January 1917
Dear my Bravest of Soldiers, illicit thinker and boat-hook-fighter,
I cannot believe this is the third year in a row we have failed to wish each other a Merry Christmas. I believe a whole field of whoopsie-daisies may be the case at this point, though I cannot be cross with the military postal service, as without them, we would have never begun writing to each other. And so I shall put a great deal of trust in them with this package of supplies, including three bottles of whiskey and more cigars than a chimney could smoke, on top of the necessities.
I have been so worried and filled with concern for your safety, when finally I received your letter, Lucille had to prepare me a large pot of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge before I could even begin to calm down. What a hero you truly are, digging below ground like that in such conditions. I do hope they are paying you well for it, though I'm told each man's sum is paltry, and I imagine it would never be a fair trade regardless.
As we have established neither of us are particularly superstitious, I was determined not to let the lack of well-wishing spoil this Christmas as it had the last, and so I decided to anger my family in the best possible way by volunteering Sotheby House to take in wounded soldiers for their recovery before they were sent back to Europe. I met many brave men, though none of them my brave soldier as you are. Most of them had fought in the Somme, and there were a few Australians who had been in Gallipoli, and it filled me with great pride to talk about how you had fought at both yourself, too.
My parents loathed the presence of so many people without an aristocratic title to their name, but of course now they are being lauded for their generosity they have begun to say it was their idea in the first place. The King's office even sent a letter of praise. My mother has hung it up in the hallway. Pauline keeps threatening to 'misplace' it when she takes it down for dusting, but I don't think she really would. And I don't care about the praise or attention for such deeds. Perhaps I just have a special place in my heart for soldiers, now that I know you.
I have sent extra prayers for every man who died wearing the socks I sent, and in fact, for every man killed so far in the war. It is so devastating. May isn't coping so well. I have to go and visit her a few times a week, or I worry she'd have no other human interaction at all. She's rattling around in that big old house almost entirely on her own. She wouldn't even see the horses for months. I think she's doing better now, though. I hope I should never know how it feels to lose someone I care for so deeply. So don't you go getting buried in any tunnels, Arthur Shelby.
Your safe return back to England once all this fighting has finished is all I can ask for. Though I will not refuse a new horse, or a morning's rise at dawn, nor would I be so monstrous as to turn down a litter of Saint Bernards. I would look quite the picture, though, especially once they are fully grown — I would have no less than thirteen dogs trailing behind me everywhere I go.
Yes, only thirteen. Pip sadly left us for heaven shortly before Christmas. And all that time I spent worrying about Rudy... Pip deteriorated so quickly, almost overnight. I cannot speak of it in any detail or I will cry again. Sometimes it feels as though the tears will never end, and I am not usually one for crying. I think what breaks my heart the most is how the other dogs don't understand, and they constantly look for Pip.
So please, when you speak to their photographs next, tell Pip he is sorely missed and wholly loved by us all.
How interesting to know you do not protest John referring to me as your wife, even if the falsehood of it does bother you. I do not mind in the slightest — John may call me whatever he pleases. If it brings a smile to your face, may he say it non-stop.
You see, my darling crook and criminal, this is the problem with writing to a man so wicked as yourself. You threaten to kill anybody who lets me down, and I have no idea if you are serious or joking. Not that I would protest if you stay true to your word, but I imagine there are only so many murders a man can commit before he is caught by the police, and I can't imagine a worse fate than finally coming home from war only to end up in prison. So no killing on my behalf, are we understood? Not unless I specifically ask it of you. Which grows more likely each day, between my parents' heightened efforts to marry me off to an Italian, and the newly hired men running the farm.
I am learning a great deal about farming now the efforts are underway, even if the men are being cagey with all their knowledge and work. Presumably because I am a woman, and yet I am the one paying their wage and giving orders. But one of the kind soldiers staying with us had been a farmer before the war and he explained it all to me. Helped me to choose the best equipment, and told me where to get it all secondhand for a decent price.
I like the sound of us going to every seaside and every theatre in Britain. I even like the sound of helping you with your racehorses — you are most definitely a bad influence on me. I swore in Church by accident last month, and the priest threw me such a look, my mother hissed that if I were a child still he'd have scolded me in front of everybody. She's now attempting to scapegoat me as the cause for the family's dwindling reputation. Maybe I am to blame, after all.
7.30?! I'm usually finishing my dawn walk at 7.30, and that includes feeding the horses and exercising the dogs. However, I find your reasons for sleeping in completely understandable. And so, though I shall miss you on my dawn walks, I will permit you to sleep in while I take my first walk of the day, and maybe then we can take another together once you are awake and ready to begin the day. Only for the two years, might I add. After that I shall drag you out of bed at the first light if I must.
My brave, darling, steadfast hero, you absolutely did read the magazine! Your thorough knowledge of the woman on page nineteen just proves it. So yes, you are lying, you absolute scoundrel. And I suppose you think such lies would distract me from the near confession in your paragraph — that if the girl in the photo were me and not simply a lookalike, she would have been of some use to you? My goodness. Well, if I did hide such a photo of myself, and you did manage to find it amongst all the others, I have no idea at all what you might do next. I suppose you could tear the page free and save it for an opportune moment, if such a thing exists in the trenches. Why don't you tell me, brave soldier, what it is you think you might do? What would you usually do in such a situation?
The thought of you bookmaking at a horse race is rather exciting. Setting odds, accepting wagers, all from the dodgy men in trench coats and bowler hats... why, I already look forward to the day I get to witness you in all your criminal glory. And then we shall eat those sandwiches you speak of. They sound like the ones Lucille prepares for a spread of afternoon tea. My favourite meal, if you remember. Except yesterday. Some duke was round for tea, and my mother insisted on cheese and cucumber in the sandwiches — bleugh.
And speaking of bleugh, I cannot believe you are once more accusing me of lying. I have always thought a guilty man is one who shifts the blame, and now I have proof. I never claimed I have never had such a fantasy, only that in the example I gave, I was speaking of no specific thinker in particular. Brave soldier, the mention of a moustache is practically a necessity at this point, I am intrigued so by them. Specifically, your own.
I must ask, how am I doing for honesty so far?
If a man is thinking how soft a woman feels in his hands, and how sweet she tastes, surely a woman must be thinking how strong and firm he is pressed against her, and how her own body responds to the sensation of him tasting her sweetness.
And once more we have mention of our dear friend from page nineteen. I must find out who she is, so we might meet her in person and decide if she looks so much like her photograph, and like me, in real life.
And tempted though I am to leave you curious and sleepless after insinuating you believe me dishonest, you do need your rest while fighting, and so I suppose I must divulge my own illicit thought. I shall give you just as much detail as you gave me, and say John's drawing of a moustached man between a woman's legs came pretty close to it.
And neither my honesty nor my lingering sensations make me any less innocent, darling soldier.
Moving on swifter than your greased pig, though this time he is on a freshly waxed floor, and so I am absolved of responsibility for the cleanliness of his environment. (Pauline, however, would have to mop up the mud).
You ask me not to worry, brave soldier, but I must confess I think I shall worry every moment from now until you are home again. If making you my home will keep you safe, I shall make you the best home there is.
You say you'll be my anything, and yet you already mean everything to me. I am so grateful to have you in my life.
Yours sincerely and absolutely,
Astor. (Moustache admirer and self-confessed thinker of wicked thoughts.)