Auctions had become a fascination for Sarah ever since she had gone to her first one. There was the thrill of the viewing days where she could poke about the auction room and decide what she would bid for, which was frequently nothing. Most of the ‘dead peoples’ stuff’ as her husband described it wasn’t worth much and never had been, plastic bags filled with costume jewellery often went for £2, usually to a dealer who no doubt hoped to find a diamond ring or ruby brooch amongst the tat. One time, a beautiful Georgian writing desk had gone under the hammer for £2, because "no-one wants that dark wood stuff anymore, it’s all self-assembly stuff from Ikea is what they want," is what the auctioneer said as he bought the piece himself. Sarah would have bought it if she could have found room for it. It was the same with the beautiful bone china tea sets and lovingly crafted patchwork quilts which told the story of the woman who had made them. Fashions change and people just don’t want old stuff, her mother and aunts had been the same when her grandfather had died, throwing out any amount of Victoriana.
On this occasion, the thing that caught Sarah’s eye at the viewing was a plain, polished wooden box with brass hinges and lock, it was some sort of dark wood, possibly mahogany. It would fit in the space next to her piano, just the right size to hold the sheets of music for pieces that she would never be able to play, but one day thought she might if she actually practised. It was part of a lot that came from a small manor house nearby, though the rest of the stuff looked as though it had seen better days, traumatised rather than distressed and way beyond shabby chic, but the box stood out as though it had been lovingly cared for with few dents and scratches from casual usage.
As usual no-one seemed interested when the auctioneer brought up the box, ‘thought to be Georgian mahogany possibly used as a ladies’ sewing box, useful size, you could keep your small tools in there, or if nothing else chop it up for the wood burner,’ he said, ‘Can I start the bidding at £50?” There was a silence as everyone in the room looked at their catalogues, “£40 then?”. Still silence, “How about £20, come on ladies and gentlemen, this is a piece of genuine Georgian craftsmanship.” Still no response. “I’ll tell you what ladies and gentlemen, I’ll start at £2 then it might reach its right value. £2 anyone?” Sarah raised her hand, she’d been to many auctions and knew that often when he started low, people began to get involved and the price usually rocketed, but no-one else was remotely interested. When she went to the office to pay, the auctioneer’s wife handed her a small brass key, “this goes with the box, but we couldn’t get it to open. As far as we know it’s been in the attic at Winterford Manor for donkey’s years, you know what these people are like, they never throw anything out,” she laughed, adding, “it’s a good thing too, otherwise we’d be out of a job.”
Sarah’s initial attempt at turning the key were unsuccessful, but after applying a little WD40 and jiggling it, there was a satisfying click. Half expecting it to be empty, she was surprised to find bundles of paper tied with fading ribbon, some pink and some blue. The paper was very dry and brittle as she carefully opened the first bundle.
Dearest Father,
Worthing is quite the most pretty town with a lovely harbour from which to watch the fishing boats coming and going and where the fishermen mend their nets. Certainly the vapour and warm sea bath are of use and therefore I hope I am able to assure you that I am better, the pain in my leg is much improved and I enjoy walking down the High Street and looking in the shops. There is a particularly fine baker who makes the most delicious plum cake and gingerbread that I fear I shall need new gowns before I return, which I hope shall be soon as I miss you and mother as well as my brothers and sisters.
Your affectionate daughter,
Amelia
Darling Amelia,
You are greatly missed and we hope to visit you soon, especially as you extol the virtues of Worthing. I believe there is some building planned as, due to your presence, Worthing has become quite the fashionable place to be and rather less raffish than Brighton. However, you must ensure that the noise and dirt associated with building does not detrimentally affect your health. I wish you a happy birthday and hope that you like the gifts.
Your loving father.
Dearest Father,
Thank you for the delightful writing box, from which I am writing this missive, and the nutmeg grater, how I love nutmeg sprinkled on my rice pudding. I went sea bathing today and though the sea water is uncommonly cold, I felt much better afterwards and went for a walk along the shore collecting shells. I have no idea what I shall do with them, perhaps use them to decorate something or draw them. I find the sea endlessly fascinating, some days when the sky is blue and the sun is shining, it is a glorious shade of blue and other days it is wild and angry, waves rushing up the beach and dragging back shells and anything in its wake. There is to be an assembly next week, though I doubt I shall be able to do much dancing, though I should be able to tap my toes to the music. It was nice to have a visit from George in Brighton. I look forward to a letter soon.
Your loving daughter,
Amelia
Sarah looked up, a letter in her hand as her husband came through the door, “What do you have there?” he asked, “Auction day again was it? We’re going to run out of space to put that stuff soon.”
“I think, this time I’ve stumbled on something important,” she replied, her face pale. “Like what?”
“I don’t know how they got it, but the people who lived at Winterford Manor seem to have acquired this box with some royal letters.
“I believe the Winterfords have always been on the fringes of royalty, ladies in waiting, gentlemen of the bedchamber, that sort of thing someone probably took them for safe keeping to protect the royals from whatever scandal’s in there,” he replied. “It’s only in recent years that they had too many death duties to pay. It’s amazing that they managed to hang on to it for so long. “What?” he asked, looking at Sarah’s puzzled face. “You’re not the only one interested in history, I just don’t want to live with it.”
“Well there’s no scandal here, just some lovely letters from George III to his daughter Amelia who died before him when she was only twenty three. He was heartbroken.”
“What are you going to do with them? Send them to auction?”
Sarah shook her head, “I don’t think so. I hate the thought of some rich individual buying them as an investment without appreciating the value, just the price.”
“Well we can’t keep them here, for one thing they’ll deteriorate and be of no use to anyone.”
“I agree, I think they should go to the National Archive so that scholars can study them.”
It took some time for Sarah to be taken seriously, after all, why would royal correspondence of almost three hundred years old suddenly turn up at an unremarkable auction house in the north, but eventually they were declared genuine and now reside in the National Archive in Kew.
Irene Airton
November 2025