Can you not return and find a bed in the village? There is an inn, you must have supped there sometime. I have seen it from the carriage — in the square — it don’t look too filthy. Then you might rustle over the lawn all in black when the owl is out and all of them here slumbering fast and call to me, or scatter your pebbles on the glass — but I will be waiting — it will be like before — tho’ you may not climb up as you have been in Town. To see your face, and we might talk.
I am out of sorts not only from the cold I have but by Mr Golding our country lawyer who was allowed in here would you believe to show me my Lord’s will — he has drawn up anew and most is left to his brother if Charles should not live, & my jointure is £1,500. His brother has so small an estate in Huntingdonshire that ours must of necessity become his, for this brother is now made Earl and his land can hardly bear such title. Our own is not reckoned above £3,000 a year. We might spread to the very wall of the Manor and then you might run to me without muddying. If we were to inclose the Commons (my Lord has ventured this) then Charles might stride with his title, not feel pinched as he must if we do not knock in a few fences. What vexes me most is that £1,500 is hardly sufficient to keep in silver and support a London house, lest I dust it myself. Tho’ if I have your love in perpetuity that is worth more than any cash.
The rains have been severe this week and Mrs Price was bogged in on her way from Slough up to the handles, she told me. Lady Montagu came to visit in sedan chair and the poor creatures carrying her had mud from the road up to their chins. She is fearful of all horses after her accident many years past, and will only stand for human legs to bear her considerable weight. She lives five miles away. I daresay it is tremendous inconvenient for Lord M. to have a wife with such an obsession.
I run on. Do not be unfaithful in London. I could not support the knowledge of your handling any other flesh but mine own. If you feel the heat then do as Onan, and spill your seed in the dust. My brother learnt this from a footman he told me and ’twas that discovery had him leave off me.
I cannot think of you but as mine. When my Lord touches me I must clear my mind of those greasy women ’tis told me he visits in London, or I would perforce vomit on the instant, so jealous do I feel, tho’ there is not a spark of love for him in me. Is this not strange? I am healed under and crave your member. I wish to talk baldly but fear this will be discovered. Burn it on the instant, do not fasten it up in a drawer for the servants will always be meddling, tho’ you say you have only a cook in London. I hear from Mrs S. that there are books from France that would make a libertine blush. Old aunts and rooks — and Nurse Fieldhouse — and Wall the housekeeper (who has graffito scribbled upon her face for features) — these are the sum of my fare here. Our last lovemaking I forbade your request, but now I shall be willing to drink you, my sweet love, till you are dry as bone. I run on and on. I pant like the hart for the stream. It is close in here and the clock ticks to madden me — there is no other sound but sometimes feet passing overhead — everything squeaks here tho’ it is only built the twenty year. I am swaddled till I breathe no more, or hardly. I sneeze. Are you in good health? Never will I abide cinnamon again, or the smell of it. My caudle has so much of cinnamon I cannot taste the wine. I ask for beer but caudle it is until I sweat it. I am so weary of aunts and neighbours.
I have asked how the Norcoat boy is and he mends, thank God. I hope he is slow at his Latin that you might remain longer with him, as long as my life.
I am,
yr deepest loving,
A.C.
April 12th, 1743.
My sweet W.,–
I am at my bureau that you admired so, inlaid with the ivory herons you told were your soul’s five desires, and touch your letter with my cheek as I write this. Its perfume is yours — how long in your pocket?
My head aches to read of your delay in returning. The boy is mended. Can you not be contracted for his Latin on the instant? I cannot think the scarlet tires the brain so that one must remain without schooling for a month after. I have your ribband in my hair. I say to Nurse that ’tis from my childhood. It is indeed true that as an infant I and my sister crept up to the top of the tower at Stagley, and forced the window ope, and let our ribbands fall to the lawn, tiny red things — mischief was ever in our nature. I have kept it since. It binds the hair of my dear Phoebe, you remember her — who smiles always shyly from my mantelshelf, tho’ she have one eye all cracks, & her dress be torn — my anger once — I am capable of anger. Dear Stagley! Yours plucked from your letter smells, I fancy, of your powder. When you come we must loosen our ribbands and let fall our hair, and play the savages.
Each morning I sit at the window — and lift it — and peep till I am blinded, for the light in here otherwise — only of candles — is so dim even by day I grow suited to it, and the sun rising above the rim of our estate (it is all furze and sheep-bells there) quite takes my sight from me. The smells of the garden soothe me, and blow the fustiness away for a period. This morning was all dewy, and they have cut the grass and rolled it, and the perfume was exemplary. You worry that my cold will worsen by the window, but it has not done yet. Yesterday a fox (I saw it clear) ran along the wood-edge for a good minute. I felt tenderness and esteem for its cunning.
I dream of raspberries and mutton. Also of you: those are bold dreams indeed! I cannot help my dreams. Our Chaplain came in this afternoon, to talk of my being churched at the month’s end, and of Charles’s baptism: he has a scratchy, fussy manner, and smells of cupboards. I could not help but think, as he went on, of what perdurable state he would consign me to did he but know the half! I do not like him — he was my father-in-law’s man — he looks at you over the top of his spectacles, but at one’s forelocks, never at the eyes. How few of the family of this great house do I feel anything for but a quiet despising — doors are ever opening and shutting, I hear them, but I do not care a fig for those who turn the handles. This whole house is rooms of India paper and wooden-ness and fuss.
Our baby does well. I feel such affection for the creature it cannot but be yours, tho’ it screams. He is fat now, like a cushion. The wet-nurse has such plump breasts I cannot fear that he lacks but rather has excess. When I held him yesterday he clasped my breast through the silk within his tiny lips — it was quite paining. I don’t think my breasts, being sharp, will ever be likely to support such mettle, if I were to choose to feed, which Lady Osborn tells me is the talk of the most fashionable at present. One is so in the rear here — of the mode. My Lord would not support any change in my dugs, so that is that.
Pray write soonest –
I am,
ever loving yrs,
A.C.
April 31st ’43.
Dearest William, –
Tore your letter open at the harpsichord — I told you ’twas to be delivered — they chipped a leg upon the stairs but ’tis tuned — I press it without consolation, the sound muffled in this swaddling tightness, but I play to chase Time faster before me. Wall entered with a bundle and it was but a breath before the rest were scattered upon the keys when I espied your hand: your curls and extravagances.
They are blotched by my tears — religiously spilt. You were amiss to pause in penning a reply and more amiss, double amiss, to write so curt. Do you not know how thin I have become? I look in the glass and see how tiresome I am, poor pale thing, to vex you with my sentiments and my passions. ’Tis the pier-glass with the cupids. Alas, one has a wing chipped. Is that hurt yours or mine? I cannot bear to see it. I will have it took down to the breakfast room, where it will serve my husband’s vanity. He is always at his neckerchiefs.