Dear Miss Maguire by Amy Eddings

Read by Caroline O'Mahoney & Oliver Yellop (final story in podcast here, at 1:23:40)

Dear Miss Sullivan,

Was it but yesternoon I beheld you first, gliding so elegantly through Hanover Square in that utterly bewitching taupe walking-dress with the Paris silk trim? The feathers on your hat danced as vivaciously as if they would truly fly – and my heart, treacherous bird that it is, flew from my breast to be with them! I near-swooned, fearing that so divine a vision must be heaven-sent; that perhaps my twenty-four short years on Earth had concluded as I turned the corner, and God had sent an angel to reap my soul!

It was only when you dropped your little lace handkerchief – positively the coverlet for an infant cherub in its delicacy and beauty! – granting me the inestimable good fortune of retrieving and returning it to you, that I understood I was not the visionary dreamer of an exquisite dream, and that you existed indeed! A Woman, in the very Flesh, before my bedazzled eyes!

Perhaps I ought not to have followed you and your companion (Clarissa, was it?) back to your place of abode, and memorised the name upon the door-plate. I offer only this defence: that Love, having stormed the citadel of my soul and made of this poor, humble clerk an instant conquest, compelled me to do it. Nay, that thine own Beauty commanded me!

I am utterly helpless against your charms: disarmed, spent and naked, stripped of will and dignity, such that only my ardour endures to implore you to write to me at the below address, and believe that I remain, madam, your most enchanted and obedient slave.

Edgar H. Pearson

 

Dear Mr Pearson,

Thank you for your unsolicited letter of the 17^th: also your flower-posy of the 18^th, your fruit-basket of the 19^th and your attempted serenade of the 20^th, rudely terminated when Jobson doused you with that pailful of water, for which I apologise. The caged canary of the 21^st I confess I set free, as I feared it might prove too much of a temptation to Pusskins, who does not always show the Christian forbearance he ought towards his more edible fellow-creatures.

It is incumbent upon me, however, to warn you that many young ladies would consider so impudent and forward a series of overtures both reprehensible and alarming.

I am not one of those girls.

As an avid reader of Miss Maguire’s Agony column in Milady’s Magazine since the tender age of twelve, I recognise that Love, like lightning, strikes where it will, heedless of social position or fortune, and strikes hard. How can I refuse succour to one whom Fate and the Gods have dealt such a blow? What compassionate female could stand aside and watch a fellow-creature’s agony without attempting to soothe it? Who, that had a heart, and a mouth, could see a man bitten by the sharp-toothed asp of Passion, without attempting to suck the venom from his wound? Especially so tall and well-formed a man, with eyes so very blue, and so luxuriant a moustache.

I shall be walking to the Mayfair Post Office, unescorted, tomorrow at four. Should Chance throw us together, perhaps I would not turn aside for a street or two?

Sincerely,

Millicent Sullivan

 

Dear, dearest, beloved, darling angel Millicent!

Sole light of my enamoured eyes, matchless bloom who perfumes my days with delirious joy – I am yours entirely! Has it been only a month since we first met?

The memory of yester-evening shall live forever in my burning heart. No matter that we must love in secret, in a dingy hotel, for it makes the joy all the sweeter. Never, never did I dare dream I would touch the tender stalk of your delicate neck, nor yet press those petal lips with my own – let alone that I might tease open with trembling fingers that most secret and delicate of buds … I am no horticulturist, yet I flatter myself you blossomed beneath my touch, and I cannot but yearn to pluck that sweet rose again and again, no matter how sore I become.

I am thy Adam, thou my sweet Eve. When can we unite once more?

Yours eternally,

Edgar

 

Dearest Edgar,

You are shockingly indiscreet! I adore it. How lucky I am to have so green-fingered a gardener to rake my beds.

I would get away again, and tell Mama and Papa that I am at my schoolfriend Clarissa’s, but this Friday is impossible: Mama is determined to marry me off, and is therefore obliging me to attend some tedious ball to parade before a dull gaggle of suitors.

Lord this-and-that, the Right Honourable someone-or-other: they are nothing to me! What care I for wealth and position when I have you, my delving Adam? No society fop can hold a candle to so pure a love-flame as ours! In time my parents will give up the futile effort, and then I shall introduce you to them and we can be married.

Yours tremblingly, till we meet again,

Millicent

 

Idolised Millicent,

Our love is a thousand stars shining in the sky. Your face is the morning sun and the beaming moon. My love for you pulsates in every part of me, straining against the bonds of society’s petty rules, throbbing furiously when I consider the bursting fullness of our passion, and recall how amorously and wantonly, and repeatedly, we plighted our secret troth to one another that unforgettable night.

O let Time run double-pace, that we may be together again soon! Curse that ball, and all the dullards who keep you from me, my love!

Yours in the arms of Venus when I am not in your own sweet arms,

Edgar

 

Dear Edgar,

Apologies for this late and hasty reply: Friday was rather exhausting. Naturally I loathed every moment and scorned each swain Mama presented: nonetheless, it is certainly useless to deny that, although several years my senior, Mama’s favourite Sir John Chevely is a rather handsome fellow, and quite as charming as he is rich. Which is very.

I wonder whether perhaps, just for the moment, I ought to lull them into thinking I favour him? Only to divert any suspicion from our own precious secret love, of course, which (it now occurs to me) is so precious and so secret (and so strong!) that we must take no rash risk of discovery. Therefore perhaps we should cease to meet, or even correspond, for a few weeks. Just until their suspicions are allayed, naturally!

No need to risk writing back: I shall take your silence as consent.

