Celia's letter
"Do you believe in love Crabtree?" asked Sir Reginald, emerging from his reverie and glancing at his cabin boy. Crabtree looked at Sleeping quizzically but remained silent.
Shortly before the departure of HMS Basset from Portsmouth, Sleeping had received a package from his wife, Celia, that contained a mosquito net upon which she had embroidered a long message. It read:
My Dearest Reginald,
I embroider this net because the study notepaper has been used in its entirety for the purposes of your scientific work. I hope the bulky nature of this missive causes you no inconvenience and that you may be able to put it to good use upon your arrival.
Reginald, I feel that the time has come to bid you farewell; this time, however, not the ephemeral farewell of a spouse with only needlework to distract her while her errant husband is away, but rather a separation never again to be interrupted by renewed acquaintance.
A long time has passed since Capparis sandwichiana inflamed our passion and united us in mutual lust in the west wing conservatory. However, your persistent absence has left that passion unkindled and extinguished our love. It seems that you, Reginald, when faced with a choice between your devoted wife and an unquenchable thirst for scientific endeavour, opted for the latter.
Initially, when you travelled the earth in search of truth I patiently bided my time and longingly awaited your reappearance, in the hope that we should reencounter the feelings that had accompanied our early farewells. Yet time and distance have taken their toll.
Such is the loneliness I have felt in my husband’s absence that not even the children’s presence in the holidays and Nanny’s constant companionship have filled the aching void left by my loneliness, a solitude so intense that I have found it impossible to ignore the growing attention of a number of single gentlemen, among whom the charms and handsome features of a certain Sir Godfrey Newhouse are particularly noteworthy.
Sir Godfrey has made little secret of his wish, which I have welcomed, to seek my favour. I have encountered the solace for which I have yearned for so long in his affection for and kindness to the children and Nanny, and in his enormous (Sir Reginald smoothed out the fold in the netting to enable him to read the embroidered letters more clearly) capacity to comprehend the melancholy of a lady whose distant husband’s heart lies with another.
Therefore, my dearest Reginald, it is with great sadness that I hereby take my final leave.
Fondly yours,
Celia.
Sleeping rested the net on his knee. He looked at young Crabtree, shook his head and uttered "But I don’t suppose you would understand."
Shortly before the departure of HMS Basset from Portsmouth, Sleeping had received a package from his wife, Celia, that contained a mosquito net upon which she had embroidered a long message. It read:
My Dearest Reginald,
I embroider this net because the study notepaper has been used in its entirety for the purposes of your scientific work. I hope the bulky nature of this missive causes you no inconvenience and that you may be able to put it to good use upon your arrival.
Reginald, I feel that the time has come to bid you farewell; this time, however, not the ephemeral farewell of a spouse with only needlework to distract her while her errant husband is away, but rather a separation never again to be interrupted by renewed acquaintance.
A long time has passed since Capparis sandwichiana inflamed our passion and united us in mutual lust in the west wing conservatory. However, your persistent absence has left that passion unkindled and extinguished our love. It seems that you, Reginald, when faced with a choice between your devoted wife and an unquenchable thirst for scientific endeavour, opted for the latter.
Initially, when you travelled the earth in search of truth I patiently bided my time and longingly awaited your reappearance, in the hope that we should reencounter the feelings that had accompanied our early farewells. Yet time and distance have taken their toll.
Such is the loneliness I have felt in my husband’s absence that not even the children’s presence in the holidays and Nanny’s constant companionship have filled the aching void left by my loneliness, a solitude so intense that I have found it impossible to ignore the growing attention of a number of single gentlemen, among whom the charms and handsome features of a certain Sir Godfrey Newhouse are particularly noteworthy.
Sir Godfrey has made little secret of his wish, which I have welcomed, to seek my favour. I have encountered the solace for which I have yearned for so long in his affection for and kindness to the children and Nanny, and in his enormous (Sir Reginald smoothed out the fold in the netting to enable him to read the embroidered letters more clearly) capacity to comprehend the melancholy of a lady whose distant husband’s heart lies with another.
Therefore, my dearest Reginald, it is with great sadness that I hereby take my final leave.
Fondly yours,
Celia.
Sleeping rested the net on his knee. He looked at young Crabtree, shook his head and uttered "But I don’t suppose you would understand."
posted by Bob @ 11:21 am
2 Comments:
At 12:51 pm,
Dave said…
One of the many ways our forebears were ahead of us, and one of the arts we have lost, is the ability to include a hyperlink within one's embroidery.
At 1:19 pm,
Bob said…
Some scholars maintain that the most skilled embroiderers were also able to sew in HTML code and insert RSS feed.
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