An elegant long box in Fortnum & Mason's definitive eau de nil blue-green, finished with a dove-grey satin ribbon, reveals an armful of perfumed old-world damask roses in crimson, English roses of deepest scarlet, and the humble yet delicately pretty pale briar rose, accompanied by heady cabbage roses.
Among the velvety petals and supporting greenery is an envelope of cream laid paper, the letters "Mme. M.C." etched in reasonably handsome black ink, with a return address that simply reads "Evening, the Pond at Whitworth."
Inside the cover are two cards: the first, a carte de visite photograph of the sender, recently taken and showing off his rather scant figure clothed in a well-tailored double-breasted frock coat and aphotic silk ascot to match his shaded eyes and ebon-waved hair. The second, a color postcard, features a fanciful portrait by Millais that captured the imaginations of romantic Victorians torn apart by distant wars but a few years ago. The good-quality chromolithograph reproduction shows a dutiful Black Brunswicker cavalry officer of Germany (the original "Death or Glory Boys," whose sombre dark uniform & shining silvery death's head were shared by Nigel's regiment by no coincidence). The soldier is shown forced to postpone his ballroom dance date upon orders to leave for Waterloo. His little dog and sweetheart are considerably distraught, and try in vain to hold him home.
The once famous scene was, truthfully, a bit out of style now, as many English increasingly grew jaded with the Empire's expensive and deadly far away conflicts- and also, the country was developing a growing distrust of Germans after the Boer Wars of the early '80s. Nevertheless, Millais' most popular work still commanded quite an audience at the Pre-Raphaelite exhibit currently displayed at the Manchester Art Museum. The card was inscribed with a disembodied postscript on the reverse. A single sheet of stationery, without crest or engraving, matches the envelope's material and is thus inscribed in a taut yet thoughtful hand.
((The italicized parts are not italicized in the letter. However, it was a popular convention of the day for secret lovers to code their missives by writing their truest affections in every other line of what otherwise may be seen as an innocuous communication-- here, a letter of sympathy and gratitude)).
My Dearest Miriam:
Please forgive the intrusion of this letter and the flowers, for
I cannot stop
by in person as I am traveling with a friend--but know I am
thinking of you.
You have my deepest sympathy as you mourn your great ancestor;
My heart overflows
with the utmost admiration for your bravery, duty, and courage: the deed done
with ardent love and unwavering loyalty
And no small magnitude of sacrifice
intertwined with stinging sadness.
The impassioned hues of these petals remind me of your ancient bloodline.
I would be most grateful if you ever thought to look for me
At the small garden near the lodge you so kindly have augmented with your generous patronage;or
at Whitworth Park where I graze my sheep at dusk near the gloam'd pond--
or perhaps Manchester will be blessed with an upcoming opera performance,
for how I long to hear your beautiful voice -
your enchanting gift,
forever in my ears, countering the sinister shadows that haunt me, and
verily, these dark fates that
inevitably lead me to you
refuse to abate their hold on me--
and know I shall not relent;
I shall fight the tormentors of the seen and unseen world,
for you have inspired me to love
and always protect what is gentle and good
despite the darkness whose secret veil shrouds us.
Please accept my pledge of honor,
Although I confess I am hardly a knight, for I have no horse, no lance, no title, no golden treasure--
But those emblems are eclipsed by my devotion and by the shared bond of our ancient homeland.
Please do not refuse this desire.
For I cannot ever forget you, nor your noble deed.
Your obliging and humble servant, Nigel Crowninshield.
PS. This post-card is of a painting I saw at the Mosley St. museum today.
I have never had anyone who wished to keep me from the front lines of death
But the sadness in her eyes, and the entreating little dog, makes me imagine it well:
How the pangs of deferred desire extinguish hope for glory, and weigh on this soldier's heavy heart.
-NC.
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