Your children are in rosy good health this evening, tucked into their trundle beds. Jane, your eldest, heard the least ones’ bedtime prayers while I swept the hearth. Though it is late, and your other female treasures are dreaming, I hope this letter serves as weak companionship during my absence. Perhaps you will take it as one does sherry, refreshment or medicinal, depending upon your need.
I think it best to spill my plan, the better to warn you and our precious girls. As curious Jane guesses (you are numb to my wakefulness), I am afire, my passion bordering on mania. During still hours of embroidery or mending, I have imagined similar mutiny in my community of womenfolk. We teach daughters at our knees to draw from the inexhaustible bank of male provision. Indeed, that husbands are divinely burdened to feed, clothe, wed, and bed us. Forthwith, my beloved, I question such pap.
I confess, a notion abhorred by you courses between my childbearing loins and my fevered brain. It is that woman deserves, no, demands, the right to slake her thirst at the great trough of polyamory. This major thing you deny me. I wish to “go halvers,” visit my bounteous physical lust upon our gentle neighbors.
I am at the church organizing village sisters around our cause. We will have the power, and soon the privilege, to prevail. Don’t trouble yourself fighting sleep; I shall be late.
Your loving wife,