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Heveanly Kingdoms - Chapter 15
From Arthur Cromsley To Anne Charlston (undated note)
Dear Miss Anne,
Forgive me the sleight of hand it took to get this note to you under the noses of your friends, but this must be for your eyes only; the only eyes I’d trust to see it are those of a Charlston.
You must think me a right monster. That much would be deserved, but you don’t know all; none ever do. “To know all is to forgive all”, so they say, or Jesus said, either way - it’s as true as Tuesday. Now I know you’re a good Christian lass, and forgiveness reigns next to chastity in that pure heart of yours, so I will assume you will read what I have to say in full and judge me fairly once the facts of the matter are known. Such would I expect from the daughter of the old Charlston, the most honourable Christian I ever knew.
You’re no doubt aware of our little voyage on the high seas we enact downstairs in your lovely old family tomb, and must think we’ve all lost our collective marbles; yet you’ve heard, no doubt, there’s often method in madness. I’m not mad, not as far as I can tell, but, and I’m sorry to force you to read what you already know and feel so painfully, but you’re father is. This I knew before I even arrived at your door. I should explain myself.
My original intent was simply to visit the old duffer, share some old tales and see if there was any charity in him for an old comrade in arms. Wasn’t expecting much. But when I reached the yonder town, not knowing the lay of the land, I went to the Inn and asked around about my old friend. You have to understand, the last letter I received from him was five years past so for all I knew he’d kicked the bucket long since.
The fellas I asked seemed grim from the asking. It seems rumours abound, have been for years they say, about the old recluse in Sedgewood manor and his pale daughter (I’ll spare you any further of what they say regarding you, Miss!) and the town parson had recently spun a sermon remonstrating on the pockets of Paganism he figured was growing like hemlock all over town. Yet, all knew why: he’d just been by this dark place here and met with old John and copped an earful of strange talk [see chapter 2], that poetical prophesizing he spews out at all hours; believe me I’ve been hearing enough of it to drive me mad myself these last few days. Needless to say, the devout parson, rest his weasily soul, was none too calm after this little palaver and made hay on the pulpit blaming the bad harvests on rites to Neptune rather than penitence to the true Almighty.
This came as mighty strange news to me, thinking of my old friend as being always such a good Christian and never taking the Lord’s name in vain, so I decided to visit the parson and hear first hand how my old comrade was sacrificing to bolt-wielding Jupiter or whatever it was the ancients did. He brushed me off at first, not wanting to appear as though one little spit and spattle had driven him reactionary, and spluttered...
Dear Miss Anne,
Forgive me the sleight of hand it took to get this note to you under the noses of your friends, but this must be for your eyes only; the only eyes I’d trust to see it are those of a Charlston.
You must think me a right monster. That much would be deserved, but you don’t know all; none ever do. “To know all is to forgive all”, so they say, or Jesus said, either way - it’s as true as Tuesday. Now I know you’re a good Christian lass, and forgiveness reigns next to chastity in that pure heart of yours, so I will assume you will read what I have to say in full and judge me fairly once the facts of the matter are known. Such would I expect from the daughter of the old Charlston, the most honourable Christian I ever knew.
You’re no doubt aware of our little voyage on the high seas we enact downstairs in your lovely old family tomb, and must think we’ve all lost our collective marbles; yet you’ve heard, no doubt, there’s often method in madness. I’m not mad, not as far as I can tell, but, and I’m sorry to force you to read what you already know and feel so painfully, but you’re father is. This I knew before I even arrived at your door. I should explain myself.
My original intent was simply to visit the old duffer, share some old tales and see if there was any charity in him for an old comrade in arms. Wasn’t expecting much. But when I reached the yonder town, not knowing the lay of the land, I went to the Inn and asked around about my old friend. You have to understand, the last letter I received from him was five years past so for all I knew he’d kicked the bucket long since.
The fellas I asked seemed grim from the asking. It seems rumours abound, have been for years they say, about the old recluse in Sedgewood manor and his pale daughter (I’ll spare you any further of what they say regarding you, Miss!) and the town parson had recently spun a sermon remonstrating on the pockets of Paganism he figured was growing like hemlock all over town. Yet, all knew why: he’d just been by this dark place here and met with old John and copped an earful of strange talk [see chapter 2], that poetical prophesizing he spews out at all hours; believe me I’ve been hearing enough of it to drive me mad myself these last few days. Needless to say, the devout parson, rest his weasily soul, was none too calm after this little palaver and made hay on the pulpit blaming the bad harvests on rites to Neptune rather than penitence to the true Almighty.
This came as mighty strange news to me, thinking of my old friend as being always such a good Christian and never taking the Lord’s name in vain, so I decided to visit the parson and hear first hand how my old comrade was sacrificing to bolt-wielding Jupiter or whatever it was the ancients did. He brushed me off at first, not wanting to appear as though one little spit and spattle had driven him reactionary, and spluttered...
