My dearest Vivienne, if I could be so informal,
They say that the sea is a harsh mistress, but I can attest to the fact that love is worse. For weeks on end, to and fro England (Rule Britannia), I tensed with anticipation at the thought of returning and finding a letter in your hand upon my desk. This thought kept me warm on the worst nights along the coast, and kept my spirits up in dreary ol' London.
Only for me to return to good warm France to find naught upon my desk and non a message from your household. I find myself at a loss of words and feel like I have been taken ill.
I wonder if my expression of interest in you was too straightforward and if I was mistaken in thinking that you of all could be the least bit interested in me. For a man of stature as I, it seems impossible to consider that I need bother you again with a second correspondence having received no reply to my first. However I believe you are worth a second try.
I beseech you, warm my desk with a paper in your hand. Moisten my eyes with your penned words. Save me from this dreariness and emptiness with a simple token of your existence for I know not if you still breathe. If I bother you, I apologize deeply but I wish thoughts of me warm me as thoughts of you warm me.
I remain dreadfully and sadly ever thine, if you wish it.
Lord Randolph Chamberlain I Esq.
Onward, onward. We march onward.
Rule Britannia
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