20. Another LetterFour

20

Another Letter or Four

Marigold House, Bath, September 13, 1813

Dearest niece,

I hope this missive finds you well. I tender my heartfelt apologies for my lapse in consistent communication these last months. I have been devoting an inordinate amount of time to one very arrogant patient.

But alas, you need not hear of my travails or that of my persnickety clients. It is sufficient to say, when my bill comes due, I shall be adequately—or close to it—compensated for tolerating his irritating presence.

Aphrodite snickered at this. So rare was it for Uncle Silas to complain of a patient. She sat upon her bed, in her attic room, late one afternoon shortly before accompanying Harriet down to dinner. The letter had thrummed most pleasantly in her pocket since it had been delivered into her care earlier. Eager fingers had unfolded it and avid eyes scanned swiftly…

Dear, I confess I have been remiss in sharing some information with you, of a particularly delicate subject. It is to that end I would like to request your presence during the holidays. Are Lord and Lady Ballenger granting you a holiday this year as you mentioned they would? If so, I invite you to attend me here in Bath. We could celebrate as we did when you were younger, with roasting and baking, services and singing. If you don’t mind my aging fingers pecking upon my sorely abused harpsichord—or if you would care to grace my little cottage with your soothing notes? All the better.

Her “soothing” notes? His jest made her laugh, for talented, she was not!

Let me see, what else may I share? Indulge an old man, if you would ? —

Old? He barely only now approached—but had not yet reached—sixty, still fit, even if she thought his height may have dipped a tad shy from the six foot two he used to boast of when she was young.

In recent months, I have met someone, I confess. An upstanding widow, somewhat wary of me (or mayhap all men?), so nothing overt has been said between us as of yet, but I admit to sharing some rather speaking looks with the lady in question.

That made her smile.

She had first landed upon Uncle’s doorstep as a sad, weeping child of eleven who had recently lost both parents.

Upon their unexpected deaths, she had been shuffled to her papa’s favorite female cousin whose husband complained they couldn’t have a crying, sullen child underfoot, so then Aphrodite was flicked from one strange home to the next as her tears failed to dry and the other myriad children, never-before-met distant cousins, wanted nothing to do with the sorrowful, remote girl in their midst.

After a few sparse weeks at each abode—sometimes only a handful of days—a note would be pinned to her cloak and off she would go on the next stage. We have enough mouths to feed already. You take her. She’s good for nothing but dampening cloths with her unceasing tears.

Uncle Silas, the only son of her father’s uncle’s cousin or some such, had proved the lone stable and secure presence—after she’d been tossed from no less than four chaotic homes.

“Oh, dear heart,” he’d murmured upon taking one look at her newly arrived self—and the battered note affixed beneath her wobbling chin and worn from several hours’ travel.

She handed him the other, folded note she’d been told to share at each successive, and more disappointing home. That and the new letter that had just been added.

After perusing the contents within, frowning severely (at the second, new one), then wiping that free with a gentle smile, he held his door wide. “Come in, come in. You must be famished. Hermes is running around wild in the backyard. Why do you not set your things here…”

Her things, that by now consisted of one frayed valise that had belonged to her mother, so she gripped it even closer to her chest, not quite sure what to make of this kind-speaking man with the deathly quiet home and warm welcome. Nothing about him reminded her of her loud and always laughing father—except, perhaps, the bright, mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes.

“No, hmm? All right, keep hold of it, then. Hermes though. You hear him, do you not? He knows we have a visitor.

“Let us go outside and meet him, would you like that? He likes to bark. And whine. And sometimes it sounds as though he is gargling caterpillars or some other nonsense. Mind him not. He has the loudest mouth of anyone I know…”

Uncle Silas had allowed, if not encouraged, young Aphrodite to remain as quiet or solemn as she needed, to cry as hard and often as she wanted… Always ready with a kerchief, an embrace—or a serving of eggs—whatever she might need, but never forcing anything upon her.

Over the weeks and months, her tears had slowly dried. Though it had taken far longer for the gaping hole in her heart to mend, she had thrived in his most unusual bachelor household.

