Vox Meditantis

Chicago, Illinois
28th October, 1905

My Dearest Evangeline,

The autumn wind carries with it the scent of coal smoke and the distant whistle of the Illinois Central as I pen these words to you from my lodgings on State Street. How my heart aches with the weight of these miles that stretch between us like an endless prairie, each one a testament to my foolishness in leaving your side.

It has been nigh on three months since I departed Virginia City, and though my business ventures here in Chicago have proved more fruitful than I dared hope, I find myself a man divided—my body attending to the necessities of commerce whilst my soul remains tethered to that silver-dust town where you await my return. The electric lights that illuminate these bustling streets seem pale shadows compared to the radiance of your countenance, and the grandest of Marshall Field’s displays cannot rival the simple beauty of your smile.

I confess, my darling, that I am haunted by the memory of our last evening together beneath the Nevada stars. How clearly I recall the way the moonlight caught in your auburn hair as we walked along the Carson River, speaking of dreams and promises yet unfulfilled. You spoke then of your fears—that the restless spirit which drives men to seek their fortunes might carry me away from you forever. How prescient those words seem now, though I swear upon my honour that no distance nor duration shall diminish the love I bear for you.

The gentlemen with whom I conduct my affairs here speak often of their wives and sweethearts with a casual affection that strikes me as both foreign and insufficient. They cannot comprehend the depth of devotion that one man might feel for one woman, nor understand why I decline their invitations to the opera or the symphony when such entertainments only serve to remind me of your absence. Indeed, I attended a performance of La Bohème at the Auditorium Theatre last week, and found myself moved to tears—not by the tragedy upon the stage, but by the realisation that all beauty seems diminished when experienced alone.

I have taken to carrying your photograph in my waistcoat pocket, that small carte de visite we had made at Miller’s studio before my departure. Though the image captures but a fraction of your loveliness, it serves as my talisman against the loneliness that threatens to consume me. The other evening, whilst dining at the Palmer House, I found myself studying your features in the gaslight, tracing with my finger the familiar curve of your cheek, until a fellow patron enquired if I were quite well. How could I explain that I was merely a man attempting to bridge an impossible chasm with nothing but memory and longing?

You must know, my beloved, that my success here means nothing without you to share in its fruits. The contracts I have secured with the meat-packing concerns will provide us with the means to build the life we have dreamed of together—a proper house with running water and electric lighting, perhaps even one of those new motor cars that have begun to appear upon the streets. Yet what use are such modern marvels if I cannot share them with the woman who has captured my heart so completely?

I write to you each evening by the light of my reading lamp, and though I know these letters must serve as poor substitutes for my presence, I hope they convey something of the depth of my affection. I have enclosed a small token—a cameo brooch I discovered in one of the finer shops along Michigan Avenue. The lady depicted therein possesses something of your profile, though the artist’s skill falls far short of nature’s perfection in creating you.

The telegraph lines sing with messages of commerce and industry, but I find myself envious of their ability to traverse our great continent in mere moments. If only human hearts could travel with such swiftness! I have given serious consideration to abandoning my business here and returning to Nevada posthaste, consequences be damned. Yet I know that to do so would be to squander the very opportunities that might secure our future happiness.

I beseech you, my darling Evangeline, to hold fast to the promises we made to one another. I know that your father views my absence with suspicion, and that other suitors have pressed their attentions upon you—Mr. Thornton from the assay office chief among them. Yet I trust in the strength of our bond and in your faithful heart. We have weathered the storm of separation once before, when I was called away to San Francisco on mining business, and emerged with our love intact and strengthened.

The leaves have begun to turn here in Chicago, painting the city in shades of gold and crimson that remind me of the autumn colours we admired together in the Sierra Nevada. I find myself counting the days until I might return to you, when the cold winds of winter give way to spring’s gentle warmth. By then, I shall have concluded my affairs here and will come to you with the means to make you my wife in truth, not merely in the longings of my heart.

Until that blessed day arrives, I remain, with all the devotion of which a man’s heart is capable,

Your most faithful and loving,

Theodore Ashford

P.S. I have arranged for credit at Mackay’s store in Virginia City, that you might purchase whatever you require for your comfort. Please do not hesitate to avail yourself of this provision, as your happiness is my greatest concern.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.