THE BRITANNIA CORRESPONDENCE - Unresolved letters

Being a Collection of Private Letters

Exchanged Among Persons of Various Station

Throughout the United Kingdom and Her Colonies

MDCCCLXXX—MDCCCLXXXV

·  ·  ·

The Hopkins Residence, Nottingham Park State, 14th September, 1880

Dearest Elianor,

I write to you in that hour when the maids have withdrawn and the house settles into its evening susurrations, for it is only in such moments that a woman of my years may speak freely to one who has become as a daughter—nay, more than a daughter, for you possess that quality of understanding which my own Aurelia, bless her industrious heart, shall never entirely command.

The morning post brought word from Edmund that he and Lavinia shall arrive by Thursday next. I confess the prospect fills me with that peculiar exhaustion which attends the necessity of maintaining the appearance of maternal delight when one's energies are already spent upon more pressing matters. You know well what I mean, dear child. Edmund is perfection itself—too perfect, perhaps, like those wretched chronometers in the hallway that never wind down but never truly live, merely tick-tick-ticking through their appointed rounds with neither passion nor complaint.

Lavinia radiates warmth as a well-tended hearth, yet I find myself wondering, in my less charitable moments, if there exists any genuine heat beneath, or merely the practiced glow of a woman who has learned her part to perfection. She is all that a woman of her station ought to be, which is precisely what troubles me. There is no friction in her, no sharp edge upon which one might cut oneself and thereby know that something real lies beneath the polish.

But I burden you with observations you have doubtless made yourself, possessing as you do that keen faculty for perceiving what others labor to conceal. It is Ludovic who weighs upon my mind this evening. Marcen speaks not of him, yet I observe how his gaze lingers upon the empty chair at dinner, how his hand trembles—just slightly, you understand, barely perceptible to any but a wife of thirty years—when the post arrives and bears no letter in that distinctive hand of our second son.

Three months he has been abroad on His Majesty's business, and we have had naught but a single dispatch, tersely worded, from which I could extract no comfort whatever. The language was all propriety and procedure, yet beneath it I sensed—what shall I call it? A quality of strain, as though the words themselves were struggling against some weight too heavy to be named.

I do not ask you to betray his confidences, Elianor. I know you guard his heart as fiercely as you guard your own, and rightly so. Yet I wonder—does he sleep? You have told me of those dreadful nights when he starts awake, when his vigilance permits no rest. I pray the mission, whatever its nature, does not exact too cruel a toll upon him. He has always carried too much, that boy. Even as a child in the colonies, when Edmund was kept safe in the mainland nursery and Aurelia swaddled in my arms, Ludovic would wander the dusty paths with eyes too old for his years, watching everything, understanding far more than a child ought.

I remember one particular evening in those god-forsaken territories—you will forgive the language, but there truly exists no other adequate description—when he cannot have been more than eight years of age. He came to me as I sat in the parlour attempting to maintain some semblance of civilized routine amid that chaos of heat and violence. 'Mother,' said he, with that unnerving directness children sometimes possess, 'why does Father sign papers that make people disappear?' I had no answer for him then, and I have none now, save that the world demands certain sacrifices of certain men, and we who love them must bear witness to the cost.

Forgive an old woman her ramblings. I find myself lately given to these reveries, particularly when I sit in this chair where my mother once sat, and her mother before her. The weight of lineage presses more heavily with each passing year. I wonder if you feel it yet—that knowledge that we are but links in an endless chain, that our actions reverberate through generations we shall never see. The House of Lancaster has weathered storms that would have broken lesser families, but there are nights when I wonder if we have not paid too dear a price for our survival.

I enclose a small package—some cuttings from the garden which I thought might please you, and a length of ribbon which caught my eye at Mrs. Pemberton's shop. Trifles, I know, but they are given with a fullness of heart that words cannot adequately express. Also, you will find a key. You know the one. Use it as you have always been free to do. This house is as much yours as any blood daughter's.

With deepest affection,

Augusta Ethel Hopkins (née Sutton of Lancaster)

Bavaria Territories, Station VII, 18th September, 1880

E—

Weather clear. Operations proceed as anticipated. The mechanisms function within acceptable parameters. I include these observations first, as they are the official facts which, should this letter be opened by the Crown censors, will satisfy their requirements for documentation.

