13 July 19XX
Dear Aggie,
I fear I really must ask of you, though I would much rather not: what in heaven's name is amiss with the young blot that is our dear Bertie? He was dolefully dragging his tail feathers around the old keep all this last week-end and not even Anatole's finest efforts could tempt from him a smile nor coax from him a song . In fact, I quite thought I'd stumble across him expired in my roses. It was most distressing.
Tell me, please. Have you gone and threatened him with yet another fiancé? If so, do please instantly desist, as I believe he may be ailing. Or at least, verging on the cusp.
For that matter, dear Sister, do you have the faintest clue of what's been recently ruffling the entire brood of them? I declare I've not seen such woeful faces on Henry's pesky blighters Claude and Eustace since they were last sent down and had their allowances cut. Also, Emily writes me that she's at a loss as why they're behaving so oddly, and requests my 'sage advice' on the matter! To which I uttered a loud 'Hah!' and then was forced to bite my lips and withhold my pen from paper, as naturally my 'sage advice' to Em would consist of giving her mad young rapscallions a good, solid dunking in the mill pond!
Sadly, even my own sweet Angela also seems a bit stricken and mopeful, though she claims it more to do with that blasted Hildebrand Glossop's latest starts. Take my 'sage advice' on this one thing, Aggie, if nothing else. Do not ever allow your young Thos to enter the Drones Club!
Enough is enough, Aggie. Have you any idea what may be happening? I confess I am puzzled. Most especially by our idiot nephew.
Best regards, and I shall expect to hear from you by return post.
Your fond sister, D