We arrive at Dawsbury at precisely five fifteen, and I gently shake Edward awake. He has been asleep nearly the entire ride, despite having slept well the night before. Is he alright? I hope he feels better by tomorrow. I’m beginning to worry.

As soon as he stirs, we set off, Edward carrying our suitcases. The driver waves goodbye, turning the carriage around and heading back the way we came, soon disappearing into a dot on the horizon.

The house we’re staying in this time was lent to us by some friends of my parents. They were awfully kind about it—they refused any payment. “You’re getting married soon. That’s costly enough as it is. Absolutely not—you shall not pay a penny. It’s our pleasure. Besides, we’ve a holiday planned anyway,” the father of the family had said. He has a wife and three children: two boys and a girl.

As for the house’s exterior, it’s smaller than the beach house in Eastbourne, but still quite spacious—certainly more than enough for just the two of us. Its brown brick walls are framed by an overgrown stone path that leads to a front door adorned with a wreath of roses. Climbing roses and vines wrap around the brick, curling over the windows and forming an arch above the door. The roof is made of medium-gray stone slabs, with moss peeking through the cracks. A tall maple tree stands to the right of the house, its wide leaves offering generous shade. Hanging from one of its lower branches is a wooden swing—probably not the safest contraption, but charming nonetheless, inviting in its quaintness. Beneath the tree grow a few bushes, and just beyond them runs a low stone fence, also moss-covered. It seems to wrap around the sides and back of the house, though only a narrow segment appears in the front. To the left, flanking the stone path, are clusters of rose bushes in varying shades of pink, from soft blush to rich, deep hues. These, too, are bordered by moss-covered stone. It’s a bewitching little cottage.

I glance up—the clouds above are dark and low, looming close due to the high elevation, as though pressing down upon us.

“I think we ought to head inside before the sky opens,” I say to Edward. I notice he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, despite the long nap. “Edward? Are you alright?”

He blinks a few times and sets the suitcases down, slapping his face gently in an effort to wake up. “Just tired and a bit off. It’s nothing, love. I’ll feel better tomorrow. Come now, let’s go in.”

He starts walking ahead without me. I stay behind for a moment, rooted to the gravel path, watching him go. Something feels wrong. I’ll ask him later.

I rush to catch up, and within a few moments, we’re inside. The house has an earthy charm to it. Around the entryway are plants: a snake plant and a golden pothos, its trailing leaves brushing the floor. Just beside us is the staircase, with narrow shelves along the wall, dotted with little succulents.

We head upstairs. To our left, a door is cracked open, revealing a glimpse of a large ash-brown bed with matching nightstands. Each stand holds a stack of books with a small plant perched atop.

I nudge the door open. It creaks. I take in the room—smaller than the master bedroom back in Eastbourne, but still generous in size. Above the bed, an array of small framed paintings depict scenes of nature, arranged in an arch with the largest at the center. To the left is a large arched window, west-facing, perfect for natural light by day and silver moonlight by night. On the right wall is a tall ash-brown dresser. Atop it are framed photographs—mostly of children, presumably the family’s. One photo catches my eye: a wedding portrait of the couple who own the home. The bride wears a simple white dress adorned with lace flowers at the sleeves and neckline. Her chestnut hair tumbles in soft waves down her shoulders, styled in a simple half-up fashion. She appears to wear no makeup—and honestly, she needs none. She’s beautiful. Not as beautiful as Margaret, though, I think to myself. The groom wears a tan suit with a light blue tie—an unexpectedly elegant pairing. They’re standing beneath an arch of summer blooms, her hands on his chest, his arms around her waist.

“If only that were me and Margaret,” I murmur under my breath. “Life would be perfect.”

“Help me unpack, will you?”

I snap out of my reverie. Edward is unzipping my suitcase. “Oh—of course. Sorry, I was just admiring the room.”

“No worries, love. I know how you enjoy looking at interiors. After we unpack, we can explore the rest of the house together.”

“I think you should rest, though. We can take a quick look around, but after dinner, I want you in bed, alright?”

“Oh, fine. It’s probably for the best. I still don’t feel quite right.”

We manage to unpack in about fifteen minutes. The closet beside the door is small but functional—a walk-in with a single rack left empty for us. I take one half, Edward the other.

There’s no vanity in the bedroom, so I place my toiletries in the bathroom instead. I’m pleasantly surprised by it. The wallpaper is a light orange shade with deeper orange floral accents. A sky-blue counter holds two sinks beneath a matching mirror. Between them, a vase of pink peonies gives off a bright citrusy scent, blending with a subtle vanilla aroma. Below the sink are drawers and cabinets, with a cubby of neatly folded gray towels. The bathtub, situated to my right, is lined in cream-colored tiles and has a soft gray mat before it. A small stool with candles sits atop the mat. Above the tub is a medium-sized arched window, and to its right, a little shelf holds another vase of peonies—these smelling more rosy than citrusy.

I place my things in one drawer, barely fitting everything in. I nearly encroach upon Edward’s space before opting to use a cabinet instead. Inside, I find a small bin filled with face masks and other self-care items. I make a mental note to return to them later.

When I return to the bedroom, Edward is already asleep. I go over and gently pull the covers over him properly—he’d only half-covered himself. I’ll make him some soup and tea. Hopefully, that will help.

