Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.

29 March 1024, L’Isle du Grand-Blaireau

Amelia,

I sometimes feel that these letters that I have been writing to you are the three-volume novel of my life, and never more so than today. Do you recall Rev. Throckmorton from Prophecy and Presumption? I begin to think that I have escaped the horrible fate of becoming Mrs. Throckmorton.

Yesterday morning Eloise came and found me in my cubby, where I was going over the accounts.

“There you are, cherie,” she said. That seems unpleasantly familiar, now that I write it down, but Eloise is like His Napes in that: she’s familiar with everyone in the inn. I might as well complain about His Napes calling me “darlin'”. It’s just how he is. 

But I’m getting in my own way. Eloise told me that “ton gentilhomme” was in the bar parlor and would like to speak to me. “He seems très enthousiaste,” she said, with a sparkle in her eye. “I shall go help Corinne with the linens, n’est-ce pas?“

Lt. Harkness rose as I entered the room, and taking my hands in his led me to a table and helped me to a seat, and then sat down himself, pulling out a chair so as to sit quit near me.

“Miss Gamble—Cathy—I have excellent news. In three months time I shall be a captain in His Majesty’s army.”

“Oh, Lieutenant!” I said. “How wonderful for you!”

“Yes! It has all come together so neatly. Not only have I saved enough to purchase a commission, I have been recalled to Cumbria, the one place where I may do so. I am being rotated back to the regimental base in Dorness.”

“To Cumbria!” 

You will think me a silly girl, Amelia, but it had never crossed my mind that an officer in the Royal Army would of course be based at home for extended periods of time, especially in time of peace. It should have; for of course you met your Maximilian on just such an extended stay. And yet it never had. Cumbria! I felt a cruel hand squeeze my heart. 

“Yes, dearest! Give me but two months at Home and then I can send for you.” And with that he went down on one knee, taking my hands in his.

“Cathy—Miss Gamble—it would give me the greatest joy if you would consent to be my wife.”

And there it was.

“In Cumbria?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then collected himself. “Why, yes, of course. And anywhere else His Majesty might send me.”

I took a deep breath, and then another, as he studied my face with growing concern.

“Lieutenant—Samuel—I can never return to Cumbria. It is not possible.”

“Not possible? Why?”

I had never told him why I left Nexing Cross, never mentioned Bartholomew Sloane-Price. I had been afraid to, afraid of his response. I should have—but he had never asked, never given me room to speak.

“Samuel, you have admired me for my courage, my forthrightness, my willingness to speak up for others, yes?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, frowning.

“It was not always so.” 

And then not sparing myself, I told him the whole story. My lust for wizardry; the use I made of poor Bartholomew; my rejection of him; his death; the curse he left behind. And as I did so I saw the horror grow in his eyes.

I bowed my head. “I have not been a good woman, Samuel. I am here in Armorica for my sins—as my penance, the followers of the Old Religion would say. I begin to think I must join them.”

His hold of my hands had grown slight. I took them back, folding them in my lap. “And now I find that have led you on. I should have realized you would be called back to Cumbria.” I raised my eyes to his, my mouth set tightly. “I am sorry, Samuel. You are a good man. But I cannot marry you.” And lowering them again, “You had better go. M. Henricot will take you back to town.”

I sat quietly as he rose and left the room. 

I feel so stupid, Amelia. It will not have escaped you that I have been of two minds about him, pleased to be admired, admiring of his virtues in my turn, yet somewhat bored by his manner. Yet I had not expected him to move so quickly, to make up his mind so soon. I had thought I had time. I had thought—so far as I had thought about it at all—that he would come to know me better, and then his visits would cease.

And I was right to think so, for I saw his face. Such stern rectitude expects perfection of himself no less than of his men—and of his bride. I think he had never truly seen me until that moment when I opened to him my basket of dirty laundry.

And now I wonder whether he has truly seen me, or only that basket.

Oh, Amelia, I had intended to write a cheery letter, making light of my circumstances, even casting the good lieutenant as the horrible Rev. Throckmorton. He does not deserve that.

But I am no longer of two minds. I will not marry him, even should he decide he wants me, dirty laundry and all. I spent years being who Brother John expected me to be; I will not spend a lifetime doing the same for a husband who cannot see me as I am. That would be penance of quite another kind, an intolerable one, even if I could return to Cumbria.

Even if I wanted to leave the Sloops.

It is late, and chill; but I find that I must go see Amelie. Amelie and Amelia—how odd that my two confidants share such similar names.

Cathy

Next letter

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