Secrets of a Lady (aka Daughter of the Game)

House of Commons
December 1819

Sweetheart,

It’s just past ten. I can hear the crack of walnuts from the back benches and shells crunching underfoot. Someone’s opened a flask of brandy. Debate will resume in another quarter hour. God knows when we’ll get out of here. I wanted to get this to you as soon as possible, so I’m sending it with Addison, who I think will not at all mind the excuse to get home to Blanca.

You were quite right about the opening of the speech. Much better to start with a description of the villagers we met in Lurcia (odd now to think of our differing perspectives when we met them, but that’s another matter). Quoting Luis Coria’s account of the Spain he wanted for his children was a stroke of genius. The House went gratifyingly silent. Mallinson and Lydgate instructed me to tell you it was my best speech of the year, which I do only because you wrote half of it.

Castlereagh is present, as you predicted. I could feel the chill of his gaze on me the whole time I spoke. He must have heard by now about Felipe Carevalo having the ring, but he hasn’t said a word. We haven’t spoken in private since that afternoon he summoned me to the Foreign Office and in faultlessly polite language expressed his condolences over Edgar’s death. To do him justice, his concern sounded quite genuine. But I still can’t help but wonder how much he knows. In that, as in so many things, all we can do is wait.

Roth was in the gallery for the speech as well, as he promised he would be when he dined with us. And I had the strangest sense I saw another familiar figure at the back of the gallery. Perhaps it was a trick of my imagination. I thought O’Roarke had gone to Ireland after he left Spain.

I stopped by Hatchards on my way to the House and found the Robin Hood stories we were looking for for Colin for Christmas (you’ve realized, haven’t you, that we have a son who’s fascinated by an outlaw who defies the crown in the name of justice and the common man?). I also got the toy theatre for Jessica. Do you know, it was a relief to hear them quarreling when I left this evening. Reassuringly normal (I of course can say that, having been spared hours of arguments over the dinner dishes, though I suspect you talked them out of it before you’d finished the soup.).

I must go. Addison’s standing by patiently, and Mallinson and Lydgate want me to come rally votes. I’m being slow coming to the point, because I still don’t do well framing such words. You told me when we were working on the speech that I’m better at saying what I think than what I feel. You’re quite right (and, my darling, there’s a great deal to be said for rational thought, as I think you’d be the first to agree). We’ve said a number of things to each other, one way and another, these past weeks. Some things we haven’t said, and I doubt we ever will. Perhaps some truths are best left unvoiced. But there’s one truth I don’t think I’ve ever committed to writing. As we’ve learned we never know what lies in store, this seems an appropriate time to do it.

I love you with all my heart,
Charles