Being a letter from Jeremiah Collins to his nephew Barnabas, discovered among the effects of one Ben Stokes, a Collins family bond-servant.
 

14 December, 1795
 

Dearest Barnabas,

By the time you are given this letter I shall have been dead for the space of five days. Ben, with whom I am entrusting this note, has been given the gist of its contents. I have given him also my confidence, and leave to use his own discretion as to whether or not the delivery of this letter into your hands should be prudent.

In a matter of hours - three, to be precise - we shall face one another in the wood. I intend, Barnabas, that this affair of honor should be quickly dispatched, and when it is ended, I shall have lost.

You should not misconstrue this and think me noble. I am not. My death, I can assure you, is both deserved and more than welcome.

Your anger has invited this duel, my friend and brother, because you believe that I've deceived you. If nothing else, and though I know Ben's decision may preclude me, I would have you know that my words to you on the day you returned from Martinique were true. I would have given twenty fortunes if the turn of events had been otherwise, but they were not. I cannot change that.

You shall not be inclined to believe me at this point, because I have taken Josette from you, and in that single act of treachery I have, in your mind, refuted all that I said before.

I cannot tell you why I took her. I can find no reason, no logic, no sanity behind the action. It was as foolish - and as ineffectual - as I.

I have suspected of late that Abigail was right to see the hand of witchcraft in this. Is there another answer for the passionate fervor that led me to believe I could do with Josette what I had been unable to do with any other woman?

If there was a witch, then she was dreadfully ignorant not to know of my "curse." Was she spying on us in the light of dawn that followed our wedding night, when Josette and I sat together and silently wondered what madness had possessed us? What a laughable tableau we must have made.

In two days time, when the madness had dissipated and there was no longer the insatiable desire to flee from the rest of the world, we both knew that we would have to return to Collinwood. Josette was the first to voice it, and I confess that out of fear, I objected. I knew I would have no adequate explanation to give you. So it was that I chose to give none.

I know, as I know you, that your aim with a pistol is true. I shall pray, none the less, that you do not fire amiss, for as I lack all else a man should have, so am I also lacking courage. And the shame of cowardice forbids I turn my weapon on myself.

Do not be angry with Josette, for she was not to blame for the hurt that we have caused. That fault is mine. And do not be too moved by her sorrow, which propriety shall demand of her when I am dead. She will mourn for a husband she has never loved, and who has never loved her. You discerned this when last we spoke. "If you do not love her," you said, "you've ruined all our lives for nothing."
 

I have indeed. And I still have no idea why!

You may never understand the strange mixture of ecstacy and shame that descended upon me with the onset of that mysterious passion. The witch's mark - if that's what it was - appeared upon our hands and drew us inexorably together. As God is my witness, I tried to resist it. I tried to leave Collinwood and stay away until after you and Josette were married. But Joshua vanished on the eve of my planned departure. With the family in such turmoil, how could I have gone? Did the witch arrange that most convenient circumstance to thus prevent my leaving?

I wonder.

A part of me knew - I should perhaps say "hoped" - that your anger would lead you to challenge me, though I was no less afraid for that. Did my cowardice show when you struck me? I know that it did. I was quaking like a frightened child.

I shall thus endeavor to make right my sin. I have already told Josette that when I die she shall be free, and by my troth, Barnabas, she shall be in every aspect as she was before we wed. If time permits the healing of this wrong and you should take her to wife, as was intended, you shall know this to be true.

So am I brought to this moment. With these next few hours I shall attempt to make whatever peace with God is possible for me. Then I shall put on the guise of manhood for one final time, and walk forth to my most welcome death.

One day, when you are able, forgive me.

-Jeremiah