Letters from Skye

Chapter Nine Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

September 10, 1914

Dear Sue,

I really wish I knew a good joke or an amusing story to tell you.

Have you heard from your husband? Do you know yet if he is being sent overseas? At least you can rest assured that you are safe up on Skye. I’m thankful for that.

And, Sue, it’s probably a breach of etiquette to say so, but my heart breaks to hear that you lost a baby. I wish I knew the right words, but know that I hold them in my heart.

I don’t have any more photos of me in my checked jacket, but I promise the next time I buy a ridiculous-looking coat, you will be the first person I send a picture to. I’m almost tempted to go out and buy one just for you, if it’ll make you smile.

You know, you’ve never mentioned your husband before. I suppose I knew you were married, being a “Mrs.” and all, but you’ve never talked about him. Funny, since we’ve talked about pretty much everything else.

Please keep me updated. I can read the reports in the newspaper, but, from way across the ocean, it’s hard to know what is really happening over there.

Isle of Skye

4 October 1914

David,

Well, I’ve finally heard from Iain. His battalion is at a training camp in Bedford. He expects they’ll get called up any day, but I imagine most men say that. What else do they have aside from anticipation? It was a short letter, talking cheerfully of training and weapons and how they all hope to “get a few Huns.” Not a word of me or our home or the bairn I’d lost.

My brother Finlay enlisted too, at the same time as Iain. Those two were inseparable growing up. It only stood to reason they’d go off to war together. My mother refuses to let my youngest brother, Willie, join up. He’s her baby, and she’ll hold him close for as long as she can. Willie’s been going about in a black cloud since Finlay went off. I think Màthair’s made a mistake and let the wrong one go. Willie’s always her lad, but Finlay, once he’s had a taste of the world, might never want to come back. He’s not made to be a crofter or a fisherman. I think the only thing that will bring him back to Skye is Kate.

I’ve been trying to write, to go out walking by myself and compose some poems. But they all come out jumbled. Not quite right. I need things back to normal. I need to keep my mind from things. I can’t think about Iain or Finlay or any of our other boys getting ready to go off to fight and die.

I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you about my husband. I suppose it just never fit into our conversations. But now I’m weary of not always telling you the absolute truth.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

November 2, 1914

Dear Sue,

I can understand how your brother Willie feels. You know me, I wouldn’t be happy either if I were left behind while everyone else went off to war. I’d want the adventure too.

I know it may not be much, but I’ve started writing down those fairy stories I’ve been telling Florence. I’ve included one with this letter—“The Mouse King’s Cheese.” Florence adores cheese! I thought you might find it entertaining, something to pass the time. It’s not finished, though. I’m not quite sure how to end it. Maybe you have an idea?

Another term has begun and I feel a bit more confident, having taught these classes all before. We’ve just finished talking about the history of chemistry (starting from the alchemists, then Lavoisier, Mendeleev, and the like). My students turned in the most appalling set of essays. To think, they will be the next generation of statesmen and lawyers, and they can’t even construct a proper argument! At any rate, when I was reading these and ruminating that I (I hope!) wrote a bit better at that age, I couldn’t help but think of you.

Sue, you must start writing again. Don’t try to force yourself, but tuck a pencil and a square of paper in your waistband, so that whenever and wherever your muse returns to you, you will be able to stop and scribble it down. Emerson said, “Genius is the activity which repairs the decay of things,” and he was talking about poetry. I think if you get to writing again, that could be the thing to help you return to the normality that you crave.

In any case, don’t stop writing to me, no matter what. It may not be poetry to you, but I’ve never thought of your letters as anything less.

Isle of Skye

29 November 1914

Dear David,

Oh, I think the horrid little girl should stay a mouse forever! Climbing onto the table to reach the bread on the other side? I do hope your niece has nicer table manners than that.

Well, if you can’t leave Lottie as a mouse, what could you do to her? I mean aside from having her be caught by Mrs. Owl and made into mouse mousse. She has to learn her lesson somehow. Maybe something involving the pies cooling on her mother’s window? (O, what a temptation….) Or maybe she has to rescue the Mouse King in some way and thus receives his undying gratitude? Maybe she falls in love with the Mouse King? I don’t know for certain, but someone in a gold velvet robe and miniature shoes has to be quite eye-catching. As though he were wearing a checked jacket. It wouldn’t be surprising if she fell in love.

