Her Twenty-First Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dear Kate,

No, I have not yet received a reply from Edward, but really, I think this would be quite early indeed! Almost no gentleman is a prompt correspondent – now do not go telling me about Everett’s letter-writing habits, if they would serve to contradict me!

You will remember Miss Thurston, of the lovely porch, who was so charming? She was so kind as to invite me to a kind of a folk dance, held on one of the neighbouring ranches. How happy I was to see her note! By dint of leaving my desk now and then, I have discovered that one reason why Mr. Ridgetop is so perennially late back to his desk may be that he often seems to be stopping and speaking with someone or other. Now what could make me feel lower about still not having found a small circle for myself within Kingstowne society? Miss Thurston’s note came at just the right time.

Well, it did come only one day before the dance, so despite Mrs. Brougham’s many proclamations and urgings, a more suitable costume than my new riding habit was not to be obtained. But I am happy enough in my habit – it is no gown, yet becomes me well enough I think.

So I was under-dressed for the dance, but I had a fine evening! Lorenzo was almost gallant-seeming as he carried me there; the other guests, and above all the young ladies, arrived by carriage or wagon, but no one seemed to look twice at me. At least I could not tell if they did, being out after dark, with nothing but lanterns and firelight. Some young man appeared to take Lorenzo’s reins, and I had no trouble finding Miss Thurston at all, given her pale blonde hair. She seemed most glad to see me, and her parents, too, came over to greet me.

The dance floor was a beaten square outside a great, trim barn, not the kind of barn that seems about to peacefully crumble but the sort that speaks of industry, and energy. The lights and the bon-fire were almost too much on a warm night. I think they were more festive than anything else.

Miss Thurston introduced me to a number of persons, whose faces amounted to a blur between line dances. I had to learn quickly (and I dearly hope I have learned enough to acquit myself better next time) but then there were the country dances more after the style you and I know, with all the hanging about on the sidelines that entails, and consequently more conversation. I cannot say I entered into it much, surrounded by I was by a dozen young ladies and gentlemen who had known each other practically all their lives! But I shall do my best to get to know them. And I did dance at least five dances – the young men behaved quite handsomely.

I won’t say whether anyone compared to Edward, for the very thought of such comparison seems silly. However, I do at least remember some names. There was a Gregory Henlow, or Harlowe, who did not talk too much about himself as some of them do, but asked me plenty of questions about England. He appeared to have an interest in dirigibles. And a Mr. Matheson, very much occupied by his wife on his arm – so I did not dance with him – in whose expressions there was often something droll, as Mrs. Matheson chattered away. There was also a Miss Dell, who was certainly the belle of the whole dance, a real beauty with masses of black hair. I do not know what it is, Kate, but as so often when I see a beautiful lady, I have this presentiment that she and I shall never be anything more than polite to one another. This is how I felt with Miss Dell, even as I could hardly stop looking at her.

Scarcely could I believe it when I fell into my own bed at almost one o’clock in the morning! And I had not been among the first to leave, but I had also been far from the last. I crept around getting Lorenzo back into his box stall, and crept back over to the inn and up the stairs, and I do believe that as I did these things there may have still been people dancing!

Now here I am the following evening, ready to turn in very early indeed. I sent a note off to Miss Thurston thanking her, and saying that I had a wonderful time – I did want to make sure she knew it, since I begged off earlier than she did. If I had stayed any longer I am sure I would have been entirely, instead of mostly, useless at work.

All-in-all, it was worth the trouble of poking one’s head out of the house.

Yours ever,

Georgia

Next

Her Twentieth Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

My Dearest Kate,

I move to my new lodgings next week, and every time I see Mrs. Brougham I seem to be sidestepping another question. Do I have sufficient linens? Tea towels? Spoons? Do I know how to cook? And I suppose I do not, in any of the above categories, but I daresay I shall manage. What with the extravagance that is Lorenzo I prefer not to go off buying every piece of silverware I can find.

The Kingstowne Annual District Report has been sent off on the airways, back to Britain, with what ceremony a brown envelope and a bit of string from the General Store can lend. That is one less thing on my plate – and since I received the latest post, I own I am otherwise occupied.

I think you may have chided me, had I told you when I wrote to numerous friends back home. Alexandra and the other girls I sometimes saw, but also a few of the boys, and Edward among them. I did not really expect a reply from him, Kate. But I thought that if I wrote to many of our acquaintance, it might not be so remarkable that I should write to him. After all, I simply cannot stop wondering when, if ever, he also might come to New Britain. It is such a vast country that even if he were to cross the ocean it likely would not matter. Yet I simply cannot stop.

And yesterday I had a letter from him set down by my breakfast plate, under the keen eye of Mrs. Brougham. I hope I did not audibly gulp down my mouthful of cornmeal cake.

He writes that Kingstowne sounds a very interesting place by my account. And he answered to my inquiries about doings back home, and the health of his family, most cordially. Dare I suppose this foreshadows a fruitful correspondence? He said the remainder of the fall there looks very rainy. I have written back, noting some advantages and deficiencies of the climate of New Cambridge county, and asking him about his work and his plans for the future.

I only wish I had had the chance to speak to him so much, tete-a-tete, when I had been there in person. Personally I find it much easier to speak through a letter, but it should be worth it to see his features and his expressions again.

Did you not have such thoughts and agonies when you and Everett were courting?

With love,

Georgia

P.S. I can hardly think of work at the moment; I am already noting things I should like to include in my next letter to him. Jolly good thing his letter had the sense not to arrive before that report was wrapped up!

Next

Her Nineteenth Letter to Kate – and Others

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dear Mother,

I am indeed getting to know my neighbours. Only yesterday I took tea with one of the rancher families of Kingstowne, the Thurstons, who number among the town’s founders. They have the loveliest porch you ever saw. Young Miss Thurston had only just returned from Cartaeser, and was a most genial and polite hostess.

The matter of your joints aching is quite concerning, have you gone back to Doctor Watts? I own I suspect you of complaining without the intent to consult a medical professional! But you know these things never get better on their own.

Irene must be very busy, or in one of her moods, for I have not heard from her the last few letters I wrote. Perhaps I managed to offend her with one of my missives!

Get well,

Your Georgia

–

Dear Kate,

As the heavens and all their naked cherubs be my witness, I am not fit to deal with the intricacies of small town life. Being out here has brought home to me how much I appreciate big towns and cities, where one can easily disappear, whilst interactions necessary to daily life are greased by that veneer of universal, uninterested politeness that is the great achievement, in my opinion, of the modern age.

Would that your Everett might advise me. He sounds like quite the diplomat, suggested seating arrangements such that your mother and his shan’t have any reason to take offence at the wedding. Unfortunately, that is the very sort of thing I fail to consider.

I was having a lovely day – the very first, real, lovely day since I arrived in Kingstowne. The week prior a Mr. and Mrs. Thurston came to call on me at the Haverly, Saturday tea-time. They are, in fact, the well-to-do ranchers I mentioned in the context of the cow incident. Mrs. Brougham was at her most polished as she brought me down to sit with them in the front room and then whisked herself away. The Thurstons were most genteel; a light joke about the heat, but nothing about the cow; and they asked me to tea at their home, for their daughter was due back from a visit among friends in the city, and she would certainly be delighted to make my acquaintance.

So this afternoon I saddled Lorenzo (yes, he remains an unknown quantity) and went up to their ranch, for which Mrs. Brougham gave me most thorough directions, and advised me – with only a twinge of sarcasm – to wear a hat this time. I went to the trouble of acquiring a proper sort of split-skirt riding habit for the occasion, also on Mrs. Brougham’s advice, and was very glad when I arrived, for Miss Thurston was so prettily turned out that I should have felt immeasurably worse in my usual.

The Thurstons, however, were so pleasant so as to make me speedily forget any comparisons between myself and the daughter. And they seeming to be a busy sort of people, I was left for the bulk of the tea-time tete-a-tete with Miss Thurston, who was terribly engaging.

What a breeze, coming off the rolling grasses, and there in the shade of the porch, learning all sorts of gossip and drinking a cold tea, I felt I understood why some folk adore this place.

Only, when I took my leave and rode away down the cart-track, a passel of ranch hands made a great show of stepping out of my path, and ducking their heads. Not only was there was plenty of room to pass, but I own I was shocked to be treated like a lady as I was in England; ever since arriving in New Britain I have thought of myself – and have been received – as a District Official in a dusty coat. Now I should have forgotten all about the ranch hands, except that I had to stop by the general store for a hand salve on my way back to the Haverly, after having stabled the inscrutable Lorenzo. And at the store, when Mr. Lorelli asked after my day, and I said I had taken a very nice tea with Miss Thurston, there was a general oddness in the air. When I got back to my rooms, I realized that Mr. Lorelli’s usual volubility had converged to a more normal state – normal, that is, were it not he.

Now I am huddled at my desk in the Office, wondering whether I am paranoid but mostly sure that I am not; and mostly sure that Mr. Ridgetop’s muttered question about how I had liked Thurston’s ranch was both piercing and significant, in a way I cannot appreciate; and I am not in much state to consider the significance of winding valley formations right now, so I am writing to you instead.

I wonder whether all small towns are so troublesome. Who went telling Mr. Ridgetop that I was up at Thurston’s, anyhow? And why should anyone care whether my tea was a weak mint with one of Mrs. Broughams biscuits, or an Earl Grey with milk and little cakes with Miss Thurston?

Your bumbling cousin,

Georgia

P.S. Perhaps Kingstownians are prejudiced against tea-cakes, Kate, and now that I have ingested some on New British soil I shall be persona-non-grata forever.

Next

Her Eighteenth Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dear father,

The country here must be, as you say, one that remains influenced by the native philosophies and a sense of being at the mercies of the natural world; although the townspeople do not expound upon such abstract concepts, one can discern it. The sun, the wind, and the rain are spoken of in the most absolute terms – and the means of man in terms so vague (“plodding on”, “getting on with it”, “chipping away”) as to put the two in clear juxtaposition once one sits back.

Meanwhile the native festivals are held here but dimly disguised, and the very fact that no one ever breathes a word of the Great Sky Dreaming Ark, or of the States of the Confederated Tribes just to the southeast, says a whole lot in and of itself.

If you do embark on your next book with New Britain as your subject, at whatever point in its history, I would very much enjoy being an early reader of your draft. Although this may not be practical, owing to the existence of that pesky thing called an ocean between here and there! Anyway, do take care of yourself.

Your daughter,

Georgia

–

Dear Kate,

The County of New Cambridge is remarkably level, bounded in the northwest by the Youx-shalni range, the southwest by the River Cartaeser, and the east by the Redhawk Hills and the forests of Labrette’s County. You are familiar already with the spiral rock formations I mentioned, which pockmark the plains and can give rise to toxic updraft of a dizzying array of chemicals (ever unpredictable in their exact mix, from site to site and time to time). The latter formations are composed largely of felsparic sandstone, but also in the region abound mica of a mediocre quality, syenite, quartzite, and at least some limestone.

I say “at least some” because the limestone is subject of some debate – and some very bad handwriting – in the Kingstowne records, on which I have not yet formed an opinion myself.

A strange feature of the region is the manner in which the rock beds nearest the upper crust, on which we walk, tend to undulate most gracefully but always culminating in an angle jutting up eastward toward the horizon. If one could strip away all the vegetation and annoying topsoil that stand in the way, one could see how the land here almost resembles a bed of scales, the bottoms of which all point up off to the east.

By way of explanation for this digression into the business of the world beneath us, I am now in possession of a horse, and consequently deep in the (overdue) throws of writing Kingstowne’s annual report to the Minister of the Districts of the Greater Commonwealth.

I was ill-equipped to go much of anywhere until I acquired Lorenzo, but now that I can, in fact, carry out one of the principal duties of my Office, I am in a mad hurry to survey as much as I am able in order to add new material to this year’s report. While the principal geological features of a region hardly change much from one year to a next, our decades being but sneezes next to an inch’s shifting of granite, there are still other topographical features on which I can report, albeit less interesting. And thankfully there are leftover questions such as the limestone.

Kingstowne’s last report principally consisted of the usual descriptive table, contents last updated in 1926 and reproduced each year by way of confirmation that yes, a human being bothered to copy them out, and yes, the foibles of new formatting demands from the current Minister of the DGC could be humoured. This table had, by way of foreward, a letter from Mr. Inglethorp to the Secretary to said Minister, which said very little about rocks and trees and water levels, but made up for that in spades with snooker and Scotch kilts. I was disappointed to see that Mr. Inglethorp’s handwriting was quite passable, so I cannot blame him for the illegible passages I come upon in the Office.

Anyway, I have enclosed a sketch of Lorenzo, whose temperament is still an unknown, and whose apparent dislike of apples is too obvious to be trusted. I acquired him from Mrs. Brougham’s son-in-law’s cousin, whose ranch runs alongside the O’Shaughnessys’ and who will board Lorenzo until I move house. If I sound ambivalent where I ought to be excited, let us put this down to the fact that at present Lorenzo does not always go where I wish him to, and has therefore exposed me to the laughter of Mr. Ridgetop as well as a few stray ranch hands.

Perhaps I should not complain seeing as Mr. Ridgetop almost looked astonished when, on my first ride out on survey, as he watched from the Office doorway I got into the saddle without mishap. In fact, I am thoroughly competent at getting on and off of a horse, and have only to feel sour at this apparently being such a surprise.

With Love,

Your Georgia

Next

Her Seventeenth Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dearest Kate,

As I was working away in the office yesterday, the unfortunate door was flung open most abruptly, and Mr. Ridgetop – very tardy indeed, in coming back from his lunch break – threw down his hat on his desk and ran out again.

“Rogue cow!”

The poor door (I do think it is on its last legs) swung madly on its hinges in his wake. I righted it before I went after him, both because it seemed like the kind thing to do, and because I was deeply apprehensive about what I should find outside.

As I learned after the event, the infamous dreyflies of New Britain are not normally found out on the plains near Kingstowne. They like to lay their eggs in the stills of otherwise free-flowing water, and although very little else is known about them, it is known that if they do appear on the plains it will most likely be in late summer – despite the counter-intuitive dearth of moisture here in said season. The one other thing I learned about them is that their bite, while it releases a substance which could be termed a poison, has fascinated entomologists for many decades because of its extraordinary hallucinogenic effects.

Out on Main Street, in the blinding sun, I peered about and was both relieved and disappointed not to see a scene of chaos as I had imagined. There was indeed a cow within view; it was of the butchering variety, brown and hefty. There was also a general congregating of people, drawn like magnets, and all looking rather grimmer than seemed necessary.

I saw our good Mr. Lorelli, and ducked my head to him; the local smith, whose name was Gibbons, according to my landlady; a middle-aged rancher, who had introduced himself to me one morning on my walk to the Office, and whose name I had forgotten, but who gave off a relative air of well-to-do-ness; there was also the latter’s wife, clutching his arm, and fanning herself into an excited swoon. Meanwhile, the cow plodded along towards us, her lead trailing and her head swaying gently. For a brief interval she picked up her feet to skip (lumber, more like) along, and then she stopped, and looked here and there, and kept plodding.

There were at least a dozen or so other people about, some whose faces I recognized but without names to put to them, and others I did not know at all. As I grew less interested in the cow I became aware that a great many of my fellow human beings present were glancing at me. Almost as if there were something on my face, or as if they expected me, at any moment, to do something.

Another minute or two and I surely would have retreated into the Office, but then with a muffled commotion a man with a great burlap sack in his fist bounded into sight, followed by Ridgetop, with a great lot of rope.

Now the cow took exception – now that she was approached, she became more worthy of that epithet, “rogue”. The poor, dear thing, Kate, had looked so very pleased with itself – floating along as if in a fairy land, seeing who knows what. But upon noticing the two men her feet stomped and I do believe that if she could have growled she would have. Can she be blamed? This is my own reaction when being disturbed from a most enchanting dream.

The well-to-do rancher’s wife gave a little shriek. The cow snorted. Ridgetop threw his lasso and the other fellow ran forward headlong, sack thrust out before him as if he were armed with a crucifix against a devil, a rope of garlic against a vampire. For a moment it was very thrilling.

Then the lasso fell home and the bag was simultaneously thrust over her nose; all fight went out of the cow, and, with a surprised look, she began contentedly chewing at whatever was in that bag.

A cheer rose all around, and being a little too excited to go straight back to my desk, I made my way over to Mr. Lorelli. Here I had his explanation of the dreyflies, one of which had evidently bitten this cow, and throughout his voluminous discourse I was discomfited by the sidelong, almost sly looks that other Kingstownians were throwing me as they dispersed, and by Mr. Lorelli’s own alternating sympathetic looks and stifled chuckles.

I finally had to interrupt him, and ask if I had any ink on my chin.

“Oh, no, Ms. Walker. Right as rain! You must be thinking it strange, this whole dreyfly business. It doesn’t happen too often. But when we do get them roague cows, it was always Mr. Inglethorp rushing out, to go about catching them. Master wrangler, he was. Well, you have a good afternoon, Ms. Walker.”

And isn’t that one of the most unhelpful pieces of information you have ever heard? Better to let me think they were all looking at a pimple of mine, rather than expecting me to leap forth like my cowboy predecessor! I can hardly change the truth, that I have never before wrangled a cow.

At least I was left to my own devices that afternoon, for of course Ridgetop went off with the inebriated cow. In the Office I was able to daydream about secretly practising knots, and throwing, or whatever else is necessary for trussing up unsuspecting animals by their feet or necks, and thereby astonishing all the townsfolk. Only I determined by the end of the afternoon that it all seemed like more bother than it was worth, and I wandered home regretting not having actually done my work.

The latter sentiment, I think, must embody the very essence of being “adult”. What a great number of children we could terrorize, Kate, if we went about disseminating this truth!

Yours,

Georgia

Next

Her Sixteenth Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dear Kate,

Mr. Lorelli has put me on to what may be a perfect solution for my accommodations. There is a contingent of O’Shaughnessys here in Kingstowne, who own a sizeable ranch not a twenty minutes’ walk from the District Office, and who a few years ago built a sort of secondary little cottage on their land to house the young Mr. and Mrs. James O’Shaughnessy, lately married. It seems that Mr. James has decided to go work on the railroads, and once the young family decamps two weeks hence, the little cottage will be empty.

So I have a visit to the O’Shaughnessys in my agenda, and out of prudence I will stay well wide of the subject of fruit punch. I must ingratiate myself if I hope to board a horse with them as well.

Mrs. Brougham, if initially taken aback by my mentioning this idea, has since taken it over as being of her own origination, and has told me that although the cottage is “by no means so nice” as her own rooms, I will “do well enough” there. She has warned me not to buy any furnishings without seeing what is to be had at her church jumble, and not to buy a horse without speaking to her son-in-law.

I have perhaps been remiss in describing the running of the Haverly; there is Mrs. Brougham, and a maid of all work, and a man who comes in from time to time (called Thomas, as I know from how this is wrathfully shouted when he does not complete his tasks to standard), and that is all. I had no notion of my landlady having any family, and was afraid to ask, in fact, lest there have been some sort of terrible tragedy involving fires or floods or bee stings. Instead it turns out that Mr. Brougham died several years ago of a very ordinary pneumonia – apparently he always had weak lungs, or so Mrs. Brougham told me, her manner quite disapproving – and Mrs. Brougham’s daughter and son-in-law live four houses over.

I shall have to speak to this son-in-law soon, for a proposal has come in to open a fresh quarry (the present one being apparently nearly exhausted) and I don’t see how I’ll get up in those hills without a horse. Am I not busy socially, now?

Never mind that attempt at a jest and tell me more about the parties you have been attending. I am starved for the silliness of society.

With love,

Your Georgia

Next

Her Eleventh Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dear Kate,

The definition of a breakfast is something I have never questioned before. A gruel, I think we would both agree, does not qualify – it is the choice of invalids or paupers (in the latter case, not really a choice) and knows no one single hour of the day. A roast, on the other hand, is certainly meant for supper, or served cold at an ensuing luncheon. And those sweet confections which we enjoy and our fathers so love to disparage, the pancakes and cream, the eclairs, the fruits, those are most certainly a dessert or a breakfast, on an equal footing with the traditional English, eggs, bacon, toast, romanesco and all. I am ever so glad beansnever caught on, my father’s own wishes aside.

What, then should one’s reaction be when sitting down in the morning to two stout, round, puck-like looking things, browned across the top, crisp edges steaming, topped with something that looks like the inside of an apple pie? I must admit I sat and stared, beflummoxed.

Upon my asking, my landlady, Mrs. Brougham, brought me cutlery and informed me stiffly that they were fried biscuits. And oh Kate, they were heavenly! The heavy, buttery biscuit hot from a pan! The sliced apple and cinnamon cooked to one caramel consistency!

As you can probably tell, I am restored to more or less my usual state, and I must apologize for the tone of my last letter, and the delay in writing this one. There has been ever so much to do. It seems I was never to stay at The Haverly indefinitely, and so I have decided it is most sensible (lazy) not to finish my unpacking, and I am presently engaged in searching for more permanent lodgings. Which, in a town as diminutive as Kingstowne, is not the simple matter I would have expected in England.

Why, at home, one can hardly walk a mile without coming upon a cottage or something or other. Here, the sighting of any sort of habitable structure is a thing of purport.

I was informed just this morning by the generous Mrs. Brougham that I have precisely a month to find myself a fitting situation (she did not soften, as I had hoped, under the influence of my compliments on her biscuits). And so this has preoccupied me above all things the past few days, more so even than my new post…

…But heavens, Kate, I had to leave this letter and return to it in order to think what I am to say. District Official to Kingstowne, in the County of New Cambridge? It sounds far more orderly than what it really is!

The Mr. Inglethorp, who wired me to accept my candidature and hasten my arrival on the scene, has decamped and I daresay I shall never see the man in the flesh. I discovered this only after asking three residents for directions to Mr. Inglethorp’s office, receiving blank looks twice and a voluble correction once. It seems he was my predecessor – resigned his post back in the spring – was most annoyed at delaying his departure for the boulevards of Cartaeser until another Official should be procured – and finally spirited himself off days ago. Despite incessant speaking on this part of a good shopkeeper, I discovered nothing more of import about Mr. Inglethorp, but I did finally get directions to the District Office.

The latter is directly on the main road, toward the west end of town and therefore a not insignificant walk from the Haverly. By the time I had managed to gather the necessary intelligence and make my way there, it was fully 10 o’clock in the morning. Or so I think it must have been, had I a clock anywhere to tell by!!

Well. I stepped inside and the dust of the road came with me. No gutters, no stoop, no front mat, shoddy windows, shoddy door. I took this all in in an instant. And there a rectangular one-room affair, containing two desks, and a person whom I assumed must be a part of the staff.

He being seated at one of the desks. With a pen in hand. All quite official-like, if it weren’t for his boots being up on the desk itself, and an air of carelessness.

I said Good Morning. I said that I was the new District Official. I paused and then spoke a dangling Mr. –, so that he might readily introduce himself.

Then he rose, and I was thanking my lucky stars because it had begun to feel awkward, when that person turned around and stared at me a good five seconds. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets, squinted, and said “Charmed, I’m sure.” And he told me, that should I need anything, he was at my disposal, in a way that most certainly meant the opposite! And he left just like that. I am not exaggerating in the slightest, Kate, this is precisely how it occurred.

I am writing to you now comfortably alone, and seated in the other desk, for I would rather burn that chair than sit where he’d been.

With love and exasperation,

Your Georgia

P.S. No one else has shown their face at the office. Was that person the only “staff” to speak of?

P.P.S. The files are too much a mess to be called such; I cannot make heads or tails of anything, except that the two recurring names I see are Inglethorp and Ridgetop. So I presume that person’s name was Ridgetop, and I am afraid I will actually have to speak to him again.

Next

Her Tenth Letter to Kate – and Others

Previous

Back to the Beginning

My Dear Mother,

I have arrived safely in Kingstowne, and the landlady, Mrs. Brougham, showed me to a comfortable apartment that had been reserved for me. There is everything I could need – a desk, shelves, chest, closet, bed, sofa and breakfast-table. The fireplace and hearth look very good indeed. I do not think I will be cold in the slightest.

Are you all well at home? I hope the new clock is still working well. I do not think there is anything else I shall need here, but if I should think of anything, may I ask you to send it over by the next airship? I can wire the postage to you.

Your loving daughter,

Georgia

*

Dear Irene,

It was difficult to see much of Kingstowne, arriving in the night. I believe it is a good-sized town, and at any rate, they have given me good rooms. Quite three times that of my bedroom at home.

This matter of all your papers coming due at once is unfortunate. Will you be all right? Alexandra took many of the same sorts of courses as you are embroiled in at the moment, so perhaps she could be of service.

How is Dean?

Love,

Georgia

*

Dear Father,

I have arrived safely in Kingstowne, and am happy to say I have comfortable rooms here. Kate told me that she has visited you, so I trust you have dug out my other letters by now, and have a fresh, empty mailbox for this one!

I will be back at Michaelmas for certain, so we shall see each other then. I am sorry for leaving so suddenly. Very much looking forward to a visit to England this winter.

Love,

Georgia

*

My Faraway Kate,

Oh, what a place this is! We arrived later than expected in Kingstowne, for these trains never seem to be quite to the hour, and the conductor was all very pleasant in showing me out onto the station platform. But then – can you guess? – there was nobody there to greet me!

I had to go looking for The Haverly Inn by myself in the dark (all right, it wasn’t entirely dark, there was a half-moon), leaving half my luggage on the platform, for it was impossible to bring it all in one go. Now the inn was not too far, yet there was not a light to be seen. And no bell. I knocked until my hand was fairly bruised before I roused the landlady, who was predictably dour upon being roused from her slumber, and who shewed herself displeased to have to wait while I went back for the rest of my trunks (unaided!), before showing me up to my rooms.

The apartment, two rooms separated by a curtain, might seem well enough to an impartial eye, if a bit rustic. Plenty of rugs, reddish, and brown furnishings rather in the vein of your father’s study, and dark wainscoting remedied by pale plaster above. But it is not home, Kate. How very far from it.

I am still dressed in my trench, but rather than feeling debonair as I sit here half-unpacked, unable to sleep, I feel homesick. And hungry.

When I think of this job ahead of me I cannot help but cringe. I had all those stories from Mr. Faulken, but to be frank, he was more interested in speaking of his own favourite adventures than of imparting any useful instruction to me. I am in no way prepared to serve as a District Officer. I would buy a ticket home now, if my turning up back in England wouldn’t be so humiliating, and if I didn’t know what private smugness that might bring Irene. My pride is the only thing keeping me here at the moment, and it also happens to be giving me a stomach ache, so I don’t know that it counts for much.

Your crybaby,

Georgia

P.S. I am sorry to be despondent, it is all just so strange. Did you know there are almost no clocks in New Britain? I saw only one on the whole train, none walking from the station to The Haverly, and none anywhere inside the inn or my rooms. I am in a place of true lawlessness.

Next

Her Ninth Letter to Kate

Previous

Back to the Beginning

Dear Kate,

I saw the most extraordinary thing, my last day on the train! And Mr. Faulken, the District Officer for Denver, was with me, so I was treated to a satisfying discussion rather than simply going starry eyed, and wondering about it by myself.

We were at one end of the dining car with the window open, as Mr. Faulken enjoys a smoke (yes, oh yes, I do agree it is a disgusting habit), and I saw movement out on the plains of West Dempshire. The land undulates in this part of the country, not quite flat and not quite hilly, but a pleasing expanse of dips and rises that would be well-suited to agriculture, were the soil not rather poor. I saw this movement, and at first I could not say what it was. My eyes would not accept it. But after a few moments I discerned the great block of clay – not a rock, but reddish, packed earth sprouting prairie grasses – the size of a man, and regular as two cubes stuck together, sliding uphill.

I am afraid I pointed, and was largely inarticulate, but Mr. Faulken comprehended.

His discourse then on quarky ions, and the love of clay for high places, transported me from my undergraduate physics seminars to armchair philosophy and back again, whilst I watched the clay block, with its grasses swaying like untamed hair, reach a small summit, quiver, and seemingly disappear into thin air.

I had a number of questions for him then, largely around the theory that clay enjoyed high places – if so, then why did it disappear from just one such spot? Mr. Faulken scratched his ear and said that maybe this particular piece of wandering clay had been more sentient than most spotted in West Dempshire, and perhaps it knew that one cannot always have what one wants for long.

What a very yellow-bellied piece of clay that would be, in my opinion. It didn’t try to keep to its summit for more than two seconds altogether.

Anyway, I bid goodbye to Mr. Faulken after supper, for we have crossed the New Cambridge border; later tonight we shall arrive in Kingstowne, and I will disembark. Rather embarrassingly, it seems the gentleman noticed my green-eyed glances at his wristwatch-compass over the course of our short acquaintance, and upon parting he gave me the directions for the workshop on the east coast which makes them. He cautioned me that they are terribly expensive – but never mentioned the magnitude of the price. And I have no head for their New British pounds yet at any rate. All I could do was thank him effusively.

I will no doubt write to you soon with news of what Kingstowne is like.

Yours,

Georgia

P.S. Thank you for visiting my papa – you make it sound as though he were no too shocked at my sudden departure, and I shall endeavour to believe this to be true.

Her Eighth Letter to Kate

Previous – Her Seventh Letter to Kate

Back to the Beginning

From ArtStation

Dear Kate,

It is my second day on the train and so much has happened. I hope that you continue blissfully well, that Everett is equally well (but not any more so than you), and that my uncle’s birthday has passed happily. Please give him my best wishes. On that note, have you spoken with my father at all? I am sad to have left England without hearing from him, and I am impatient to arrive in Kingstowne and to have any letters forwarded to me.

The first thing I noticed when I set foot on this new continent was that even the way buildings and streets were laid out gave an impression of an abundance of space, and that the attire of its folk gave an impression of boundless fashions. When I saw a woman in pants I realized – I can wear anything that I want here, and people will hardly look twice.

Neither did they look twice at the murmuring cats who crossed my path, or the funny cloud that was hanging low over a house of questionable reputation. It was pink as cotton candy. So you see my first anomalies have been benign, even if one cat did send me a withering look, and the only noticeable change in the physics is how easily a hop can become a jump. I was emboldened by the surrounding strangeness when I slipped into my first New British shop; however, I do not for one moment regret my purchases.

For I will be engaged in many rough and tumble things. I was remiss in explaining exactly how I will be employed, my vagueness partly out of habit from concealing gruesome details from Irene and my mother. I will ride about on survey, watching for landslides and fissures, approving (or disapproving) any new buildings or industry as per the Kingstowne Charter and basic prudence, planning for the future stability of the area, and helping to bring any remarkable students to the government’s notice. Thankfully I shall have a staff to help me in doing all of this, though I don’t know of how many and of what quality. The District Official is supposed to be someone “of irreproachable education and manners”, but I have no notion of the exigencies for an Official’s employees.

Anyway, after the talking cats and some reflection, I didn’t think skirts were right for the job. Besides, we wore much what your brothers did when caught toads and played dolls all in the same afternoons.

Yes, I bought pants. Pants! Don’t tell anyone, for fear of it getting back to Irene, as she will be sure to tell my mother, and I couldn’t bear all the discombobulation that would follow at my posterior being outlined for the public’s view. To be honest, I am rather proud of my posterior. Up top, Alexandra has always made me feel very small – maybe that is why Edward danced with her.

No, nothing about him. To go on, I also bought some plain but sweet linen shirts (I plan to embroider the cuffs), ones heavy enough to conceal my underthings, and the most magnificent leather trench to ward off the dust. The man in the shop got all strained and funny-looking when I said I wanted it. It makes me look like a pirate, Kate! I actually have to try not to swagger when I wear it.

I’m going to dinner now, and shall write more after.

…

Hah, I fancy a few people did look askance when I came into the dining car but I don’t care, I tell you! I am a stranger here. The Conductor had described another District Official to me, and I found the man (who is from Denver) by his cow boy hat and his large boots. He also wore a gleaming, ticking device upon his wrist. I wonder that the Conductor did not distinguish him by the device rather than all else together. Mayhap she didn’t know what to call it. He sat alone so I went up very boldly, and inclined my head, and said I hoped he would pardon me but I was on my way to be a new Official, and I should like to eat with him if it wouldn’t be a disturbance.

“A new one, eh? And a young lady at that, by jove. Good choice of coat. Sit down, sit down.” He had a very craggy face, and it got more jumbled as he smiled.

I was so pleased when he said that about the coat. And seeing how he was dressed, with weathered pants, a heavy vest, and great leather gloves set down by his plate, I was reassured in my own selections.

We talked about all manner of things. I told him that I was an MA in Geography, but that I had dabbled in many other subjects along the way, and when I said I was from the University of Bloomsbury he seemed rather impressed. He himself went to the University of New York for a BSc in Biology, specializing in mountain vegetation. He told me that he has been one of two Officials in Denver (it is a big place), for over twenty years. From him I heard all sorts of interesting and daunting stories about the work. He also saw my curiosity at his wrist device, and he explained it in detail; it is both a time-keeper and a compass, a marvel of gears and glass and little swivelling arrows. I covet it.

Kingstowne will be different from Denver in a thousand ways, but still I feel that I have a better idea of what I can look forward to. I shall only be on the train for one more day so I will try to talk to this District Official, Mr. Faulken, as much as I can before this leg of the journey is done.

Yours always,

Georgia

P.S. How is the weather in England? How are the flowers blooming in York? Does Everett bring you bouquets? At a word from you, I will hogtie him if he doesn’t (I am sure I will learn how to hogtie).