Cousin,

Thrice I had to read your letter, so outlandish did it seem. It seems impossible to me that, with the sound upbringing I know that you received, your agreeable nature, and my own sister as an exemplar, you should make such a rash and, for want of a better term, extraordinary decision. I had hoped on first reading that your tidings were merely in jest, but I see now that it is not in your character to make such a jape though I did not think it in your character to elope, either.

I must implore you to consider the weight of your actions before spreading the news any further and before outwardly presenting yourself as a married woman. It is only too late to turn back when the social damage is done.

It is not only for your own good name—though you must know I would safeguard it as closely as my own—but that of the mother that raised you, the governess that instructed you, and those who call you a friend. Ours is not a kind society to those who have caused offence, and it is too easy to taint the reputations of those near and dear to you without it being at all your intent.

As a bachelor, I know that the legs upon which I stand on this matter are weak indeed, but please listen when I say that love is a romantic concept, an idealistic concept—but only a fleeting emotion. Please reconsider resting all your hopes upon something that may be lost to you in a matter of weeks or months, and leave you with a lifetime's regret. Mr. Lukeson is too young to provide to you the guidance and support a husband owes (I know this for I myself feel too young for such a weighty responsibility much of the time, and he is quite my junior). Love, even if it lasts, cannot sustain a marriage on such shaky footing.

Please, Cousin, think rationally whilst there is still time to salvage matters. Our family tree dwindles more and more with each passing year.

With concern and affection,