Letters

Dover, 25 th May 1820

My dearest Helena,

Man proposes, and God disposes. Or at least Lord Liverpool does. According to our esteemed prime minister, my private pursuits must play second fiddle to the nation’s needs.

I’m off to St. Petersburg to solve a horrid diplomatic tangle for the Tsar. A horrid tangle that threatens to play havoc with the India trade, so you can imagine how the East India Company is up in arms about it all.

I have no idea how long I’ll be away. Liverpool said it could be as much as three months.

Damn it, Helena, the ship is about to sail to catch the tide. I have so much to say to you, most of which I know you’re not ready to hear. I’m sadly aware that we have years of past hurts to bridge.

Write to me at the embassy in St. Petersburg.

Yours in haste.

West

P.S. I’m consigning Artemis to your care. If you won’t accept her as a gift, consider her a loan. No, as an expression of intentions that at present I’m too far away to make reality.

* * *

London 26 th May 1820

Lord West,

I wish you safe and swift travels – straight to the devil!

You have no right to call me your dearest, and only a regrettable childhood association gives you the smallest right to use my Christian name. Don’t bother writing to me. I won’t read your letters. And I won’t set up a cozy correspondence as though we’re anything more than the merest acquaintances. The thought of the nation’s welfare in your careless hands gives me the shivers. It’s even less likely that I’d entrust my person to you.

Sir, as far as I’m concerned, the Russians are welcome to you.

With no respect whatsoever.

Helena Crewe

P.S. Most unwillingly, I’ve found Artemis a place in my stables. Inquiries indicate you have closed up your London house for the duration of your absence. I’m now making arrangements to send her down to Cranham. Your lack of care for her is yet another indication that you’re the same irresponsible boy you always were.

* * *

St. Petersburg, 30 th June 1820

My lovely Firebrand,

Your sweet missive was waiting when I reached St. Petersburg yesterday. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your words had the bracing effect on my spirits that I’m sure you intended. In comparison, I found myself thinking fondly back on the hellish journey across the Continent.

I hope the letters I wrote on the way have warmed you up a little since then. It’s a good thing I like a challenge—which must be why they sent me on this pestilential quest to solve Russia’s quarrels in the first place.

We arrived last night, and so far I’ve had little chance to see the city. We’re billeted in a pink and white palace on the Neva, with icing sugar decoration and big china stoves in every room. It doesn’t get dark at night at all. There are canals everywhere. It’s a most elegant place. I wish you were here to share your acerbic opinions and remind me I haven’t wandered into a fairy tale. Although I imagine once the Tsar’s negotiations start, any magic will vanish in a puff of bureaucratic pomposity.

I also wish you were here because I find myself missing you and all your prickles. I’ll think of you as my dear little hedgehog. There, does that not melt your heart?

Tomorrow the ambassador presents me to his Imperial Majesty, the Tsar. I’m sure you’ll want to hear about that, so I hope you won’t tear up the letter the moment it arrives.

With my dearest wishes.

West

P.S. I hope you’re making sure Artemis gets plenty of exercise, and you’re riding her, not some brick-handed groom who won’t appreciate the highly strung miracle she is.

* * *

London, 28 th July 1820

My lord,

Kindly desist from writing to me. As I consign any correspondence from you to the drawing room fire, all you’re doing is supplying me with exotic kindling. Your activities are of no interest and I’d prefer that we returned to being polite strangers. That relationship has served us well since we both grew up. At least I grew up. Nothing I’ve seen indicates that you have.

Not yours.

Helena, Lady Crewe

P.S. As if I’d employ a heavy-handed groom. The unhealthy Russian air must have rotted your brain.

* * *

Outside Moscow, 3 rd September 1820

My beautiful sweetheart,

How villainously those of high degree lie to their humble servants. I’d hoped to be home by now and telling you in person of my unending admiration. Even as an impossible brat who was either hanging around the stables getting underfoot, or hidden in the corner of the library with your nose in some dusty volume, you were something special.