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve dashed off a few poems. I took your advice and began to carry my notebook and pencil along with me, and one morning, as I was washing the floor (how mundane these things are sometimes!), an idea came to me. I sat there on the wet floor while my wash water cooled, and I jotted down a poem. It isn’t the “genius” of Emerson, but it seemed to capture my thoughts at the moment.

I’ve had to take over many of Iain’s chores now that he’s left. Yesterday the wind snapped one of the ropes we use to secure the thatch on the roof. A patch worked its way loose during the night, and I was greeted with a pile of snow in my kitchen come morning. You should’ve seen me on the roof, clinging on with one hand like one of Kipling’s Bandar-Log, trying to tie down a bundle of thatch with the other. When I came in, my eyebrows and eyelashes were all frozen together, and I had to suck on my fingers in order to thaw them enough to make a cup of tea. I’ve taken to wearing my trousers nearly every day, such is the work that I’ve been doing. I know that Iain didn’t think of that when he decided to up and leave to follow boyish dreams of glory.

You know, Davey, the nights are the worst. I sit by the fire, knitting or holding an unread book on my lap, and I can’t stop my mind from racing, can’t stop my ears from hearing every rattle and creak. I try to go to bed early, so that I don’t have to think and feel alone, but I just can’t fall asleep. I admit, I’ve been pulling out all of your old letters and rereading them, sometimes falling asleep covered in your words. It makes me feel that you are really here and that I’m not alone. I can imagine we’re talking. Absurd, I know, since we’ve never actually talked and I don’t know what your voice sounds like. By the way, do you realise how pretentious you sounded in your early letters to me? You must have really wished to impress me.

I finally feel tired, so I think I’ll end this now and blow out the candle. If the weather holds tomorrow, I’ll be able to post this, but I think the mail is taking longer these days.

Terre Haute, Indiana, U.S.A.

December 23, 1914

Dear Sue,

I’m in Terre Haute, spending Christmas with Evie, Hank, and Florence. I got your letter as I was leaving for the station and was happy to have such pleasant reading material for the train. Such a lengthy missive; the winter nights on Skye must be long indeed.

Your suggestions roused me to finish “The Mouse King’s Cheese,” so I now include the ending of this story for your perusal (approval?). I’ve read the completed tale to Florence, who jumped up and down and cried, “ ’Gain! Read it ’gain!” If I can inspire a similar response in you, I will be satisfied.

I’m surprised to hear you refer to “boyish dreams of glory,” you who are always so careful to avoid labeling based on gender. Around here, I hear as many women as men berate President Wilson for keeping America’s toes neatly out of the maelstrom in Europe. America hasn’t had a war in a while; we’re spoiling for a fight.

Just last night at dinner Evie got into quite a tirade against Wilson. Our grandfather fought near the end of the Civil War, and we grew up listening to his stories. That man could spin a tale! No one else could make war sound so unlike war. He enthralled even young Evie, such that she pasted on a fake mustache and played Rough Riders with me all summer.

Even though Dad didn’t have a war when he was in the prime of his life, he stayed out of the army, to his father’s eternal disappointment. Not sure Gramps ever forgave him for that. He thought soldiering and war a civic duty; Dad thought it suicide. If America jumps into the fight, I may join up simply to spite Dad.

But cheerier thoughts certainly are needed. Evie has already been spoiling the festivities here with talk of war. Hank is ready to send her to sleep in the barn. The merriest of Christmases to you, Sue. You may be quite alone there in your little cottage, but know that you are not forgotten and that someone is thinking of you this Christmas.

Isle of Skye

21 January 1915

Dear Davey,

A new year and a belated Christmas gift for you. My newest book! Your letter and the box of freshly printed books from my publisher arrived on the same day, so you will receive one of the very first copies. It seems so strange to read these poems now, as they were all written before the war. So different from the themes of my recent poetry. No flowers, clouds, and summer days. I’m writing on darker subjects and emotions now: loneliness, anger, bleak winters. I’m not sure it’s that good, but at least it is helping to “slay my dragons,” as they say.

I get news so sporadically from Iain that I may go mad. Really, I hear more about him from Finlay. Thank goodness for a letter-writing brother. In fact, I think I may already be going mad, as I’m considering moving into my parents’ cottage until Iain comes home. I slipped on some ice and sprained my ankle the other day whilst out walking. Luckily, I was in town buying groceries at the time and someone was able to get me to the doctor’s, but it made me worry. What if it had happened when I was at home alone? I don’t have a telephone and I would’ve been quite by myself, unless someone happened by for an unexpected visit.

