January 15, 1805
My dearest Brother,
I write to assure you that I did not perish at Stoney Grove, but live and am now reunited with my dearest son Ned on the island of my birth. I beg you to believe that I strove to deceive others, but never you, with the staging of my recent "demise." Here then, is my tale.
I received a letter from Ned in early November, declaring that he had discovered my search for him and was anxious to meet the mother from whose breast he had so cruelly been torn. In my joy, I confided to Mary the story of her brother’s birth, my betrayal, his kidnapping, and my revenge upon his father. She could not accept the truths that I shared with her, and chose to deny the existence of her brother and the circumstances of my birth so that her own blood could thereby remain untainted. I pleaded with her for acceptance and forgiveness.
In her anger and confusion, she confided the story to Mr. Morcombe, a young man who had until that time exhibited every sign of love and matrimonial intent toward her. Without the slightest consideration for her affections, he swore to expose my ancient crime and bring her family name into disrepute. When his nature was thus unmasked, she repented of her anger and told me of his intentions. Together, we planned my "death," knowing that, once drowned, there could be no proving of his tale and no glory to be gained in the telling of it. I packed a few belongings and fled the house on foot, meeting a stage for London in Lower Puckering. I was delivered to the dock and purchased a passage to the West Indies on the merchantman Marguerite. Mary, I fear, will bear too great a burden for my sins. She has, in one week, lost mother, suitor, and worst of all, self-knowledge.
I beg you to attend to her, when possible, and bear with you the greetings of her loving mother. I have enclosed herein a history that I wrote whilst aboard ship, to expand on the hasty explanation of my actions that I imparted to her in England. Please see that it is delivered into her hands.
I pray for your health and happiness.
Your loving sister,
Fanny Rawlins Blake
June 30, 1814
My dearest Brother,
I am comfortably situated at Stoney Grove, thanks to your kindness and generosity. I write to you whilst sitting on the veranda that I once shared in the evening with our dear father and my brother Ned.
I am, again, a grandmother. My son’s wife was delivered of a daughter twelve days ago. She is a fine child, and has much the look of her great-great grandmother Fanny, for whom she is named. I have ridden over to Newcastle twice to see the family since her birth, but am fatigued today and do not believe I shall stir beyond the shade of the silk tree.
I dream at night of the garden in Sussex, and wonder if, when my time comes, I shall fly across the sea to be there once more. I fear that I cannot fly, being too much an Englishwoman, and will instead find my peace here in this place. I do not regret this--only that I will never see Mary again, or have the chance to visit, one last time, the grave of my dear friend William Heath.
I am thankful to you for giving me a home when my son could not, and being a true and loving brother.
Your sister,
Fanny Rawlins Blake