Dearest Little One,
I have arrived safely in America, though not entirely sound. I cannot even begin to describe the terrors and travails of traveling across the ocean in a sailing vessel hardly worthy to be called such, no matter how much Captain Travers praised its value. Besides being tossed about as though we were nothing more than a leaf on the wind, the men didn't seem to understand the meaning of cleanliness, giving the ship such a stench that I hardly knew if I was sick due to the motion of the sea or the state of the rooms in which we were boarded.
But I do not wish to burden you with the hardships of my travels. The worst is behind me and that is exactly where I wish it to stay.
America is… versatile. The little I have seen of it contradicts everything I have heard in regards to the people and validates every rumor that has to do with the scenery. Although the place is not of the green beauty we are surrounded with at home, it has its own sort of charm. The cities are new and always bustling with industry and the countryside is well cared for. I am pleased with most of what I see.
As for the people: they range from the crude and uncouth to charming and well-mannered, from illiterate and bold to witty and welcoming. I find myself going between a sort of reluctant respect for these strange Americans to having a bad taste in my mouth for even having to converse with the rebels. It is a strange course of emotions.
I am very comfortably situated in a hotel just a few streets down from the harbor in Boston. Though the view is not much, I cannot complain about the accommodations.
During the day I work with Mr. Jones, the owner of Jones Shipping and Goods, in selecting the shipments of cloth Father so specifically wants for our next shipment to England and then after supper Mrs. Jones sees to it that I am always in the best of company. It has been four days since I arrived in Boston and already I have dined out twice, played cards in the home of a very prominent businessman another night, and last night enjoyed my first American ball (they refer to it as a "social dance"). I have already spent more time socializing here than I have spent doing so for the past six months in Ireland. It is quite out of my comfort zone, but not always unpleasant.
Casting aside my own cares, I am most worried for you. How are you faring? I can't imagine what it must have done to you when Father so suddenly announced your own departure into the South. I am sorry I could not convince him to give you more time to prepare. Two days is hardly sufficient to obtain the necessaries for an undetermined amount of time away from home. And in the country, no less! How are you supposed to find anything worth sixpence your money when you're hundreds of miles from real civilization?
Please do not be hesitant to unload your burdens and cares upon me, though I am far away. We must seek comfort in one another's words and even if I only speak for myself, I do not think I would last long without the strength I can obtain from writing to you. We may not be the most similar of sisters - whether in the span of our ages or temperaments - but I can think of no one else whom I would rather confide in and trust. You have always been my guide and my listening ear, though you may be four years my junior. And with Father so very far away and completely out of the reach of any correspondence we might send him, we have only each other to turn to in our distress.
I miss Ireland already. I am only glad I have work to do in America, else wise I would turn directly around and whisk you away from the country in which you are forced to live and return directly to home and comfort in Belfast. Ah well. Wishful thinking. I must focus on business and you must survive living with Aunt Grania. Good luck to both of us.
I haven't much else to write. You would not care to hear more of business and I do not care to write about it. Just be content in knowing I am safe off the high seas and anxious to hear from you.
Always your extremely boring but ever loving sister,
Daire
