It was probably accurate to say that Zelda was freaking out; they clearly weren't fine but she wasn't sure she wanted to risk facing him in person again. And there was Dio and there was her job and there was Dory maybe at risk of ruination, somehow, and — well, she wasn't sure how to even begin thinking about children, and started several aborted letters the night of the 27th into the morning of the 28th, before finally sending one. She wasn't even sure if she managed to say what she meant to, but it was clear enough that she wouldn't be able to manage it.
Alfred,
I mean — yes, some? Not ten, but some children. Do you want them, or?
It sounds like you haven't given it much thought. Roslyn's not going to be the last one to ask about it, especially if we get engaged. I'd like to know we're on the same page about things so that I don't feel like I'm walking into a trap any time I talk to anyone in your family.
My last letter was cruel, and I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me lately. I guess I've been feeling restless, but I shouldn't be taking it out on you. I'm really not angry with you, I promise. I've just been feeling out of sorts since our last conversation.
I do think it's important to talk about these things but I'd rather do it in person. It can wait until then. Sorry I brought it up through letters in the first place.
April 28th, 1891 - shortly after his second letter
Alfred,
I'm sorry you're feeling restless and out of sorts. I've beenDio is I hate having these conversations through letter, too, it's always so much harder to articulate what I actually want to. Miss you.
I slept a little better, but I think it's just because we were out so late. So I would be delighted to hear ideas, because I'm clearly at a loss.
Also: Julian didn't tell Brannon we left, but I think people are talking about us. We may want to tread a little carefully, & if Brannon hears anything I'm saying I had to step outside for fifteen minutes. We'll see.
If we're treading carefully you probably oughtn't to sign your letters that way. I liked it, though.
This is probably going to sound a little silly, and I don't know if it'll actually help, but it couldn't hurt, I don't think. This is a pillowcase from my bed. It's a little Navy trick when you go underway for a long time to bring a pillow from home, because when you lay down and close your eyes it tricks your brain into thinking you're back in your own bed. It helps you fall asleep until you get used to the waves and everything. So — maybe it wouldn't feel so much like you're sleeping alone in an empty room.
your,
Alfred
[Enclosed: one carefully folded plain white pillowcase, which smells faintly of saltwater, sweat, and Alfred's shaving cream]