Mischief and Fidelity

A sneak peak of a story I am writing ... *grins insanely and bounces out of room*

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London, 1895, the 6th of October 
Maison de Vert, 

  

  My Dearest Amelia,

   Within my last posted correspondence with you, I had expressed the fear that, in perhaps silly wifely fancy then, my husband no longer cared for me as he professed so devotedly in the months before and after our nuptials were said, as we knelt before the alter, before God and the company of our family, friends, acquaintances, of whom which mine were so much more numerous. And, my friend, it does seem now such fears were to become reality, in all it's hideous blackened truth.

  The man I swore my love to has drawn away from me, till, now, if he does not persist this, he shall be guilty of shattering my heart. If he knows it is solely within his hands, solely his own, as completely as I do, he would stop this. I am without words to explain the nature of this distance he has put between us, but it is there; be assured his kindness and manner towards me as forever, he is as dutiful and soft as he had been in pursuit of me in those happy days before he asked my hand.

  Was it childish fancy for me to hope and dream and believe to think we could be happier after our wedding day? It must've been for this loneliness he has forced upon me, the hours he spends alone with his books and the estate, how he refuses to stay with me, just for a night. Even his visits to London have become more numerous, leaving me alone in this house; his house, which he said would become ours if I wished it to be so.

  I am, to be most truthful, alone.

  So terribly alone, and a thing haunts this place; no tangible thing, no living thing, but it is cold, and icy, and terrible. It lingers about the halls, slips between the slats in the doors, creeps upon me, yet only when he is left and gone. And I am frightened, of this house, of this cursed love I cannot be released from. My heart and love and soul are his, and he turns from me, as if he does not know me, as if he did not whisper such loves and show such ardency, share things that we both had never tasted and had never known.

  He is gone. Not even a shadow remains there, though he is living and breathing before me, so close and yet so far. I see fear in his eyes and pain, when I gaze into the mirror, within my own.

  Come, please, and visit me, I fear I will go mad if I do not see a friend. I beg this of you in the faith you will not abandon me.

  In sisterly friendship,

 Mrs. Sigyn Vanir Laufey