When she joined his family of one, his unusual “doctorship” had been broad in nature, as he tended to all manner of patients, always explaining out loud what he was doing or checking for, and his findings. His patients thought he was exceptionally verbose on their behalf, but nay. Uncle Silas and Aphrodite both knew he was talking to her , his unusually quiet niece hidden out of sight more often than not, either in a corner, beneath his desk or tucked away just beyond the door.

When he’d first spied her hidden self, while treating little Henry Johnston’s broken arm, she’d swallowed her breath and choked silently, waiting to be expelled. Instead, her uncle’s eyes had twinkled. Dimples appeared in both cheeks as he gave her a wink and turned back to his patient.

As she grew older? Expressed appreciation for all the knowledge she had gleaned, but confided not an ounce of desire in pursuing such work herself, he let her choose a ladies’ finishing academy to attend and welcomed her home every weekend and every holiday, pleased to share his fascinating, ever-changing work—or not. Equally content to pore over her assignments, listen to the new wonders she had learned and indulge her love of Latin as much as any professor at university would have done for a male student.

Aphrodite had thrived in his care, and she knew it.

The only thing that marred her time with him had been the knowledge that ’twas most assuredly her presence that had kept him from finding his own lady love, interfered with him having his own children.

When she confessed her worry, he had only laughed and hugged her harder. “Never you fear, child. You have inopportuned nothing. The lass I once fancied now lives in Scotland with seventeen of her own.” His eyes had grown wide in mock horror. “Seventeen? I certainly would not want that many children. How would I ever keep them all straight?

“Especially when half the time I call Mercury his predecessor’s name? Poor pup’s likely discombobulated by all the Hermes-Mercury mumbo-jumbo.”

Mercury, the six-month-old canine they had chosen together after aged Hermes had barked his last the prior winter.

Ballenger Estate, October 3, 1813

Dear Uncle,

I hope this finds you as content and joyful as ever (possibly with overt words being spoken between you and your widow by the time this reaches you?).

I read your missive with great eagerness. (Whether delayed, inconsistent, irregular or anything of the sort, I welcome any letter that arrives with my name upon it.)

I regret to share that Lord and Lady Ballenger have requested my presence over the holidays at a house party being given by their eldest daughter, now Lady Redford if you will recall?

Her lying-in will be in early spring and we—Lady Ballenger, Lady Harriet and myself—are relocating to Redford Manor once December commences to help ready everything before the guests begin to arrive. More so, to keep Lady Anne from overstraining herself upon her (likely swollen) feet.

I admit to my curiosity being piqued by your pending news. Delicate? My oh my, that raises several possibilities. But I dare not speculate, knowing you will tell me in due time. (Also not having much time to speculate, as I continue to expend the majority of my waking hours keeping abreast of Lady Harriet and her latest outbursts—entertaining though some might be—and farm-related frolics. Though I admit the frolics are always entertaining, they are often accompanied by mud and rips which I daresay we both could do without.)

My charge has also now announced to one and all her desire to learn to play the cello! The cello, Uncle, if you can believe it. The broad instrument held betwixt one’s lower limbs—widened at the thigh and knee to accommodate.

Well now. I am certain I do not need to regale you with Lady Ballenger’s expected and emphatic reaction to that pronouncement!

As to the coming house party, with its myriad guests? It seems as though Lady Harriet is being bribed with a London shopping expedition if she maintains silence as to this new goal, thus avoiding shocking the guests with her latest aspirations at her sister’s pending gathering.

Enough about me and mine.

It warms my heart to hear you have found someone who makes yours beat with eagerness. I do hope things may progress for the two of you as you both wish. I would not be the capable, confident woman I am now without your love and care. I only wish for you to find every shred, speck, iota or modicum of happiness I consider your due…

Marigold House, Bath, November 17, 1813

…I understand. Commitments to one’s employer must take precedence over frolics (farm-related and not). Aye, do let us plan on meeting when next you have time off, if not spring, then by this summer at the absolute latest, may I hope? Who knows, mayhap a miracle will occur and I can present myself upon your doorstep at some point. But not now. Nay, for I continue to be quite busy with my cantankerous, aggravating lordling.

