From Anne Charlston to Richard Charlston, 28th of July, 1859.

Dear Brother,

For a man who is brave enough to sail past the horn I find it odd that you would not be brave enough to address your letter to me directly, rather addressing it to our father even when you know he will not be capable of reading it in his current state, and that I, your suffering sister, would have to read of your adventures thus far impersonally, knowing they are not for me to enjoy, and seeing within them no personal note of affection for myself to absorb from my only brother and remaining sane member of my family. Yet am I the martyr you always claim me to be so will swallow your neglect and wish you the best for your journey and hope with all of God’s blessings that your ship reaches port safely. In truth, I need you to listen to me, to read what I have written here; I need another soul to share the burdens of recent events and you will see soon why I cannot share this with my great friend Maggie. So please, brother, read on, feel with me, and think more of your sister than just a pawn in the game you play against father and the world.
I requested the help of Maggie some weeks ago, although I did not frame it in such a direct way; I try to play hostess and invite others to our home as mother might have – with the promise of cheerful hospitality – yet such is proved to be the absurdist of jokes as any who come within the orbit of our family is sapped of all cheer the moment they cross the threshold of our penetralium. But I am learning in my own way. I cannot be as mother was but can find my own passage to control events and order this madness infecting the walls of Sedgewood. Maggie is a dear, patient friend but I fear I may betray her unknowingly as circumstances force my desires.
I will explain what has transpired. Maggie's fiancé George started to visit Sedgewood, which is perfectly understandable given the grim reports Maggie was no doubt issuing to the outside world through her personal letters. Who could blame a lover for being concerned for his beloved when held in the thrall of a forsaken family such as ours. I am sure he only agreed to her staying with us based on typical Maggie assurances that nothing would harm her and to “stop being such a worrisome bore” and no doubt she did not tell him directly what has happened during her stay but he would have read between the lines or perhaps she communicated fully to an intermediary who let all known to poor sensitive George, whose troubled expression he could not hide whenever he entered into our domain; slightly concerned when viewing me, glancing at my hands on occasion to see if there was a dangerous object held, tight-knuckled, within them – but with even greater worry looking in the dark corners for the specter of my father, the source, not unjustified, of “all the evil” that dwelled in Sedgewood and ultimately threatened his dear fiancé. None of this he could articulate to me or Maggie as such would be improper in my case and in Maggie’s it would provoke ridicule from her independent and stubborn nature (and reveal that he knew more than he was supposed to).
On his first visit he came for lunch and we dined, we three, on a roast pheasant too scrawny to be satisfying but there were no complaints. In fact our spirits were somewhat raised. After Geroge’s initial caution his kind face fell to empathy and his sincere and naive compassion so endeared us to him we could not help being moved to joy at knowing there are good men in the world, still light in spirit and wishing to play the hero against despair.
Curiously, and ominously as will read, this kindness was more soothing to myself than to his fiancé who after a few moments of genuine affection fell into her usual supercilious mood, eager to tease, needing it in fact after being unable to bring herself to tease me for so many days. Here was the nature of our conversation:
“You’re both looking well,” said George, trying to be pleasant yet could not quite stifle his surprise at our condition which was no doubt better than had heard of in his reports, the cause being, likely, our recent trip to the moor and newfound closeness we discovered between us after a little sisterly tiff ended in us forging an even stronger bond of friendship.
“Well how did you expect us to look?”, said Maggie, unable to resist probing this glimmer of surprise in the lilt of his delivery.
George blushed, tried to retort, then blushed more when no retort came to him, forcing him to laugh nervously and wave his fiancé away in loving dismissal.
This was apparently just as Maggie expected and wished as a delicate smirk curled up and an affectionate glint glistened in her eyes, the like of which I’d rarely seen on her usually sardonic face.
I assumed this was young, fresh, love I was witnessing, having never been subject to its thrall I could only judge in objective detachment. But the energy, the joy! I felt it and was dismayed at the impurity of my soul. A melancholy, perhaps even jealousy, piggybacked on the purity of what I witnessed. Here you read the first words that begin to explain why I cannot disclose my thought to Maggie without a censorship, that, being the best of friends, I cannot bear to do.