I tiptoe out and head downstairs. The kitchen is right off the main entry, to the right. It’s quaint, smaller than the one in Eastbourne, but far cozier. The brown countertops match the bedroom furniture, and the sage-green cabinets add a warm, rustic touch. Above the sink are openable windows flanked by plants—small monsteras and jade. A six-burner stove sits to the right, with open sage-green shelves holding simple white dishware. Around the counters are containers for utensils, cutting boards, and two knife blocks. A rectangular window sits above the boards, surrounded by brass pots and pans. The ceiling beams add a charming country flair, with three hanging lights between them. At the far end is a circular table with five woven placemats. The room feels like home—far more than the beach house ever did.

I gather ingredients: noodles, chicken, carrots, celery, broth, and seasonings. Perfect for chicken noodle soup. Edward hasn’t shown cold symptoms, but he’s clearly unwell.

I put water on for tea just as I hear footsteps on the stairs. Edward appears in the doorway, looking pale and exhausted, his hair matted and dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“What are you making?” he asks, stifling a yawn.

“Chicken noodle soup and tea. I thought it might help you feel better.”

“Thank you, love, but I doubt it will help much. I feel so tired, and I’ve been running to the bathroom every five minutes. Maybe the tea will help me sleep. But… if I’m not better by the day after tomorrow, we’ll have to go home. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I say quickly, taking the kettle off the flame. “Your health is more important. We can always take another trip another time. I just want you to feel better. I’m a bit worried.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he sighs. “I’ll be fine.”

“When did you start feeling like this?”

“Yesterday, I think. I felt lightheaded and tired, and I kept needing the restroom. I don’t feel dizzy now, just… drained.”

“Oh.” I pour the tea into a cup, add honey, and bring it to him.

Edward settles into a chair, watching me quietly as I ladle out soup and set the table. We eat in near silence, the only sounds being gentle blowing and quiet sips. Afterward, I insist he go to bed early. He protests, wanting to help clean, but I refuse.

“No. You’re going to sleep now, or I’ll be cross with you. You look awful, Edward. You need rest.”

He glares slightly but doesn’t argue further, and heads upstairs. I wash the dishes by hand—naturally, there’s no dishwasher out here. With thyme-scented soap and a yellow sponge, I scrub everything clean and dry them with a sage green cloth before putting them away.

I store the leftover soup in the fridge—it’s old, small, and single-doored, a far cry from Eastbourne’s modern kitchen. But charming in its own way.

Tiptoeing upstairs, I see Edward’s foot sticking out from under the covers. The bed’s clearly too small for him, which makes me smile. I enter quietly—his hair is damp with sweat, and he snores deeply through a stuffy nose. He only snores when lying on his back.

I grab my writing things—two sheets of paper, a pen, and a slightly yellowed envelope—and slip back downstairs to the kitchen table to write.

My dearest Margaret,

Another few days, another letter. This time, some rather… interesting—no, troubling—events have occurred. But before I delve into that, let me tell you: Edward and I have just arrived at Dawsbury. So technically, we did not stay a full week in Eastbourne—only six days, in fact. However, I am afraid our honeymoon may be cut short. I’ll explain why later in this letter.

Anyhow, on our last full day in Eastbourne, I went out alone to the post office to send off the letter I had written you—well, the one prior to this one—despite it being a rather dreary, rainy day. On my way there, I passed an old, neglected house that honestly looked quite haunted, so I hurried past it. It gave me the most unsettling feeling, though I am unsure exactly why.

Now, as for Dawsbury—it’s a charming little place, much smaller than the beach house, but somehow cozier, more inviting. It feels more like a home than a vacation house. I’ll describe it for you in detail when I have more time, but suffice it to say, it is a place I wish you could see. You would love it. I thought of you the moment we stepped inside. The house is wrapped in roses and vines, the rooms are filled with plants, and the kitchen has this rustic warmth to it. Everything is so picturesque—it feels like something out of a storybook.

Now, about Edward.

He has not been well. He began feeling poorly yesterday—lightheaded and fatigued, and he’s been running to the bathroom every other minute, it seems. At first, I thought perhaps he hadn’t rested well, but now it’s clear this is something more. He insists it’s nothing, but today he could hardly keep his eyes open, even after sleeping nearly the entire carriage ride here. He looks so exhausted, Margaret. He has these dark circles beneath his eyes, and his face seems pale, drawn.

I made him some chicken noodle soup and chamomile tea—he didn’t ask for it, of course, but he didn’t refuse it either. You know how he is. Always putting on a brave face, even when it’s quite obvious he shouldn’t be. He sat at the table, quietly sipping his tea and soup while I watched him, worrying more with every passing second.

He promised that if he does not feel better by the day after tomorrow, we will return home early. I told him not to apologize for that—his health matters far more than any trip. Still, I can’t help feeling a bit sad that our time here might be so brief. I’d hoped it would be a time of joy, of rest... not of worry and sleepless nights watching over him.

I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but something feels... off. I hope it’s merely a stomach bug, or perhaps the strain of travel. But if he isn’t improved by tomorrow evening, I shall insist we leave. I won’t take any chances.

Anyway, I’ll write again soon—perhaps even tomorrow—depending on how the day goes. Please do write back the moment you get this. Your letters are like sunlight on rainy days, and I think I’ll need as much light as I can get over the next few days.

With all my heart,

Yours always,

F

I fold the letter carefully and slip it into its envelope, pressing the seal closed after moistening the edge. Then, I write Margaret’s address across the front in my neatest hand and leave it on the table, ready to be posted. I’ll take it to the post office tomorrow—I’m certain there’s one nearby.

Gathering the rest of my writing things, I make my way upstairs to prepare for bed. I find myself quite weary, truth be told, though I did very little today. Still, the weight of worry can be just as tiring as any exertion. I do hope Edward feels better come morning. I am terribly concerned for him.