Lordling? What young, indulged peer had her uncle in a dither? Unusual, as Uncle Silas typically worked with laborers more often than not, sometimes former soldiers and seamen, but ever since abandoning his London practice solely for Bath, his patients tended toward gentry or fortunate tenants of generous employers—people who would rather their faithful tenants recover than have to find (and train) new ones to take their place.

I begin to think I may have but a modicum of the patience you, my to-be-applauded Aphrodite, continually exhibit toward your young charge these years past. If she argues even 1/10th as much as my oft-unpalatable laze about, then you, dear niece, should be among the saints. I declare, please remind me why I trained to become a surgeon, if you would? To willingly put myself under the commanding attitude of those with titles but not the responsible nature to go with them?

Please know you remain forever welcome upon my doorstep. Should your plans change, I would love to receive you at the cottage—and Mercury heartily agrees, with breath held and tail lifted. His old eyes may not see anymore, but his exuberance still outpaces my own, daily.

You asked of any progress with my lady. May I share we have now stepped out a time or two (privately, but together)? Have discussed taking a brief trip at some undetermined future date… And here I am, putting ink to page completely beyond the bounds of an appropriate example for my exceedingly proper, favorite relative…

Exceedingly proper indeed.

If Aphrodite had any hope of laying claim to such a flattering description, she would not have been boundlessly disheartened upon learning that Lord Warrick would not be counted among this year’s house party guests.

Although, how she would have managed to ever, ever look him in the eye after what she had inadvertently chanced across within Lord Redford’s desk, when he bade her to retrieve paper one afternoon for lines Harri had just been assigned by her irate mother, Aphrodite could not fathom.

Unfortunately, neither could she seem to forget the words scrawled across a page in full sight when she opened the topmost drawer…

Words written in bold strokes she would recognize anywhere:

Warrick Estate, November 27, 1813

Ed, you rascally knave!

I am beside myself, recalling the words during your last visit. Pity I wasn’t bosky enough to have them bubble from my brain after a night or ten of sleep.

What would your lady wife think of such an outlandish suggestion? You tempt me, man, I confess.

Tempt me with the immoderate thought: If the work on my lower limbs has brought some manner of feelingback to my legs (thank the Lord), however weak, would the same sort of attention work a miracle on my pizzle?

You are a fiend indeed. Because now that the notion has been planted, ’tis grown into a thorny bramble attacking my thoughts, poking painful hope back into my heart—and hammer—once more.

Alas, that brings me to why I must (most regretfully, I assure you), decline your invitation to visit Redford Manor throughout December and on into Twelfth Night. For I have made arrangements with my doctor to continue work on my legs…

Her eyes skipped to the bottom, to confirm the signature she already knew would reside there.

Please share my sincere regrets with Lady Redford (omitting any mention of my lonely prick), and I shall look forward, with vast eagerness, to your next visit or the time when I am able to join you once more of my own accord.

Warrick

P.S. It did not escape my notice that my siblings were included in Anne’s invitation. Heartfelt appreciation, there.

Nor could she forget a word of the one discovered beneath it when she shuffled it aside, seeking that blank paper, even as her loins threatened to catch flame.

Written in the same striking hand and dated only a week after the first…

Mistress? Good God, man…to suggest I gain a mistress for my dagger? And as a treatment to heal that portion of my anatomy?

I can scarcely believe you would put that notion so plainly onto the page and into my head. For shame! What would your lady wife think should she know you had written thus?

To bid me to find a mistress to handle—my handle? When my parts are still as useless as my legs? None more than the pizzle between them.

Then Lord Redford’s not-yet-finished reply…

Hold on to your newly not-completely-numb seat, dear friend, for it was my Anne who made the suggestion, thinking if time and attention had brought some semblance of feeling, however tenuous, back to your legs and feet, mayhap the same sort of attention to your manly anatomy would return feeling to your private parts.

Would that not be wondrous? Think on it. For even if it should not have the desired results, well, would you not be desirous of the effort? The trying? Imagine that!

Stop reading! her brain ordered. Stop reading right this instant . But she could not.

