“This is a letter written by your father. I found it in the pocket of his greatcoat after he passed away.” I pause to cough into my napkin, then continue with shaky breath. “The enemy’s bullets found Will before he ever had a chance to send it. It was returned to his mother, along with his personal effects.”
Delphine takes the letter gently, turns the fragile paper over in her hands, and begins to read.
Unsent Letter from Will to Amandine
7th May, 1915
My dear Amandine,
We are to have a baby? I am reeling in shock, but so happy to know it, just the same. I have always longed to be a father. Thank you for telling me, though there is little I can do to help right now, stuck here at war, beyond sending you a portion of my wage. I’ll arrange it straightaway. If the war ends soon (I imagine it must), then who knows what the future might hold for us. No one has captured my affections as you have and I will, of course, do the honourable thing by you and our child.
If anything should happen to me, please write to my mother, Carol Elliott in England. Tell her about the baby. I will prepare a letter to her also, so she will be informed of my wishes should I not be able to tell her in person. She will help you in whatever way she can, I am sure of it. Her address is Poplars, Richmond, London SW.
I wish you very well, Amandine. The times we spent together were reckless and passionate, but I don’t regret a single moment. To know that a new life blooms in your belly gives me the greatest reason to survive this war. It gives me glorious hope.
With all fond wishes and love,
Lieutenant Will Elliott
My eyes prick with tears at the sight of Will’s familiar script, and my heart grows heavy at the thought of all he missed by never knowing his daughter.
“Thank you,” Delphine says, her voice laden with emotion. “I will treasure this always.”
We sit in comfortable silence awhile, immersed in our thoughts.
Our time together is too brief—shortened by my discomfort, which I cannot conceal for too long. Delphine promises to visit at the apartment and Margaret takes me home where she settles me beside the fire.
I snooze for a while, lulled by the warmth. I dream a little. As always, she is there.
When I wake, I take up the final bundle of letters.
How much there was left to say. How much was very nearly left unsaid . . .
PART FIVE
1918
“I love you not only for what you are, but
for what I am when I am with you.”
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
From Evie to her mother
2nd January, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Mama,
Wishing you a Happy New Year. Thank you for the linen and hand cream, which both brought me enormous—and much needed—comfort.
I hope you managed to have a pleasant Christmas, despite everything. I will admit it felt rather strange to be away from home. I had a little smile to myself when I remembered the first Christmas we were at war and the fox got into the farmer’s pens and stole the best geese. We were almost goose-less and thought it the greatest imposition. I would have a year of empty dinner plates just to sit again at the dining table with everyone back together.
We made the best of things here, as one does. The weather has not been kind. Hard frosts and bitterly low temperatures. I can hardly remember what it is like to feel warm.
Now to the topic of John Hopper. Did you see him over Christmas? His letters are never very lengthy or descriptive. His last (sent some weeks before Christmas) spoke of a spring wedding, which he informs me you are busy organising a dressmaker for. I am furious with him for presuming to know my mind, and am not best pleased with you for permitting him to run away with it. I sincerely hope he hasn’t told people I have accepted? As for dressmakers. Really Mama. You know very well I have not yet made up my mind as to the matter of marrying Hopper at all, in the spring or otherwise. I know I have delayed longer than is reasonable, but these are extraordinary circumstances and they do not lend themselves to the ordinary way of things. How can I even think of a wedding with all that I see and hear every day? In any event, I have always wanted a winter wedding, as you well know. Snow sprinkling the lawns and the scent of cinnamon and cloves in the air. But enough of that for now.
What news from home? I hear scant reports across the telephone wires about incidents on the home front. I do worry about you being so close to London. At times like this I wish we lived in some remote part of the Yorkshire Dales or somewhere the Germans couldn’t find us.
With fondness,
Evie
From Thomas to Evie
4th January, 1918
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Here we are again—a new year, and another year of war. I won’t deliberate on that thought much. There’s no point. All we can do is hope this will end soon. The Americans have been a Godsend. Supplies keep rolling in, and we have enough troops at last to give the front line a proper rotation to the reserve trenches.
Have you heard about the tanks? They’re another “innovation to weaponry,” or so we’re calling them. Really, they’re just armoured vehicles made of metal—a sideways rhomboid on wheels—and the wheels are covered with large bands that grip the soil. Massive guns that resemble cannons are attached to either side of the thing. The Mark IV, we call them. Not the most efficient of weapons as they’re slow and cumbersome, but they’re far more destructive now than when they first entered the war a year ago. I watched one malfunction in the middle of battle, but the men inside were protected. An incredible concept. Metal boxes on wheels: a better way to kill more. A pretty filthy concept at its base.
Meanwhile, things appear to be a mess at Fleet Street. The LDT, while flourishing in terms of circulation, continues to be the centre of scandal. I keep reminding myself to trust my cousin, but I find it more and more difficult. Have you heard anything from him directly? I would appreciate any information.
Thank you for the Yeats poetry. I’m consuming it like a starving man, and can’t wait to get back to my books at home. I hope you like the belated Christmas gift I’ve enclosed. I thought I’d never part with it, but somehow, this Christmas I knew it was time. The necklace belonged to my mother. She was a birder, too, you see, so the little golden wren charm was perfect for her. At least my father thought so. When my parents divorced, she gave it to me. I’ve carried it ever since, but I think it’s time it graced a pretty, slender neck and there is only one I can think of.
If you turn it over, you’ll see I had it engraved.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Thomas
10th January, 1918
Rouen, France
My dear Thomas,
Happy New Year. How can it be 1918? How on earth has this war been going on so long?