The rest of the funeral has gone as expected with no events I haven't already told you of. We leave for Newport in a few days and I've enclosed my address there.
James and I exchanged some new information last week and he's given me some letters between Edmond and Ironheart which I'll send to you once I'm finished with them. He and Edmond are going to India for a few weeks before joining the rest of us in Newport, which makes it harder to send information. But we have letters and I will keep you informed.
The three of us are in this together in our strange, perverse way.
I met a man at the funeral, clearly thrust at me by my mother and Ironheart. Jonah Mason. Texan. Oil, of course. You might have heard of him, though I doubt it. I'm clearly meant to marry him and of all the choices, he doesn't seem as bad as I thought. Kind. A little too earnest. Dull.
But what other options are there? I can't actually run away to Paris as I blathered on about in our earlier letters. Still, I won't be accepting proposals any time soon. I'll have to see.
I'd copy out our conversation for you but I have better things to do than write it and I'm sure you have better than to read it.
I may not be able to write much in Newport, I think. Anne Larrabee's house is near ours which means she'll be hanging onto me often. In a few weeks I can have James scare her off (he terrifies her, I think) but until then a lackey can come in useful.