His brow creased in thought, he wrote his signature on the bottom of the letter with a flourish, and sealed it with a drop of cheap shellac on which he imprinted the marking of his seal ring. “Give it into Anna’s hands yourself, if you can,” he said, as he rose to his feet and handed it to Daventry. The letter itself contained nothing important but his vows of love, repeated as often as he had the space to write them, but they were all the world to him. He feared they would no longer find favor in his cousin’s eyes. He had sent her nearly a dozen letters in the past months since he had arrived as a poor exile on the desolate shores of the Netherlands, taking some to the foreign post bound for England, and entrusting others to a series of ship’s captains, who had all promised to deliver them into the post as soon as they reached England’s shores. He had written nearly as often to Charlotte, and even twice to his uncle, but not a word of reply had he had to any of his missives, save a curt note from his uncle telling him that, thanks to the grace of God, all was well in his absence.
