Forever Yours

10 June 1858

Dearest Frederick,

Twenty-three years I have waited to receive a letter from you, and you cannot manage more than a few lines of writing? For shame! (I jest, my dear. Surely you know I am delighted beyond words to hear from you.)

As for your apology—none is needed. You were a most gracious host when I stumbled unannounced into your office two weeks ago. It was pure chance that brought me past the office of "Frederick A. Burke, Attorney at Law" as I wander the streets of Whitehall. I simply could not resist the temptation to inquire after this counselor who shared a name with my lover from years past. You may have done well to send me away, to carry on with a life absent of me, but you did not. You welcomed me in to your office, treated me to a lavish supper, and opened your home to me for the night. My dear Frederick, you were beyond generous. If anyone need apologize for inappropriate behavior, it is I. After such kind treatment, I left your company in a hurried, angered state, not offering a single word of thanks. For that, I most sincerely apologize. I hope you may be able to understand why I was so struck with emotion.

On that note, I cannot write to you without addressing that conversation which left me so upset. One of the last things you told me, Frederick, before I left in my rage, was that you had read each and every one of the letters I sent you in the years after we parted at Langford. I cannot see why you would lie about that, so instead I ask you this: Why in God’s name did you not reply? If you read those letters as you say you did, then surely you saw what anguish I was in, how desperately I longed to know what became of you. And yet you sent not one word. It perplexes me, and—as you came to see that fateful night two weeks ago—it does peak my anger. You could not send even one letter simply to let me know you were alive and well?

I will confess, my dear, when first we parted I was so enraged I momentarily resolved never to speak to you again. But, I quickly came to remember how joyous our reunion had been before I let my frustration spoil the night. For twenty-three years I have longed to see you; I have been tortured by a longing I could never fulfill, for I knew not how or where I may find you. That is no longer the case. I know now exactly where you are, and it is within my power to see and hear from you again. I would be a fool to let that opportunity pass.

And so, I extend the olive branch. Tell me you love me as I do you—that you long just as I do to meet again. That is all I ask of you. Tell me that, and we may leave the past behind us, looking instead to that which lies ahead.

Affectionately yours,
Robert