With Most Gentle Wishes - Chapter 9

Author’s Note:

I am so enjoying reading your comments, your thoughts on where this story might go! While I must admit this will not be a journey of vast dramatics, it is indeed filled with subtle hints and twists throughout. Not everything you read will amount to something in this collection. I have finally decided where I want to go next, though, so watch this space!

Dear Henry,

Oh Henry, your concern for me did amuse me so. That is not to tease you, at all, only to say that your worry that I am doing too much for others is a kindness I am not quite accustomed to receiving. I must reassure you that I am well enough, I was merely being dramatic, as I so often am, and you know how easily I slip into that habit. I do, however, greatly appreciate your words regarding my steadiness with the children. I suppose my manner with them has much to do with the fact that I still feel awfully like a child myself, at times. It is far easier, I think, to lapse into childish play as a form of caring for children, than it is to be the responsible parent.

I must confess that it is awfully comforting to be thought of, and to have my tiredness noticed. The house has been awfully quiet as of late - I cannot say when Arthur last returned home before dusk; there is always some small errand or neighbourly obligation that detains him, most frequently in the direction of the Whitcombes’ gate. This leaves me, busying myself about the house so that my mind might not wander, and leaves very little time to rest. I truly appreciate how attentively you take in what I write (I suppose listen is not quite the correct word for it). You always were the quieter one of us, though I imagine that had much to do with me talking almost endlessly while you followed along with admirable patience. I suspect your attention must have wandered on occasion – I cannot imagine I was not tiresome at times – yet you never once made me feel so. That, I think, is no small thing.

I must tell you, Henry, of an incident this past week. I was standing among a small gathering of people outside the church, just after the Sunday service, half-listening to the conversation at hand, my mind wandering over all manner of things as they spoke. I could have sworn I saw you, wandering along the lower edge of the cemetery. Alas, I had little time to look closer, or even to consider it properly, for I was jolted back to the moment by a sharp nudge to the ribs – Arthur, pointing out that I was being spoken to. I had entirely missed the woman’s remark, and she was obliged to repeat herself. Arthur was not best pleased afterwards, and I found myself making up a lie about thinking I had seen a ghost. I suppose, if it was indeed you I thought I saw, then it would not be a lie at all – only a misplacement.

Since that moment, I have not been able to ignore quite how frequently my thoughts stray from where they are meant to rest. While stirring tea, while preparing supper, or even when laying my head down to sleep, my mind does not always quieten as it should. It seems one may be present in a room, yet absent in thought, and the two do not always travel together as faithfully as one might hope. Still, do not be troubled by these small lapses, Henry. They are noticed only by me, and quickly corrected. While my thoughts wander, my duties remain well tended, and the days continue much as they always have.

I tell you this not out of alarm, but out of honesty. There is comfort in naming a thing, even quietly, and then setting it back in its proper place. I am trying to be attentive, to my home, to those around me, to the rhythm of the hours as they pass, and I trust that steadiness will return if I keep to it. Tomorrow I shall busy myself as usual, and by evening the house will be settled again, the ordinary restored.

With most gentle wishes,
Mabel Harrington

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