Episode 9: Towards the Beginning of All Music

[seagulls squawking] [door opening and closing] September ten, eighteen ninety-five.

My dear Victoria, I hope this letter finds you and everyone else well.

I know it's only been two weeks, but it feels like months since I've last seen you all.

It's so quiet out here.

I desperately miss the bustling streets of Portland, being surrounded by life and humanity as I go about my day.

I will admit, though, being able to see the ocean while I eat breakfast is a pleasure I had never imagined.

There is something very unique about being able to look out from your kitchen window and feel like you're gazing into eternity.

But I'm sure you're not interested in my ramblings.

If I could construct them well, I would have become a novelist, not a journalist.

So I will not subject you to the useless wanderings of an old mind.

The house is lovely.

It's new but lived in, tall but secluded.

It's quiet but very peaceful.

As much as I miss Portland, I don't miss our old house.

Too full of memories.

It's good to be away from them as much as I'm able.

I do think Thomas would have loved living by the sea.

But Lord Hamlet and I are settling in well.

I'm still waiting for much of the furniture to be delivered.

Newport is a very small town, so I have had to order much of it from the city at no small expense.

But what more could a cat and an aging woman want than a comfortable bed and a window that overlooks the ocean? Though I will not complain when I have a proper kitchen table again.

I'm not sure I like Newport.

It's small, with maybe two hundred people who call it home year-round.

They mostly make their living catching fish and harvesting oysters, though there are a few hotels that I've been told tend to stay busy in the summer.

I saw a few tourists when I went into town to purchase groceries this weekend, but it is now dreary and overcast, and I doubt I will see anyone there next time who isn't familiar with the workings of sail and net.