Sir, a letter from Adderstone Hall.

Dearest Dear Thomas,

You must be surprised, of that I am sure. But let me explain: your sister, in her infinite kindness, has given me your late address so I can write you this letter −talk to you at last. Please, do not blame her, for she only wishes me the best, and she thought that a few words would do me well. I do hope so, too.

However I must say that, now that I am here, in front of the paper, I find nothing interesting to tell you about. We have a new gardener, but you know that, don’t you? He is an old and quick-tempered fellow, and knows very little of Nature. As you see, he is quite the opposite of you –and I guess that is what my husband likes the most.

So the garden is starting to lose its soul, I’m afraid. Purple puppies have not grown, weeds are everywhere, even at my window. We have tried so hard to uproot them… But all was in vain. It seems like this garden, who has known wealth and wisdom under your protection, is no longer willing to see another spring. Nevertheless, I do have hope, for there are still some green sprouts who refuse giving up on life.

With regard to your family, I am happy to say that they are all very well. Little James is as tall as me already, though that is not very difficult, isn’t it? He does not play hide and seek with me anymore –he now prefers fighting games, which I definitely hate. Your sister Lizzie, as I wrote before, looks after me all the time, and I shall never be grateful enough for everything that she has done for me. Sometimes, when we are both alone, I ask her if there is someone in her life, a good man, but she always blushed and deny his existence. You should ask her, in letters to come, for I am sure that she hides the truth of her heart from me –it is maybe a matter of politeness. Your father, mother and aunt are often very busy, that has not changed. Nevertheless, when my husband is absent, I tell them not to worry about the maintenance of all those useless rooms, but they insist. ‘You may never know when visitors are coming’, they say. However nobody comes here anymore. But you know all of this, don’t you? Yes, I am sure you do.

As for myself, well, I am fine. I have abandoned the harp −I find no pleasure in playing it.

Your father assures me that you are well settled in Middlesbrough. That is quite far away from the South, isn’t it? But I couldn’t help smiling when I heard that you were moving there. Are you trying to find perhaps some Catherine Earnshaw in the lonely moors? Indeed, you should!

There is no need to answer this letter, since I am very well informed, as you may see. So it only remains for me to say that we all here remember you most affectionately, and that we wish you the best of lucks, whatever path you choose.

Your friend,

Gala Mitford.

P.S. Sometimes I miss you so much that I can’t hardly breathe.