To A Dear Friend From School

Dearest Lucy,

I’m certainly pleased to hear that Sir Edmund and Lady Jane have been treating you well. I do hope your favorable assessment of your pupil's temperament withstands the holidays. Mr. M. assures me that his niece Rosie, who appears constantly cheerful and good-natured, behaves like an absolute beast when her brothers and sisters are home from school. What monkey tricks will your “angelic Maria” enact when the elder Misses Esterfold are in residence? As I have no younger brothers or sisters of my own, I cannot guess.

In your last, you asked if I had yet become accustomed to my husband’s name. That was very proper of you, my dearest. Miss Carriger’s classes prepared you well for our adult correspondences. Since July, I’ve received letters from every woman of my acquaintance and half of Mr. M.’s asking me, “And are you yet accustomed to writing your name as Sophie Markleton,” or perhaps, “Does the address of Mrs. Markleton still make your heart flutter?” My Aunt Winthrop employed that exact word: “Flutter.” I am beginning to question if I comprehend its meaning!

Bumblebees and butterflies flutter about in good weather. Ruffled gowns and lace fans flutter at balls. I could, if pressed, characterize a sensation in my breast as “fluttering,” but ten ages have passed since I last felt such a thing. My heart fluttered when we slipped into the Centaury Academy garden after curfew to watch the stars and share confidences. It fluttered when you tied my hair into curls before bed, and when you stole the last wedge of potato from my plate at breakfast. Certainly, a heart flutters when it experiences the joys of true friendship. Does Aunt Winthrop expect me to forge such a pure, intense bond with Mr. M.?

Yes, my dear Lucy, I have become accustomed to my husband’s name. The change from Sophie Bartleby to Sophie Markleton was a change in geography, as Centaury Academy is in Kent on the border of Sussex and Surrey, and Markelton Lodge is in Surrey on the border of Sussex and Kent. It was an increase in menus plaisirs, with better gowns and finer stationary. I have a new name and new domicile, but my nature remains unchanged.

Here, I must rely on your grace. Today’s letter cannot possibly entertain you as much as my previous attempts. I gave you six weeks of long letters full of the London season, with plays, concerts, balls, and the anxieties of attracting and securing a worthy husband. When I wrote about my wedding, I attempted to give you every detail, from the seams of my gloves to the flavor of the cake. After that, it was easy to fill page after page of my adventures and misadventures in Ramsgate. I shall never forget the discovery that I have more propensity at rowing than Mr. M.! When I first arrived in the country, I encountered novelties at every turn. I could share with you every plant in Mr. M.’s greenhouses and every absurdity in my servants, my neighbors, and my neighbors’ servants.

All that remains is routine.

I am quite content, I think. Mr. M.’s family has amassed a library easily three times larger than Centaury’s. I can choose freely between histories, poetry, essays, and even novels. Naturally, I have added the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and a volume of Lactilla. There is a pleasant garden walk on the west side of the house, and I anticipate spending many hours in the spring painting the apricot tree when it is in bloom. Mr. M.’s dear friend Mr. Philip Castle is our constant companion. He fills the days with Irish airs on the pianoforte and tastefully read speeches from a variety of plays. The occasional unpleasant duties I must endure as a wife never take me from my watercolors for longer than a quarter hour at a time. In almost every way, my situation can be described as conjugal felicity.

Why, then, does discontent wrap around my shoulders every day, weighty and uncomfortable as an old, wet shawl?

I confess: presently, there is more art in my use of the word “watercolors” than in my use of the paints themselves. Every afternoon, Sarah carries my easel to whatever corner of Markleton Lodge least disgusts me that day and ties an apron around my waist. I place my canvas, grip my sketching coal, and stare at the blank space where landscapes and still life portraits refuse to materialize. Every attempt to paint brings you to mind.

Since leaving school, my fancy has become a more accomplished artist than my hand. I can see us in the drawing room at Centaury, smiling at each other over your sheet music. I speckle the green of your eyes into the leaves of my still life. Your fingers fly over the keys with consummate taste. I streak the gold of your hair into flower petals. Your voice makes angels weep.

My mind diligently sketches your reflection beside mine in every mirror or shop window. I nearly convince myself I will hear your laugh or see your smile at any ball. If I wake in the middle of the night, I expect to see your sleeping face on the pillow beside mine.

Tell me the Esterfolds will come to London after Christmas. Tell me that Sir Edmund must take the waters at Bath to cure an ailment, and that his soft-hearted wife insists on bringing little Maria and her governess along. Conspire with any relation of Sir Edmund's or Lady Jane’s to bring you to any public place, and I will see to it that Mr. M. and I follow. Dearest, dearest Lucy, the world cannot be so cruel as to keep us apart forever.

Write to me soon, mon coeur. Tell me everything that happens to you and every thought on your mind. I must especially inquire about the Mr. Esterfold who is, as you put it, “Sir Edmund’s charming younger cousin.” How old is he? How ugly? How poor? How stupid? Do you expect his visit with Sir Edmund will be blessedly brief, or will the household grow sick of him? It must be bothersome to have such an interloper in one’s life! Perhaps he thinks too highly of himself to speak with a governess, no matter how beautifully she sings.

Yours forever and ever,

S. Markleton