I’m also fed up with all of the tasks around here. A croft is hard enough to run with a whole family helping out, but a single person? Everything seems to be falling apart on me. Another rope snapped on the roof. I climbed up again and realised that all of the ropes are weak. I don’t know if they’re shot through with mould, if the birds have got them, or if it’s a problem with my plaiting, but they are fraying and pulling apart. I ask you, Davey, what is a well-published poet doing scrambling onto a thatched roof in the dead of winter, a length of heather rope between her teeth? Shouldn’t I be somewhere in a leather armchair in front of a roaring library fire? Would you be there too?

I enjoyed the ending to “The Mouse King’s Cheese.” Lottie grows up, she learns to share and say “thank you.” I still think it would have been splendid if she had fallen in love with the Mouse King, checked jacket and all. What did Lara think of this story?

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

February 16, 1915

Dear Sue,

You’ll never believe, but I sent one of my fairy stories to a magazine! I don’t expect a reply for some time, but I thought you’d be proud to know I screwed up the courage to get “The Fairies’ Twilight Ball” out there. Without your encouragement, I never would’ve even written the stories down. What made you decide to send out your poetry the very first time?

Your new book is marvelous! And you’ve even autographed it for me. I rate as a “dear friend” now? I can see what you mean about the lightness of the themes (of course, I haven’t read anything that you’ve been writing recently), but perhaps we all need to read about flowers, clouds, and summer days in these times.

I’m back at school now after the holiday. I’ve been bringing in newspapers for my students to read. I’ve found them to be woefully uninformed about what is going on in Europe. If Wilson lets us into the war, some of my senior students could enlist. At least now they no longer think that the Balkans are somewhere near Sweden.

To answer your question, I don’t know what Lara thinks of “The Mouse King’s Cheese.” She hasn’t read any of my stories. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what it is that she reads. I’ve tried to lend her some of my favorites, but she passes them back as “boys’ books.” All I catch her reading these days are fashion magazines and guest lists as we plan for the wedding. After then, she should have more time to settle back with a book. Right?

I wish you luck on moving in with your parents. You are a brave woman! Over here, I’m looking forward to just the opposite.

Isle of Skye

8 March 1915

Dear David,

Soon after to writing you, I received a letter from Iain, saying they were being sent to the front at last and would be leaving on Friday. Of course, it was Friday morning when I got the letter, so they were already gone.

Why couldn’t he send a telegram? Maybe I would have been able to work up the courage to get on that ferry, to see my husband one more time. I haven’t seen him since just after war was declared, more than half a year ago. I know he’s had leave in that time, as Finlay has been home to visit. But when I asked him about it, he said he certainly didn’t have enough money to make the trip all the way from Bedford. He’s infuriating! I have a modest amount put away from the sales of my books, but Iain stubbornly refuses to touch a penny. All he had to do was leave his obstinacy in his kit bag and let me buy him a ticket to come say goodbye. Now he’s at the front, and who knows if I will see him again?

I’m doing well, aside from all of that. We’re not as hard hit on Skye as in the big cities. My brother’s widow, Chrissie, is in Edinburgh, and she writes of how scarce some foodstuffs are becoming. At least we have our own produce and as much milk as our cows will give. This time of year is always a bit tougher, when we’re hoping for some fresh greens and soft fruit. But I still have a good stock of neeps, swedes, tatties, and smoked fish, so I can’t complain. I am running low on tea, though, and have been reusing my leaves when I can. Sugar has gone up in price, but it’s not as though I’m making marzipan cakes or sugar biscuits these days.

So Iain is in France and, beyond that, I don’t know what is happening. I just pray that he and Finlay will keep an eye on each other, the way they always have. I pray they will stay safe.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

March 29, 1915

I hardly know what to say. I’m trying to put myself in your shoes, in your frame of mind, so that I can empathize as well as sympathize. I simply can’t do it. I’m sorry.

I really should be brushing off my morning coat and practicing my speech, as the wedding isn’t far off. And what am I doing instead? Sitting at my desk, writing to you, Sue. I know I should be more excited about the upcoming nuptials, but I suppose it is natural to feel a bit of apprehension. Not that I doubt my decision… but I’m feeling a little anxious about the whole event. Lara is excited enough for the both of us. She seems to be all wrapped up in dress fittings and whispered conferences with her friends.

