Letter Five, (Dear Amelia)

Dear Amelia,                                                      May 26, 18-                                                                         

     There are five swans on the lake; I can see them gliding about so leisurely and handsome. They truly are water birds, being truly graceful only when afloat. I am sitting in a pretty little bower among the shrubs on the slope at the back of the house. It faces the lake which is as still as a sheet of glass this sunny forenoon, except for the ripples trailing behind the water birds. I don’t think I can ever get used to the beauty of this place. It is ‘new every morning’ and I am always finding some pretty new nook to hide away in and read or write, or just think and be. These are happy days. Smile for me, for I am smiling for you!

     I have good new to tell, but my pen is taking me away, running away with me, you see I am in a dreamy mood…

     I am reminded of the lines: ‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us.’ I have a volume of Keats at my side which I have been reading; it must have put me into this romantic mood! I don’t think Grandmamma approves of Keats or poetry at all for when she saw me reading him she said, ‘You seem to like to read often, and perhaps you would like to go over the books in the library. My husband left plenty when he died, he was an avid reader—like you.’ I thanked her but only took the hint when I went to explore the library as there is hardly a printed poem in the room. It is a pity for it is such a quiet, romantic place full of leather furniture and little hidey holes as well as hundreds of dust covered books on natural history, husbandry, and ancient philosophy—not particularly my favourite subjects.

     I am going to be a sister at last! There, that is my news. Sometime early next year I will be holding a little sibling in my arms, what happiness! I have always envied you your brothers and sisters and lamented being an only child, and now my wish has come true. Grandmamma has been sweet and charming ever since she heard the news, she can be quite domineering in her gracious proud way, but I think a child shall soften her most becomingly. ‘A grandchild at last!’ I heard her exclaim as I was passing below the drawing room window on my way to the lake to sketch, I paused to listen:

    ‘But Mother,’ I heard Mama say, ‘it won’t be the first…’ she trailed away but Grandmamma ignored her,

    ‘It will be a boy of course, he shall be called Harold after his grandfather or Seth, that is another family name, but not so distinguished as the other.’

    ‘Mother,’ I was surprised to hear her speak so firmly, ‘if it is a boy we will call him after his father. And it may be a girl after all.’

     I moved on after hearing this much as I did not want to eavesdrop. I have wondered who Mama meant when she said the baby would not be Grandmother’s first grandchild. I wonder if I have a cousin. Grandmother had three children, the eldest, a girl, passed away about fifteen years ago. Mama was her middle child and the youngest is my Uncle Earnest who is some ten years younger than his sister and unmarried. I wonder--but no, I won’t say it, though it does seem to be the only explanation. And from the couple of times I have met him and the fact that he is not very popular with his mother seems reason enough for speculation. Or maybe my deceased aunt had a child who never lived, and she was married too. I’ll ask mama about it one day.

     With my joyful news comes a shadow. Mama’s health has never been strong and the doctor looked a little grave on his last visit and advised that she stay here until the baby is born. I don’t think it is anything serious to worry about, but the decision is that it is better to be safe than sorry. Papa was rather vexed about the doctor’s orders as he is longing to take his wife home to Scotland, but the doctor rules here and is backed up formidably by Grandmother. And so it is doubtful I shall see you again before next spring, dear Amelia. But next summer, Lord willing, the family shall come home, complete, to dear old Rushbrook House again! Keep things ready for us!

     How is everybody in Scotland? I hope the Warde ladies don’t vex you too much! Is Rhona Warde come to them yet? Kiss your mother for me and give your little post man a big hug!

   I remain your fond friend,

Bethy.

The Composing of a Poem

I am still writing letters from Bethy, but I have been rather slack lately! I'm writing one as soon as I have posted this so expect it soon! 

Here is a short piece of writing which I entered into The Inkpen Authoress' last writing contest.  

Enjoy and have a good day!

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The Composing of a Poem: A night-time glimpse of England

In moonlight after rain

Silent streets shine silver as

A black cat slips past

* * *

  Imagine England: a dark night, and rain. The cobbled street has become a river and nothing is visible except golden dabs of blurred light from the few houses in which inhabitants are still awake. I wonder what could ever keep them from their beds on such a cold, sleety night when they could be anywhere else in their dreams; and I wish that I had only a dry place to rest awhile.

  But lines of a poem run through my head – chasing -- beginning following end, ‘Miles to go before I sleep--But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.’

  My steps follow after each other, streets follow silent streets; darkness wraps me in until I became one of the deep shadows.  And then I find myself in a walled lane, and the rain has stopped. There is still a tinkling of large drops from naked trees which lean over the street. Bare limbs hang over me and reach up to the sky all the way down to a curve in the lane. Things are becoming visible; a great luminous disk is appearing from behind the clouds, rushing her way through the breaking curtains.

  I pause and watch the scene; a fine mist fills the air dispersing the moonlight into a soft, transparent haze. From over the stone wall a blocked in house looks blankly up the street, there is a light in the lower windows, but they are dimmed by the brilliance of the moon now free of shredded cloud. 

   From somewhere far off a clock strikes the hour, the sound dimly penetrates through the quietening sounds of water.  A shape appears, slipping through an open gateway. A cat, black as the night has been, picks her way delicately across the silvered street. Reaching the other side she leaps up and for a moment pauses in silhouette against the silvered mist. I feel a glow of companionship for the fellow traveller with places of her own to get to on this chill night before the far-off dawn. She disappears, and I move on too.

   As I walk from London streets to country lanes on towards the beacon-like moon, her gentle face encouraging me onwards, the lines of a foreign poet’s words no longer dog my steps and I find other lines flow before me, and I long for my pen…

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Painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw