I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner, I’ve been trying to find a way to hide Fredrick from Mrs. Sheepshanks and her cat.
There is a tiny knot-hole in the side of my writing desk, and I’ve been endeavoring to coax Fredrick into it. The hole leads to a small cupboard for stamps, but I’ve put some scraps of fabric there in the hopes he will make a nest. And perhaps bring his little friend from the hedge.
Mrs. Sheepshanks did finally replace the maid, but the woman (Mrs. Sheepshanks’ niece) is nearly as sullen and cruel as Mrs. Sheepshanks herself.
Thankfully, spring has come at last, even though I can hardly tell, and I’m able to walk to the park when the women become unbearable. The grass is not very plentiful here, even in the park. I’m convinced it is the dreadful smog that constantly hangs over the city that limits the growth of green things. In fact, I believe it limits the growth of all things here, even the people.
I saw a child walking home from school yesterday, and the poor thing was thin and pale. He wore a dirty cap and patched breeches, and one bony arm swung two books bound by a leather belt. I wished I could take him with me when I go away with you. He ought to be able to play in the sun, wade in a creek to catch crawfish, and curl up by a cozy fire at the end of the day.
Perhaps I want those things myself. Mostly, though, I want you. And once we are married, I don’t think I’ll ever come back to New York.
I’m counting the days until you come, my love.