You haven’t written so I can only presume you are still furious with me. You have to believe me when I tell you that I did not accept John’s proposal. I am outraged he should lie to you about it, and to me. The snake. Yes, he proposed, but I had not given him an answer. I didn’t mention it to you because what was there to say when I had not settled on a reply?
This is all so infuriating I could scream. If only I could talk to you in person. If only I could look you in the eye and explain. I am sure then you would understand. Do you forget all our years of friendship so easily? It has to count for something, Tom, surely.
As for the columns, I thought you believed in speaking the truth? I thought you believed in me. None of us wanted this war, but it has given me a voice, a sense of purpose I never had before. In a way, we are all puppets, playing a part in a play without script or direction. We ad lib. Make choices under the glare of the spotlight. Make a mad dash for it—isn’t that what you once said? Irrational, ill-thought-out, silly, hotheaded choices. You have done the same. Do you forget your skirmishes? Your irrational rush to protect a friend, endangering your own life in the process? Far more heroic than writing a piece for a Fleet Street rag, perhaps, but in the heat of the moment we are all war-crazed.
I am desperately sorry if I have hurt you, or your livelihood, in any way. To hurt you means I hurt myself, and please know the absolute agony I feel as I try to structure my thoughts into some semblance of sense and order. You—more than anyone I have ever known—know where my heart and my morals lie. I only wanted to do my best, to help others, to have something my own that made me proud. I’d rather hoped you would be proud of me, too. I am changed, Tom. We all are. Would you have that spirited girl placed back in the pretty parlours of her home to idle away the day with embroidery silks and polite luncheons? Or are you happy to have known a girl with ambition beyond her station?
I was not raised to crumple into folds of silk at the slightest obstacle or a show of anger from a man. My father would be ashamed of me if I did. Dear Will would be sickened. I come from a family with backbone and I will not—even for you—give in to the easy path.
With or without your blessing and your friendship, I am not Little Evie anymore and I will continue to do what I am doing.
With or without your friendship, I will find a way.
Evie
From Evie to Thomas
20th August, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Thomas,
It’s been nearly a month. Please, rage at me. Shout and scream at me. Express your anger in words. Anything but this. Anything but this terrible silence.
I can do nothing on earth to change what has happened, but I can try to determine what happens next. To that end, I shall swallow my stubborn pride and tell you something I should have told you a very long time ago.
My life has been only made better by knowing you all these years. You have been my constant companion through childhood, through the confusion of teenage years and now, into adulthood and a war neither of us was prepared for. One way or another you have always been there, Tom. With me. For me. To live the rest of my days without your friendship—how few or how many they might be—will be to live my life in a shadow. To know what life might have been, had I spoken the things I feel in my heart right now, will be my greatest sorrow.
I cannot stop thinking that as suddenly as it started, this war may end. It may end tomorrow, as may any of our lives. If this were the last chance we had to say something to each other, would we choose to remain silent? Would we turn our heads and walk away?
I cannot.
If these are the last words I ever write to you, I have to share a secret I’ve been holding for some time. I’m in love with you. With every beat of my heart and every breath that I draw, I love you, Thomas Harding.
I love you, and always have, and always will. Tom and Evie. Wasn’t it always the way of things? I wish it were still. If you would only forgive me.
There is nothing more I can say. If you cannot bring yourself to reply, then please know that I will respect your decision but I will never hear a silence with greater clarity, nor feel it with greater agony.
Always,
Evie
X
Letter from Sophie Morel to Evie
1st October, 1918
127 Rue Chanterelle, Paris, France
Dear Miss Elliott,
Thank you for your many letters. Please accept my apologies for not replying sooner. I was not sure how to respond—or, indeed, whether I wanted to. It has been a difficult decision, but I hope, by writing to you I do what ma chère Amandine would have wished.
I am Amandine Morel’s mother. My beautiful daughter died during childbirth. She was so young and had so much joie de vivre, so much to live for. I miss her with every breath I draw. Amandine’s baby—a daughter, Delphine—survived against all odds and is now in my care. She is all I have in the world and is most precious to me.
Your letters, although a great surprise, offer me some consolation. I am happy to learn that my daughter loved so fine a man as your brother William. Amandine spoke of him often, and loved him. She feared her “condition” would bring shame upon our family, but she believed William would do the honourable thing and marry her when the war was over. That she was robbed of the chance to know such happiness breaks my heart.
I was not sure whether to reply to you, Miss Elliott. Delphine and I live happily together, and I could not see why she should need the complication of English relations in her quiet, simple life. However, I recently discovered a packet of letters which Amandine brought back with her from the Front. All are from your brother, William. He wrote with great affection. He was an honourable man, and your letters assure me that you wish to be as honourable in his stead.
I have enclosed one of the letters. I felt you should like to see it. I hope it is agreeable to you that I keep the others—and Will’s photograph—so that I might show them to Delphine when she is old enough.
In such times like these, we must cherish those things for which we are most grateful. Having seen the photograph of your brother, I can now see the resemblance very clearly. Delphine has his eyes. I have enclosed a photograph of her so you may see for yourself.
I wish you well, Miss Elliott, and hope that we shall see victory in the new year.
Perhaps we may meet one day, when circumstances allow.
Avec tout affection,
Sophie Morel
From Evie to her mother
5th October, 1918
Rouen, France
Dear Mama,
Do not be alarmed but a bad strain of influenza has arrived at our camp and we are placed under strict quarantine. The nurses tell me it is the Spanish Flu that has already rampaged across half of Europe. But I am well.