From John Charleston to Arthur Cromsley, 16th of March, 1855

Dear Arthur,

It's been one year since my Helen died and I've not heard a word out of your ungodly mouth. It used to be I had some clout with you. It seems I saved your life once upon a time on the on Chinese waters back when opium and adventure was our primary currency, yet as time goes on we drift apart and you forget your friends. I've grown churlish; my daughter has retreated and is living with her aunt. My son... I snap at him; I blame him for everything and he is growing to resent me, but if you knew the pain that losing Helen has caused me you would take pity. Yet you do not come to visit me. You do not send a letter. You do nothing that an old friend should do.
The bond of comrades in war is something supposedly strong and nigh eternal, and yet time has proved this false. You are a false friend Arthur. And yet I admonish you without knowing your circumstances. But how can I when I receive no communications? I assume you still live; I have heard nothing to the contrary. If you do I would welcome even the smallest message to indicate your health and modicum of love that an old friend should supply.
Better still that you come and see me. My house is welcome should you wish to visit. I will not turn you away, even with the harsh words I have just spoken to you. Such is simply my nature now. Do not take it personally. I grow more cantankerous with each passing day. But my son sulks when I berate him, and retreats from me, but I know you can handle such an attitude and give back as good as is given. We are harder men from harder times. We’ve faced the infinite orientals and returned.
And thus, I would greatly appreciate your company, at this time in my mourning. I need someone hard, harsh; who knows the pain of the world to reflect the pain within me and turn it into ribaldry as you were always so good at. Do you remember the time I caught that shower of splinters in the leg on the Calliope? I’d moaned of never walk again; that the surgeon would be sure to amputate. But you made light what was to me all the world and I hated you for it one instant then laughed like a madman the next. I thank you for it in my memories. If such are true.
I know that Helen disapproved of you and always spoke against you, so you were not able to stay at our home lest your prodigal ways “infect” our children, but she is gone now. My children have abandoned me, one truly and the other in spirit, and thus your influence can no longer affect them. Not that I cared that much, but my love and respect for Helen was such that any opinion she held I had to hold myself as the highest form of wisdom. This was not obsequiousness, as you would no doubt quip. I revered her and she never led me astray. Yet now that she is gone I see no reason to hold to such wisdom. For I am a broken man and have no further to be led down the dark path.
Send word or send yourself.