A mistress, one dedicated to your pleasure. Or, if not that, dedicated solely to your body. A woman you could avail yourself of any time you called upon her, eager and ready to pay attention to your muscles, the way you have described your doctor working your legs. But without the torturous aspect, with a more delicate touch instead? Feminine hands to work, to stroke ? —

I am halting now. I know not what else to say. (We both know I have already written too much.)

There you have it. My dear wife’s thoughts upon the subject. Now you will have me blushing, do I not abandon this current discourse.

Oh! Here is something else you might find of note: Did you hear of the hunt this past fall? ’Twas the second one of its sort, for in addition to driving the foxes to ground, there was a new type of prey found in Lincolnshire last year...

His mistress. Lord Warrick’s. Could that have been her? Had she accepted his offer of employment as governess to his girls?

Aphrodite, were you living under his roof, Lord Warrick would have had no need to contemplate Lord Redford’s suggestion. The finding and housing of a kept woman. Because you would have been acting mistress to his muscles—one in particular!—long before now.

Three weeks later, Lord Frostwood had presented his customarily scowling self at Redford Manor and had stunned everyone when he set out to woo Lady Anne’s blind, if lovely, bosom friend, Isabella Spier. And, to Aphrodite’s further surprise and personal delight, she and Lady Isabella had developed an amiable friendship over several intimate conversations upon the grounds.

Harriet, keeping her cello aspirations to herself, still managed to entertain most of the guests and outrage her mother on a continual basis, keeping Aphrodite busy as Christmas neared and days elapsed.

She could be forgiven if, every moment and around every corner, she sought the sight and sounds of another guest, met another year…

Early one morning, during Harri’s daily lessons—the ones Aphrodite attempted to supervise through completion before their guests even awoke—Lady Ballenger swept in with the most startling announcement.

“Miss Primrose, did your uncle not invite you to Bath for the holiday? Eyes back on the page, young lady!” This directed toward her daughter, who had eagerly replaced her pen and scooted back at the unexpected interruption.

“Oh, Mama!” A loud scraping of her chair as young Harri returned to the table and begrudgingly re-inked her pen.

“He did indeed, my lady, but ’tis of no matter. You needed me here. I am content.”

The bustling matron, never quiet or easy to overlook even at the best of times, marched forward, the bobbing two-foot-tall peacock feather tucked within her bright turquoise turban providing a great challenge to Aphrodite: Do not look above her forehead. Do not look above her eyes. Do not. Do not! Do not!

With a snap of her fingers (and a wave of that dastardly compelling feather) Lady Ballenger presented herself at Aphrodite’s side and knocked her knuckles against the desk. “Lessons are over . It was selfish of me to ask you to forgo your own family at this time of year. And it cannot escape anyone ’s notice how Harriet has attached herself at the heels to dear Isabella. Would you still like to visit your uncle? The travel weather seems fair enough. And you already have your things packed.”

Both were true enough. For she had packed for the month when they relocated several weeks earlier from the Larchmont home.

Aphrodite stood, relief now mingling with disappointment.

Relief that she would no longer strain her ears to hear the identity of any new arrivals. What if Lord Warrick changed course and decided to attend?

Disappointment that she might not be present to glean the latest on his condition. (Had he taken Lord Redford’s advice and taken a mistress? Gasp! And of course, that was not a jealous gasp. Not one of envy. Of longing…)

Ordering her wayward thoughts to still, Aphrodite savored Harriet’s enthusiastic hug, and then excused herself to ready her belongings. Upstairs in her room, she penned a letter to Lady Isabella, explaining her sudden disappearance and thanking the lady for her moments of friendship.

Aphrodite thought not of other letters, both those cherished ones within her possession and those that had gone unwritten. Unreceived. And that was an utter clanker, because she could not help but wonder, more frequently than one might admit, what else Lord Warrick would have said, had their correspondence continued. Could only wonder how she might have responded…

When Harri knocked upon her door late that evening, wanting to share the season’s delights with her governess (after only a several-hour absence Aphrodite couldn’t help but release a warm smile over), she gave the folded letter over to her charge’s care, with the request to see it delivered to Lady Isabella. “Of course I will! Oh, Primmy, whatever shall I do without you here the next two weeks?”

Whatever, indeed?