Chapter Text
In a rented flat in Recife, the Amazons’ Uncle Jim sat at a desk, pen in hand, trying to compose a letter to his sister. It wasn’t easy. He knew all too well how enthusiastically his every return to Beckfoot was received by his family; yet, again and again, he was driven from home by wanderlust and curiosity. It was a large Empire, and a larger world. For the past year, though, he’d almost set roots elsewhere—not even in an English-speaking country but in Brazil. He could guess how tidings of his latest plans would be received; and he was sorry for it. Still, he had no intention of being persuaded otherwise.
Finally, he began to write.
Dear Molly,
Here’s hoping you and the girls are all well. You needn’t worry about me. Fit as a fiddle (well, a moderately broad-beamed bass fiddle) as usual. However, I do have news—and whether you think it bad news or good is up to you, obviously. If it’s the former, I understand but, from my point of view, it is certainly very interesting news.
I told you back in January (when my dratted nieces and their
fiendsfriends let me have an hour’s peace) that I’ve fallen in with a fellow expatriate, name of Stedding, who’s a geologist. As I’ve some interest in that direction myself, we were talking last year about getting together and trying our hand at a bit of exploration. Well, at that time it was mostly talk.When I left Beckfoot, I did say that I might see you in the summer once I’d taken care of certain things here. Well, we’ve had wind of something rather intriguing. I can’t give you the details. This letter might go astray, after all, and I’ve no wish to be pipped at the post, especially since we’re still only at the stage of getting together supplies as quietly as we can. It’s not as though we’ve even found anything worth staking a claim. And, of course, the whole thing may not pan out. (Being gold that’s a very good metaphor. Or simile. I could never keep those things straight. You know me—best at geography with a dash of history, but the other subjects were never my forte.)
Now you know how tales go. We heard our own local legends as children; and I’m pretty sure that you are every bit as cynical as I am about the chances of a gold strike anywhere in the hills around Beckfoot. However, Brazil genuinely does have gold deposits. People have been mining it for centuries and still are. New strikes—which means new mines—are there to be discovered. I could say there’s a fortune to be made, and it wouldn’t be wrong. Mind you, mostly one sets out as well prepared as one can be and still you find nothing. I have to admit that basically all we’ve got is a tip, and it may be a dud tip.
From your point of view, though, it means that we’ll be far from civilization, which means no post office, which in turn means no letters. Please don’t worry if you don’t hear from us for a while. I’ll write when I can.
Your loving brother,
Jim
Timothy looked over his shoulder, and Jim shifted slightly so he could read the letter clearly. “You refer to me as Stedding,” was his only comment. “You haven’t called me that since … well, months ago. Before Christmas, anyway—before your trip to England.”
“Well, it is your name,” Jim pointed out. “I don’t want Molly to—” He broke off. “I mean … well, you know.” He twisted round to see Timothy’s face. “It’s more a question of—”
“I know.” Timothy smiled gently down at him. “I have family too, you know. Though I’m not as close as you and your sister. It’s all right.”
Jim read the letter through, made a correction or two, and then blotted it. He opened the desk and took out an envelope. “The rest of this is pretty routine,” he said. “I’ll go out to the post office after tiffin. Is there anything you want me to bring back?”
“Just yourself.” Timothy slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll start making lists, shall I? We’ll have a better idea what we need once we actually start organizing those supplies you wrote about.”