Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1915
Denver, Colorado

My Dearest Charles,

How my heart trembles as I take up my pen to write these words, knowing full well the pain they may cause you, yet knowing too that they must be written. The autumn leaves outside my window have turned the colour of burnished copper, and I find myself thinking of your eyes in the lamplight that evening we shared such tender words beneath the magnolia tree. That seems a lifetime ago now, though it has been but three months since I departed Louisiana with such haste.

You must think me the most wretched of creatures, disappearing into the night without so much as a proper farewell. I know that my abrupt departure wounded you deeply, and for this transgression against your generous heart, I am profoundly sorry. Yet I must confess that even now, with the full weight of my actions pressing upon my conscience, I cannot bring myself to regret the course I have chosen.

You see, my beloved Charles, I have taken employment here in Denver as a secretary to a prominent lawyer, Mr. Edward T Lawson, who specialises in women’s suffrage cases. The work is demanding, the hours long, and the pay modest, but it affords me something I have never possessed before—independence. Each morning I wake knowing that I am beholden to no one but myself, that my thoughts are my own, and that my future shall be carved by these very hands that now hold this pen.

I realise how this must sound to you, knowing as you do the plans we had begun to make together. When you spoke of marriage that warm June evening, your voice filled with such hope and tenderness, I felt my heart soar even as a small voice within me whispered warnings I dared not heed. You offered me everything a woman of my station could reasonably expect—a comfortable home, social standing, the protection of your good name. These are gifts of immeasurable value, and I do not diminish them when I confess that they are not enough.

Please do not mistake my words for a lack of affection. My feelings for you remain as constant as the North Star, as true as the day I first gazed into your kind eyes and felt my world shift upon its axis. But I have discovered within myself a hunger that cannot be satisfied by the traditional path, no matter how gilded or gracious. I long to contribute something meaningful to this changing world, to use my mind and my voice in service of causes greater than domestic comfort.

The war raging across Europe has shown us that the old certainties are crumbling. Women here in the West are demanding the vote, and I find myself drawn to their cause with a fervour I cannot explain. Last week, I attended a meeting where Mrs. Catt herself spoke of the inevitable triumph of women’s suffrage, and I felt as though I were witnessing history in the making. How can I return to embroidery and calling cards when such momentous events are unfolding?

I know that you will say I am being foolish, that I am throwing away happiness for the sake of an impossible dream. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps in ten years’ time, I shall look back upon this decision with nothing but regret. But I must try, Charles. I must discover what manner of woman I might become when freed from the constraints of convention.

This does not mean I have ceased to love you, nor that I have forgotten the sweetness of your kisses or the warmth of your embrace. On the contrary, it is because I love you so deeply that I cannot bear the thought of becoming a burden to you, a wife who grows bitter with unfulfilled longing. You deserve a woman who can give herself wholly to the role of helpmate and companion, and I fear I am not that woman.

I am determined to make something of myself here in Denver, to prove that my convictions are more than mere fancy. If I succeed, if I can build a life of purpose and meaning, then perhaps—though I scarcely dare hope it—there might be a way for us to find happiness together on different terms than those we originally envisaged. If I fail, at least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing I was true to my deepest self.

I pray that time will soften your anger towards me, and that you will come to understand that my flight was not born of fickleness but of necessity. I could not remain in Louisiana and pretend to be content with a life that would have slowly strangled my spirit, no matter how comfortable the bonds.

Please give my regards to your dear mother, and tell her that I have not forgotten her kindness to me during my stay. The recipe for her famous pralines remains one of my most treasured possessions, and I think of her gentle hands and patient instruction whenever I attempt to recreate them in my modest rooms here.

I close this letter with hopes that you will not think too harshly of your wayward,

Bertha

P.S. – I have enclosed a pressed autumn leaf from the mountains here. Though it cannot compare to the beauty of your Louisiana magnolias, I hope it might serve as a reminder that even in distant places, nature creates moments of unexpected loveliness.

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