30 July, 1930

Dear Anna,

Anna, with a head full of mischief and a smile like summer. Anna, who flips my heart about 'til I am dizzy. There's no one I'd like so much to talk to as you, and you're the only one with whom I'll not speak. Do these shams of letters count, all these unread notes? 

My thoughts are swirls and eddies, girl.  I've been staring too much at the sea, at the place where the waves break on the rocks. The house is all nerves and worries and talk and I care for none of it, all I can think of is you. There's no one here I'd ever thought to confide in; they seem to drift about, thoughtless and frantic with nothing, speaking of finances and responsibilities and status and everything but what matters. How causally they throw about words like love. If I were to confess to you, would you scorn me? Would hate me, or only laugh? It turns the insides of me to think that might be so.

The funeral was on Sunday, in Eastbourne, where Rathod was buried at a hillside chapel facing the sea. They say he loved the sea.  I watched them all, the household of Haverfall, swaying and fidgeting with pockets in the churchyard. And they watched one another. Not enough tears and too many glances. That secretary has put thoughts in all of our heads.

But back in the bustle of Haverfall (we’re staying out the week to finish wrapping up my godfather’s affairs), official Rathod policy seems to be not to take the accusation of murder seriously. The secretary is brushed off as a fanciful alarmist. Truth be told, it surprises me how little thought the siblings should give to the matter. I don't mean they aren’t worried – far from it, there’s a nervousness, a paranoia even, but it was not brought on by Northwind’s revelations. I first noticed the change several days later; more doors were shut, the siblings' whisperings increased.  There's became a polite and terrible tension to everything they do.

Can they be giving credence to Walter’s ghost stories? He was on a rant about it the other day, about how the death was by August and it’s in that month the hauntings come. He speaks of ghoulish fiends, hollow-eyed and mournful, decrepit souls come to make mischief on all who dare cross their paths. I could have struck the man. He’s forgotten that he talks of people, real people; actual lives have been skewed into evil stories in that feckless brain of his. He forgets that most of us were here too, and that for some, twelve years does not seem such a long time. Walter must have seen me glare, for I've not caught him about lately - I think he's avoiding me. (How the fellow has not yet been sacked is beyond me.)

Northwind in the meantime, ignored but undeterred, is a fury of quiet activity. When not attending to secretarial duties the typist is often found stationed in the library, poring through old Haverfall records, or poking about in odd corners of the house; listening, questioning. So fascinating was it all to watch, I almost forgot that the secretary's scrutiny of the household did not exclude myself. The other day, catching me quite off guard as we talked of Rathod’s naval record, Northwind asked me who I write my letters to.

I had hoped the secretary would suppose, as the other do, that I am drafting my poems (as is often actually the case). I can’t tell you how I hate the thought that anyone else should know what I write. These notes, these pathetic notes that I pour my heart into – they’re for you and you only, Anna. If you do not see them, surely no one else should?  I was terribly afraid that Northwind had been reading over my shoulder, of what the secretary might have seen.  I became rather muddled then and muttered something about the notes being to the maid who works the night shift, and how your late hours make it necessary to communicate by writing. I neglected to mention that they’re not letters you’ve ever seen.

While I said nothing of the letters' contents, Northwind must have read it on my face, for the typist was grinning at me as if I were a lost pup. I'm afraid that’s when I lost all my composure and begged the secretary not to speak of the letters; if this got out I’m sure I’d die. There are feelings – there are words, Anna, longings, things which cannot be written that I have tried to write, things that I am ashamed to have tried to put onto paper. Northwind only gave a sympathetic nod and assured me my secret was safe. 

I should really think I’d feel worse about all this, but do you know, I believe I can trust that typist? Northwind seems the sort able to keep a confidence. Don’t ask me how, but I’m sure of it. Perhaps we both have secrets.

Well Anna, there it is. If you think of me, please do not think me a coward. Do you think of me? Is it possible? I wish terribly to be telling you in person, but of course I am not. I'm still here, same as always; the miserable godson of a baron, falling to pieces for the maid. We're worlds apart, you and I, and I know this is all a fantasy on my part. But still, Anna, a man can dream.

Yours Always,

Ciaran