XX
From Evie to Thomas
25th January, 1917
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
A very Happy New Year to you! I’m so sorry not to have written before now. I have been laid up with an upset tummy and rather thought I was going to die I felt so wretched, but I rallied and feel quite myself again. In fact, I feel better than ever, but I suppose that is always the way when one has been bed-bound for weeks.
Of course, Mama blames my illness on my late night New Year’s Eve revels. I found myself in Trafalgar Square with friends and a rather unsavoury bunch of revellers (long story). Perhaps I shouldn’t have paddled in the fountain after all. I almost think Mama was sorry to see me recover, denying her the opportunity of saying “I told you so” when I perished from overexertion.
Anyway, here I am, very much alive and with another year sweeping ahead. What will it bring, I wonder? What surprises lie in store?
What better medicine than to see an envelope with your writing. It has become something of a habit, you see. Like eating and sleeping and breathing in and out, your letters and my replies, written at the desk in Will’s room—it is what life has become. I’m afraid I am rather hopelessly dependent on your words.
It is shocking to hear what the men will do to be sent home—Alice also writes of the Blighty wounds: cordite poisoning, bullet wounds to a hand stuck above the parapet, men shooting themselves in the foot. Only a desperate man could do such a thing. I can’t say I blame them, and I am glad to learn that neither do you.
I am heartened to know that you are finding time to read again. Thank goodness for Nurse Rose and her travelling library. I hope she is proving useful in your continued recovery. (Be careful, Tom. It would be dreadful to hear that you had died of a broken heart after everything.) For such a scholarly young man you haven’t mentioned your books very much in recent months. You were always such a keen reader—head always stuck in a book. There were many summers when I tried to catch your attention by turning cartwheels or some such antics, and yet you never noticed me. Far too busy following the adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
I took great delight in raiding Papa’s library and have enclosed three volumes. One each of Blake, Palgrave, and Kipling. I hope their wonderful prose will prove to be more enriching than your satirist newspaper. I am currently enjoying a spirited read by a new lady novelist. You wouldn’t know of her, but I will show it to you when you return.
As for my little birds, I am happy they bring you joy. I miss their singing during these brutal winter months. We’ve had weeks of hard frosts and I haven’t seen so much as a single robin since I was up and about again, although I throw bread crumbs and break the ice on the water in the bird table to try and entice them. I am eager to bring Rusty the bicycle out of hibernation and take to my postal duties again, but Mama insists I stay indoors until the weather improves. I feel like a caged animal.
Any news from the newspaper? I picked up a copy recently and thought of you. I’m afraid my column has lapsed rather in the wake of my being bedridden. Genevieve is much missed, apparently. Fan letters continue to arrive—mostly of the supportive type, although some are rather nasty and condemn her very existence! Jack Davies says it is good to provoke opinion. The sign of a job well done.
Papa believes the Yanks will join the war soon. They must, surely. I don’t see how the president can avoid it any longer. And it seems likely that Sir Henry Lawson’s report will, after all, result in the formation of a Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps. They are in dire need of relieving the men in noncombatant roles so that they can serve on the front line and bolster troops. Numbers were decimated during those bloody battles last summer. They have no choice but to turn to the women and allow us to do our bit. I’ll be the first in line to volunteer for a position in France if it goes ahead.
Write soon.
With affection,
Evie
P.S. I do not have a bird ready to send, but I promise to send one next time. Perhaps an owl? Such wise old things. I hear one hooting mournfully in the woods when I can’t sleep at night. Sadly, nobody ever replies to him.
From Alice to Evie
8th February, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Greetings, my love. You’ve been rather busy haven’t you, gallivanting in fountains, kissing handsome men, and digging into family secrets! How I wish I were there with you. Do tell all about this secret letter you discovered. Of course you should pursue it—if you are certain no one will be hurt terribly in the process. Sometimes secrets are best kept buried. You will know how best to handle it. You always were the wise and sensible one.
Are you still writing your column? The friend I know would have caused a stir at the newspaper by now, or marched her way to the top of their payroll, woman or not. I would very much like to read your pieces. Would you enclose a clipping or two in your next letter?
You’ll be pleased (perhaps unsurprised) to know I’ve met a lovely doctor named Peter. He’s from a rather wealthy family in London—the Lancasters. Do you know them? He felt the pull, as so many of us have, to offer our services where they might be best used, so here he is, saving lives. Dreamy, really.
This brings me to your Thomas. If you won’t tell him how you feel and you’re certain he doesn’t love you, I’m afraid you must move on. Suffering unrequited love is the worst. You’re far too pretty and clever for that. Besides, it seems you have a perfectly suitable gentleman banging at the door. We can no longer be choosy in matters of love. There will be no men left at all if this war goes on much longer. Thomas has had his chances. If Hopper persists in kissing you, I say kiss him back.
Alice
X
From Evie to Alice
13th February, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear sweet Alice,
Thomas writes and tells me he cares for me—as a friend. Caring for someone is not the same as loving them, is it? He doesn’t love me. I grow more and more certain of it every day. I’ve dropped plenty of hints and there have been so many opportunities for him to tell me his true feelings, and yet he has taken none. Whether he ever read my Christmas letter or not, I suspect it doesn’t matter now.