Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

Alack that is the bell for tea — I can just hear — I shall miss the post: I must write three letters for your one or there is no bundle to muffle yours in.

My husband behaves exceeding well, tho’ his complaint makes him tear at the servants.

I prattle only to conceal my anguish — nay, my want to see you — it don’t ease with this scribbling.

Pray return soonest.

My love,

I am,

yr desirous,

A.C.

May 3rd ’43.

My dearest only William, –

Alack how blustery this May began — I espied on it from my chink and saw the poor hinds with their herds upon the ridge quite blown about. Did I tell you — no I think not — how I saw a village maid and her swain in a field at our perimeter ply their love — she sporting with him — all turfy dalliance, he bashful — each gathering flowers then scattering them over one another — dark-hued but a kind of native prettiness she had, tho’ the light was still wan and they were far. Perhaps I painted the scene with innocent colours, but such melancholy pangs did this sylvan lovemaking bring into my heart I near fainted at the window, and sought my salts.

Your letter did not cheer me. You cannot think of going to Italy yet. This Pompey — is it near Florence? It is insupportable, the thought of you preferring to wield a spade in the dim ancients’ rubbish than to lying with me. Has life become quite so umbrageous that the long-dead are become more dear to you than she who muses on little else but upon your appearance below my window? I feel almost angered, ’tis true. But you know your own affairs best.

No, I cannot think but that London has tempted you from your greener pangs. You would say to me how you dreamed of these simpler charms — of Virgil’s shepherd lads piping on their reeds, and did sing to me once a pastoral song, and that summer night we did gaze upon the swans from my Dressing Room — there was a moon — they had a radiance from their wings that stopped our hearts — O I have writ a poem on that night — and rent it to shreds and cast it upon the fire — and writ another — and folded it in my bosom, where it pricks me still.

O William.

Perhaps ’tis among the olive groves you will find your nymph. You did admire ours upon the plinth by the temple, the one that holds herself, startled — in marble. You have forgot already. You murmured in my ear in the Dressing Room — do you recall — how its silver brilliance on the lawn was a famished soul yearning for love, and then folded me in your arms. You said your only fortune was yourself — and your books — & your cat. When you weary of the heat & the fevers and the pots and pans of Rome, you will blubber back to me, smelling of thymy shores no doubt. And then I will close my window tight upon you, even if it may catch your knuckles.

I am angry at you.

A knock at my door — it is my husband — he was sober — he kissed me upon the neck — he leaves his paint upon my cheek — a red bruise — and departs to Bath. So. This is how men serve. It was always thus. I hid this paper — he enquired what letter I was writing — I tickled him beneath the nose with my pen — I told him it was my lover, but the aunt’s was uppermost — he did laugh at my feint — we laughed together — his breath on my ear — his house is scrubbed thrice a fortnight, but his mouth all neglected — my nostrils quiver at its stench — bacco and spirits and gaming — it is old cabbages and burnt milk in the scullery. He is hardly decent tho’ clouded in powder. I am too severe. ’Tis he brought back from London last week figs and pomegranates of jewels that he laid upon my table himself — for he does love his nymph.

I must cease immediate — I am too choked. Italy! Our native haunts, our soft lawns mean nothing to you, tho’ they enfold your truest heart –

A.C.

May 25th, ’43.

Dear William, –

You profess love to me, but this prisoner is yet unlocked. My cold has worsened — I am hoarse — perhaps sweet Charlie will have no mother to caress him but a ruddy nurse only — do I frighten you?

Forgive me. I am well, hale as you are. But I am still Confined. My cold has been chased off by the caudle, or by the evacuations Dr Mackernes did me last week. You say the seal upon my letter to you was broke. I give my bundles to a dull-witted maid — she dusts my room, no other — who is not the prying kind. But mayhap another of the great family has smelt a plot and means to rub cash from me. Once Wall did ask who Mr W. S. was and I told her — ’twas a solicitor of my brother’s affairs in Barbados, that lives in London. But I blushed. I did not tell you earlier, I was too fearful what you might think. I cannot tell of Wall’s thoughts — she has no features to speak of, she is scribbled in chalk. She is a broiling hen.

I am to remain in this wretched room another fortnight. Why, I cannot rightly say. The doctor will have it. The orchard blossoms are all dashed, I hear, in the nipping gales of last week. How I miss their sweet fragrance, tho’ the earliest mornings at my chink are sweeter than any dream of paradise. The lawn is greener sure, in its dewy state. I wish the stables were farther off: their odours mingle if the wind is southerly. The woods are verdant now. I saw the vixen again, she is not yet caught. A redbreast took pity on me and perched at the sill, and warbled his tiny heart near to bursting — this only yesterday. I have put my rose oils on the hinges, and the shutter is silent. But you are not come. All about me the house rumbles like a muffled drum. No, it is mostly shut from me, the noise. Silent as the Stygian pool. I read little now. I am moroser. Why do I not fade away, like the night shadows in the woods? I am hearty well — in body. This gloomy room frets out of me any inkling of comfort. I know every inch of the stucco: it goes about and about my head. It is old fashion, that makes it more insupportable — my head aches from it. All shields, warlike in a lady’s room. I stitch wearily, tho’ my boldest yet: the Four Seasons, at my Lord’s request, for his settee in the Dressing Room, that is worn black & greasy from his too much sitting. ’Tis all husbandry, took straight out the freshest pattern book — got from Mrs Price — but so slow do I dip and tug that the wretched ploughman must eternally plod, it seems, ’pon my lap — ’till either he or his maker drop. I have sent for new silk for the bed. The old is too blue. I am sick of the oils — but for one — a Fête-Champêtre — for Fools — they make merry above my canapé — I dance with them in the gloom.

Take the note enclosed to Hapgood’s in the Strand and buy a waistcoat, if as you say yours is threadbare. Don’t mention who you are. I like crimson sattin the best, tho’ you might not favour me with a view of it. I have sent invitations for the Christening. You are bound to it — the Squire, wretched man, will not dare keep you away, he don’t care for bad form. Do not come too showy. Dress your hair careful, in a half-bob. Don’t wink at me.

You are bound to it, William.

I don’t care if they read this. Do what they will.

Here is half your ribband.

Lady Oxford was here. She is out of mourning. I have no other news.

I am,

yr forlorn,

A.C.

June 5th.

Dearest W.,–

Send no more post here. I smell a plot, or a discovery. Each week they lengthen my confinement — I cannot see or know why. Dr Mackernes I think to be in on it. He would purge his liver for a fee. He has bled me thrice since we last wrote — I feel weak and dismal — Mrs Danvers they evacuated till she was a husk, for her distraction after her delivery. I shall burst in this confine. Likewise, and for this reason, I would wish our dear sweet little baby unwrapped of his swaddling, but Nurse Fieldhouse will not hear of it — calls it new-fangled liberties — so he may only wave his arms about from yesterday. I held his hand — ’tis like ivory, only warm — his arteries beat with our blood in the wrist — he does just exist but already how favourable I feel towards him, more than to other little creatures I have encountered, such as the daughter of Mrs Danvers, whom I felt nothing for at Christmas.