Through a Different Lens

Promises (1860's Victorian era)

15th November 1858

My dearest one,

I must extend my sincerest apologies for my being unable to write for so long. Stealing time enough alone in which to put together a proper letter to you has grown near to impossible, and I fear my days will grow only more taxing in future. My father has begun pushing me to take on more responsibility within the company, and towards this I am both hopeful and mournful. I long for the spare time I once had at the beginning or end of the day, that I used to use to write to you and to read through your past letters and to walk about the town and the parks near to the house and think of all the things I might one day like to do with you. However, I take heart and strength that I might one day have control enough of father's company that I should be permitted to take up a residence of my own. I have spent many a night far from sleep, instead picturing the two of us in a little place all our own. A townhouse in the city, or perhaps even a house out in the country somewhere, secluded enough that you and I could walk freely around the grounds without a fear or care in the world. We could plant a little garden for you to tend while I am away at work, sit by the fire in the evening and talk and read in each other's company into the night. Oh, the books that we will accumulate for you, my dear! I should hope to fill shelves to the brim with novels and encyclopaedias and manuals such that you should never hope to finish them in a single lifetime!

My deepest apologies again for the brevity of my letter. I can hear my father readying to retire to bed from his study, and I suspect he should want me to do the same very soon. I hope this message finds you well, and that you may take solace in the knowledge that soon we will be together. I cannot promise you the free life you so sorely want –and deserve!– and so I must make my peace in providing you with everything good and proper and comfortable that I am able.

Know that I love you, and I am regretfully thinking of you a great deal more than I am writing to you.

All my love and yours forever,

Warren

P.S.

My love to your mother and all the rest. I hope they are doing well and that they thought of losing you in the future is not too dreadful!

The day has been dreary, and the constant drizzle of rain does nothing at all to alleviate the heavy greyness of London's city streets. The misery of the outside world feels so thick and pervasive that it has seeped into the minds of those brave enough to leave the warmth of their homes, filling their heads with a mist that dulls their thoughts and weighs down their mood. The cold has sapped away at the natural friendliness and goodwill of the city folk, and many have taken to forgoing the usual tip of the hat or nod of the head in favour of training their gaze steadfastly on the pavement. For this, Warren is glad, as it means he need not hide his tension under the mask of a polite smile, nor engage in any manner of tedious or draining small talk. He is in no state to chat, regardless of the weather. Though the dimness of late afternoon is magnified not insignificantly by the oppressive cloud cover, he feels he could still manage to return home before the evening became night and the lamp lighters come to set spark to the lampposts that patrol the streets each evening. It has been yet another seemingly endless day of work, listening to his father explain things he has known for months, having read about them and seen them in practice since the very first day his father decided to begin "training up" his son to relieve him of his place at the head of their estate company.

Warren reaches his family home with little time to spare, as the last few stubborn dregs of daylight begin to fade into the inky darkness of a London evening, and the cracking of thunder in the distance gives the promise of another stormy night. He enters with a brief greeting and takes a small supper in place of a meal –much to his mother's worry— before retiring to his room as quickly as was polite. It is all he can do to hold himself together until the moment the door closes and he collapses into the chair by his bed. He moves like a man possessed, tugging furiously at his frock coat and loosening the tie around his neck, breath catching in his throat with desperation. Since the moment he dressed that morning, he has thought of nothing but this moment, struggled on minute by minute as a slave to the cruel slowness of the clock. The anxiety of his condition being noticed does nothing to ease the tension in his muscles throughout the day, or the myriad cramps and spasms he experiences at such frequent intervals and always at the most inopportune of moments. He strips away his shirt, tossing it carelessly aside, and at last reaches the harness underneath, fingers stumbling in their eagerness, grabbing at the buckles running from his shoulder down his back and legs. One by one they are loosed, freeing the snowy white wings from their cage with a relief that feels nothing short of heavenly.