I don’t know all of the plans being concocted, only that everyone we’ve ever met or could ever hope to meet will be there. We’ll probably serve platters of hors d’oeuvres that will go back to the kitchen mostly untouched and then twice as much roast meat as our guests could hope to eat. The women will all be dressed too elegantly and laced too tightly to do more than nibble on the food. This will be washed down with enough champagne to fill several bathtubs—the only part of the feast the guests will consume enthusiastically—and followed by a course of cakes and pastries so sweet they would make a dentist weep. After all this, I still have the honeymoon.

And I can’t help but think of you, Sue, sitting alone by the fire in your cottage, “making do” with salted fish and potatoes, weak tea and unsweetened cake. I do admit to feeling a twinge of guilt; all of my extravagant feasting and leisure when you and the boys at the front are doing so much but getting so little in return. If someone were to ask where I would rather be on my wedding day—in a room full of strangers, trying to consume my portion of the feast, or alone in a cottage with you, Sue, drinking weak tea—I know which I’d choose.

Isle of Skye

17 April 1915

David,

Well, I’ve moved into my parents’ cottage. It’s getting to be too much living by myself, in more ways than one. I was spending nearly every day at the post office, waiting for word, but I realised how pathetic that was. Bad news will find you, no matter how far you run.

Also, it was too hard for me to maintain the cottage. I’ve made a bold decision, though, to have a new cottage built, a modern stone building with a slate roof and a chimney. I have Iain’s separation allowance and he isn’t here to tell me I can’t. I’ve hired joiners and everything. Here’s a wee sketch of what I’m planning. I’m going to leave the old blackhouse up for the animals. No more sharing my cottage with the hens!

I haven’t heard from Iain in quite some time. If it weren’t so grim, I would laugh, as I get more mail from a man I’ve never met than I do from my own husband. But, as they say, no news is good news.

I know I didn’t say it in my last letter, but I am proud that you’ve sent one of your fairy stories off to a magazine. Have you heard anything yet? Please let me know how it goes.

You asked how I worked up the courage to send off my poetry. It was Finlay. Growing up, the two of us were never content. We’d sit on the beach, he carving, and me either sketching or scribbling. Our eyes on the horizon, no words were needed. But then he grew old enough for Da to take him on the boat. He’d go off fishing and leave me behind on the shore. He always brought me back stones he found, so that I’d feel I was with him. But I knew that, though he sailed away most mornings, it wasn’t an escape. Sure as anything, going out on the boats tied him to the island. He’d never be able to leave. And so he made me promise to send out my poems, to try to send something of myself out into the world. Because he, he was trapped. But the rest of the world was mine for the taking.

I broke into the schoolhouse every night for a week to use the headmistress’s prized typewriter, pecking away until I had a pile of poems typed to send. In this instance, crime did pay. The rest is, as they say, history! If you can believe it, I was only seventeen.

My publisher has been amazingly patient with me and my reclusion, but he sent me the most curious letter last week. Ages ago, he had asked for a photograph of me, to be included in the frontispiece of one of the books. He’s finally said that, since I do not have a photograph to send him, he will send a photographer to me! I am waiting to hear a final confirmation, but I believe he is coming in a couple of weeks. I can’t tell you how nervous I am, Davey! I’ve never had my photo taken before; I’ve never seen myself through someone else’s eyes (or lens, as it were). I have no idea what to wear. We don’t want the world to be disappointed at the one and only photograph of Elspeth Dunn.

At some point you are going to have to make a decision one way or another about the wedding, dear one. You need to decide if you want to be on the ferry when it sets off or if you are happier back on the sturdy pier. I know that you are not a man content to wait behind and just watch as the ferry chugs away. But perhaps this isn’t your boat. Perhaps it doesn’t sail where you want to go. You’ll make the right decision. I think you already know what it is.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

May 9, 1915

Dear Sue,

You sound like you are doing well, despite not knowing what is happening at the front. Who knows, I may be able to give you a firsthand account if Wilson finally gives in. After the Lusitania, everyone here is howling for German blood. Twelve hundred people who had nothing to do with this war died on that ship. What was it you said in your first letter? We’re all cowboys and outlaws here in the United States. If we get over there, the kaiser had better watch out!

The term is winding down and I hope that my students are leaving my classroom slightly better for it. Many still dismiss the war as a European problem, but a fair number see that it’s bigger. Gone are the days when our countries are isolated. This is the twentieth century. What affects one country affects us all. Now my students see that the world is worth fighting for.

You really screwed up the courage to send off your poetry when only seventeen? Sue, you’re amazing! And, if you don’t mind me doing the math, younger than I thought for someone so obviously distinguished. Seventeen when you started and, checking the date in the front of your first book, only twenty-seven now. You tease about being “old,” but there are only four years between us.

