As she sorted her morning post into piles, time seemed to stop as she read her name and directions in a strange elegant scribble. She didn’t recognise the seal stamped in the globule of red wax. With shaking hands she picked up her letter-knife and carefully severed the seal from the paper. The ivory knife fell forgotten to the floor as she held the half open paper to her nose and inhaled a familiar musty scent. She blinked back tears of relief and held her breath as she unfolded the letter. My tolerant friend, Thank you for thinking of me. I’ve not been well. I’ve seen a dozen mountebanks, quacks and doctors, but they all say they can find nothing wrong with me. They think I’m going mad and I fear they’re right. I wish I was worthy to request a private interview, but I’m not. If you give me permission I’ll send you a letter detailing my symptoms in the hope you may know someone who can help me. I’ve instructed a servant to await your reply. Sincerely, Lyndhurst Tolerance hurriedly set the letter to one side and grabbed a pen and paper, splashing ink all over her desk in her haste.