Your old friend,
John Charlston



From Margaret Playford to Caroline Playford, 13th of August, 1859

Dear Caroline,

You should be somewhat used to the black nature of these letters by now so I will not warn you anymore regarding their contents; just brace yourself for anything, as anything may be possible within these grey walls. I just hope you have not gone numb to the misfortunes and madness that permeates the lines I write from within them.
Thus I will continue my story without any further preamble. You must know that George has come to stay with us as. I am not admonishing you, but I know you have been talking to him behind my back, informing him of all that has befallen me thus far here in the letters I have sent you recently. I suppose I should be grateful to have such a friend as you that is always looking out for me and sending my young soldier to come and rescue me, if not physically, then mentally; as his company has provided a stability between the three of us, Anne included, where she can pursue her ridiculous poetic aspirations and George can feel like somebody actually listens to him, and I can absorb his boyish enthusiasms which, as he is not staying here permanently, are able to be recharged in the outside world.
I believe that Anne has developed an amusing and innocent infatuation with George, which would hardly be surprising as they both have their head in the clouds as much as each other and Anne never sees a man in proximity besides her father, so, clearly, could not help latching onto the first one that appears. At least, it appeared to be innocent at first but Anne has been growing more and more feverish each day that George comes to visit. It appears that his presence is troubling her, exciting her, agitating her, and I worry him being here may be doing her more harm than good.
There was a particular episode recently where Anne had been showing George some of her poems and he had stumbled across one that seemed to be a declaration of love, during the reading of which Anne was absolutely unable to look either myself or George in the eye and seemed to burn read with extreme embarrassment. She mumbled it was just a trifle she'd used as practice, but I don't believe she had thought through just how difficult it is to lie to your friends and think she would have been better spending more time practicing her acting in the mirror than supposedly practicing her poetry.
It was at this point that I realized that things had gone a little too far within the fairy land of Anne’s head and that I would have to step in and set her on the straight path away from the path of self destruction that she seemed hell-bent on pursuing. I know my George and know that he returns no love to Anne but I was curious to see his reaction on reading this poem.
I had rather expected embarrassment from George but in fact he grew slightly pale. He said some pleasantries about the qualities of the verse and the meter and rhyme and some such other things that poets speak of, but it seemed a conflict had opened within George’s mind. Perhaps he had not realized that this inexperienced young lady to whom he had been showing positive attention had developed an infatuation with him and now he was terrified of the consequences of a heart being invested in him that he would now be responsible for breaking.
I was surprised yet it occurred to me that is precisely why I love George in the first place. I know I can be callous often, Caroline, and you have borne the brunt of much of my ridicule over the years, but George offers a soft heart that I can use to balance my own; for he is someone who truly cares for the people around him. Thus his concern for Anne touched me.
You may think I am conjecturing a great deal based on the odd glance and pallor of George’s skin, observed in a complicated moment, but that night after this event George and I spoke of this event, as we share everything, and he confirmed all that I had suspected. He was completely earnest with me and expressed his concern about Anne and how we should proceed as to not send her further toward oblivion.
Yet, as with many issues that are not explicitly stated, there was no way we could broach this subject with Anne without breaking all forms of propriety, as we feared the embarrassment of the accusation would be too painful for her to endure.
We therefore decided it would be best for George to longer visit Sedgewood, although we would not state it so directly. Our plan was to say that George had business to attend to for a few days so would not be able to visit, and then the business would grow in length etc. until he was no longer coming at all.
This was indeed our plan until other circumstances made us reconsider sending the only good man in the house away as a greater danger than Anne’s fragile heart appeared on the doorstep of Sedgewood manor.
That danger’s name is Arthur Cromsley, a man who seemed to be gentry but only by the barest of margins. His grey coat and hat seemed to have never hung anywhere but on his person, such were their state, and each glove had holes about the fingers, and yet he took all of these off with a kind of feigned dignity, as though all one needed to endure hard times was composure. He had a glowering look about him, yet as soon as he looked into another face an absurd, wide-spread and mirthless grin appeared across his face as though delighting in people being forced to see him, as though such an act brought them serenely within his orbit. I believe what I saw here was one of those creatures completely devoid of shame.
He claimed he was an old friend of Anne’s father, as they fought together in the Opium War off the coast of China, and none of us could doubt the authenticity of the letter he produced written by Mr Charlston some five years ago asking the man to visit Sedgewood. I could see that Anne and George felt pity for the man at first but I know a rat when I see one and knew no good would come from this man’s arrival.
“How’s the old duffer?” he began after the initial pleasantries.
“Very poorly,” said Anne.
“Ah, such a shame, such a shame. He was a flower in his time. Bigger than life. Back then he’d still drink you under the table but then would kick you out of bed in the morning ready to attack the day. Your mother set him right though, cultivated the best part of him; that part that saw the day as a great open field of possibilities. Now I hear, with her gone, only that man of the night, that leaden drinker, remains. Such a shame. Such a shame.”
“Indeed. You knew him well then, during the war?”
“Aye, in the navy; both officers on the HMS Calliope. At first we were protecting British shipments of Opium, then we were engaged to raid the coastline. The orientals nearly snuffed the both of us on more than one occasion.”
“The letter says that father saved your life.”
“Aye, that he did. Although in war so much happens in a moment, just to look at a guy can prevent him running into the bullet that a moment’s hesitation saved him from colliding with, yet in other moment the bullet may have hit him right where he was and you were the cause of making him pause. Same action, yet one makes you a hero and the other gives you a lifetime of guilt. It was like that. Yet he always loves to lord it over me as though he descended into the circles of hell to rescue my burning body.”
“Yet, still you must have been close considering the familiarity of father’s letter. I do not mean to pry into business not my own, and I don’t hold anything against so cannot judge you, that is to say, I am merely curious, but why did it take so long for you to come here or send word?”
“Well, little one, I’ve fallen on hard times as you can no doubt see and a little pleasure trip to see an old friend is hardly the easiest manoeuvre to arrange.”
“I hardly think you’ll find pleasure here."
“Well, all’s the more reason to stay away when we ourselves can bring none to the miserable. We were close but he’s no brother of mine.”
This appeared to sting Anne who no doubt thought of her own brother that had sailed away and here was this half-friend with enough courage to show his face. Although I suspected it not to be courage but a calculated desperation, although what he was after was not clear to me. I was prepared to eat my bonnet if he turned out to be a genuine friend coming merely to express sympathy and provide support to a dear old comrade in arms.
“One things for sure though,” he continued, “with me here he’s bound to drink less.”
“And how do you suppose to achieve that miracle?” said I, unable to stop myself despite the slight rudeness of my question to both Mr Cromsley and Mr Charlston.
“By drinking the other half of what he’s got of course,” he said with a disgusting wink at me. I could not help being repulsed by this vulgar display and it must have showed on my face as I saw his smug expression change with a twitch of the cheeks and reflexive furrowing of his brow indicating I had irked his pride as I generally do with any who suffer my displeasure. And yet in the next moment he had recovered and was just as mirthlessly jovial as before, which seemed to indicate to me he was playing for high enough stakes to allow for a few blows to the ego.
As opposed to me, Anne showed sings of hope that this man may actually be able to help her father’s condition which was typical of her naivety. Thus, she lead the man to meet her father for, what I believe to be, the strangest conversation between two human beings I have ever witnessed.
Alas, I have run out of time and must post now. Will send more soon.

Your dear cousin,
Maggie