My dear brother Ackley, eight years my senior, the eldest child of Doctor and Mary White, has most recently written a novella, that of which he plans delivery to the publisher in London this Tuesday. Indeed, I have read its entirety, for my love of reading grows even stronger from the words upon the pages of God's gracious gift to my brother. His latest work concerns two lovers, deeply zealous for one another, imprisoned by hearsay, doomed to marry their fiends – hopelessly tragic, yet happily put together in the end.

I am said to be my brother Ackley's closest companion, even more so than any of his male associates he has found to be daunting and worthwhile of witty conversation. Although I must say, Ackley and I share more than common ground between that of siblings; we grow nearer the farther we are separated, the stronger the pull against us, all the more stronger we hold tight to each other's grasp. Mother says it isn't proper for a young girl as I to keep so close to her elder brother, that one day he will go away from Asselby – but I don't believe her. She says we should not be as deeply connected in the thoughts that we share, that the duty he so willingly takes as his own should be reserved for my sister so near my own age. In fact, mother has always chastised my decision to befriend Ackley, yet I say to her, how can you ask me to give in to the inconsistency and frivolity of my dear sibling Alice when Ackley is the one person that has always loved me for me, and not asked me to drown myself in thousands of yards of silk, damask and chic ringlets about my face and neck?

From the earliest of our years, Alice constantly competed for Papa's affection and attention. I recognized that he was wrapped up in his eldest daughter's beauty, her perfect snow white complexion and matching hair, her face adorned with a pair sapphire eyes with specks of grey – like the ocean's depth, he says. She had an attitude to match her outward embellishment, complacent and utterly bamboozled by any thing other than lovely cloths and pearls to adorn her graceful neck. Papa loved her abhorrence of dirt or rain, and found it degrading that I loved everything about it, from the way it smelled during a semi-drought, to the oozy way it felt upon touch after a midsummer's evening rain. Dancing in the midst of it all was the highlight, feeling drop after drop of fresh water run down my cheeks, slide right over my lips and chin down onto the front of my dress, washing me clean of the dirt accumulated while collecting bugs in the Gardens. It was something I could do nothing about, even as I so desperately wanted to be loved by my father, for my appearance was something of slightly opposite character of my sister. The irony of the situation is that I clearly looked like my father; resembled him in almost everyway conceivable. From my light olive complexion, to the loose curls of sweetened coffee, even to his trademark, my big brown eyes shaded by full black eyelashes, I was him. But he did not want me, at least not as he wanted my most socially acceptable sister so dainty in manner and appearance.

But, Ackley, he told me differently. He often said that it mattered not that my skin was that of a summer's kiss, because it was a mark of God's own paintbrush in his array of many colors. And my mark of beauty below my lip was exactly that, he said, the first kiss from him when he used to hug my mother's abdomen when I was inside. Aye, I realize I am too old for such imaginings, yet I still hold fast to the fact that they were given out of brotherly love for his little sister. So I did the only thing I knew left to do, the only thing that felt right, I loved him for it and clung fast to my older brother's lead.

He once said to me over a cup of chamomile tea, early in the springtime, when the buds of flowers and the other flora had yet to begin to burst forth with vibrancy and wonderfully invented hues of color, "Libbie, you're beautiful in your own way. Bother not with the ideals society now holds, for they will one day see Miss Elisabeth White is indeed, the gorgeous lady whom will marry for love, not propriety nor her graces in flirtatious banter. For yours, baby sister, is not only bonny, but ravishing past words for the tongue.

Don't be scared to be different, Libbie, for it isn't always bad to be the complete opposite of what is expected. Sometimes, what is expected can be frivolous in the whole scheme of things. It isn't about what reels you dance, or whom you marry and how high they are placed in society that matters, dear sister, but what you feel inside of you, what you know is right in His standards. Their standards are nothing more than tomfoolery and will be gone with the tide. But His, now His will be here forevermore. As God made the Heavens and the Earth and all that is in it, he surely made you, Elisabeth White. You are as dear to Him as a daughter can conceivably be to her Father. Never, ever forget that He loves you just as you are, for he created you for such a time as this…"

Aye, brother, I remember well the biblical story of Esther. How sweet he is to believe in me as so, just as Mordecai took Esther in, believing in her. Yet, I know He believes in me also, even more than I can fathom. Can it be that Esther is my example in life? Aye, Ackley, you do well to quote His Word, for it gives me faith even society cannot dispel…