14th February 1846

The Parsonage, Haworth

My darling Lydia,

The feast of St. Valentine is upon us, my love, and you are still far from my side. Crosby writes that your husband (God, how I hate to write the word) is ill. Forgive me but my wicked heart rejoices at the news.

As he bids farewell to his life, so must you feel yours teeming back into existence.

At the word of your release I will journey to Thorp Green Hall without delay, choosing to ignore your cruel silence.

Months and no letter, weeks and no money (I value this, of course, only for what it means: your remembrance!). Send me some sign, some token, my dear one. Yet even if you do not, cannot, your love will still fly to me on the wind and whisper to me as I sleep.

Dr. Crosby’s missives, with their glimpses of you as a patient ministering angel at that brute’s bedside, sustain me. Charlotte tries to hide them from me, but Emily and Anne are not so fierce.

Ever yours, although weak, nourished as I am by your love alone,

Your Northangerland