August 21, 1879

 

My dearest Amelia:

 

It is with utmost urgency that I dispatch this sparrowbot to deliver this letter to you. I write from my suite aboard Her Majesty’s Royal Airship Bovine Destiny, my masterwork whose construction has been chronicled in obsessive detail by the broadsheets and tabloids.

 

Amelia, sorrow saps my heart. At our dinner the evening before the Destiny’s maiden voyage I rushed off suddenly. Now I fear this rude retreat may have dealt a setback to our growing affections. An incident yesterday brought the matter into high relief.

 

It was the sixth day of the cruise. Until then our journey in the clouds had been a resounding success, with guests from the pinnacle of society engaged in unrelenting revelry while praising my genius at every turn.

 

Accompanied by my servitron Alex, I made what should have been a routine inspection of the lower levels where the wondrous miracle of this craft takes place: two hundred cows eating without pause, the methane from their flatulence captured into tubes to fuel the engines that keep the liner aloft.

 

My brass butler surveyed the dials. “Master! The gas levels are dangerously low! We shall soon lose altitude!”

 

I scurried through rows of cattle. Much to my horror I found the creatures ignoring their hay mixture as if bored with the cuisine. Damned recalcitrant mammals!

 

We rushed to the bridge and found Captain Sterlingford sounding the klaxons. “Methane reserves dropping! Engines failing! We will crash within the hour! Dr. Buckingham, you are a fool!”

 

Removing my top hat and gloves, I slapped him. “Get hold of yourself, Aston. We will find a solution!”

 

“I prefer not to die,” he whimpered cravenly.

 

My dear Amelia, in that petrifying instant your beautiful visage appeared. I recalled our last meal together: you’d spent hours preparing pork vindaloo and phaal curry.

 

“This will bring multitudes of luck,” you’d insisted, gleaming. Yet I was too focused on the imminent voyage to convey appreciation.

 

On the bridge, it struck me: I’d had monstrous indigestion afterwards from the myriad chilis and spices. It was the urgent need to pass wind, not your banter, that had caused me to flee so suddenly.

 

“Alex!” I commanded. “Rush to the kitchens! Order the chefs to lace the cows’ hay with all the spices they can muster. Curries of every variety! No pepper too small!”

 

“Yes, master!”

 

To my relief, the spicy concoction worked immediately! The fanfare of flatulence from the cacophonous cows was simply symphonic. The airship regained altitude, guests returned to their dining and dalliances, and I was spared global humiliation, not to mention death.

 

Amelia, I am now a changed man. The moment of my near demise brought clarity. I value not eternal glory — only a future with you. I pray your feelings are reciprocal. Cows willing, the airship will land in ten days, and my greatest hope is to spy your enchanting smile amid the cheering crowds.

 

With boundless affection,

Charles Worthington Buckingham III