R—
*
Monday, 27 June 1825
Dearest R—
A month in Florence sounds like a perfect wedding trip to me, labyrinths notwithstanding. A month to think of nothing but soft beds, fine foods, and each other.
Write when you are able. At the moment, I am too exhausted for coherence. The trip back was plagued with more than a few “travails,” including one broken wheel and one highwayman who reminded me exactly why I carry my cane.
We leave within the hour, in the larger carriage, and I hope to sleep much of the way. This would be a pleasant change, as I have not slept much as of late. When I do, I’m plagued by disturbing dreams I’d hoped this trip would alleviate. Perhaps I need more time in your company.
You will be in my thoughts as the wedding approaches.
Affectionately,
T—
*
Monday, 27 June 1825Tuesday, 28 June 1825
My love—
I dearly hope you got away safely, managed to sleep, and are warmly ensconced in a coaching inn by now, well along the journey to Manchester. It is after midnight here, and I am locked in my room following a major row with my mother that rendered Cecily, her maid, Sarah, my mother, and at least three of our housemaids in torrents of tears. It is settled now, and for the moment Lady Dorothea may realize how unreasonable so many of her demands have been. Of course, tomorrow’s dawn will most likely bring a return to her normal way of thinking.
I am sorry to have filled so much of these missives with the nonsensical drama of the wedding—this is merely what preoccupies me, and it prevents me from craving your company so desperately. So in a small and probably shameful way, I am grateful for it. Otherwise, my desire to be at your side would probably overwhelm me. It threatens to, even so. It has been some small consolation that I delivered the indigo silk to Mme. Adrienne last week, who promised an unparalleled design for my gown. I have only had one fitting, but she has delivered most spectacularly on her promise. Wearing your silk reminds me of your touch, but does not carry the same satisfaction.
I suppose it’s completely improper for a lady to confess such intimacies in a letter, even to her betrothed. But I feel no shame for letting you know how much I miss you and want to be with you.
Especially now knowing that your trip has had more complications than you allowed in your earlier notes. My heart stopped at the word “highwayman,” a reminder of exactly how dangerous travel can still be on our roads.
Years ago, I had a governess who thought that dreams were reflections of our innermost thoughts. Not that theywerethose thoughts, but somehow a mirror image of them. Another side of our most intimate selves. An intriguing idea that certainly appealed to the fantasies of a young girl.
Of course, she also thought our stable cats were witches’ familiars.
I pray the dreams no longer plague you, but you have had a great deal of responsibility thrust at you all at once; I am not surprised some portion of it seeps into your nightly visions.
I will promise to you not to murder my mother, but you must promise to come back to me. Please.
Your selfish fiancée,
R—
*
Friday, 1 July 1825
Beloved—
Selfish is the last possible word I would use for you. And when I see you again—soon—I will repeat the words that do come to mind when I think about holding you until you blush as furiously as you did in the labyrinth that Sunday. A memory that sustains me when I long to feel your hand in mine, to replace that silk with my own touch. As I do every day.
Perhaps that makes me equally selfish.
I am aware that by the time you receive this, Cecily will be Lady Philby, and your mother will most likely retreat to her rooms in a full collapse. I hope that means that you will have a short respite before you begin plans for a second wedding. A small one. Tiny.
Our time in Manchester has been exceptionally beneficial. I am astonished at the intricacies that keep mills churning out infinite yards of wool, cotton, and silk. Father seems pleased at how I have absorbed so much information, but the truth is that I will be dependent on his instruction—and that of the mill managers—for some time to come. But we’ve done as much as we can during this stay.
