antiquated plumbobs

Bibury, 1895

Emmeline

I suppose I’ve become quite the seamstress!

Almira has allowed me to alter some of her old dresses to fit myself, and I’m glad to finally be out of that tight-fitting bad memory. Still, the woman hasn't updated her wardrobe in quite some time, and I am reminded of my mother: whoever thought the bustle was a good idea did not have a posterior like my own!

Without the help of a lady’s maid, my hair has suffered likewise, though I have never been one to fuss very much over my own appearance. It's nice not to be made to. I have found myself surprisingly appreciative of the work I have been given; it keeps me from wallowing too much in my own hurt, which seems to grow by the day, rather than heal with time. I believe now that I have settled, in some sense, I've been given time to think about it all: Kenneth’s betrayal, Mother’s, the destruction of my manuscript, and — most of all — how dearly I miss my children.

I find I often dream of Kenneth and I, at home and happily wed, without any of the pain that has come to define our marriage to me in the day. It all feels so enticingly real until I wake, and I am enraged at his betrayal all over again.

At least the renewal of spring approaches — I must look forward to that, rather than think about how my condition grows with its coming...

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Nestled in the woods of of Northern Brindleton is the tiny cabin to which the newlyweds returned home. There may be tiles slipped from the roof, and paint flaking off the walls, but it's home, and it's theirs. Within the four small walls, nothing seems to touch their happiness.

I've been quietly doing a Decades Challenge in my spare time for over a year, and I've finally reached the 2010s.

But one of the most prominent characters throughout the (sim) years is Velma Frances "Vee" Robinson, who married my gen. 2 heir in 1934 and just stole the show - from being a wartime housewife to becoming a successful businesswoman, cat sanctuary manager, and an eccentric great-grandma.

She's lived through two world wars and a scandalous divorce, always with a cig in her hand and a cat by her side - and she is still around in 2010, at the ripe age of 97!

I've loved playing with her so far and just wanted to share a few snapshots I've collected over the years.

Lawrence and Winifred stop by a photography studio before heading off to the Haymarket Theatre in London to attend the debut of A Woman of No Importance by the popular (and beloved by the Baudelaire's) playwright Oscar Wilde.

A letter to Matthew Dailey from his daughter Agnes, 189x

Dearest Papa,

We are here!

We arrived in Chestnut Ridge late this morning after a near two days of travel, bursting with both relief and anticipation. Until now the idea of being here seemed a mere fantasy, but now that we have actually made it, I am now reminded of just how real and wonderful it all really is. We are both exhausted from our journey but nevertheless overjoyed to finally be here after so much dreaming and planning, it scarcely feels feel to either of us even now.

The farm, our farm...what can I say about it? Its ours, and that’s the most important thing. This one in particular was being sold off for quite cheap after its previous owners passed on, and although I do not wish to be rude, it isn’t difficult to see why the bank was so eager to hand it over to us. It is quite an old building and in need of several serious repairs, I fear that one strong gust of wind would be enough to knock it apart.

Will seems optimistic that we’ll be able to make it work, in spite of the obvious problems. He did have to take out a small loan to pay for it, but he’s confident that we’ll be able to pay it back after our first good harvest. If all goes well, that is, which I trust that it will. We’ve come too far for it not to.

Yours truly,

Mrs. Agnes Barclay

P.S. Do let Aunt Winifred know I miss her dearly, and I plan to write to her as well just as soon as I get the chance.

“...it doesn’t need to be perfect, Aunt Winifred.”

“Nonsense, dear, its your wedding day, of course it has to be perfect!”

Agnes sighed as her aunt fidgeted about with the skirts of her wedding dress for what must have been the tenth time in barely five minutes, but made no other movements or noises of protests. There was no point to it when she’d only receive the same response as she had the last several times, and thus she stayed put.

Or at the very least, she stayed put the best she could. Because it was taking everything in her to not just collapse into a overwrought heap of nervousness.

It was normal for brides to feel anxious, she supposed. Great-Aunt Winifred had said so, but then, Agnes wasn’t sure how much her aunt knew about weddings or being a bride given her perpetual state of spinsterhood. Nevertheless, Agnes tried not to think about it too much. For if she did, she knew she’d only begin trembling again as she had when she’d woken up this morning, and she’d only just managed to make herself stop.

Though whether she trembled with worry or excitement, it was hard to tell. Her mind was all aflutter with every emotion imaginable, at least the ones expected of a young woman about to be married. Why shouldn’t it be, after all? Her life as she knew it was about to change in such a grand way, she’d have a new home, a new name.

A new husband.

Oh, how she detested the fact that she couldn’t see her dear Will at this moment. She didn’t think she’d seen him for two days now, and she was sure she might just explode before she even made it down the aisle. “Its bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, after all," Aunt Winifred had tutted, much to Agnes' annoyance.

Oh well, no matter. It wouldn’t be much longer, it couldn’t be.

Today, she would become Mrs. William Barclay, just as she’d always dreamed she would.