Despite these mixed feelings I had a competing desire to platonically discuss poetry with George as I had not yet revealed to him that I had begun to write verse (of course, I had not revealed this to you either, or anyone, but that cat’s out of the bag now!) but Maggie was apparently desperate for gossip regarding the matrimonial adventures of various cousins.
Frustratingly (for Maggie; for me it was quite amusing and endearing), George seemed to have little knowledge of such events, being as he says, “not built to follow the trifles of shallow hearts” which he had no sooner spoken before he winced in regret realizing the superciliousness of his words as though ashamed of his ideals yet unable to betray them.
Maggie, suffice to say, was not going to let this slip go unpunished.
“Really, George, how can a so-called poet be so obtuse before the spectrum of romance that exists?”
“It’s hardly romance,” said George, unable to stop himself doubling down, speaking confidently, despite his slumped shoulders which betrayed his meekness, “when none involved think beyond the dowry, the such-and-such a year income and the prospects of future progeny.”
“How cute you are in your reverence for the purity of love, as though all Earthly affections are corruptions of its sweet nectar. Tell me, dear, how long can someone sit in pure rapture of love before the boredom sets in? Three hours? Three days? Three weeks? Such a poet. All fancies and no sense of what living means. Did you never observe your parents and see what it took to keep them sane when together for so many decades? Was love enough or did they have other responsibilities, or games, or mutual amusements to keep them occupied?”
I knew Maggie’s method of amusement was to ask a relentless stream of questions, indeed, by a sound logic, but mostly through an absolute confidence that her rhetoric could never be questioned, given that it was uttered by her, a siren whose song was always loudest and most alluring. Therefore I winced for the sake of George but was surprised to see him engage with the question directly rather than submitting or trying to dodge with wit.
He said, “I do not doubt that love has seasonings from many sources, but when the simplest of flavors overpowers with too much sweetness of saltiness the depth and complexity is suppressed leaving nothing but shallow notes on a tongue craving ever more sugar and salt.”
“Oh silly Gearge with his metaphors. So muddled you are. Clearly love is the sweetness and sourness, and everything else is the spices and textures that make love into something greater than your primal, pure force.”
“It’s not primal, it’s divine,” I interjected, causing them both to look at me, not unkindly, but with expressions that hinted I had “stepped into the ring” during a bout that took no prisoners, and I could leave now if I still wished to remain unscathed, and despite my comment in support of him it has George himself that chose to refute my words, either because he thought I was wrong, which is the most charitable motivation attributable to him; but one cannot help suspect other motivations, such as solidarity with his bride to be, or simply with the existing player in the game that I had naively entered, or, worst of all, that, despite his compassion, he was like most men in their disrespect of a woman’s opinion which must be proved to be logically unsound at all costs.
“I do not doubt there are elements of the divine within it but one must not forget that we are fallen creatures and primal lust is borne upon the same wind,” so said George, shutting me up, for clearly I was not suited to speak of what I had never experienced.
As often happens in conversations where one person has been humbled, however gracefully, even a natural aggressor, such as Maggie, will offer a consolatory branch. To me she said, “It’s always good to have the highest virtue in mind, none can blame you for that dear.” Despite the condescension, as though to a child (although, in love, I am), I was grateful to have been given this comfort.
“But this is all by the by,” continued Maggie, “you really must pay attention to these little trifles, as you’d call them, George, for I can’t talk poetry in whispers of high romance all day long. We have an eternity to live together. Remember?”
George sensed that the time for arguing was over, smiled, and said simply, “Of course, my dear, for you I’ll try.”
Seizing upon Maggie’s mention of poetry I chose it as our next topic of discussion as I was eager to “compare notes”.
“We may not have to talk on it all day, but I... what I mean to say is, I’ve been writing a bit... and I...”, I blushed horribly seemingly unable to utter the simple phrase “I have been writing poetry”.
“Writing? Writing what?” asked George, gently.
“You mentioned I should try and I just thought I would try my hand at a few lines...”
An earnest, even childlike, grin appeared on George’s face at this revelation.
"Oh, delightful!” was all he could say before he paused in what I surmised was contemplation of what to ask a beginner without scaring them off or condescending.
Maggie easily filled this pause with a skyward look and muttered prayer of exasperation, “Two of them, O lord!”, was what I thought I heard her say, although it may have simply been the words that best articulated her expression.
