1727

Beloved,

Your letter arrived this past Tuesday morn – to my great surprise, only a month after you set sail. Your vessel must have crossed paths with an in-bound ship, though which, I cannot say, for the errand boy was unclear. The spice boat, he thought, or maybe the one with a cargo of Spanish wine. It doesn't matter. Sweet One, I cried, for your note means you are safe, or at least, you were two weeks ago when the treasured missive was penned.

I know you told me not to worry; you have sailed this route many times. But now that you are part of me, the sea-going stories fall more keenly upon my ears; the tales of sickness, pirates, powerful storms; and worst of all, the monsters reputed to be as big as the ship itself. Some, they say, have tentacles so strong that they can crack a hull in two. You said you never saw such a creature, but still, the portraits in town make me shiver.

The contents of your letter made me blush. Yes, my memories of our last night together are as strong as yours. I was too shy to tell you, then, how the idea for my gift to you came about; but far from the heat of your gaze, I will tell you now.

The suggestion was that of my friend Melissa. You know how women talk; yes, every one of us; not in order to be unkind, but to have someone to whom we can pour out our hearts. I don't know if men have such needs. Perhaps one day you will enlighten me. Regardless, one afternoon while spinning, I did confess to my friend that you were leaving soon. What, I wondered, might I do to show you my feelings, and at the same time, please you as a woman pleases a man?

Melissa whispered what she had done for her husband, and how he had loved it. I was shocked, but the idea seemed like one that might be to your liking ... and so we contrived to find a time when she might demonstrate. Does it shock you, Beloved, that it was she who guided Papa's razor over my womanhood? I will tell you something that I could not even confess to her: that as I sat naked from the waist down before her, as my limbs were parted wide, I found myself having certain feelings – or certain sensations, I should say – not unlike the fire you arouse in me with your touch. It seemed to me her face was also pink, but even so I did not dare invite her intimate caress, or even to press my own fingertip to the place where I throbbed.

How sweet and indescribable was my joy at your reaction; that you were more than pleased; that you loved the sight and feel of me; even going so far as to place me in the corner chair, splaying my limbs over its arms, so that you might expose my flesh completely to your view. How you made me blush! As I am blushing now, and the memory is so strong, I may have to stop writing, and take a moment to ease the ache. But I wanted to tell you that, once a week or so, I still purloin Papa's razor. It is my ritual for you, the candle I keep in the window. Call it a superstition if you will, but somehow doing so makes me feel connected to you. And when you return, you will find me ready for your longed-for embrace.

And yes, especially when freshly shorn, I enjoy the gift you made for me. Again I am so overwhelmed with what I am about to say – I can hardly find the words. Therefore let me speak to you first of another cherished memory, that of the day we first clapped eyes upon on another.

Apparently your captain was good friends with Papa; other wise you and I might never have met. Your voice was the first I knew of you. From the next room, I heard the complaint, "I'm a shipwright, not an errand boy." It was you, of course, personally carrying a bundle of spices to my family's home. Here, allow me to digress; every cup of tea I drink reminds me of you; for with your own hands you carried some of the herbs therein; and I close my eyes, inhale the warm fragrant ginger, and think of those hands.

Your hands! So strong, capable, and wise in so many ways. No doubt you recall even better than I how Papa put you to work, fixing the old oak table that had remained crooked despite his best efforts. From where I sat spinning in the next room, I caught my first glimpse of you. With your weathered skin and unruly hair, you looked like a ruffian. Yet also the sight of the sturdy leather bags, strapped around your waist and brimming with tools, widened my eyes and sent a tingling along my nerves. Of course I have seen craftsmen before – but somehow, never one such as you. When you caught my eye and smiled, I had to look down, and focus intently on winding the bobbin evenly. You may not know that otherwise this is an easy skill for me, one as natural as breathing. Yet the sight of you caused such an internal commotion – and when I looked back up, still you gazed upon me – and I saw your glance travel to my bosom – and blushing furiously, all the more, I made more mistakes in my spinning just then, than since I was but a child.

Your gift. It puzzled me exceedingly that you would press a note into my hands, just before our last kiss. What might you have to say, that we did not already say to one another over the past several hours? Yet with an impish grin you bade me go home, to my private chamber, before reading your words.

Burning with curiosity, I did so straight away. "Lift the end of your bedpost, and there you will find me."

What could this mean? One after another I tried each bedpost. Your gift revealed itself on the second try. Special One, I was already impressed by your skill, but here you have outdone yourself. How did you manage it? For the baton you carved fits perfectly inside the hollow you made in the post, as a man fits inside a woman; no casual observer would ever guess that the bedpost nearest my pillow is anything but what it appears to be. And, to my even greater amazement, the wood is a perfect replica of you, that part of you, and now I am blushing harder than ever. What an incredible gift, so wicked and yet so delightful. Darling, I cannot tell you how special you make me feel; that while you are away, you think of my womanly needs; and that you want to be the one to satisfy me so. Yes, many a night your gift has been put to fine and happy use. The bedpost makes a suitable handle, as no doubt you envisioned, and the baton goes where you would, if you were here. I try to be quiet as I speak your name, and think of us moving together as one.

I have had to stop writing and steal away a precious half hour here, to be with you, if only in spirit. From what you wrote, it seems you often take similar interludes, and I cannot help but imagine that sometimes, we might be thinking of one another at the same time. It doesn't really matter; our spirits are together.

My own parting gifts to you seem so paltry in comparison. The overshirt I made for you is common wool, and the undershirt, linen. I did spin the flax for the latter by my own hand, and carefully removed every burr and flaw, that you might have softness against your skin. Cotton would have been far better, but it simply was not available, my dear. As you know, it will not grow in Boston's clime; and the taxes and politics, beyond my ken and yet so frustrating in their effects, make certain items so costly, even when they can be found. Any way, I hope these humble garments keep you warm, wrapped around you, as in my heart I hold you just as closely.

Sweet Beloved, if there is any chance this letter will find you, I must now close and dispatch it promptly. I know full well it may be six months before we meet again. Somehow at this moment, I feel a sense of certainty and peace. I know you will write when you can; and as we are thinking of one another, perhaps we are closer than we think.

Ever yours,

D.