This is a love of one half. The worst kind of love. This “friendship” of ours will never become anything more than that, I’m sure. I care for Tom dearly, but without any indication that he feels the same it is becoming increasingly hard to maintain any hope. Perhaps it is just a symptom of war, bringing out fanciful notions of romance. I grow weary of it all; weary of the battle raging in my heart. Shall I give it up entirely? Tell me what to do, Alice. I am incapable of rational thought.
And—as you so rightly point out—there is John Hopper, waiting patiently in the wings, always taking me to lunch, constantly charming Mama and Papa, forever settling those copper eyes of his on mine as if there is something he wishes to tell me. He may not set my heart aflame, but he has good prospects and I am, after all, a woman in need of a husband. Perhaps he wouldn’t make such a bad compromise after all?
As for the secret, I still haven’t had a reply from Amandine and find myself imagining the worst. Paris suffered that awful influenza epidemic last year. Maybe she’s dead? I can’t explain it. It’s as though Will is forcing me to remember her. I know nothing about her, and yet she is in my thoughts continually.
Awful news from here. Some of the NCF supporters—women—were arrested on charges of plotting to murder the Prime Minister. It is all over the papers. Whatever next?
Please forgive me for being so despondent. You know how I struggle in the wintertime. I’ll be much improved by the time we see the first blossoms of spring.
Thinking of you always.
Evie
XX
P.S. I do know of the Lancasters. Terribly nice family. Nothing bad to say about them and if I remember Peter at all, then I believe you may have met your match, and I could not be happier for you.
From Thomas to Evie
14th February, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m sorry to hear you were ill, though dancing in a fountain with Hopper (he wrote recently and mentioned your having spent time together) would give me an upset stomach as well. Perhaps you should rethink your company? I’m teasing, of course, but I hate to think of you miserable and in bed. Not my fierce little Evie.
I’ve had a little fun this evening for a change—I’ve just returned to my bunk after a show with Elsie Griffin. She sang a few tunes, but my favourite was “Danny Boy.” Judging by the cheering after, I’d say it was everyone’s favourite. The woman has the voice of an angel.
Lately I’ve listened to live poetry, and I’ve seen a few “plays” (smaller and somewhat poor versions of the originals, but so much appreciated these days). Many entertainers have trudged out to France, and there seem to be more and more on the way. God love them for risking their lives to raise our spirits. It has really helped. My tremors have lessened considerably, though I thank Nurse Rose for that, largely. She’s all positivity and light, that woman. Full of heart. Not as clever as you, though.
I’m in a reserve trench for a while for a respite from the Front, thankfully. I’ve had tasks to accomplish, a lot of paperwork and such, but it’s been a relief resting and reading the books you sent. Thank you for those. I’ve been greedy with them—read two already. My mind is starved for something beyond life and death and destruction.
I dreamed about Will last night. I don’t wish to upset you, but if he were still alive, things would be different, somehow. I just know it. Your brother knew how to laugh at anything, even the grim. Sometimes I feel his presence so acutely, it startles me to remember he’s not here. I miss my father, too, but it’s different, you know? We never got along and I was used to his absence, sad as it is to admit.
Happy Valentine’s Day. If I were there, I’d take you to Carlisle’s for chocolates and sugared cherries, maybe dancing afterward. I hope the stationery I’ve enclosed is a suitable substitute, though I suspect Hopper is spoiling you silly and that writing paper will be a poor substitute for the attentions of dashing chaps who spoil you with champagne and dinners.
If writing to me has become a habit, I’m glad for it. Hopefully it isn’t one you wish to shake.
With affection,
Tom
P.S. The Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps would put you in the line of danger. I must admit, I’m not fond of the idea of you joining.
From Evie to Alice
15th February, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
Help! Hopper proposed! Yesterday, on Valentine’s Day. He has spoken to Papa and everything. I’m so confused, Alice. My head says accept him. My heart says don’t.
Mama is furious with me for not accepting immediately. She considers it unbecoming for a woman to play games with a gentleman’s heart and says I should snap him up before someone else does.
I’m writing this from my bed, where I’m pretending to have a migraine. Well, it began as pretence but my head really throbs now.
What am I to do?
Evie
From Evie to Thomas
3rd March, 1917
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
I’m sorry for not writing in a while. I’m really not myself at the moment.
Thank you for your last letter and the lovely stationery. How on earth did you find such a thing? I can hardly bear to write on it, the paper is so pretty. Your words had me imagining lazy hours lost at Carlisle’s. You are a brute for putting such thoughts into my head when there is no way I can shush them. I’m not sure which was the more appealing: the sugared cherries or the dancing.
That you have time to think of me at all—a friend so far away—is a wonder, considering all the troop entertainments you write about, and the additional distractions provided by Nurse Rose. You say we would get along, but I’m afraid I would be rather a disappointment and would only cloud her “bright and breezy” nature. I’m also grown horribly gangly and thin. I have no appetite. Or perhaps I’m just starved of the things every young woman needs in order to thrive.
I was comforted to hear that you dreamt of Will. We have been so long without him now, yet I sometimes forget, and I look for him in the apple orchard or the stables. It is important to share our memories of him, don’t you think? Actually, I wanted to ask you something. What do you remember of the French nurse he was sweet on? Amandine Morel. Do you recall any of the circumstances in which she returned to France? I remember you wrote about her taking ill and returning to her mother in Paris, but I can’t recall if there were any more details about the nature of her illness. You’ll most likely think me silly to ask, but I’ve been thinking of her a lot recently.
I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying the books. I’ve taken the liberty of enclosing Jules Verne this time, Will’s favourite.
With affection,
Evelyn
From Alice to Evie
6th March, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,