The folded letter

[Journal entry]

8 June 1773

It has been a week's time since my last entry.  So consumed by preparations for my weekend guests, that I have all but abandoned thoughts of detailing my days... until to-night.

My staff have worked tirelessly to see that old beds were brought from the attics, and deliveries have come at least three times this week alone, bringing new feather mattresses, and other supplies necessary for the comfort of my guests.  Despite my fatigue, I was awoken early; this time by the cook accepting provisions for the larder.  As her menus never disappoint, I shall forgive her for rousing me.

 I have earned at least a little more respect from the staff in these preparations; they have become aware that I am quite capable.  Yesterday, however, I had a set-back in that progression -and one which pains me. I had hoped to bestow the responsibility of arranging each of the guest quarters to the head house maid.  I drew a fairly good diagram of each of the rooms, and detailed where each piece should be set.  Upon handing it to her, initially I thought I had provided too much detail (though in cases like this, one should always do too much, than too little) until it dawned upon me.  The poor girl could not read.  I did my best to cover her shame and replace it with my own, by saying that I had made mistakes, and she was quite right to look at it so oddly.  She had a faint expression of relief, but it was mixed with awkwardness and self-consciousness.   I have made note of that short-falling in my character, and shall endeavour to commit myself to more forethought in such dealings.

[The page ends uncharacteristically mid-page, and continues on the next]

Although all of that is necessary to record, and long overdue, it is peripheral in comparison to a discovery that I made.

Such labours took much of my time, and rather than take tea in the garden, I sought refuge in the library.  I scanned the titles and finally settled on an old volume, a book of prose, its spine weathered and worn.  As I carried it to the chair, something slipped from between the pages and fell to the floor . . .  a folded letter.  So delicate; yellowed and old.  I feared I might shatter the pages like a pane of glass as I opened it.  I was in shock that it was addressed to one Robert Chapman, of whom I was told was responsible for the raising of my family from mere merchant caste to nobility.  I must relate here, the contents:

Dear Mister Chapman,

I have become acquainted with a mate on your ship The [illegible] who informs me that you or someone you know may be in possession of pages which are of great interest to me.  They are written by a dear friend, Anthony Babbington, who has laboured many years on a volume of fiction, and bereft of the pages which you now hold, renders his work nearly useless.  As you can well imagine, the re-writing of a book would take more years than a man can hope to live.

I am currently residing at the Rose & Crown pub in Portsmouth, and would very much appreciate if you would bring these missing pages to me at your earliest convenience.  For your trouble, I am willing to part with a good sum of silver and with gratitude, would happily recount the plot of the book to you, over a few mugs of ale, should you be interested in such things.

I look forward to receiving word of your acceptance of my offer.

Sincerely,

Thomas [illegible]

As I write, I tremble to think what may have become of England, let alone the realization that my very birth would not have occurred should that document have been handed over for a handful of silver and some ale, but what of the letter? Part of me wishes I had never seen it, and so for now, I have replaced it within the volume from which it fell.  I shall make arrangements to speak with my father and his wisdom will guide us down the correct path.  Should he feel its place is best among the embers of the fire, I shall make this entry its companion.