“A wren,” I say. “It belonged to my mother. It became rather a favourite of your aunt’s.”
Tears glisten in Delphine’s eyes. “I will treasure it. Thank you.”
I smile again, shift in my seat, and reach for another packet on the chair beside me. “I thought you might like these, too. Some books that belonged to your father. A few letters and photographs as well. They are rather old and battered now, I’m afraid. Much like myself.”
She laughs and touches my hand affectionately. “You are not old and battered. You are wonderful, and fascinating.”
She is so like her aunt, it breaks my heart to look at her, to hear her charmingly positive view of life. But I take comfort from knowing that our memories will live on through Delphine and her family. I take comfort that we found her, that we connected the strands of the family.
I’ve kept the most important letter separate to those inside the packet.
“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?
The necklace is so beautiful and I’m afraid you brought a tear to my eye with the lovely sentiment you had engraved on it. May you soar. Gosh, I will treasure it, Tom, with all my heart. Th
ank you. I am touched to know it was your mother’s as I know how very close you were to her and how terribly you miss her.
I often wish I could look back over all the letters you have written to me, but of course they are in my writing desk at home, tied up with a red ribbon, and I am here, far away from them. I remember the very first letter you sent, full of such hope and naivety, and so terribly formal. It was always Lieutenant Thomas Harding this and that and the other. Now, it is simply Tom. Better, I think.
I hope you have tossed all my letters to you into a fire, or that they’ve became lost in the mud somewhere. I’d be rather embarrassed to read them again. I do, however, hope that you kept some of my little sketches. They started as something to pass the time, but now I feel there is far more to those little birds.
It cheered me greatly to read your wonderfully descriptive account of Mama’s Christmas party. We will make a writer of you yet, dear boy! I could almost taste the wine and the currant pudding. I read your words several times, as if by reading I could satisfy my longing for such delicacies. But they only made my stomach growl in despair and, I hate to admit it, I went to bed that night in a terrific sulk. You would have laughed to see the scowl on my face.
We did our best here to make merry, but the odd nip of vin rouge, no mistletoe, and very little in the way of music made it all rather tedious. Christmas Day feels much like any other here, doesn’t it. One day becomes another, and another, and still we are at war. And yet I still find my dreams wandering the streets of Paris. Sometimes, our foolish little plan to go there is the only thing that keeps me believing in better times to come. When I close my eyes I can smell the coffee and the freshly baked croissants. I can hear the melody of an accordion player beside the river. I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower piercing the clouds above our heads. This is very silly of me, I know, when Paris isn’t the city it once was. War raids, influenza, and rationing have swept across our lovely city just as they have across the rest of northern France. Perhaps Paris will not be the city of my dreams after all.
I’m very sorry to learn of trouble at the newspaper. I know it cannot help to have all that to worry about when you are still in recovery. I think you should be proud of your little paper, hammering it out with the big hitters, causing headlines all of its own. I’m sure John will have things in hand and no doubt things are not quite as bad as they seem from your dugout. I suspect it is the distance that troubles you as much as anything—not being there to take matters into your own hands. Never fear, your time will come.
Everything will seem brighter when the war ends. We will step out of these pages of words and worries and act as normal civilians, living normal lives again, looking to the future and all that it holds.
Write soon.
Evie
X
Letter from Evie to Alice
5th February, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Alice,
How are you? All goes well here. I have been promoted to a senior rank. I’m immensely fond of the girls and very proud of the work we do here.
With the promotion, I feel unable to abandon my post so I have relinquished my home leave and let someone else take their turn in my place. It’s odd, but I feel uneasy when I think of returning home. I would far rather be here, even with all the discomfort and dangers. I can only dread the things waiting for me when I go back: Mama will sulk with me for leaving the way I did, and Hopper will march me down the aisle without so much as a “How do you do.”
I don’t have much else to tell you, so I will close for now. It is bitterly cold today and my hands long to be back inside my mittens. I hope you and your doctor are still corresponding. Tom sent me the most beautiful necklace as a Christmas gift. The man is infuriating.
Kisses to you,
Evie
X
Letter from Evie to her mother
20th May, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Mama,
My apologies for not writing in a long while. Things have been very hectic here and I often find myself too tired to write.
I heard about the dreadful bombing raid in London overnight and pray that nobody we know was killed or injured. Please send word as soon as possible.
My heart is heavy when I think of the war at home; it’s unimaginable, even after seeing the zeppelins creep through our skies.
