With Most Gentle Wishes - Chapter 4

Author’s Note:

I simply cannot explain how happy it makes me, to see Mabel loved so dearly by each one of you. As always, thank you for your kindness.

Dear Henry,

I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the kind words you spoke of me in your previous letters, though I fear you give me far more credit than I deserve. Writing with you, and taking up conversation again after so many years, is a pleasure, not a burden. How I wish these exchanges of ours could be in person, so that I might see your expression as I once again scold you for implying otherwise.

How I giggled at your recollection of my demeanour, Henry. Of course I am still as orderly, and as clumsy, as ever. Your account of us quarrelling because you would not tidy after yourself amused me greatly. I remember how your mother took my side, and rightly so, for scolding you as I did. I remember she said, “They like to think it is the other way around, but we women must keep these men in line.” Her words have had a more profound effect upon me than she or you might realise, Henry. She is a woman of great sense.

At risk of sounding like your mother, Henry, might you be able to go out for a walk soon? Perhaps just a wander around your gardens, so that you might not overexert yourself. I can almost see you reclining among the flowerbeds, surveying your roses with the air of a man who has been confined far too long, and I hope the fresh air and sun might do you more good than all the broths and teas I might send. Do take care, of course, for I would be most displeased to hear of you tiring yourself so soon after your confinement.

Just as you fancied, here is a small anecdote from my very ordinary wife-life (at least, I believe that is how you phrased it). It was Thursday, and Arthur was not expected home from his business engagements until well after supper. What is a woman to do on a summer’s eve, but serve her dinner into a bowl and wander down toward the riverside? I found myself packing everything into a basket almost before I was aware of it. I believe I was guided by thoughts of us, as children, carrying our plates of supper down to the creek, savouring every bite as the sun settled behind the hills. The sunset looks different here, almost too yellow. I remember a warmer, more amber light to those evenings, casting deep shadows across everything. Perhaps it is merely nostalgia, but I cannot enjoy a setting sun in quite the same way as we once did.

I thought it might also interest you to hear a little of what I have been reading. As you know, the life of a wife can be terribly mundane, and so I find myself with ample time to let my mind wander and dwell upon small curiosities. A new gentleman and his wife have recently moved into our village. They are not from this country, I believe. Her hair is far darker than any I have seen before, and I am certain I heard an accent when I overheard him speaking with the vicar last Sunday. It set my thoughts wandering toward the wider world, and all that lies beyond our villages, and when I came upon a volume entitled ‘Journeys among the Peoples of India’ in Arthur’s collection, I could not resist it. Did you know, Henry, that there are foods we have never even heard named, meals we shall likely never taste, simply because they are prepared by people on the far side of the world? How I wish it were possible to travel elsewhere, to observe their customs, to learn their language, to sit beside their oceans and feel their warmth. Perhaps the sunsets there are closer to those I remember, shared with you.

I do hope someone is still keeping you in line. I was sorry to hear of your concern for your mother, and I trust she is bearing these weeks with her usual fortitude. It is a difficult thing, to feel one’s duty pressing from several directions at once, and yet to be held fast by circumstance. I am sure she knows your thoughts are with her, even when your strength does not yet permit you to act as you would wish. Until you are better able to resume your responsibilities, do not trouble yourself over what cannot yet be done. I am glad, if in the meantime, our letters may serve as some small exchange of steadiness, and that we may each take comfort in knowing the other is suitably cared for.

With most gentle wishes,
Mabel Harrington

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