Now for the rest, which only you shall read, for you alone possess the cipher of my heart.

I find myself calculating days. Twenty-three since last I saw you. The count accumulates like debts I cannot discharge. At night the stars here arrange themselves differently—not wrong, merely foreign. I catalogue their positions to occupy the hours when sleep proves elusive, which is to say, most hours. The resonance of the devices here creates a constant hum just below the threshold of hearing, and it sets my teeth on edge. The others appear not to notice, or perhaps they have grown accustomed. I find I cannot.

There was an incident four days past. A malfunction in one of the containment vessels—you know I cannot speak plainly of these matters, even to you. No casualties, but the resonance it produced when the field collapsed was like nothing I have encountered before. Like hearing a language I almost comprehend, words that hover just beyond the threshold of meaning, as though the very air were trying to tell me something I am not meant to know.

For three days afterward I could not bear to speak to anyone. The others attributed my silence to concentration upon the technical specifications. You would have understood it differently. You would have seen what I saw in the mirror that morning—the expression of a man who has looked too long into something that was never meant to be looked at, and who cannot now look away.

I brought your handkerchief. A foolish gesture, perhaps, but the scent of lavender remains, faint now but still detectable. I keep it in my breast pocket. When the work grows too heavy I press my hand there and remember that there exists a place where I am permitted to be still. Where I may sleep without shame, where my vigilance may rest, where you stand guard over my sleeping and permit nothing—not duty, not crown, not the weight of all the world—to disturb me.

Do not show this to Mother. She worries excessively and I cannot afford the weight of her concern added to what I already carry. Tell her I am well. It is not entirely a falsehood—I remain functional, which is all that duty requires. The truth, which is that I am coming undone by inches, serves no purpose save to pain her.

Twenty-two days remaining if the schedule holds. Twenty-two days until I can lock the door and refuse the world entry. Twenty-two days until you may guard my sleeping. I think of nothing else in the spaces between thought, which grow fewer each day, for the work consumes everything.

I love you. I write it plain, though I know it embarrasses you when I am so direct. I love you with a fierceness that frightens me. I love you as the only fixed point in a world that shifts beneath my feet. I love you, and I am counting the hours until I may come home.

Yours entire,

L.

P.S. — Burn this letter. I mean it, Elianor. Some things are not meant to survive me.

14 Cheapside Row, London, 19th September, 1880

Mr. Hartwell—

Your invoice of the 12th inst. has been received and examined with the attention it merits. I must protest in the strongest terms the increase of seven percent upon the agreed-upon price for the copper fittings. Such sudden alterations to established arrangements are not, I think you will agree, the mark of honourable dealing, and they place me in a most uncomfortable position with regard to my own customers, who have already committed to prices based upon our original agreement.

You well know that such devices require Crown certification before sale, and the delay in obtaining said certification has already cost me three weeks of potential trade. Three weeks! In this city, where every vendor competes for the same narrow margin, such delays are not mere inconvenience but potential ruin. I have had to turn away no fewer than eight customers who could not wait upon the whims of His Majesty's Regulatory Commission.

Moreover, the quality of the last shipment leaves much to be desired. Of the sixty units delivered, no fewer than fourteen exhibited resonance irregularities which necessitated return to your works for recalibration. My customers are not charitable men, Mr. Hartwell. They pay for precision, and they expect it. When a shopkeeper installs a luminous device in his establishment, he does not expect the thing to flicker and dim like some common candle. He expects the steady, reliable glow which the Commission's standards specify, and which your foundry has hitherto been capable of providing.

I understand the difficulties of the current regulatory environment—who among us does not chafe beneath the endless paperwork and inspections? One cannot so much as sell a butter-cooling shelf without form seventeen-D in triplicate, signed by three separate officials, each of whom must naturally receive his 'administrative fee.' Yet business must proceed, and I cannot in good conscience pay premium prices for inferior goods. My reputation depends upon the reliability of my suppliers, and I have worked too hard and too long to see it damaged by another man's carelessness.