I hope that your photo sitting went well, if it’s happened yet, and that you weren’t resigned to wearing your old trousers or being photographed among the sheep. I should dearly like to see the result.

Isle of Skye

29 May 1915

Oh, Davey, this foolish, foolish war!

There was a great battle at Festubert. The battalion that most of our Skye boys are in was front and centre. Almost every family I know here lost a son or husband or father to the hungry maw of this war at that single battle.

My brother Finlay, he was wounded quite badly. A shell fell just in front of him, thankfully missing him but tearing open his left leg with fragments. He was quite literally one step away from disaster. Màthair’s gone to see him—he’s earned himself a “Blighty,” as the English say, and is in hospital down in London. I actually followed her down to the pier and was a hairbreadth away from getting on that ferry. But I couldn’t. Not even for Finlay. I cried into my sleeve for being gutless, then wrote him a poem on my handkerchief. I hope it will say what I cannot. I hope he’ll know how much I love him. I’m waiting up here on Skye for Màthair to write, praying it’s not as bad as I imagine.

Iain was wounded too, but not badly enough that he was out of the trenches for more than a few days. He didn’t even write to me, just sent a pre-printed Field Service postcard, where you cross off the lines that don’t apply, giving a staccato message: “I have been admitted into hospital / wounded / and am going on well.” A letter from him followed, a short note saying he was fine—just a nick in the shoulder, nothing to worry about—but could I send some cigarettes?

And do you know what’s strange, Davey? I’m really not worried, at least about Iain. I feel a bit hollow. I feel lonely, but that’s not an unusual feeling these days. I feel somehow wistful, though for what I’m not sure. But I don’t feel sad or angry or scared or worried. At least not right now.

I pray that America doesn’t get involved in this. Stay right where you are, Davey. Don’t give in to the taunts of a bully. I don’t want a reason to start worrying.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

June 15, 1915

Dear Sue,

Why is it that I’m always at a loss for words when you need them the most? If my thoughts of you right now could be put into words so easily, then you would be getting the firmest of epistolary embraces. How is Finlay?

The disorder in Europe seems to mirror the disorder in my own life. First, Evie’s husband is ill. It didn’t seem very serious at first, but he has taken quite a long time to recover. Florence is staying at my parents’ house now. You can imagine how nervous Evie is about Florence’s health. The moment Hank felt the least bit feverish, she sent Florence away.

I’ve postponed the wedding. Lara’s furious. I told her it wasn’t fitting to go ahead with the festivities, not with Hank so sick. I don’t think she believed it was my only reason. Truth is, I don’t either. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this just isn’t my ferry. Though I don’t expect her to be content with that.

Don’t they say bad luck comes in threes? If Hank’s illness is the first, and my canceled wedding the second, then the third has to be that I was asked to not come back to my teaching position next year. They were very polite about it, but, essentially, I was canned. It seems the parents took issue with me bringing in newspapers, telling my students about the Lusitania and other atrocities. Mommy and Daddy didn’t want their precious darlings to know what a horrible place the world really is. Here I am, trying to educate, and I get sacked for doing it too well. “Stick to the periodic table,” I was told.

And no such luck with “The Fairies’ Twilight Ball.” The magazine sent it back with an impersonal note saying that it didn’t fit their needs and they “regretfully decline.” A rejection is a rejection. So, you see, I’m failing all around.

But I suppose nothing was ever accomplished without a little perseverance. I’ll reschedule the wedding, start scanning the want ads again, send out my story to yet another magazine. I wouldn’t be “Mort” if I shied away from a bit of a challenge. I fell off the drainpipe and broke my leg, but, you know, I was up that same drainpipe just a few months after that little event.

One of the good things I’ve got going for me is that I’ve finally left my parents’ house. Harry rented an apartment after coming back to the States and I’ve moved in with him. It’s like being in England with him all over again.

The other good thing in my life is you.

I hope things are going better for you now, dear Sue.

Isle of Skye

2 July 1915

Dear David,

Finlay’s lost his leg. Only below the knee, but that’s more than anyone wants to lose. He couldn’t work up the nerve to tell Màthair in his letter. Of course, she doesn’t care. She’s just thanking God he’s alive. We all are. He’s been moved to hospital in Edinburgh for recovery and therapy and will be back on Skye after he’s fitted for a prosthetic. We won’t be able to take the rambles we used to, but at least I’ll have my brother back.

