P.S. I hope you’re making sure Artemis gets plenty of exercise, and you’re riding her, not some brick-handed groom who won’t appreciate the highly strung miracle she is.
***
London, 28th July 1820
My lord,
Kindly desist from writing to me. As I consign any correspondence from you to the drawing room fire, all you’re doing is supplying me with exotic kindling. Your activities are of no interest and I’d prefer that we returned to being polite strangers. That relationship has served us well since we both grew up. At least I grew up. Nothing I’ve seen indicates that you have.
Not yours.
Helena, Lady Crewe
P.S. As if I’d employ a heavy-handed groom. The unhealthy Russian air must have rotted your brain.
***
Outside Moscow, 3rd September 1820
My beautiful sweetheart,
How villainously those of high degree lie to their humble servants. I’d hoped to be home by now and telling you in person of my unending admiration. Even as an impossible brat who was either hanging around the stables getting underfoot, or hidden in the corner of the library with your nose in some dusty volume, you were something special.
I know I have much to atone for—what I can’t bear is that you feel I’m responsible for Crewe’s disgraceful behavior. We were both disappointed in him, although as his wife, you bore the brunt of his extravagance, drunkenness, and lechery. In comparison, a friend’s disillusionment pales to nothing.
To Hades with me. I swore I’d wait until I saw you to address the matters that rise like a wall between us. It’s a wall I’m determined to scale. I imagine you waiting on the other side, like a captive princess.
As you can see, all this Russian romance is softening my head. Of course, my Helena is no captive princess, but a warrior maiden. A man needs all his wit and weaponry to lay siege to her.
The negotiations crawl along without noticeable progress. Every day, the Tsar goes hunting through birch forests, beautiful with coming autumn.
Next week, we travel south to the Crimea without His Imperial Majesty. He feels his government—and the English interloper—needs to know the lay of the land down there to understand the full implications of this tangle. He’s off to the Congress of Troppau to strut on the world stage and enjoy some Western luxury. We might make headway without his royal interference.
This is a strange, beautiful, stirring, half-barbaric country, for all
its wealth. I’d love to bring you here one day. I think your untamed spirit would feel at home. As I ride out every dawn, I imagine you galloping at my side, the way we galloped at Richmond half a world away.
I hear Silas and Caro are more wrapped up in each other than ever. He really should marry the girl. And Fenella has a thousand admirers, but doesn’t give a fig for any of them. I also hear you and Lord Pascal have been seen together several times at the opera. I know he’s handsome, my darling, but the fellow will bore you to death once you’ve stopped looking at him and started listening to him. You need a man to keep you on your toes. A man undaunted by your magnificent brain.
There’s a much more suitable lover available, although he’s currently occupied abroad on international affairs.
I hope when you sleep, you dream of me.
Your fervent admirer
West
P.S. When it comes time to put Artemis to stud, allow me to suggest my stallion Perseus. They will have beautiful, spirited offspring.
***
Cranham, Wiltshire, 10th October 1820
Sir,
Despite repeated requests to refrain, still you pester me with unwanted confidences and reflections. Again I tell you they—like you—are of no interest. It seems cursed unfair that you are much more annoying at a distance than you ever were in London. The Russian doxies mustn’t keep you as amused as our local variety always has. I hesitate to recommend sin, but, my lord, you need to fill those long Russian nights with something other than the cold ashes of an old dalliance. If sin has palled through overfamiliarity, permit me to suggest that you take up knitting.
Again, I insist that you cease this stupid game and leave me in peace.