I propose we return to our previous arrangement: five percent above the wholesale rate, with delivery guaranteed within the fortnight, and all units pre-certified by the Regional Regulators at your expense. This is, I believe, more than fair given the circumstances. Should you find these terms unacceptable, I shall be compelled to seek alternative suppliers. There are several foundries in Birmingham who have expressed interest in establishing a relationship with my firm, and while I should be sorry to sever our long association, I am first and foremost a businessman.

I await your response by return post.

I remain, Sir,

Your obed't servant,

Josiah Blackwood, Proprietor

J. Blackwood & Sons, Licensed Vendors

The Hopkins Residence, Nottingham, 20th September, 1880

My Dear William,

Your absence these past four days has been most keenly felt, though I endeavour to occupy myself with such tasks as a woman may properly undertake. The house seems to echo without your presence, and I find myself wandering from room to room with no settled purpose—a habit which I know you would gently mock as further evidence of my tendency toward introspection.

Mother brought me to Lady Ashford's card party yesterday—you know how I detest such gatherings, all those wittering women with their endless chatter about nothing of consequence. Mrs. Pemberton spent a full quarter-hour describing the new furnishings for her morning room, while Lady Cavendish held forth on the shocking state of the servants these days. 'They expect every Thursday afternoon off, my dear, as though they were ladies of leisure rather than persons in employment!' One sometimes wonders if these women have ever experienced a genuine thought in the entirety of their existence.

But Mother insists such attendance is necessary for maintaining our position, and I cannot gainsay her wisdom in such matters. She has navigated these treacherous social waters for decades, and she has kept our family's reputation intact through circumstances which would have destroyed lesser women. I must trust her judgement even when I find the actual practice insufferable.

Speaking of position—and here I must confess to a degree of forwardness which I hope you will not judge too harshly—I have had word from Mrs. Thornbury that Lord Cavendish's physician has announced his intention to retire. The appointment, as you know, carries not only substantial remuneration but also considerable influence within certain circles. I took the liberty of mentioning your name to Lady Ashford, whose husband sits on the selection committee. She was most enthusiastic, though she did hint—very delicately, of course—that a contribution to the hospital fund would not go unnoticed.

I hope you do not think me too forward in this matter. I know you prize independence above all things, and I admire that quality in you, truly. Yet surely there is no harm in ensuring that your considerable talents receive the recognition they deserve? You work too hard for too little acknowledgement, my dear. Let me shoulder some of that burden. Let me be of use to you in this way, for I can be of use in so few others.

(You see how I reveal myself? Sometimes I think you married a woman whose greatest skill lies in the strategic deployment of information, and whose heart is merely an afterthought. But you have never made me feel thus, and for that I am more grateful than I can adequately express.)

The garden is looking particularly fine just now, all aflame with the last blooms of autumn. Cook has preserved the last of the plums, and I have instructed her to set aside a jar for you—they are just as you like them, tart with a hint of sweetness. I find myself quite fatigued this evening, though the day has been relatively undemanding. Perhaps it is merely the change in weather. The mists have been heavy these past mornings, and they seem to seep into one's very bones.

Or perhaps—but I shall not speculate in writing. We shall discuss such matters upon your return, which I hope shall be soon. The house is too quiet without you, and I am too much alone with my thoughts.

Ever your devoted wife,

Aurelia Hopkins (née Hopkins of Lancaster)

P.S. — Father asks after you. He grows more taciturn with each passing year, yet he inquired specifically when you might return. This is high praise, from him.

The Granville House, Leicestershire, 21st September, 1880

Dear Mary,

I write in haste as I have but a quarter-hour before I must return to my duties, and if Mrs. Grimsby catches me at the writing desk again I shall receive another of her lectures about knowing my place. As if I did not know it well enough! But I must tell you what transpired yesterday, for it is too delicious to keep to myself.

You remember I wrote you of the new parlour-maid, Betsy Marsh? The pretty one with the yellow hair who is forever making eyes at Thomas the footman? Well, yesterday morning she was tasked with dusting the master's study—a simple enough task, you would think, even for one as scatter-brained as Betsy. But she must needs attempt to impress by operating the master's new correspondence device, though she has neither training nor permission to touch such things.

