Chapter Two: Mr. Preston's Boredom
...2 hours later...
Most gentleman normally did sweat, but were accustomed to a lean, controlled environment that did not allow tolerance of it, and so no activities were pursued to embrace that reaction. Sailors were highly praised people, but by no means labelled a gentleman, for their manner of speaking was much more robust and wild; there still held a higher respect for their duty was hard and labourous and depended upon for transport, spice, cotton, cane, and trade. It really depended on the opinion of the upper class men whether those men deserved the respect they were exhibited, or simply thought they deserved it and in so got the attention everyone so suspected them to receive.
Meeting Mr. Preston for the first time, in his own home, at quarter 'til dusk, one would assume he was sailor in gentleman's dress. In fact, if one did not use their nose the assumption would rise to; he fell overboard merely from dreaming of sailing. It was a dark occasion indeed when riches would steal away one's vitality and replace it with a silver tongue that could easily sway and be destroyed. Mr. Preston's 'destruction' was already close at hand.
"Dinner... dinner. Do I really want to eat? No, the cost is far too great. I can do very well to skipping dinner once again and store up the remains." Mr. Preston spoke these words to himself as he regained breath from practice. He ruffled his already mussed collar and rolled up sleeves, fanning the sweat slick on his skin with the soft cotton white shirt. He made way to exit the training room from the opposite end of the door Mr. Trenton had entered earlier, through the door that lead to the private areas in his household rather than the main front hall and den. Propriety kept him from even thinking of walking around casually in his own home at the front hall, a chance of him being seen by a visitor, old friend or new stranger.
His boots scuffed the polished wooden floor and turned on the heels as he saw beige-tinted cream glint in the soft light of the candle chandelier that hung above, a remnant of pastimes he hadn't cared to remove. "Oh... the letters. I had almost completely forgot about them."
Not having desire to read them just yet, he took them with him to the private bath behind his bedroom and began boiling the water. Within minutes he had filled a tub with steaming water and a few evergreen needles, thickening the air with the aroma of spice and salt. He inhaled the rich scent, savouring it as if it were the last time he would ever smell something so fresh and wild as those wild evergreen needles.
Unclothing and settling himself into the water, he sighed as all tension began to ease from his body. Letters in hand he randomly chose one, threw the other one on the toiletry vanity, and unfolded the parchment in the dim light of two red candles at his side.
'Dear Mr. Christopher Preston,' the letter began, and Mr. Preston frowned. Apparently he had picked up the red cross sealed letter and not Lady Harriet's. Dreading the contents for a strange unknown reason, he hesitantly continued out of sheer curiosity. From losing his love to losing his fortune, he had learned to be less bitter towards things that were not worth being bitter at, for example, unwanted mail. In his former life he discarded more than half his letters before even a one-eyed glanced, and practically not accepting most of the letters if they so much as resembled anything that did not have the appearance of one of his close acquaintances. He remembered very clearly the nights and mornings he would wait for Lady Kirkpatrick's letters... letters professing of love and loyalty. Letters of two entirely different 'Ls' instead, lies and lechery.
He growled trying to renounce the undesirable reminiscing, then continued with the letter at hand, sinking deeper into the bath so the water crept to his neck. He made a vow to himself not to stop reading until every last word was digested.
'Dear Mr. Christopher Preston,
Your unfortunate destiny is a result of harsh times propagated by those who wish you dead-'
Mr. Preston almost fell into the bath, his eyes widening as he splashed a large amount of water onto the floor from the sudden moving of rising to a sitting position. "What is this nonsense!" 'Your vow, your petty vow. You said you wouldn't stop reading until the very last word.'
Stifling the urge to crumble up the paper and drop it in the water, he now noted the fine lines of the penmanship; something about its' character drew him in. The style was petite, very petite in fact, that anyone without perfect close-sighted vision would be squinting and using a magnifying glass constantly; the sentences were positioned in such a way to slightly slant down on the right, making the angle of the writing about 3 degrees.
"Whoever wrote this does not use lead lines to steer their art... how quaint. Perhaps this person is poor." Mr Preston found himself studying the penmanship rather than continuing reading, and found himself pulled into a silly little game of 'Guess The Recipient'.
"The 'Ss' are much longer than any other letter, they almost look like 'Fs' actually. I've seen that type of writing in Old English, in some old letters written by my ancestors in the 16th century. The 'Ls' are definitely curled to look like locks of hair... Locks of hair, very feminine, this writer is definitely a woman. The excessive use of commas and abbreviations... around twenty probably, but the manner of writing would hint that she's a spinster in her early thirties, or just drab. Now why would she want to give this impression?"
Feeling more confident with his assumptions Mr. Preston pondered some more, delving deeper into the mystery of the recipient with his wild imagination. "The ink! Aha! It's not purely black. There's a tint of... blue in it. It's midnight blue, someone who loves nighttime; has blue eyes; loves the moon's reflection in the water!; is colour blind and simply picked a black. No... her favourite colour is blue but is too timid to share that love so neutralises it by hiding it in shadows."
Satisfied with that he analysed the letter even further, still refusing to settle his eyes on the actual content. "The parchment is a peculiar shade, stained a weird brownish tint rather than yellow or gray. It's not unheard of, but definitely not common in England. Of course, I've only ever received letters from rich gentlemen in stock market, politics, and religion. So this person is neither political, rich, or religious..."
He lifted his brow as he turned the parchment sideways and spotted a small blot of ink. "She spilt..." He inhaled the scent and widened his eyes. "Liquor! She is not rich yet delights in the recesses of hard beverages, definitely not a gentle lady by no means. Judging by how tiny her letters are she is trying to use the least amount of paper to express herself, so not to use more money... or not to waste? Or just to make me suffer diligently for trying to read it! All right just read it already, let's find out how crazy this lady is..."
He looked up from the paper once again. "Oh, god she's a brothel prostitute! Always drunk, never rich, that's definitely it."
Shaking his head to rid himself of ridiculous accusations he read the famous paper.
'...by those who wish you dead. My husband-'
"Husband!"
'-and children-'
"Children!"
'-would be delighted to receive you in our church services-'
"CHURCH SERVICES IN ST. BENEDICT THIS SATURDAY EVENING AT 10 O'CLOCK SO THAT YOU MAY REPENT OF YOUR SINS AND BE RELIEVED OF THE CHARGES AGAINST YOU? Mad lady, mad! Lunatic alright! Here I am thinking that someone would actually care and this rubbish is what I get. Man was I wrong about her writing, she's old and married and has children! What the hell was I thinking? Ridiculous bout of boredom I have overcome with reason, yes. Reason? Ah, the letter!"
Unintentionally during his ranting he had dropped the precious paper into the water and so lost the remaining content of the message, as well as the signature of his recipient...
"Damn, now I will never know who has sent this letter."
The enraged gentleman threw the ruined parchment onto the floor and enjoyed the rest of his bath, not daring to even touch the letter from Lady Harriet. After that unfortunate incidence of losing his mind and resolve he wasn't going to jump into another letter just yet, close acquaintance or no. It didn't stop his curiosity from getting the better of him. It didn't stop Mr. Preston from wanting to go to St. Benedict this Saturday evening at 10 o'clock to meet his mystery writer...
