15 for 15 Contest --- Closed

June 11, 1897

My dearest Elizabeth,

Africa is magical. In the morning the sun rises, a massive crimson orb, and bathes the savanna in rich, fiery light. The air is hot but everso fresh, and each breath I take feels like a renewal of lost energy. The lingering cough I was so troubled by in Yorkshire has dissipated completely, and my complexion has taken on a rosy hue I have not seen since I was a young girl. My only regret is that I can not share the majesty of this land with you, my favorite sister. I fear my meager descriptions cannot do Africa justice.

I write to you, not only to sooth your concerns for my health, but also to impart to you a story which I know will amaze you. Everyday the women, myself included, accompany their husbands on hunting expeditions into the savanna. We sit at the back of the caravan and share the latest English gossip gleaned from our correspondence with friends back home while snacking on tidbits of fine fruits and biscuits. Often I find myself growing distracted by the idle chit chat, for such meaningless talk seems trite when we are surrounded by such vast and primal wilderness. Instead, I focus on the world outside the caravan, smiling to myself each time I spot some wild beast, whether it be a prancing gazelle, a giraffe reaching for the highest leaf on a tree, or a hippopotamus wallowing in the muck by the side of the winding river. Each of the animals here is so strange and marvelous, and the photographs we've seen at home cannot possibly show their vast size or vibrant beauty.

Even the conversation of the other wives comes to a standstill when the men stop the caravan and aim their rifles at a herd of passing wildebeest, or some other herd of prey. Everyone seems to hold their breath until the shot rings out, and the animal either falls to the ground in a cloud of dust or gallops off back to the herd, spared and allowed to live for another day. When the animal goes down, I must admit my heart clenches for the poor beast, but I can not feel too sad when the savanna is so rich with wildlife. One wildebeest surely makes no difference, when compared to a herd of thousands.

But on to the heart of my story, for I fear I have been wandering. Yesterday, the caravan came to a halt fifty yards away from a pride of lions cat-napping among the tall grasses. The females lounged with one eye open watching their young cubs, as they tussled and played with each other. The male, the King of the pride and perhaps of the entire savanna, sat underneath a large Baobob tree, his eyes scanning the grasses for any sign of danger. He shook his head to chase away a fly, and his massive main rustled around his great jaws like spun gold. I swear to you, Elizabeth, he was the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes upon.

As the men prepared to take their shot, I found my chest tightening with panic, and suddenly I leaped from the caravan and placed myself between the men and the great beast. You can imagine my husband was not pleased with me, and Mr. Beaumont scolded, "Lucy, what in God's name are you doing? Get back in the caravan."

I shook my ahead adamantly. "I will not. You mustn't kill him for the entire pride is depending on him."

"What on earth does it matter? There must be a hundred other prides just like this one."

"It matters to me," I declared, ignoring the tittering laughter of the other woman in the caravan. I lowered my chin and stared my husband directly in the eyes. I didn't even lower my voice, as I declared, "and if you ever want me to return to your bed, Mr. Beaumont, then I suggest you lower your rifle and turn this caravan around."

I could see my husband contemplating my words, and his cheeks burned bright red with embarrassment and anger. And yet, he knows how stubborn I am and quickly realized that I meant every word I had said. I tell you, Elizabeth, the strength of a woman's love is a very powerful thing. I find myself laughing now, as I write to you and recall the look on his face, when he realized I had won.

Mr. Beaumont quickly ordered the caravan to turn around. Just as we were turning to leave the pride, I swore I saw that lion look up in my direction. Perhaps I am going mad, but it seemed to me the glint in his eye was a sort of thank you for what I had done.

I am certain my outburst will only delay the inevitable, for the men are eager to claim a few lions before the trip is over, but I am satisfied with what I did manage. That one lion at least, and his beautiful family, will be safe.

Please write back to me and tell me how mother is doing for I worry about her, and you, everyday. Send mother and all of our dear friends my love and regards. I look forward to the day when I will return to England and see your smiling face again.

With all my love,
Your sister,
Mrs. Lucy Beaumont