You should have seen the chaos! The wretched contraption began humming and glowing, then shooting out letters in every direction, as though possessed by some malevolent spirit. Poor Betsy shrieked loud enough to wake the dead, and came running down the stairs in such a state of terror that she quite forgot herself and burst into the dining room where the family was at breakfast. Lady Granville very nearly dropped her teacup, and the master turned quite purple with rage.

Of course Betsy was dismissed on the spot, without references, and told to pack her things and be gone within the hour. I felt rather sorry for her, though she brought it upon herself through her own foolishness. As Mrs. Grimsby says, 'If the good Lord had wanted serving girls to fiddle with devices meant for their betters, He would have given them the sense not to break everything they touch.'

Thomas took it hard—I think he had genuine feelings for the silly creature, though he would die before admitting it. He has been going about his work with a face like thunder, and yesterday evening I heard him in the servants' hall, muttering dark things about how the quality have their toys while honest folk cannot even touch them without risk of ruin. Mr. Hartwell the butler overheard and gave him a sharp reprimand, but I could see the sympathy in his eyes even as he spoke the words.

It makes one think, Mary. We are surrounded by wonders—devices that light rooms without flame, boxes that preserve food beyond its natural time, communication boards that carry words across vast distances—yet we are permitted only to clean around them, never to understand them, never to benefit from them save in the most indirect fashion. Is it any wonder that some folk grow resentful?

But I must not complain. I have steady employment and a kind enough mistress, and that is more than many can say. Still, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where such marvels were not the exclusive province of those born to wealth and title.

Write to me soon, dear sister, and tell me how you fare in your new position. I do hope the family treats you well.

Your loving sister,

Sarah Wickham

The Athenaeum Club, London, 22nd September, 1880

Dearest Lavinia,

I trust this letter finds you in excellent health and spirits. My meetings with the Regional Planning Committee concluded most satisfactorily this afternoon, and I believe we have made significant progress toward resolving the infrastructure disputes which have so plagued the eastern districts. Lord Pemberton was particularly complimentary regarding my proposed solution, which I modestly attribute more to common sense than to any particular brilliance on my part.

The weather in town has been unseasonably fine, and I took the liberty of walking through the park this morning before my appointments. The autumn leaves are at their peak, and I found myself wishing you were beside me to enjoy the spectacle. You have always possessed a keener eye for natural beauty than I can claim, and I missed your observations.

I dined last evening with Sir Robert Ashworth and his wife—you remember them from the Midsummer Ball. Lady Ashworth inquired most particularly after you and expressed her hope that we might join them for supper upon my return to Nottingham. I indicated that I should be delighted, pending your own engagements, which I know to be numerous and demanding.

I find myself reflecting upon how fortunate I am in my choice of wife. To possess a partner who combines grace with intelligence, beauty with discretion, is a blessing which I fear I too often take for granted in the press of daily obligations. You manage our household with an efficiency which would put many a military campaign to shame, and you do so while maintaining the appearance of effortless elegance which is the mark of true breeding.

I shall return Thursday next, as previously arranged. I confess I look forward to the journey home, for while London offers certain advantages, it cannot compare to the comfort of one's own hearth and the pleasure of one's own company—by which I mean, of course, your company, which is the sole company I truly desire.

With all affection,

Your devoted husband,

Edmund W. Hopkins

23 Harley Street, London, 23rd September, 1880

Dr. Carruthers—

I write in response to your inquiry regarding the patient about whom we spoke last week. I have completed my examination and can confirm your initial diagnosis, though the case presents certain complications which merit discussion.

The gentleman exhibits all the classic indicators of what the Commission classifies as 'resonance fatigue'—that is to say, prolonged exposure to high-intensity fields has begun to affect his nervous system in measurable ways. The tremor in his hands, which he attempts to conceal through various stratagems, has grown more pronounced. His sleep patterns are profoundly disrupted. Most concerning, however, is the evidence of what I can only describe as perceptual anomalies.

