Some distant family, I suppose, who don’t know me and have no care for me. I think, perhaps, you would care. Am I a fool? The question requires no answer, of course. I woke to dreams of Talavera last night. I was sweating as if the fires were licking at my own skin. Then I sat and shook like a palsy victim until, in desperation, I took up pen and paper. And so here I am. As you can see from my handwriting I am still afflicted. But we both know I will never send this letter, Anne. Anne, Anne. Your name has become synonymous with home to me. I must force myself not to demand Bertie read your last letter again and again. You and Bertie are all that keep me going. Please write, Anne. Never stop writing. Brett * * * * * Anne was in a pickle. How on earth was she to discuss finances with Mr. Howard with Freddy and Brett standing over her shoulder? The proprietor of Howard’s Mercantile had been a friend to them over the years, and had refused payment for items he sent to them last month.