We suffered a heavy bombardment and many losses at the British camps and hospitals in Etaples. I am very worried for Alice who was stationed there recently. I haven’t heard from her in a while so I’m not sure if she has moved elsewhere.
I long for the day this will all be over, when we might sleep soundly again without such worries.
Your ever-loving daughter,
Evelyn
X
From Alice to Evie
22nd May, 1918
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I have been injured in the bombardment at Etaples—nothing too awful, but enough to be sent back to a hospital near the coast to recover fully. I leave in the morning.
More soon, but there’s no need to worry, darling. I’m well enough and all is intact. Be safe.
Alice
X
From Alice to Evie
30th May, 1918
Brighton, England
Dear Evie,
I’m in Brighton, safe and sound. They’re forcing me to take a few weeks’ leave of absence, but really, it isn’t anything to fuss over. I was hit with shrapnel in the cheek and my torso in several places, all fairly minor wounds. I’m recovering well. Mother insists I retire from my volunteering, of course. She didn’t want me in France in the first place. I don’t know how to explain to her just how desperately I want the war to end, yet that I must be there somehow. Here, I feel like a ghost, like I’m living some paler existence. What a strange reality to be faced with.
Doctor Peter has sent me letter after letter, and lots of little gifts. Oh, Evie, he says he has a question he would like to ask, but he insists things must be done in the proper order. What other question could it be! I adore him. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but perhaps I am the marrying kind after all!
We’ve had more bombings in London. Mother is terrified. She has heard the distant rumble of destruction and seen the sky light up with what could only be explosions. Over one hundred buildings damaged in one night.
Before I left Etaples, typhoid and influenza were ripping through camp. Please take care and be vigilant. It’s very serious, this round.
Bisous,
Alice
P.S. Any news of your Tom? And what of Hopper? Did he reply to your note?
From Evie to Alice
15th June, 1918
Rouen, France
Darling Alice,
How are you? I was worried sick about you and much relieved to know that you are back in England to recover. I sensed it, you know. My heart told me you were in difficulty and here I am, entirely helpless to do anything other than put pen to paper as usual. I understand completely about your wanting to be back here, but rest up, please. Promise me? You have to get better or your Doctor Peter will never be able to ask you his question! I could not be happier for you. Marriage will suit you very well, I am certain of it. The doctor’s wife! Mrs. Peter Lancaster. How wonderful. I will be your bridesmaid and you will wear Chantilly lace and have a posy of orange blossom.
I wish I had news to cheer you up and make you laugh (although perhaps laughter causes you pain with your injuries?). Anyway, I have none. Life is uncommonly bleak here. More heavy losses every day.
In a rather curious turn of events, the latest rotation of nurses brings a friend of Tom’s my way. Do you remember he was placed under the care of a Rose Blythe when he returned from Craiglockhart? I often thought he was sweet on her. She is now stationed at a field hospital close to our little dormitory here. I could hardly believe it when I saw her name badge. She tells me Tom never stopped talking about me. That it w
as Evie this and Evie that. She presumed I was his wife until he set her straight! Actually, she is very nice. Older than I’d imagined and (dare I say) not quite as pretty as I’d imagined either. I hate to admit it, but I’m terribly relieved.
I long to walk with you along Richmond Hill and gaze over the meadows towards London. I can hear skylarks singing and a warm breeze tugs at the curls about your cheeks. You are telling me some silly story or other about your time in finishing school in Switzerland and how you never could master the art of graceful skiing. I link my arm through yours and rest my head on your shoulder and we reminisce and laugh and I admire the wedding band on your finger.
Not long now. I can feel it.
Take care my darling girl.
Evie
X
Letter from John Hopper to Tom
17th June, 1918
London, England
Dear Thomas,
I received your advice on the columns. Not to worry, I have everything in hand here. Don’t worry about the reports you have received about silly interfering women getting themselves a stint at Holloway for trying to promote their pacifist agenda. Violet Tillard and her NCF busybodies have no business meddling in current affairs, and they aren’t bothering us here at the LDT at all. They should stick to knitting and leave the important things to us men. Honestly, they should have given that Tillard woman longer than a sixty-day sentence, in my opinion.
As for Charles Abshire, he is an interminable bore and a worrying Mother Hen. In your shoes, I would show him to the door in a hurry.
Remember, cousin, I built a fortune using my own talents. There is no need to ceaselessly doubt me. I am lucky in business. It appears I am lucky in love as well, for I am planning a spring wedding with Miss Evelyn Elliott. Her mother is beside herself with joy, though I’m sure you knew all, given how often the two of you exchange letters. I hope you join us in our happiness.