He reports—though he was reluctant to admit it initially—that he sometimes 'hears' frequencies which ought to be beyond human perception. He describes them as words just beyond comprehension, as though reality itself were speaking in a language he almost understands. This is, as you know, a dangerous symptom. Left unchecked, such perceptions can progress to full dissociation from consensual reality.

The difficulty lies in treatment. The standard protocols—complete withdrawal from exposure, sedation, gradual reintegration—are impossible to implement given the nature of his employment. He is, as you are aware, engaged in work of the highest importance to Crown interests, and his superiors are unwilling to release him from duty merely because his health is failing. They have made it quite clear that I am expected to manage his symptoms such that he remains functional, not to restore him to health.

This places me in an ethically complex position. As a physician, my duty is to my patient's wellbeing. Yet as a citizen, I understand that certain sacrifices must be made for the greater good. The devices this gentleman helps to calibrate and maintain serve purposes which, while I am not privy to their specifics, I am assured are vital to the security of the realm.

I have prescribed laudanum in controlled doses, sufficient to dull the perceptual anomalies without rendering him entirely insensate. This is, I freely admit, a stopgap measure rather than a cure. But it is the best compromise I can devise given the constraints under which I operate.

I should be grateful for your thoughts on the matter. Have you encountered similar cases? Is there precedent for successful long-term management of such symptoms? Or am I merely prolonging the inevitable while causing additional suffering in the process?

I await your counsel with some urgency.

Your colleague,

William Sampson Davies, M.D.

Thornfield Manor, Dorset, 24th September, 1880

My Dear Cecilia,

You must forgive the tardiness of this reply, but I have been quite overwhelmed with visitors and obligations these past weeks. Mother has been in a absolute frenzy of entertaining, convinced that if she does not secure invitations to every significant gathering before Christmas, our family's position shall somehow crumble to dust. As if the Thornfields have not been prominent since before the Reshuffling! But you know how Mother frets.

Now, to the matter which I know you are dying to hear about—for I can practically feel your impatience radiating from your letter! Yes, the rumors about Lord Ashford and the actress are quite true, though the details are even more scandalous than the gossip suggests. It seems he has not merely been keeping her in style in that house in Kensington, but has actually been introducing her to his associates as his 'ward.' The cheek of it! As though anyone could possibly mistake a woman of that profession for a respectable relation.

Lady Ashford, naturally, is beside herself, though she maintains the most admirable composure in public. I saw her at the Pembert's ball last week, and she was all grace and charm, laughing at Lord Pemberton's dreadful jokes as though she hadn't a care in the world. But Charlotte Pemberton told me—in strictest confidence, you understand—that Lady Ashford has moved to separate bedchambers and is consulting with solicitors regarding her settlements. The whole business shall end in either reconciliation or ruin, and I cannot predict which.

Speaking of ruin, have you heard about the Cavendish incident? I know you have, because everyone has heard about it, but the version circulating in London is quite sanitized compared to what actually occurred. Young Geoffrey Cavendish—you remember him, the gangly one with the unfortunate complexion—attempted to prove his manhood by challenging Henry Thornton to a duel. Over what cause, you ask? Why, Henry had the temerity to suggest that Geoffrey's grasp of classical literature was perhaps not quite as comprehensive as Geoffrey believed.

The duel itself was farcical. Geoffrey, who has never held a sword in his life save for ceremonial purposes, very nearly skewered himself while removing his weapon from its sheath. Henry, who is actually trained in the art, could have dispatched him in moments but instead spent a full ten minutes essentially giving Geoffrey a fencing lesson while the seconds stood about looking mortified. In the end, honour was satisfied by Geoffrey managing to land a single touch on Henry's sleeve, after which both parties declared themselves satisfied and retired to a tavern to get thoroughly drunk together.

But here is the delicious part—Geoffrey's mother, upon hearing of the affair, did not react with horror as you might expect. Instead, she praised Geoffrey for 'showing spirit at last' and increased his allowance! Truly, the aristocracy grows stranger by the day.

I must close now, as Mother is calling me to receive visitors. Write to me soon and tell me everything I am missing in town. I shall die of boredom if I do not have your letters to sustain me.

Ever yours,

Annabelle Thornfield

P.S. — Destroy this letter! If Mother found it she would have apoplexy.