"Carrowby Hall, Northumberland. The second of June.
"Madam,
"You will forgive that this comes to you in my sister's hand. The French were careless with mine at Waterloo and it has not yet learned to be useful again; Lady Anne is good enough to be my clerk.
"I arrived here on the twenty-eighth. The house stands, which is more than I was told to expect. The roof of the east wing wants lead. The bridge at Low Ford was carried off in the March floods and the tenants on the far side have been going round by Alnham, which is six miles. I have set men to it. It has rained every day but one since I came.
"I hope you are well, and that your father is well. I am obliged to him for his patience in the matter of the settlements.
"I remain, madam, your servant,
"Carrowby."
The signature was not in the fine hand. It was a low black scrawl, the letters leaning backward and colliding with one another, the C so heavily inked that the nib had split the paper.
"Well," said Dorothea after a moment. "That is a letter about a bridge."
"It is a very correct letter."
"It is a letter a man writes to his land agent. I liked him better in London. In London he said nothing at all, which is at least a kind of modesty." She bent and retrieved her chocolate and drank it cold. "We must answer it."
"Yes."