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r. Oliver Acton?" I said, extending my hand. He shook it and reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a small leaf of paper on which he wrote in pencil: "Do you believe me?"
"I have not made up my mind." I said, truthfully. "It does strain credulity."
He beckoned me follow him down the lane on the west side of the grounds. He was not what I had expected after reading about the dramatic feelings he seems to have inspired. His jaw was not notably strong and he was not tall. He did however have a head of luxuriant chestnut brown hair that curled at the collar, as well as thick sideboards. I am close in age to Mr. Acton but, having lost much of my hair on the top, confess a twinge of envy at the sight of such a mane. But despite this attribute he was not the striking heroic sort of character I had imagined. Mrs. Corning described him as charming so I concluded that his allure was more than physical. Although his charm must be impeded somewhat now by his present voiceless state.
A short way down the lane he pointed out charred ruins - this was the green-house he had mentioned in his letter, which I will continue at this point:
I become reacquainted with Mrs. Corning about six months after her husband died. It has always been my habit to visit the post office every morning, and the lane from my home passes by the grounds behind the Corning house. I began to notice Mrs. Corning walking the grounds with a very purposeful demeanor. At first I simply waved as I passed, but eventually stopped to satisfy my curiosity.
She told me that she had decided to build a green-house to ensure a steady supply of herbs in winter, having, she said, an interest in creating sachets and medicinal teas. I was intrigued by the idea: I was entranced by various green-houses I had seen in London. I soon found myself drawn into the planning of the building.
(To be continued...)
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