Not A Love Letter...

April 9, 1912

My dearest husband Charles,

I am no less a woman for writing this to you. I abhor the term 'love letter' so think not of this as such. It is strictly a reminder letter…a reminder for you to return to me. I will however admit to a modicum of emotion, hereby listed below and explained in the simplest of terms so as to not be misunderstood.

I have never told you about the first moment I saw you. It was Christmas time, the year before we were introduced. My father and I were making our way out of the grand house of Lady Davenport, down the beautiful steps to our simple hansom cab. My father got tired easily and it was time for us to leave. Your stylish barouche carriage had just pulled up and a young footman moved forward to pull down the steps. Just as he was dropping the steps, he faltered and lost his footing. Most men, if not all, would have lost their temper, scoffed at his foolishness, but not you. You rushed from the carriage, lifting him to his feet, dusting off his soiled knees, and patting him on the back. My father and I watched with awe, never having seen such a display of kindness from a gentleman towards a simple footman. I knew then that I wanted a man like that in my life. You had no way to know, but I feel as though I found myself enamored with you from that moment forward.

I will admit you are an attractive man but it is not just your face that I crave to see. It is the nobility of your character. I care not for rakish charm and saucy grins, for those are a facade for a weak constitution. I do not swoon when near you; to do so would shame me, and you, for my inability to temper my humors. I do not love you for your handsome face, but for the graceful altruism I see behind your smile.

I can sense you even before you step across the threshold of any room you enter. The moment my eyes alight upon you, any doubt or worry I may be foolishly ruminating over instantly vanishes. I love you not for your fine rapport, but for the peace you instill in my soul just being near me.

You do not understand how my heart dances inside my chest when you hold my hand, caress my cheek, or slip a kiss behind my ear. Yours is not typical behavior of a husband, and I pity any woman that does not feel the sweet, internal joy that I have found. I love you not for reaching out to touch me, but for the craving to have your skin forever pressed against mine.

I have witnessed first hand your kindness, your empathy. I have seen you sit at the bedside of your dying mother, talking to her, feeding her, holding her hand. She knew in her final moments, although scared to leave this world behind, that she was loved and cherished by her only child. Countless men would have sent their own mother away to die at hospital, unburdened by the pain of watching them slip from this world, but not you. You refused to let her go alone, you would not allow a tear to fall down her cheek without you there to wipe it away. I love you not for your compassion, but for the fondness you show to those you admire.

I have seen the way other men behave when addressing you, some with idolatry laced across their faces, others with consternation. But you treat them all equally, diplomatically, with even tones and stoicism. It seems at times some men wish to rile you up, force your body and tone to betray you. Each time those men are sent away despondent, their vigor waned, grumbling at their loss. You never laugh at them, never admonish their ignorance. I love you not for the way you extinguish their tempers, but for the way you strive to teach them another way to disagree.

There are evenings in front of the fire that we read together, my many pages unread and sometimes repeated, my body pulsating with the prospect that you will snap close your book and announce it is time for bed. I will forever feel the flush of warmth throughout my body as I force myself to pretend I am not hungrily anticipating what I know will come next, when I hear your voice deepen and rumble my name. I know my hands will fumble at the laces of my corset in my haste to remove it, and you brush them away to slowly draw my body from it. I shake, not from nerves, but from impatience. I love you not for the pleasure you bring me, but for the way your eyes never leave mine.

You fill the room with your presence. And in your absence, each room seems almost cavernous. I know I will hear your resounding laughter throughout the halls, smell your soap by the wash table and basin, and still reach for you among the sheets of our empty bed. I hate how these months shall trudge along, but it gives me more time to prepare for your return.

I hear you snoring softly as I write this. The candle is dripping and burning low so I must now finish this absurdly long proclamation. I shall dab a bit of my perfumed oil amidst the pages so you will not forget my scent before I tuck this away in the pocket of your favorite frocked coat.

I envy your journey to New York in your most certainly exquisite stateroom on the Titanic. I wish to see this Wonder Ship one day, it most certainly is a marvel.

I know you will prepare your new offices abroad post haste and rush back to me and the child that swells within my womb. I will prepare the nursery and make a tremendously long list of names, but I refuse to learn to cross stitch…that is dreadfully boring work.

Until we meet again,

Your smitten wife Nicolette