I received your letter and positively fumed at our relations, especially Uncle Arthur. I wish I had known all of this family history before. I’m sorry Hopper took advantage of your friends, and pulled our good name through the mud, but he would call it simple business practices, would he not? That seems to be his way, but I’m curious. If you and your brother-in-law had already gone your separate ways, how did John come to own stock in the business? I gather this means he owns rights in deciding the paper’s future. If he’s not to be trusted, as you suggest, we may find ourselves in a very precarious situation.
You may also be troubled to learn that Hopper is looking into why the paper is losing money. Apparently the other two presses Hopper owns are booming (he is well set up with his connections at Wellington House, after all) so he insists his points are valid. He suggests we begin a column entitled “A Woman’s War.” For now, I’m on board with the idea as Evelyn Elliott is to be the authoress, but under a nom de plume. Remember the poems she used to write, how we kept them in a drawer in the kitchen? She’ll be brilliant at it. I must confess, however, that with Hopper steering things, I’d prefer you to be involved somehow. As soon as you’re well enough to receive visitors, perhaps you and Evie may discuss a variety of topics. I’m certain she would enjoy that immensely. She respects you, nay, loves you like an uncle.
I wish you a speedy recovery, Father.
Your son,
Thomas
P.S. I’ve included a short note to Abshire.
Dear Charles,
If Hopper is poking around in our books and looking into financial matters, I should also keep up on them as much as possible. I need to be on my toes where he’s concerned. I’d like a copy of the summary sheet from last year and the first six months of 1915 as well: business expenses, wages, stocks, and profits. There are hours I am not in battle and I would like to use my time wisely.
I hope you are well, friend.
Sincerely,
Thomas
From Evie to Thomas
28th August, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Lieutenant Harding,
I am much heartened by the news that I can still make you laugh, even from so far away. I imagine laughter is in short supply over there, along with a decent meal and a comfortable bed. The “Maconochie” stew you write of sounds awful. Can you put a dash of rum in it to liven it up (or a dash of rum in yourself to numb your taste buds)? I always had an ability to bring a smile to your face, didn’t I, although it wasn’t always intentional. How you and Will used to tease me and get such great delight from your wicked tricks. If I have grown up to be full of mischief, I must place the blame firmly at your feet for setting such a dreadful example to an impressionable young lady.
You say that you are on the move and I find myself anxious. I have grown to hate those words “Somewhere in France” at the top of your letters. It might as well say, “Somewhere in the World,” for all the reassurance it brings. Thinking of you marching closer to danger is unbearable. If only I knew where you are. If only Papa and I could consult our wretched maps and know with some certainty which direction you are moving in.
We place black buttons on the areas where we believe you have been and red buttons on the locations where we know the worst of the battles have already taken place, or are likely to take place soon. Those black and red buttons have come to represent my greatest fears, Tom. I keep a blue button firmly on London. It fell off the blue dress. The one I wore to Mama’s Christmas party when we danced together. I must admit that I never especially cared for that dress, but now, whenever I see it hanging in the wardrobe, I think of you, and of laughter and dancing. I think of happier times. Which is why the blue button will remain on London until you are home and I will ask Sarah to sew it back on, and we shall dance again. Perhaps I will wear that dress to dinner in Paris. We will get there one day, won’t we Tom? This Christmas. Next Christmas. One day. Promise me?
Oh dear. I am becoming hopelessly sentimental. War, it seems, can soften as well as harden people. And with all your words about Shakespeare’s “The Phoenix and the Turtle,” it would appear that you are still the same old Tom with a wordsmith’s heart and a book always tucked under his arm, and not just a soldier at war with a gun and a bayonet. “It stars a pair of birds, a phoenix and a turtledove, whose love creates a union so perfect it defies concrete sense and earthly logic, and overcomes any obstacle.” I wonder, is such perfect love possible? I do hope so Tom, or what on earth are you all fighting for?
In other news, I had the pleasure of visiting with your father at his home in Bartholomew Close. He was pleased to see me and was in reasonably good spirits, if a little frail and easily tired. We spoke of you (with great fondness, might I add) and briefly discussed your concerns for the newspaper. I know you and your father have had your difficulties over the years, but I must say, he is most concerned for your safe return. He is also incredibly frustrated by his poor health—frustrated that he cannot help in the war effort, frustrated that he cannot protect you. You are still his only son, whatever your differences of opinion.
I know he would dearly love for you to take the helm at the paper when the time comes. Couldn’t you tell him you will? Make your peace with him before it is too late? I know your heart is in the scholarly, and back in the hallowed halls of Oxford, but it would give your father such comfort to know that you will do the honourable thing, so to speak. If only to ease his conscience, can’t you say it will be so?
I have probably said too much, so I will close.
Stay safe, dear friend. You remain in all our prayers.
Evie.
X
P.S. My first column is to be printed towards the middle of September. I feel quite sick at the thought.
From Thomas to Evie
1st September, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Miss Evelyn Elliott,
We’re back to formalities, are we? Yet you sign with your Christian name without a care. I do like contradictions. It is what fiction is made of, is it not? As for your writing, I’m certain your column will be a smash, just you wait and see. Courage, as the French would say!