Dearest Cecilia

Sensitivity Warning: Mention of injury similar to self harm

Dearest Cecilia,

I’ve been delighted to have received your letter. It’s been months since your latest arrived. I was beginning to suspect you cared very little for me. That or the postman has gone mad—as he is wont to do—and you weren't receiving mine or I was not receiving yours. It was a rousing tale you spun! Your sister’s maid’s dog’s puppies running away and taking over the town! It must have been quite the stir. Give your sister and her maid my regards, and the puppies as well. And of course their mother!

Hopefully, this letter is received well. There’s been quite the issue in town again with the postman. Just last week, Amelie went and stormed his home! She’s been going back and forth with her cousin in Spain, you know Maria, the one with the novels, and hadn’t heard anything in near seven weeks! So, Amelie, sweet quiet Amelie, thinking that the postman had been stealing the mail again, broke a window and climbed right in! Even more absurd, darling, is she was right! He had a whole stash under his floors. Perhaps some of your letters remain in his floor. Truly, anything is possible.

In any case, I wanted to update you on the farm. Yes, yes, your seaside trip with your sister is paramount to your research on mollusks and tides and such, but I must tell someone of what is happening. Our Old Man Shelly has begun digging graves for the sheep he believes are going to die soon, which of course, is silly to imagine as they are all healthy as can be. I would know, as I sent for the veterinarian in town, and he assured me—and Shelly!—of their health just yesterday. Alas, the man is still digging. I can see him now from my window in the study, out in the darkness, out there digging. There’s at least six so far. He brought a lantern out into the field even.

I think his age is finally getting to his head. Perhaps he should have been sent to the sea instead of you. Ha! I joke, but truly I worry for him. We can't let him go, he has nowhere to go, especially after Joann’s passing, and his money spending can be a bit precarious. I reason he doesn’t have much saved up, even after all this time. However, we really should hire another field hand. Younger, definitely. At best, maybe they could be friends and the young thing could help the old git out. Hopefully, he wouldn't reproach us for hiring another hand. You know how he is. But he truly cannot handle the workload anymore. If he was a horse, we would have already shot him.

On that note, I must inform you of the growing concern I am having in regards to the town. But first, my dearest Cecilia, I must admit that I have not been entirely honest throughout our marriage. This habit of mine has been easier to quell when I am with you, but in your absence, it has become unbearable and untreatable. Well, not untreatable, but not quite wise to continue on with.

My skin is harboring much of this town's gossip I think is the only way to word this, my dear. I told you of Amelie, her cousin, and the postman, and Shelly and his condition, but I only knew so because of the niggling itch under the skin of my left elbow. I scratched and scratched, and as I did, the words fell out onto this very page in dried inked letters.

This is a quite common occurrence, really, especially once I learned to read and write. I scratched until I bled and ached and was riddled with oozing sores all throughout my childhood and, in doing so, filled pages and pages with town gossip. I would burn them over my bedside candle to discard any evidence. Once I married you though, when we moved out here into the countryside, it was quieter under my skin. No sign of itching, not even a smidgen of it.

However, it came back with a vengeance the moment you got into that carriage headed off to the sea. I filled five pages within the hour and burnt all of them as soon as I could. But these past few weeks, I have been keeping them. I plan on sending them with this missive as well, so you can be informed. People have much to say about everything and everyone in this town, even just today there’s been such a strong itch on the back of my hand. Kerrianne is pregnant again, but she doesn't know who the father is. Harrold has fallen ill, but his wife is hiding it from their family. Molly and the kids are leaving John, after all this time, and moving north with her mother. And George has—

I apologize for the rambling. And the blood spatter on that last line. I had to stop for fear of digging into the bones of my hand. When you return, I will need to be wearing gloves so you cannot see the horrific scars I have dealt myself. It is curious where the itching begins and how much can be wrought from a scratch, but I have not enough skin to test any hypotheses just yet. But perhaps if I scratch enough, I can find a family with a young man who wants a job. Or a runaway needing a space to live that would be amiable to farm work. Our shed has enough room. Or he could room with Sherry.

Similarly, in regards to hypotheses, write me of your newest discoveries. The most recent on the mollusks breeding habits was quite riveting. I greatly enjoy the illustrations as well, particularly of the shells. You might try adding some color and getting the prints produced.

I await elatedly for your autumnal return.

Reply soon, my dear. Or return even sooner.

Your dearest husband, Edwin