Correspondence Between Henry Fairfax and Laura Pendleton

Letter from Laura Pendleton to Henry Fairfax

Dear Henry,

I hope all is well with you at Dunville Park.

Two days ago, after our chance meeting, I walked for another hour or so before returning home. I was surprised to learn you hadn’t visited the Hall. Naturally, I assumed you had left your sick horse in our stables and borrowed Dewey, the swiftest and handsomest of my husband’s horses, to ride home. I was terribly worried and sorry to think you might have walked that long distance with an ailing horse.

As your aunt, I can’t help but nag a little. For my peace of mind, please don’t sacrifice your legs. If you don’t take care of yourself in youth, you’ll pay the price thirty years hence.

Come by Whitefield Hall sometime. Your uncle misses you dearly, and so do I.

Yours,

Your ever-worried aunt, concerned for her nephew’s knees.

P.S. I’m sending back the handkerchief you lent me, along with your sketchbook. I’ve starched the handkerchief heavily, so mind the edges lest you cut your hand.

P.S.2. As you surely know, my appearance in the woods is a secret from your uncle.

Letter from Henry Fairfax to Laura Pendleton

Dear Aunt,

I hope this finds you well. As autumn deepens, I wonder if Whitefield’s enchanting ambiance is soothing you as it should.

First, thank you for the sketchbook and handkerchief. Your thoughtfulness overwhelms me. Receiving them by post felt as though you were standing before me, and I couldn’t help but bow my head in gratitude. My heartfelt thanks.

You seem worried about my not visiting the Hall last time. While I was concerned for you, I assure you I didn’t sacrifice my knees on your account. Let me explain.

The brown horse you saw was my beloved Josephine. She stumbled into a deep ditch at the edge of Whitefield’s woods and sprained her leg. I thought I could lead her to the Hall for treatment, but after five minutes of walking, I saw tears welling in the poor creature’s eyes and realized getting to the Hall was impossible. Cursing my foolishness, I turned back with poor Josephine. Just as I did, I heard your voice.

After we parted, I left the woods again. By God’s grace, I met a farmer heading home. He had a large hay cart, and I loaded poor Josephine onto its soft bed of hay and set off for Dunville Park, listening to the farmer’s popular tunes along the way.

You see, there was no occasion for my knees to wear out that day. Your letter, filled with worry, warmed me like a mother’s love, but please set your concerns aside. The guilt of causing my mother pain is more than I can bear.

I must visit Whitefield Hall soon—to apologise to your uncle for skipping lessons and to show you more of my drawings.

I intend to keep showing you my work until you grow skeptical of “Artist Henry Fairfax.” Only then can I snuff out the ember of a dream that’s begun to rekindle within me.

Until we meet again, stay well,

Your inspired but amateur painter, Henry Fairfax.

P.S. I hesitated greatly to mention this, wrestling with whether it was my place. Even as I sealed the letter, I told myself to lock away such presumptuous concerns. But the moment I reached for the wax to seal it, my worries broke free.

What, Aunt, were those tears you shed in the woods? What lies at their root?

I know it’s beyond my ability to resolve. If you can’t address it, a novice like me certainly can’t. But I’ve learned from experience the strange alchemy of the heart: sharing sorrow can halve it. Might I not reduce your sadness by half?

Please write back. When we meet again, I’ll be Henry, who knows only your sunshine. Your moonlight will remain known only to the Henry in your letters.

Letter from Laura Pendleton to Henry Fairfax

Dear Henry,

I received your long letter, warm letter. The promise of another visit to Whitefield Hall fills me with boundless joy. Your uncle and I always look forward to your visits, welcoming you as fondly as doting grandparents embrace an unannounced grandchild.

Given your kind nature, Henry, it’s only natural that my moment in the woods would trouble you. Having such a gentle and warm-hearted nephew fills my heart with comfort. Though we’ve known each other only a short while, you’ve become as dear to me as my own son. I used to think family bonds were forged by time, but perhaps that’s not entirely true.

Since you’re so kind, Henry, I hope you’ll understand why I can’t share my troubles. Please understand, or this aunt will feel terribly hurt—far more than any disappointment you might feel toward me.

Thank you for caring about my well-being. I eagerly await the day I see your face, not just your letters.

Your diligent aunt, always tidying the guest room for her nephew,

Laura.

P.S. Your artwork is always welcome. Bring a cartload, and I’ll look at every piece.

But you won’t easily sway me into skepticism. From the few drawings you showed me, I already know you’re a true artist.

Letter from Henry Fairfax to Laura Pendleton

Dear Aunt,

I cannot sleep. My body trembles with anxiety, and my mind is in disarray. My shaky handwriting likely speaks more of my heart than these clumsy adjectives ever could.

Last evening, your uncle brought out a box. From his hands, its contents emerged one by one: a worn-edged bag, a glossy Bible touched by years of use, a paint-stained art case, and a leather sketchbook.

Yes, they were the belongings of your late father, Master Sheldon.

I have no memory of Master Sheldon. When he stayed at Whitefield, I was a babe in a cradle, unable to hold up my own head. All I know of him comes from the fond recollections of your uncle and my parents. He’s like an ancestor four generations removed—unimaginable in form yet alive through the memories of those around me.

As I said, this was my first time seeing his possessions—and his drawings. Your uncle treasures Master Sheldon’s relics and rarely shows them, even to a cherished nephew. Had you not respected my curiosity, I suspect he’d never have shared them.

I touched his belongings as if handling sacred relics and soon opened his sketchbook. And…

Oh, Aunt! Aunt! Can you feel how Master Sheldon’s works have ignited my soul?

My heart reels as if drunk on wine, exulting in a haze. My body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to sink into sleep. Why? Oh, it’s the searing passion I haven’t felt in so long.

You know, Aunt, that I symbolically broke my brush. On the ship back to England, I swore to live in reality henceforth; painting must no longer be my passion.

Yet the old dream I’d strangled and buried deep resurfaced the moment I saw Master Sheldon’s drawings—not as a decayed corpse but as a young, pulsing body, blood coursing and heart pounding.

And… I… I desperately want to paint!

Oh, Aunt, I long to paint so badly. Not mere sketches for amusement but true works, crafted over days of immersion.

But this cannot be. Henry Fairfax, the heir, and Henry Fairfax, the painter, cannot coexist.

I learned in Paris that the muse of art demands complete devotion. She is cruel and exacting. It’s all or nothing with her. To resume painting, I’d have to surrender my entire life to art.

Aunt, I’m a weak man—cowardly, indecisive, and ignorant of my limits. I cannot be an artist. The inferiority I felt in Paris, wandering through countless salons and ateliers, still haunts me. Among thousands of geniuses, I was merely an amateur clinging to a flicker of childhood talent.

Yet… I’m driven to madness by this urge to paint. What curse is this? Why was I born? Why did your uncle ever teach me to draw? In this moment, I resent him so fiercely!

Aunt, I beg for your help. Scold me sharply. Tell me I lack true talent, that abandoning duty and comfort for a delusion is folly.

I need a saving hand.

Awaiting your reply with bated breath,

Your Henry.

Letter from Henry Fairfax to Laura Pendleton

Dear Aunt,

I implore you, please do not read the letter that arrived first. Burn it and erase it from the world. If you read it, I’d evaporate from shame, and like a Greek myth, a plant might sprout where I stood—perhaps called “Humiliation Mint.”

At all costs, do not open the earlier letter!!