My Dearest Elsie, I scarce have the strength to hold this pen, my fingers are near numb from scrubbing silver and folding napkins into what Master calls "swans" and I call "lumpy potatoes." Another party tonight; can you believe it? The third this week! The drawing room reeks of cigar smoke and desperation, and Lady Fenwick insists the champagne must be chilled exactly to "the temperature of a winter’s kiss," which I reckon is just a fancy way of saying "freezing," though I wouldn’t know...
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