Forever Yours

20 April 1836

Dearest Frederick,

Spring finds me still trudging through this life, and however difficult it may be, I am happy for it. This winter past was a dark time for me. There were many nights I was convinced I would not live to see the sun rise. Yet, always I did. It was you who save me from my own hand, Frederick. That can be said without a doubt. True, you spoke not a word to me. You wrote not a single letter. You continued with the same silence you have held for a year now. But you did not need to send word. Indeed, it may be better that you did not. For without any word from you, without any confirmation of where you were and why you failed to answer, I was left with a nagging uncertainty. In my darkest moments that uncertainty kept me alive. It offered the minute possibility that perhaps, one day, I may meet you again in this life. As long as that possibility exists, I shall hold off my journey to the next life.

I am happy to report I have found another correspondent. Though I may not confide in her all the deep secrets I confess to you, it is nice to write to someone who may actually reply. This correspondent is none other than Miss Lily Cunningham, the young heiress I am expected to marry. I believe I detailed in a previous letter the time she was so bold as to move to kiss me when we had a moment alone, and how I reacted most awkwardly. For quite a while after that I was too ashamed to face her, and I resisted all attempt my mother made to bring us together. Recent events have changed my tune.

A month ago I was attending a lavish ball which is held annually at the Royal Palace to mark the start of Spring. So numerous were the guests gathered at my home that evening, I had no way of knowing just who was there. When it came time for dancing, I was paired with many women, young and old, as is typical. I was even enjoying myself, that is to say, I was less miserable than usual. Several dances in, who should appear but that bold young woman who months before had kissed me as we stood alone in the garden. This was not the time or place to discuss what had happened, and I mentioned nothing of it as the dance began. I treated her as I would any partner, or I endeavored to, but I suppose I had a certain nervous tension she could sense, because a minute into the song she whispered to me,

“Fear not, your highness, I shall not offend your modesty again.”

I may have thought she were mocking me, had not the smile on her lips told me this was her attempt at an apology. I replied to tell her I was relieved, and she asked if there where somewhere we could speak privately, assuring me she wanted nothing more than to speak. We made plans to meet in the garden later that evening.

Seated not far from the same spot we had shared our first kiss, we conversed late into the night. She spoke of our marriage, which, although it has not been formally announced, has been agreed upon by our families. I was relieved to find she is just as terrified as I at how quickly the arrangement has progressed. She told me it would bring her comfort if she may come to know me better, so as not to feel that she was marrying a stranger. Since then, we have exchanged letters weekly. She is a fine young woman, intuitive and well-read. She is quite bold as well, as previous events indicate, and can be very outspoken. But, this bothers me not. As best I can tell she has a kind heart. I do not doubt she shall make a wonderful wife.

I have come to terms with my arranged marriage, and I have even been so fortunate as to forge a friendship with my intended. But, my dear Frederick, this has by no means made me forget you. Rather it has done quite the opposite. As I exchange these letters with my bride to be, I am constantly struck by the complete absence of anything resembling the passion which manifests itself in any letter I may compose to you.

The mere thought of you sets my heart on fire in a way nothing else can. These days, I am often compelled to put you out of mind, save those times when I am alone, for thoughts of you may quickly become immodest, and my body may betray me.

My dear, dear Frederick, wherever you may be, my love shall follow you. I hope you are doing well.

Yours affectionately,
Robert