Brooke sighed. “Wouldn’t you just love to read the letters Gardiner wrote to Millie?”
“I would. And I looked for his letters but didn’t find any,” Lizzie reported. “They weren’t in the trunk, which makes sense.”
WESTERN UNION: DEAREST G: CONFIRM I WILL BE ON TRAIN FROM BOSTON, ARRIVING GRAND CENTRAL STATION AT 12:10 P.M. NOV. 27. UNTIL THEN, M.
Nov. 30, 1941
Hingham, Mass.
Darling Gardiner:
I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I was so very glad to have had you all to myself last weekend in New York. I never dared to dream in all the years we have known each other, since I was a funny-looking little kid pestering you for a ride in your car, that you would feel the same way about me as I do about you. My darling, I cannot believe that we wasted so much time pretending otherwise. But now that we are older and wiser, I don’t intend to let a moment go by without telling you that I love you, have always, will always. The trip home was fine, but the train was awfully crowded and overheated. You asked me what I told my mother about my trip, and I am ashamed to report that I told her I was meeting Ruth in the city for some shopping. I did take Ruth into my confidence about our feelings for one another. First, because I simply had to share my happiness with someone, and second, in case Mother checks up, Ruth will cover for me. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s wise to let Josephine know just yet about our relationship. I love Jo so, but you of all people know how prickly she can be and how jealous and protective she is of her beloved big brother. Gardiner. There are so many things I regret in my life—Russell and so on—but the hours I spent in your arms last weekend are something I will never forget or regret.
Your most loving M
Dec. 11, 1941
Hingham, Mass.
Darling G:
Well, it’s war. We all listened to President Roosevelt on the radio this week, and afterward, I hid in my bedroom with a pillow over my head while I had a good long cry. I try not to worry about you, but since your training has ended and you’ll be flying missions soon, that is impossible. So whenever I feel a black mood coming on, I pick up my knitting needles. Yes, your girl is knitting, and the results are ghastly. Which you will see for yourself—as soon as Grandmama manages to teach me how to cast off. The war is all we talk about and think about now. Ruth’s beau has signed up and shipped off to Camp Pendleton in California. Maybe now that the United States has joined the fight, we will be that much closer to beating the Germans and the Japs. All I know is that I live for the day when we will be together next. Is there any chance for New York again? Maybe at Christmas? You did mention that you might get leave again before you receive your orders, so I live in hope and am already making up a fine whopper of a tale to tell Mother. In the meantime, I am enclosing something to keep you warm in my stead.
Your loving, lousy knitter,
M
Brooke looked up, and Lizzie thrust a bulky woolen bundle at her. “Here.
It was a gray woolen scarf, knobby, full of dropped stitches, knots, and holes, but Brooke held it to her nose and inhaled. The scarf had retained the scents of cigarette smoke and camphor.
“Millie knitted this,” Brooke said wonderingly, stroking the coarse woolen fabric. “Over seventy years ago.” She sighed and looked down at the diminishing stack of letters in her lap. “This is so amazing and unexpected. But I feel like such a voyeur, reading my grandmother’s love letters.”
“I know,” Lizzie said, nodding sympathetically. “Keep going anyway.”
Jan. 8, 1942
Hingham, Mass.
Darling G:
Christmas came and went without you, and I was in a terrible, foul black mood. Please forgive my selfishness. You warned me that it was unlikely you could get away again, so this is all my fault. Can you forgive me for not writing sooner and sending you buckets of love and cheer? I did receive your sweet gifts. We all loved the maple syrup, which was such a treat with all the sugar rationing now. And the cashmere sweater was much too extravagant, and a totally improper gift from a gentleman to a spinster such as myself, which made me love it—and you—that much more. We actually spent Christmas Day with Jo and your papa at the house in Boston. There was a ham sent up from Talisa and oysters and as much jollity as we could muster under the circumstances. I believe Mr. Samuel has finally come around to agree with your views on the war, and at any rate, he and Jo are so terribly proud of their royal airman. I know you can’t tell me much about your orders or where you’re being sent, but I pray every moment that God will keep and protect you until we are together again.
Your loving, bratty M
Brooke’s eyes filled with tears as she tucked the letter back into its envelope. “I want my mom to read these letters. This is a side of Millie I don’t think either of us ever saw. I know I didn’t. Even despite the war, she seems so young and alive and joyful and frank and funny in these.” She found a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “This is so unbelievably poignant, knowing Gardiner actually didn’t make it back to Millie.” She sniffed.
“From the documents I found with the footlocker, Gardiner’s Spitfire was shot down by the Luftwaffe while he was on a bombing raid in northern France at the end of January ’42,” Lizzie said. “He’d just strafed a railway station in Boulogne and was headed back to base when his plane was hit.”
Lizzie passed a hand over her own glittering eyes. “I researched it, you know? Online? These kind of RAF missions were called ‘Rhubarb Raids.’ They were basically just a nuisance to distract the Germans and keep them from concentrating on fighting on the western border. I think Gardiner and the men in his squadron were considered collateral damage.”
“Fuckers,” Brooke whispered.
“There’s one more letter from Millie,” Lizzie said hesitantly, holding it in her outstretched hand. “And it’s what Grandma Ruth would have called a doozy.”
61
Feb. 21, 1942
Hingham, Mass.
Darling Gardiner:
It’s nearly midnight here at home. We’ve had so much snow this month, the drifts have nearly covered the dining room windows. Grandmama has had the flu, and now Mother has a fever too, but the weather has been so terrible the doctor can’t get here to check on them. Right now, I am tucked into bed under my quilt. I have all your beautiful letters saved in the now empty chocolate box you gave me in New York. Nights like this, when I am lonely and afraid, I read and reread them, and your sweet words of love give me strength. I’m praying that I’ll receive one of your letters any day now. It’s been a month, and I miss you so terribly, my darling. I follow the war news and believe your squadron must be in England by now, though I know the censors won’t allow you to say more. The thing is, darling, I have some news of my own that I’m afraid can’t wait. I’m pregnant! By my calculations, the baby is due in August. I finally saw a doctor in the city this week, and he confirmed my suspicions.