Camp life is going swimmingly. Glad to be here and so proud to march on, even if it means leaving my father’s struggling newspaper business behind. More on that another time.
I’m glad of your letters. Though I’m just one of a bunch of chaps playing poker at the moment, and not exactly a heroic representative of our country, I suspect at some point I’ll be desperately glad to have news from home. And you’re just the girl to deliver it, so thank you.
Speaking of home, are your horses spirited away somewhere? Will worries about Shylock and Hamlet. We’ve seen the shipments go out—hundreds of them, or thousands, really. We’ve been told they’re confiscating all the horses and sending them to the Front. Your brother will commit treason if his are taken. You know how he loves them. If they were to go to battle . . . Well, let’s not speak of it. Do what you can.
I’m sure you’ve heard the Allies are holding the lines, keeping Paris relatively safe for now? The government is taking precautions, though, and moved south to Bordeaux. So it would seem, my friend, that Christmas in Paris might still be a fine idea, even without half a bottle of sherry in my stomach. We might have joked when we talked about it at first, but there’s no time like the present, I say. Besides, I welcome a diversion at that time of year. Since my mother passed, I’ve never felt the same about the “jolliest” season, and all that. The last Christmas I spent with her was in Edinburgh when I was twelve. It snowed and we had a grand party with the rest of the family. Father never let me go to Scotland for Christmas again after that. He was so hurt and angry when she left him, and angrier still that I enjoyed spending time with the other half of my family. I suppose I should be grateful I spent so many summers there before she died. I’m planning to visit after this is all over. Scotland has always felt like my other home, you know?
Damn it, Evie. Now isn’t the time for such thoughts, is it? I should have nothing but honour on my mind.
For now, I send you a hurrah for the kingdom (!) and a friendly salute (I may have had one stout too many).
Sincerely,
Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding
From Evie to Thomas
31st October, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding,
(I presume formal address is a requirement now?)
Thank you for your letter. It’s curious how a few lines can cheer one so greatly over a cup of tea and a slice of toast. I hope my letters are as eagerly received. It’s a wonder they ever find you among so many men there at the camp. And thank you for your kind words about my writing. You are quite right. I must persevere. I suppose there will be plenty to write about with so much going on in the world.
Charlie Gilbert sent a letter last week (I won’t trouble you with the romantic details). He is somewhere in France and sounds dreadfully glum, although Charlie always tends to exaggerate so I take his words with a pinch of salt, especially since the newspapers are all talk of victory and the men being in high spirits. He says they are all encouraged by the news about successful recruitment campaigns and they are eager for the latest troops to arrive.
Will sent a short note as well. He complained of the typhoid vaccination, which has left him feeling a bit green around the gills. He also enclosed a photograph of your regiment. I must say you both look terribly smart in your uniforms. The photograph has pride of place on the mantelpiece. We are immensely proud.
You ask what news from home? Not much, I’m afraid, other than to tell you that my bicycling has improved. There’s a wonderful freedom in hurtling along the lanes with the wind in my hair. I don’t know why I didn’t learn to do it sooner. I found a wonderful little volume in Papa’s library called Handbook for Lady Cyclists. The author, Lillias Campbell Davidson, gives the following advice on appropriate attire for cycling tours: “Wear as few petticoats as possible and have your gown made neatly and plainly of flannel without loose ends or drapery to catch in your bicycle.” I’d rather wear a pair of men’s trousers, but Mama would never speak to me again.
Other than swotting up on cycling tours, there’s an awful fuss among next season’s debutantes and their mothers who are worried sick about a lack of eligible escorts for the spring season. Please make sure to send some decent sorts back home. You are in charge, are you not? I will hold you entirely responsible for the dashed hopes of an entire generation of young women and their dressmakers if you fail in your duties.
In other news, the horses. Oh, Tom. It’s really quite awful. The army have indeed requisitioned any animal that isn’t already lame and Shylock and Hamlet are both gone to serve as war horses. I did my very best to plead their case, insisting they were both ruined by too much love and sugar lumps and not at all cut out for battle, but my protests fell on deaf ears. Papa says we must all do our bit—even the animals. I don’t know how to tell Will. He’ll be heartbroken. Perhaps you could tell him? It would be far kinder for him to hear it from a friend than in a few rotten words in a letter. Mama has organised a fund-raiser for the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Fund for Sick and Wounded Horses at the Front. I am only too happy to help. At least it is a small way to feel useful.
I imagine you will be heading off soon to join those already fighting. I’m sure with such vast numbers of reinforcements we’ll see an end to it all. The recruiting offices are inundated. It makes one extraordinarily proud to see.
Do write whenever you can, and ask Will to do the same.
Your friend,
Evie
P.S. I am sorry to hear that you have been thinking of your mother and Scotland. I suppose the prospect of war is bound to set your thoughts tumbling back to the things you have loved and lost. I’ve never been to Edinburgh. I hear the castle is rather impressive, but the haggis rather less so.
From Thomas to Evie
1st November, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Evie,
I don’t have much time because we’re shoving off! We head to France tomorrow at first light. I’m not sure how long it will take us to get settled on the continent, but the men are in great spirits. Our grand adventure is beginning at last!
Will sends a sharp pinch and a pat on the head. (He’s your big brother after all, isn’t he.) I suggest you wear glasses when you ride that bicycle of yours. There’s nothing worse than an eyeful of dead bugs.
Wish us luck.
Sincerely yours,
Thomas
From Thomas to his father
1st November, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Father,