1820 Longdon, New Mexico.
Dear Mar,
I wish I could say I’m sorry, but you know I’ve taken the oaths and cannot lie. Our time apart has not quite been long enough to warrant a lengthy ledger of my tedious duties, and you never cared for such things anyway. I will update you to say I am now made a Whipperton, that is a woman of status. I can cook as well as any housemaid, play piano like a master, and stitch tapestries for fun. Certainly, you know my patience is daily tested for I’ve never been given to detail, and I often finish whole tapestries only find a blighted stitch ready to unravel the entire thing. It makes me want to burn down the school, but that would leave me alone once again.
Enough chittering. It makes me sick to say it, but I will never see you again. As I’ve taken the oaths, I am now to go to a new country. I will set sail soon. It was the only way to see the world. I am sorry. I must escape.
No Longer Yours,
Maria A.
Dear Maria,
What an interesting tale you spin, claiming you have no choice and such madness. Do you not know a sailor can go as he pleases and you may, if it pleases you, come with? Your oaths are, however, given, and I will not ask a woman – a Whipperton at that – to retract such a thing. You’ve sold your soul, so I suppose it was yours to sell. Though once I believed it belonged to me.
Goodbye,
Mar Pacimo.
Dear Mar,
You impetuous fool! (I learned that word today). Do you not know a woman’s cry for help when you hear it? I want to leave this prison of sewing needles and strange chants. I did not give my oaths in earnest… I kept my fingers crossed behind my back just as you taught me. Please come at once so we can make sail, you scully-hearted, seaweed-brained fool. I am desperate for adventure.
Thank you and hurry.
Yours,
Maria.
Dear Maria,
I believe you said in your first letter that you could not apologize, for your oath prevents it. Since I will not sail with anyone I cannot stand on good ground with, I am afraid I cannot sail with you. If, however, your oaths are so breakable, as you confess in the last letter, then I entreat you to humble your pride and see reason. You did, after all, burn my ship.
Possibly Yours,
Mar.
Dear Mar,
I am not sorry nor will I say so. My own honor, if not oaths forced by the head mistress, prevent it. You made Ronald lame with your overrunning him, and now the poor horse is set to pasture when he should be racing. Your punishment was well deserved and justified. I am sorry, but I will not be apologizing now or ever. Your ship was painful to look at, anyway.
When do we leave?
Yours Affectionately,
Maria.
Dear Maria,
I crafted that ship with my bare hands. It floated beautifully- for being made of sticks and leaves- and I’ve yet been able to copy such a thing. I am afraid I have no ship to sail you away on anyway and your impiteousness – see I use your word – is overwhelmingly tragic to me. In all twelve years of my living, I’ve not once met a girl so selfish.
Decidedly NOT Yours,
Mar Pacimo.
Dear Mar,
I am sorry. Please build another ship. Preferably one that can take on passengers. The head mistress pulled me out of lessons today by my hair to whip me. She said I broke the oaths and is sending for father. I hate this place. If you do not come soon, they will send me away. Please.
Yours,
Maria.
Dear Maria,
I sent you my escape plan yet received no reply. Have they already begun to take your letters? I suppose it’s a silly question if so. Please, show me some sign of life. A candle in the window like we once did. Or an owl hoot tonight at midnight. Give a sign, I’ll come.
Yours,
Mar.
Ps. All is forgiven.
Dear Maria,
Still you do not reply. Surely they haven’t sent you farther away? You’re not yet thirteen, and they don’t send girls away so soon. Woman, sorry. You are almost a woman. Please respond.
Yours and Worried,
Mar.
Dear Maria,
I lose hope. I watch day and night. Please.
Yours,
Mar.
Dear Mar,
It has been nought but three weeks in solitary confinement. It provided quite a time for a young woman such as myself to ponder and thing. I ate once a day so I am quite fit and rested for a long journey. If you don’t mind coming tonight, I’m afraid I had a bit of a tiff with the head mistress and Father. It seems she is to be my new mother, and I didn’t like that so much. I was especially cross after being so hungry – one meal is not quite enough to sate the raging appetite of a growing woman – and I forgot to hold my tongue. In fact, I forgot quite a lot of things. I’m not quite sure what I said to them. It’s all a bit hazy. If you do not come tonight, know I will probably die tomorrow. I am to be sent away first thing in the morning and, wherever this mystery destination is, it will not have you outside my window. Therefore, it is not home. I do not like not having a home and so shall die. I’ve already decided.
Yours in love,
Maria.
Dear Maria,
If I was not a man, I would have cried upon receiving your letter. The contents were nothing compared to knowing you’re alive and safe. It was this moment I realized I love you and have decided we will be married. I will come. Only hold out till midnight.
In Love,
Mar Pacimo.
Dear Mar,
Oh why did you not come?
Goodbye,
Maria.
Dear Maria,
It was never my intention to let you go. I was detained for trespassing. They thought I was sneaking into the girls’ dorms for a peak. Imagine! I was coming for you.
I fear you made good on your promise and died, for I know your determination. Yet, since there is not much life for me elsewhere, I will have faith that you live. I promised to come and that I will. Only where have you gone? No one will say. I cannot even address this letter properly.
Love,
Mar.
Dear Mar,
By pure luck I have received your letter. My one dear friend at the girls’ school found it before the maids and saw it forwarded to myself. I am now in England, and I can’t see how you may come. It’s expensive and far to travel. Maybe someday when you get that ship. But we are so young, and you so far from that dream. Maybe one day, things will change. I have attached my address below.
Love,
Maria.
Dear Maria,
I know you expected a letter sooner, but I could not bear to write until I knew for certain I had the means to make good on my promise. It is now two years, three months, and eleven days since you wrote. It is today I start my journey. Hold fast. Be strong.
In Love and Sailing Your Way,
Mar.
Dear Mar,
I still wait.
Love,
Maria.
It is here the letters end, for they are happily joined and run away. Though how long they’ll last, no one can say.
A. Faith.
