Love in the Time of

March 30th, 1998 Posted in Short Stories

From the Plantation Estate of Colonel William Miles Cavanaugh, Mississippi

To the Manor Home of Silas Bilgepool Cavanaugh, Gwillimbury

Dated this July 15th in the Year of Our Lord 1896

Dear Father,

I pray this missive finds you well. My dearest wife Constance and I enjoy’d your last letter immensely — though I admit the cursive was so lightly etch’d that it prov’d difficult to read in parts. Constance informs me that this is the most force a man of one hundred and three years could be expect’d to exert upon a quill to press ink to page. However, I choose to believe that the thin, unending line making up the entirety of your letter was due not to age but an errant manservant, who jogg’d your elbow in mid-sentence throughout. So great was your wrath, I conjecture, that you left the missive in its haggard state to thrash the brute to death with a hickory switch. (I myself keep a vase full of switches next to my writing desk for just this purpose, and can give sympathy to your labors. My manservant Hawksmoore gives the room a wide berth when I am deep in Letters.)

Alas, but it has been too long since my last correspondence. Life has been a flurry of business of late, like the veritable storm of arrows from the quiver of Eros. I have been through six manservants since I last wrote you, and my beating arm is cramp’d and tender. The sugar plantation fares well, though we are not as popular as we could be in Mississippi. I suspect I have gott’n off on the wrong foot with our neighbors since we bought the plantation late last year. The fault, I dare say, lies with our neighbors being the most cow-hearted, bird-witted, bacon-fed mutton-heads I have ever met. They stopp’d by on our second day in the mansion to welcome us to the area. I of course implor’d my manservant Hawksmoore to respond with buckshot.

Alas, since that fateful day the Cavanaugh mansion has borne naught but ill winds. Perhaps my addle-pat’d neighbors were sent by God to test me. And in filling them all with lead most hot, I fear I have fail’d the test. T’was vanity to think I could thwart the Fates! Damn’d Klotho with her fine thread! Lakhesis, that curs’d apportioner, with her curs’d apportioning! And the third one, I forget her name — ravenous harlots all!

Tragedy, as you may have gather’d, has struck the plantation with some force — and all the more breast-rending that it would follow the very footsteps of such a prosp’rous, milk-giving year. Dearest, long-suffering Constance gave birth some months ago, to octuplets. I was not once, not twice, nor even thrice, but eight times bless’d, Father, with four strapping young boys and as many girls.

The children took most of the day to arrive, and longer still to name. That night, though, as I made sick-looking, weary Constance tuck in the little brood (I did not feel like it), I watched from the doorway and survey’d my happy family: Stout-heart’d Aloysius; silver-tongu’d Polonius; clear-eyed Penelope; beautiful Hildegarde; Olympia with her laugh like tiny bells; Hieronymous with his strong will; Desideria with her flowing locks of auburn; Bartholomäus the iron-fisted and severe.

Or so I guessed. In truth, they were just eight fat balls of pink dough. But I had high hopes.

Misplaced, mayhaps. Hieronymous died in the night, of unknown causes. I buried him the garden the next day. Constance was inconsolable, so I did not bother.

Hildegarde came down with the croup the next day. Doctor Kensington recommend’d a blood-letting, which we perform’d with some haste. But one thing led to another, and I began chatting about whatnot with my manservant Hawksmoore, and when I look’d around I had accidentally let all of Hildegarde’s blood. In truth, there really is a surprising little amount in a baby. To the garden we went, for what I hoped to be the last burial.

It was not to be. Within days, Desideria had come down with the ague. I telegraph’d Doctor Kensington with the frantic news, and follow’d his directions to the letter. As per his most learn’d recommendation, I took Desideria by to a crossroads under a full moon. Just as the clock struck midnight, I turn’d ’round three times and drove a large nail into the ground up to the head. I then walk’d backwards from the nail before the clock had finish’d the twelfth stroke. The ague, I was assur’d by the good Doctor, would leave Desideria by the next morning. And perhaps it did. I could not tell you, in all honesty — what with all the walking backwards and driving of nails into the ground and twelfth strokes and such, I had quite forgotten Desideria back at the crossroads, and when I return’d the next morning there was no sign of her, and naught else but the far-off baying of wolves.

Within the week Bartholomäus, perhaps pining for his depart’d sister, develop’d ill humors. Various amulets and charms were adorn’d upon him, to no effect. Doctor Kensington had little hope for the poor tot — for he explain’d, once one has ill humors, the plague is soon to follow. Worried that Bartholomäus might infect us all, I bade Constance visit her sister for a fortnight and, under cover of darkness, buried the plagu’d child out in the garden with the others. The garden, I must note, was blossoming like it never had before.

On my way back inside I heard crying from the nursery and rush’d back upstairs. Aloysius, it seemed, had develop’d scarlet fever. Penelope, always competitive, had contract’d small pox. Luckily I still had my shovel about me, so it was little more than another quick trip out to the garden.

Constance return’d and was again inconsolable. However, the ill luck seemed to have abated, the Fates appeas’d, and for some months all was well at the Cavanaugh plantation, whereupon I turned my attention to the sugar cane crop. My labor is lazy and thick-witt’d, Father, and it confounds my very senses. I have tried everything—salt in their eyes, whippings, brutish hangings — and nothing seems to work. I have taken to spying on them whilst they work in the hot, unforgiving Mississippi sun, from a safe distance of course, under a parasol and sipping ice cold lemonade. I have noted that they seem to enjoy the singing of foppish, ill-refin’d balladeering whilst toiling.

Inspiration struck suddenly. I spent the night at the calliope, and the next day I had compos’d a song for them to sing, as I relate thusly:

O, let us work and make Colonel William Miles Cavanaugh money
or he will beat us dead
I say chaps, let us work harder for that Colonel William Miles Cavanaugh
or he will throw salt in our eyes
handfuls of salt in our eyes
(repeat)

I thought the ditty lovely, but my damn’d dumpling-skull’d addle-pat’d help would have none of it. I was so cross I storm’d back into my mansion and stew’d in my den for the rest of the day, where I enjoy’d my afternoon rashers of bacon and dollop of Flannigan’s Astonishing Pinnepedia Elixir.

I also spent these months in the having of fun with Polonius and Olympia, my remaining two offspring. How we gambol’d and caper’d so in the yard! How we enjoy’d the plumpest tomato harvest ever recorded from the manor garden! Alas, but the Fates were merely lulling me for the next bitter strike.

A week passed, and Olympia became possess’d by The Devil, or one of his minions. At the Good Doctor’s behest, we attempted to exorcise the demon with a mild laxative and — judging from th’effect — we were wholly successful. However, Olympia soon became sullen after being forcibly parted from The Devil, whom unbenownest to us she had befriended. She died of melancholy soon after. Or perhaps it was pleurisy. Or indigestion. It is hard to keep track.

Other than this, I am happy as a grig — as is Polonius, dear little urchin, who grows by the day! He has taken it upon himself to throw stones at the help while they toil, and derives ceaseless merriment when a well-thrown stone finds its mark and one of them drops unconscious. The scion is a pip, Father, make no mistake, and if pleurisy or the drops don’t take him by his eighteenth birthday, I will be very proud to put the lad in charge of my silk trade in Constantinople.

Well, I must be off. Dearest Constance is entertaining, and I am due to make a toast, as some muffin-faced old dowager’s son is back from the War unscathed. A damned coward, if you ask me — come back with your shield or on it, I say, and will say just that at the toast!

Well, I must away, duty calls. Do not ever consider hesitating to contemplate the possibility of conjecturing to stop by.

Your dutiful Son,

Colonel William Miles Cavanaugh