I’m sorry, Evie. I shouldn’t speak of it to a lady, but for some reason, you make me want to spill all of my thoughts.
You say you’re restless and anxious to play some part, but I’d hate to see you here at the Front. It’s dangerous, soul-altering, and anyone who can be shielded from it should be. I want my best friend’s sister as far from it as possible. Why don’t you do some writing? I remember how much you enjoyed poetry. The volume of William Blake was in tatters last time I saw it, well loved. No one quite understood my love of literature as much you, Evie. I’m missing my library tremendously. Will you read enough for the two of us? Perhaps you might send me some reading material as well? There are long hours when we are idle, waiting for orders.
I’m missing my father, too, if you can believe it. He’s quite ill and doesn’t seem to be recovering in his usual way. I hope it isn’t anything too serious.
I look forward to your next letter.
Sincerely yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding
P.S. Will is going to like the portraits very much. He mentions his horses often enough when we see them go down in battle. Such beautiful animals lost. Poor chap.
P.P.S. Have a look at the envelope. You’ll see I’ve placed the stamp in a specific place. A lot of the fellows here are using the Language of Stamps when they send letters home. An extra message to decode for fun. Do you know what I’m saying to you?
From Thomas to his father
16th January, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Father (in care of Mr. Charles Abshire),
I was very sorry to learn of your illness, but you’re a stubborn gentleman and I have no doubt you will soon rally and be in as good of health as ever.
I was grateful to hear from Abshire, and glad to know he is looking after the estate and the paper while you’re under the weather. Perhaps we should go with his suggestion and bring cousin John on board if you do not rally? I don’t care for the fellow, but he would do a fine job, at least temporarily. We must be running pages around the clock with the world at war. There’s so much to report, although much is censored, I hear. There’s a fellow here by the name of who sends his reports to Fleet Street. He has to smuggle them out, he says. He has been writing from . Do you know of him?
Rest and recover soon, Father.
I remain your loving son,
Thomas
From Evie to Thomas
14th February, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Tom (I hope it is acceptable to be so informal),
Firstly, my apologies for not having written in a while. I’ve been suffering with a dreadful head cold and found myself incapable of anything other than bed rest and drinking a dubious restorative broth which Cook assured me would cure the very Devil. To give credit where credit is due, it did the trick.
I was very sorry to hear that your father is unwell but he’s a vigorous man. I’m sure he’ll recover in no time, so please try not to worry.
By my own admission, I have been a terrible patient. Fidgety and irksome, longing to bring Rusty out of hibernation and cycle off down the lanes. Mama tells me everyone is delighted to see me well again and back on my feet. Surprising, really, to know that I can cause her as much trouble when I am bedridden as I can when I am up and about.
To punish me, she’s invited your aunt Josephine to dinner next week. Josephine’s eldest—your cousin, John Hopper—is to accompany her. I fear meddling may be afoot. I will have to make sure to be on my very worst behaviour and portray myself as being entirely unmarriageable. You’re not especially keen on Hopper if I remember, although I thought him agreeable enough when I met him briefly once before.
Awful news about more bombing raids. This time in Great Yarmouth and King’s Lynn. Four people killed and over a dozen injured. Zeppelins did the damage. I hate the thought of them creeping silently over us while we sleep, like monsters in the dark. I read a newspaper report that suggested they are being launched from a secret base in England. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’m frightened, although Papa assures me they won’t come to London—just the coastal towns. Still, I can’t sleep. Every sound wakes me and I rush to the window to check for zeps overhead. I suspect this was the cause of my illness. More worry than any disease.
I did, however, use the time in my sickbed to reacquaint myself with that volume of Blake’s that you mentioned. How funny of you to remember it. He wrote such wonderful words. “Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” And I found these lines from “Love’s Secret,” underlined. “Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind does move, Silently, invisibly.” I wonder whose unrequited love I was lamenting at the time. Silly notions of a lovesick schoolgirl, and yet reading such sentimental lines gives me hope that love and kindness will conquer in the end. I see so many hasty marriages taking place—men hoping to evade duty at the Front and young girls clinging to their marriage vows as if they were a shield to protect their loved ones. I find myself wondering if real, honest love can flourish in times of war, or if we are all just grasping desperately to the slightest suggestion of it, like drowning men clinging to life. What do you think, Tom? There’s something to ponder while you lie awake at night, unable to sleep.
I was greatly cheered by the news that you had a short truce on Christmas Day. Can you really smell the enemy’s breakfast cooking? Are you that close? I imagine you all miles apart, not practically neighbours. How awful. I can’t imagine the terror you must live in, but I know how very brave you are and that those under your command are lucky to have you. I suspect you have them all shipshape and well presented—and improving their knowledge of Chekhov and chess, no doubt. You will lead them well, Tom. I know you will, even with poorly knitted socks and unhappy toes.
Are the rats a dreadful nuisance? We hear rumors of infestations bothering the men in the trenches. Do you remember the one we found in the woodpile that summer at Granny Kent’s? I squealed so loud that you and Will came rushing to my rescue with the peashooters! Such dashing heroes.