George, being so used to this attitude from his wife to be, was oblivious and spoke energetically, having now found the right questions to ask me, ”How did it feel to write? Did you feel solidarity with your words?”
"I... had a dream,” I began, not, in fact, answering his question, but viewing his question merely as a prompt to express my experience, “and I felt the need to express it in a way that... in a way that I couldn’t quite understand; that was beyond my understanding. To say it straight wouldn’t have done justice to the... to the madness and horror of my dream.”
George nodded vigorously as if I had answered his question perfectly, illuminating to me the habit of poets to speak through vagaries of feelings, rather than facts, where only the communion of passionately abstract language is necessary regardless of context.
Eventually I was coaxed to retrieve my poem and show my guests, one of whom eyed it with mock disdain although a small smile showed her silent appreciation, and the other with wide, boyish, eyes, absorbing the tercets greedily.
It was here, dear brother, that the beginning of my difficulties started. I do not know if you have ever written a fictious work, poetry or no, but to have your work so eagerly absorbed and appreciated with such generosity creates a glow within like no other I have experienced. And when - here’s the rub - that person is a young, handsome gentleman another feeling has the possibility to propagate. Yes, brother, right before the sight of his fiancé, I fell in love with George.
O brother, how tortuous it has been on George’s subsequent visits. To have to prevent the desires of my heart from reaching my face. I simultaneously have to prevent the blood rushing to my cheeks and avoid looking at Maggie to see if she notices anything, as glancing at her might betray to her that there is something worth noticing on my face. Perhaps my desires are hidden by being mistaken for joy at discussing literature and other platonic subjects, as I seemingly exert a similar energy as George who is clearly not in love with me (as Maggie is a far superior person to myself and could never be dethroned from any man’s heart), and yet he will speak to me joyfully in a manner not dissimilar to how he speaks with his beloved.
In Maggie I have not noticed any hint that she suspects anything between myself and her fiancé (indeed, there is nothing tangible to suspect) or perhaps she has noticed but finds it only amusing and expected that a man worthy of her affections should be desired and loved by all that meet him. But I have written too much on this subject and must be boring you. I wished only to express my difficulties to someone in the wide world, for sharing a burden relieves some of its weight.
I will speak of our father a little although I understand this will be a topic of even less interest to you. Yet I must, as a Christian daughter, do all I can to heal whatever rift exists between you and he, as healing is always preferrable to decay.
Although you have justifiable animosity toward him, his situation is so pathetic, and grows more so each day, that I know you would weep for him if you saw it. An absurdity arose recently in which he became crazed while visiting mother’s room and mistook Maggie for mother, forcing me to strike him to prevent his laying amorous hands on her! Perhaps you have experienced such in your military drills or will do so if ever you reach combat in the orient, but I felt a coldness of action, an icy madness that overtook my spirit and lasted until Maggie was able to draw me out of it with one of her rare affectionate moments.
The residue of that madness is still within me and I fear it may resurface. I do not wish to become like father and my recent obsession with George only deepens my fears, considering the loss of love (which is inevitably how mine must end) left father in the state he is in. If I were not a Christian I believe I would rather be put down, like a dog, than have to suffer as he suffers! Regardless of my precautions, I fear this may be my fate soon enough.
He has since returned to hold his never-ending vigil beside the fire, being passive for the time being. We are grateful for the peace but the man is a volcano ready to erupt after a period of passivity. I fear that if he takes notice of George a strange instinct may surge within him and cause violence, either verbally or worse. I have taken the precaution of never have them in the same room and it has thus far sufficed to prevent such an unpleasant situation from arising.
These matters I discuss with you must seem of such trivial nature against the immensity of what you travel upon and the vastness of your destination at the ends of the Earth. But I will use my voice, however weak, and put my woes to page. If you never read this or if my words have no meaning to you then so be it. I am content to live outside of your care but I would welcome your respect and love again if you desire to return it.
Take care on your travels, brother. This letter will be dispatched to Hongkong where I hope you arrive safely. Perhaps I would be happier if these words were lost at sea, but no, I do want you to read them. Please write to me when you get to port. I’d take a single word over no word at all.

Your suffering sister,
Anne