The Unseen(38)

Mr Durrant is a man that Albert heard speak a fortnight or so ago, in Newbury, on the subject of nature sprites and the like. Albert didn’t talk about it a great deal at the time, but just a few days ago, he came in from his morning walk quite convinced that he had encountered such magical creatures – although apparently I ought not to call them this – out in the meadows around Cold Ash Holt.

I must say, the meadows are quite stunningly lovely at this time of year. They are simply glowing with life and wild flowers and fresh green growth. The grasses and reeds are growing so quickly, one can almost hear them at it if one stops and turns an ear! If nature can indeed put forth a spiritual body of some kind, then surely this would be the perfect environment for it to do so? I can’t help but wonder, though. It seems such an extraordinary thing – as though he had come home and claimed to have seen a unicorn! But, of course, he must be telling the truth, and as his wife I must support him, and trust in his better judgement. He is a scholar, and a man of the cloth after all. I can make no such lofty claims.

And so this young man, Mr Durrant, is due to arrive later this morning, since Albert wrote to him about his observations; and will stay with us for a while – I admit I have not been able to get from Albert how long this might be. Mrs Bell is quite in a flap about lunch and dinner for three – it’s a while since she’s had to cater for any more than just Albert and I. Which only goes to show, dearest, that a visit from you and my dear brother-in-law, not to mention sweet Ellie and John, is long overdue. Just name the date – your rooms are always ready for you. If he is to stay a while, this Mr Durrant, I do hope he is an amiable chap, and not too grand or clever and learned, else I fear I’ll find nothing at all to say to him that he won’t consider silly beyond belief!

Here is something that will surely make you laugh – but you mustn’t, because I am quite serious. I have begun to worry that there may be something amiss with Albert. In terms of his physical conformation, that is – never with his heart or the essence of him, of course. I was coming back from the school just yesterday afternoon, and as we passed John Westcott’s farm, I caught sight of his stallion being ‘put’ to a mare – I believe this is the term they use to describe this natural and necessary act. Westcott’s daughters were out on the verge, cutting grass for their pigs, and they curtseyed to me most prettily, but I admit my attention was quite drawn by the spectacle going on behind them. Entirely improper of me, I am sure, and I should no doubt have averted my gaze, but such natural sights are common when one lives in as rural a place as this. I would not for one second compare my dear husband to a farmyard animal, but I can only assume that, on some terribly base level, the physical systems of most creatures are – at least very loosely – similar. But perhaps I am wrong in this as well? There. That will have to be all I say on the matter, since I am blushing and feeling horribly treacherous as I write this to you, and you are my own flesh and blood! If by some small mercy you understand what I mean by this comparison, then your clarification, as ever, would be so welcome, my dear sister.

I worry about Cat Morley as well. She remains so very thin, and looks so very tired all the time. It seems that her body is not responding to the wholesome life here, although what kind of body could resist such simple goodness, I can’t imagine. Perhaps there is some deeper aspect to it that I have yet to discover, some perversion in her that runs deeper than I know. I have asked Sophie Bell to look in on her at night to see if she sleeps, but I understand that Sophie is a very deep sleeper herself, and finds it hard to rouse herself to check on the girl. What she might do in the long, dark hours of the night instead of resting, I can scarce imagine. It is an uneasy thought. And I also have it from Sophie that she barely eats, and upon occasion is in the act of eating and has to stop, gripped by some convulsion or sickness. I must get to the bottom of it. When I ask after her health she insists that she feels fine, and that the infection she had in her chest in London continues to improve. What does one do with a person who is sick, but will not admit to being so? I do my best to make her welcome, but it is not always as easy as it should be. She has the countenance of a hawk – a tiny, fierce bird of some kind; like a merlin, or a hobby.

Well, I had better finish this letter and make ready for Mr Durrant’s arrival. I will of course write and tell you all about him in a few days’ time, although forgive me if there is a delay – I am so fraught with the effort of getting everything organised in time for our Coronation Fête – one week today and still we have yet to find sufficient bunting. It’s becoming quite a to-do. I dare say we shall get there in the end, but now is hardly the best time to have a house guest arriving. Poor Bertie – men have no clue about such things, do they?