Millicent

 

Dearest Millicent, my own darling,

I can hardly believe what you propose. Sir John Chevely is notorious as a rake, bounder, libertine and cad. To my certain knowledge, he has ruined a score of women, leaving them pillaged, broken and soiled, like once-lovely landscapes ravaged by war.

My seraphim, my flower, you cannot plight your troth to this monster, not even in jest!

I forbid it!

Your ever-loving

Edgar

 

Dear Edgar,

You forbid it? You disappoint me.

I confess I dared hope that nothing so sordid as jealousy should cloud your opinion of a gentleman whom you, as a humble shipping-clerk, have surely never met. Sir John has most eloquently persuaded me that these rumours of which you speak are all calumny and exaggeration, spread by envious rivals who wish him harm.

If you truly love me, Edgar, have a care for my future happiness and refrain from maligning my dear fiancé!

Sincerely,

Millicent

 

Darling Millicent

Oh, so he is your fiancé now? With that word, you toss me off the most exalted cliffs of ecstasy into the abyss of despair. What future happiness is there, can there ever be, without one another?

I am thrown into a frenzy: I tear my hair, I cannot sleep, I mutter nonsense like a madman: in truth, I fear that in my current crazed and heartbroken state I might do some wild thing, like lay violent hands upon myself, or even accidentally let slip that you and I were blissfully united in spirit and flesh before ever you laid eyes upon Sir John.

I wonder what your fiancé would think of that? Or indeed your parents?

Edgar

 

Edgar,

Good Heaven! How dare you –

Dear Edgar,

So base a threat is unworthy of you –

Dearest Edgar,

My heart breaks to hear of your agony! What will quiet this anxiety my darling? Naturally my soul and body belong only and ever to you: yet to flout my parents’ wishes and reject Sir John seems impossible. How may I soothe your striving breast, adored one?

X Milly

 

Sweet, loving Milly,

I think the only solution will be for me to behold your lovely face once more: not only your face, indeed, but all those other secret and heavenly parts we shewed one another at the pinnacle of our passion. Such proof of your love would surely dry my desolate tears, and might even silence my despair-crazed tongue.

Tomorrow?

 

Dear Miss Maguire

NOT FOR PUBLICATION

Madam, I turn to you in my hour of direst need, in the profundity of my agony. I have no aunt nor sister, and it is quite impossible to confide in my mother, as will swiftly become apparent when you read the enclosed letters. Your Agony Column in Milady’s Magazine has long been a favourite recourse of mine for its pragmatic wisdom, plain-speaking and invaluable advice.

Miss Maguire, I have been weak, and immodest, and terribly unwise … several times. I implore you to take pity on this broken and storm-tossed vessel, drifting on a sea of indecision, now cast at your feet. I beg to remain,

Your confidential correspondent

M. S.

 

Dear M.S.

Thank you for your missive, and the enclosures, which were highly enlightening. My correspondents sometimes lament that the youth of today seem to have no fire in their bellies nor passion any longer: however, your own case certainly scotches this prejudice.

You have landed yourself in a pretty pickle, yet you are far from the first girl to lose her head, let alone other valuable female assets, over a handsome young man. Nor are you the first whose ill-chosen lover has attempted blackmail when more eligible prospects hove into view.

In such a delicate situation, the first watchword is Caution and the second Discretion. Many a young lady has found herself ruined by want of one or the other. Always consider that your marriage prospects hang in the balance, and while a young man might escape scatheless from such an adventure, not so the fairer sex.

This is where a judicious use of Miss Maguire’s Spousal Reviver (available to order in a plain package from Milady’s Magazine, 6 shillings plus thruppence postage) is advised.

First of all, arrange to meet your beau where nobody knows you (I suggest some low suburban hotel) not neglecting to bring the Reviver powders. To be clear: Revival is the effect when taken according to the dosage stated on the package. These effective, scientifically-formulated powders boost the circulation of the blood and stimulate and swell the heart and other … amorous organs to strenuous and supreme effort, which many of my older gentleman correspondents find most gratifying.

Be warned, however, that younger men, such as your paramour, should use the Reviver with caution. If, for example, a youth were by some unlucky accident to consume three to four times the usual amount, I greatly fear that the strain on his heart (and other amorous organs) might prove fatal. I leave the result in your no-doubt capable hands.

Of course, should said accidental overdose occur and the young gentleman’s constitution rise equal to the occasion, I can only commend you to the pleasures of Venus. As equestrian ladies say, in order to stay in the saddle, one must lean into the gallop: indeed, the experience may show young Edgar in an entirely new light!

And if you are still determined to cast him aside after that, I have a number of lady correspondents, many of them widows in the prime of life, who will be delighted to make the acquaintance of such a robust young colt.

Good luck!

Yours in romance,

Miss Maguire

(c) Amy Eddings, 2023


Caroline O’Mahoney trained at The Oxford School of Drama. Credits include: The Taming of the Shrew (Open Bar Theatre), Sydney Isn’t Shooting Yet (Theatre 503), Jeff Wayne’s ‘The War of the Worlds’: The Immersive Experience (Layered Reality), A Magical Christmas (Kiddiewinks), Macbeth (Player’s Theatre Co) & Wait Till The End (The PappyShow). Twitter: @ comahoney.

Amy Eddings has a PhD in Georgian poetry from the University of Nottingham, so naturally spends most of her time tutoring English A-level students online. She writes short stories for light relief.

Oliver Yellop is an actor from Essex and a graduate of both The Royal Central School of Speech and Drama and The National Youth Theatre of Great Britain. Oliver has performed in plays at The National Theatre, The Park Theatre, the Bush and The Queen’s Theatre Hornchurch.