I know I have much to atone for—what I can’t bear is that you feel I’m responsible for Crewe’s disgraceful behavior. We were both disappointed in him, although as his wife, you bore the brunt of his extravagance, drunkenness, and lechery. In comparison, a friend’s disillusionment pales to nothing.

To Hades with me. I swore I’d wait until I saw you to address the matters that rise like a wall between us. It’s a wall I’m determined to scale. I imagine you waiting on the other side, like a captive princess.

As you can see, all this Russian romance is softening my head. Of course, my Helena is no captive princess, but a warrior maiden. A man needs all his wit and weaponry to lay siege to her.

The negotiations crawl along without noticeable progress. Every day, the Tsar goes hunting through birch forests, beautiful with coming autumn.

Next week, we travel south to the Crimea without His Imperial Majesty. He feels his government—and the English interloper—needs to know the lay of the land down there to understand the full implications of this tangle. He’s off to the Congress of Troppau to strut on the world stage and enjoy some Western luxury. We might make headway without his royal interference.

This is a strange, beautiful, stirring, half-barbaric country, for all its wealth. I’d love to bring you here one day. I think your untamed spirit would feel at home. As I ride out every dawn, I imagine you galloping at my side, the way we galloped at Richmond half a world away.

I hear Silas and Caro are more wrapped up in each other than ever. He really should marry the girl. And Fenella has a thousand admirers, but doesn’t give a fig for any of them. I also hear you and Lord Pascal have been seen together several times at the opera. I know he’s handsome, my darling, but the fellow will bore you to death once you’ve stopped looking at him and started listening to him. You need a man to keep you on your toes. A man undaunted by your magnificent brain.

There’s a much more suitable lover available, although he’s currently occupied abroad on international affairs.

I hope when you sleep, you dream of me.

Your fervent admirer

West

P.S. When it comes time to put Artemis to stud, allow me to suggest my stallion Perseus. They will have beautiful, spirited offspring.

* * *

Cranham, Wiltshire, 10 th October 1820

Sir,

Despite repeated requests to refrain, still you pester me with unwanted confidences and reflections. Again I tell you they—like you—are of no interest. It seems cursed unfair that you are much more annoying at a distance than you ever were in London. The Russian doxies mustn’t keep you as amused as our local variety always has. I hesitate to recommend sin, but, my lord, you need to fill those long Russian nights with something other than the cold ashes of an old dalliance. If sin has palled through overfamiliarity, permit me to suggest that you take up knitting.

Again, I insist that you cease this stupid game and leave me in peace.

Hopefully for the last time.

Lady Crewe

P.S. Artemis remains your horse, even if she’s been eating her head off in my stables for the last six months. I begin to think you sent her to me as an economy measure. The arrangements for breeding her are none of my concern.

* * *

London, 1 st December 1820

West, old chum!

Congratulate the happiest man in England. Nay, the world. My glorious Caro has agreed to become my wife, and I’m ten miles high in the sky as a result.

Can you tear yourself away from the bears and the balalaikas and the Cossacks long enough to come home and stand up with me? Our plan is to have a quiet wedding at Woodley Park on Valentine’s Day. Forgive the sentimental choice of date, but I’ve become disgustingly sap-headed since my beloved consented to marry me. Then a short honeymoon before Caro and I leave with the Horticultural Society’s expedition to China.

The dates are fairly set in stone, so I’ll understand if noblesse obliges you to stay shivering in the snow and ice, running the Tsar’s errands.

But given you’ve been my best friend since I could walk, I’ll be dashed sorry if you can’t make it to Leicestershire to raise a glass in my honor and make an embarrassing speech at the wedding breakfast.

Anyway, let me know when you can. There’s nobody I’d rather have at my side when I pledge my life to the woman I love.

Yours, etc.

Stone