Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.
5 April 1024, L’Isle du Grand-Blaireau
Amelia,
No, I have not discussed Lieutenant Harkness’s proposal, nor my refusal of it, with His Napes.
You have not yet had time to ask me that question, of course, as my last letter still has weeks to travel; but after these months of correspondence I am quite certain you will ask it as soon as you have the opportunity.
I do wish letters could be transported more quickly between us—which rather bemuses me. I began to write you almost out of spite at how you had stepped in and turned my life topsy-turvy, as if to say, “See what you’ve done!” As if it were your fault that I must leave Cumbria forever, rather than my own. But writing to you has become a comfort to me, and your occasional responses a joy.
I am in need of joy tonight. I have come to see ever more clearly over the past week that I could never, should never marry the future Captain Samuel Harkness, for I could never be the equal of the Cathy Gamble he had built up in his mind. I should have had to become stone to remain on that pedestal, and found it as much of a trap as living with my dear brother John.
But, you know, I rather liked pretending that I was that Cathy Gamble. I liked his admiration and his desire to please.
I will talk about all that with His Napes someday, I am sure.
His Napes took me on a short excursion today, a tramp through the woods. No sleigh, no refreshments, just boots and damp.
Spring has arrived in earnest; patches of snow remain in the shade of the trees all around the town, but the roads are clear, if muddy. More snow remains here on the island, unsurprising as it always is cooler here than down below, but even that is melting apace. And it is leaving far less mud behind: what snowmelt doesn’t find its way to the river runs off the island on all sides, falling to the lake below like a skirt of rain. I have always enjoyed my trips down to Amelie’s shop for our supplies, but the view on my return is even more beautiful in this season.
Another reason I see less mud, I suppose, is because there are no true roads here on the island to catch the melting snow, and so little bare earth. There are paths around the Inn itself, and particularly between the Sloops and the lady’s quarters; but His Napes in his mercy arranged for boardwalks last fall, so that we need not walk through the snow, or now, any mud there might be.
During the war your cousin’s people made trails to this and that point around the periphery of the island. Those are overgrown now, and if they are muddy in their farther reaches I cannot say. But no trail was made to the spot that any guest our inn would most wish to visit: the top of the waterfall, where the river begins its long misty plunge down to the lake. During the war that was the spot where Armand’s sky-chairs and sky-wagons approached the island, for they could glide in over the water and betray no sign of their passage to any Maréchalist sloop-of-war. Lookouts were established at other points, but those were intended for single watchers, and they were carefully hidden from view.
Out guests see the waterfall from the caravan, of course, but that’s not the same at all.
This morning, therefore, His Napes and I put on our stoutest boots and left the Inn, turning left to head down the river toward the falls. I had never gone that way; last autumn I was too busy, and in winter the snow was too deep.
Jack was full of his plans during the walk.
“Picture it, darlin’,” he said. “A lovely stone path through the woods beside the river, properly drained, and leading to the best view in Armorica. It will put us on the map, won’t it just.”
“A stone path would be lovely all on its own.” I stepped carefully over the trunk of a fallen tree, green with moss. “I’m in favor.”
He smiled broadly at me. “And then, at the end of the path we will have a terrace, looking out over the falls and at the country beyond.” He waved one long arm to signify the vast expanse.
“Perhaps with a railing,” I said in my archest tones, “so that we do not lose too many guests?”
“Your wish is my command, darlin’,” he said. “We’ll make sure to only lose the guests you most dislike.”
“That would be most gratifying, though I fear losing guests would cause talk. But might it be too misty for comfort, that close to the falls? Or too windy, perhaps?”
“On days when the wind blows straight up the river, I suppose, but I’ve not noticed too many of those these past months. I’m usually fighting a cross-wind. You’ve made the flight often enough, how has it seemed to you?”
“I usually go in the late morning; the air is usually fairly still, I think. And the sky-chair doesn’t catch the wind the way the caravan does.”
He nodded. “I’ll ask Armand what it was like during the war. But the terrace would be up on the bank, darlin’, and the banks are quite high at that point. They should be above the mist.”
“So they are.”
We walked on in silence. I can’t speak for His Napes, but I enjoyed the quiet, and the dappled sunlight playing on the forest floor around us and glinting from the remaining patches of snow.
“It isn’t a long walk, really,” I said at last, “though it seems long to me today.”
“No, not far; about a quarter of a mile, perhaps a little more.”
“Still, it seems to me that our guests might wish some refreshment as they take in the view.”
“Mme. Henricot might prepare lunch baskets for them. We shall have to provide a place for them to sit.”
“I shall have to ask Amelie to get us some baskets. But just imagine, Mr. Napes: a day when the Two Sloops are known all over Armorica, and folks come from Mont-Havre just to stay here and enjoy the view.”
“Yes?”
“We might well wish to have a lunch room at the top of the falls.”
“I like the way you think, darlin’. And a caravan stop as well,” he said, musing. “Best we leave room for them then.”
We stopped just within easy sight of the falls, well short of the edge of the island, for the undergrowth was thick and His Napes was unsure of the footing any further on. But of course, we both knew quite well what the land looked like from the other side.
“I’d come here, of a morning,” I said, feeling delightfully at peace. “If there were a path, and maybe the makings for some tea.”
“Then a path there shall be, darlin’,” said His Napes.
A path forward—I have that, Amelie, even if I don’t have the lieutenant.
Cathy
Next letter.
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Zymurgia House 