As I Lay Dying

Thirty

1918

Evelyn

I stare in disbelief at the letter in my hands.

It can't be, it can't possibly be true.

A small shriek of laughter echoes across the sunlit lawn. Bobby is playing with the puppy I bought him and the sound of his happiness would usually delight me, but I barely notice.

I've read it twice already but I can't absorb it. The letter is very carefully written, at times it trails off untidily as though the writers hand has cramped before beginning again. The author is obviously unused to writing at length in their best handwriting. My hand own trembles as I read it again in disbelief.

Lady Darlington,

I have considered writing this for a very long time. Some would say it is not my place to do so, especially as you are a Lady and I'm far beneath you in class and standing. There are those that would say I have no business reprimanding you and they would be correct in saying so. However, I have thought on this matter a great deal and come to the conclusion that I cannot rest easy until I've said my piece.

I was with Harry when he wrote all those letters to you last summer and although he tried to hide it, your lack of response wounded him deeply. He was very ill indeed at the time and he has fought a very hard war, as all those poor souls on the frontline have. Although it's not my place to involve myself in the details of your personal matters, I do think you could have written him a short note, just to tell him that you are well or even asking him not to write again. I think the lack of acknowledgement hurt him more than anything else. Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but Lady or not, it would have done you no harm to give the poor lad acknowledgment after all he has suffered.

I would not have written this letter at all, it is only because my fiancé, James, whom I believe you've met, is reunited with Harry on the frontline. He tells me in his letters how Harry still speaks of you constantly and how pained he is at the loss of you, even after all this time.

I'm sure that many, including yourself and certainly my James, would be scandalised at me writing such a letter to someone of your standing, but I've never been one to hold my tongue, especially when the matter concerns someone dear to me.

I am not writing this to admonish you. It is not my place to meddle in your affairs. I'm merely asking you as one woman to another, as one who has known the love of a good man to another, to search within your heart for a trace of the affection you bore for Harry and write him a short letter. It would mean so much to him and he has suffered so greatly already.

I've said what I needed to say. It is your choice, of course, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't make some effort for that lovely, sad boy I came to care deeply for last summer.

Yours faithfully,

Miss Ellen Wood

My first instinct is that this is a prank, some twisted game. But deep within I know that it isn't.

Harry is alive.

Harry is alive.

Joy and sadness sweep through me in equal measure and I feel a deep dam burst within me. All the emotions I've kept within flood through me like a rain on a parched plain.

He's alive.

And he wrote to me. There is still a a place in his heart that is mine alone.

"Why are you crying?" Bobby is gazing at me, frowning in concern.