, he believes that he has been enchanted, and by Cathy. He wants the enchantment removed so that he can marry Miss Markham.
I do not think he is wrong, or not wholly, for surely he has been just as much a trial to Cathy as she to him, though what kind of enchantment it might be or how he came by it I cannot say. And if I could burn enchantments with fire he would already be free, but I cannot. I have sent a letter to Dr. Tillotson asking for his help, and, oh, dearest, I do hope you are your way to me.
Tomorrow I must speak privately with Cathy, for am I sure she has no notion of what is afflicting your brother.
Amelia
___
Photo by Ariana Prestes on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 