I was getting quite worried as I read through your letter, as you sounded so earnest. So much happening to you, enough to get even the most stouthearted person down. I was much relieved to hear you admit you were still the same old “Mort,” the boy who could climb a drainpipe with a sack full of squirrels and a heart full of merriment. I think if my Davey wasn’t cheerful and laughing in the teeth of danger, then nothing would be right in the world. How do you think I’ve been able to keep my spirits up through all of this? How do you think I’ve been able to stay afloat in this sea of chaos?

The picture-taking went well. Before Màthair left London, I sent her a postal order and begged her to buy me a dress, something nice and modern. I must have sent far too much, for she brought back a sensible brown wool suit and blouse, a completely pragmatic dress (grey like the Scottish skies in winter), and an utterly frivolous rose-coloured gown. The rose dress is a fluttery, flimsy affair and seems terribly immodest after the great lumpy things I was wearing before, but it feels like I’m wearing a rainbow and it makes me look years younger, as if I never had things like wars to worry about.

The photographer convinced me to wear the rose-coloured dress, saying it made me look more like a poet—“ethereal” was the word he used. Naturally he wanted to get a picture outside, against the backdrop of which I write, so he posed me by the garden, down on the shingle, and, yes, Davey, even by the sheep. I felt quite silly, for what Highland girl wears an insubstantial little feather of a dress to go out herding sheep or climbing hills? But I shouldn’t complain, as the pictures came out rather well. You can’t even see that I have on my old black boots underneath. My mother keeps a small flower garden, and I think the pictures taken there turned out the best. It was quite curious to see my own face in a photograph. I have never seen myself in such a detached way before. The photographer sent me a few prints of my own, so here you go. Now you can see what I really look like. I hope you aren’t disappointed.

Last night I sat outside the cottage, watching the moon rise, notebook and pencil on my lap. The garden smelled like foxglove and honeysuckle, with, of course, the tangy scent of the sea. It was even cool enough that I wasn’t bothered much by the midges. Màthair brought me out a Thermos flask of tea before she went to bed. I stayed out all night. I had my hot tea and my notebook. Who could want for anything more? The night seemed so pregnant, so poignant, one of those Scottish nights that make you understand why some still believe in spirits and wee folk. I was expectant, waiting out there for something I’m not sure I found. When my da came out to do the milking in the morning, he found me fast asleep on the bench beside the house, “all covered in dew like a fairy,” he said. Now you can see where I get my poetry!

You know, I’m content right now, but that contentment is as fragile as an egg. I’m cushioning it and trying to keep it from the booms and crashes across the channel. I’m so afraid something is going to crash so loud that it will reach clear across to my little island.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

July 21, 1915

Dear Sue,

I have your picture propped up on my desk as I’m writing this, and I’m trying to imagine you reading my letter after it arrives. Your description—it didn’t do you justice. I don’t think I need to tell you how lovely you look to me.

But now, having seen your picture, I can see why your dad thought you looked like a fairy asleep in the garden. If I wasn’t certain you were bigger than my thumb, I should’ve guessed your dress was fashioned from rose petals and spiders’ webs. You look quite fey amid the blooms. And your expression is so wistful. What were you thinking of right then when the photo was snapped?

I didn’t realize the stories of my antics and asinine exploits were so important to you—“afloat in this sea of chaos”? I never hoped I could achieve more than a hearty chuckle or round of applause for the stunts I pull. I feel I have a lot to live up to now, but, as always, I’m up to the challenge. If you believe—

Since writing the above, something has happened. Harry let Lara into my room to surprise me and she spotted the letter on my desk. She snatched it and read it before I realized what was happening. Lara’s called the engagement off for good, in fact tossed the engagement ring in my wastebasket. She says she fancies I’m in love with you and she can’t compete with someone who’s been winning all along.

You know, for a girl who didn’t finish college, she’s quite smart.

Isle of Skye

4 August 1915

Davey, oh, Davey! You shouldn’t have written what you did. If you hadn’t written it, then I wouldn’t be in this quandary. I could go along, carrying my secrets. I would go on expecting to be a widow, checking the newspapers to see each fresh casualty list. You would go on being my cheerful correspondent, an admirer of my poetry, and an interesting friend. And now you’ve spoiled that with your last letter. You can never now be just my “interesting friend.”

What should I say? I should say that it’s terribly presumptuous of you to write to a married woman and claim to be in love with her. But what do I wish to say? I wish to say that I don’t think you would have written that if you weren’t somewhat sure of how I felt.

What was I thinking about when that photograph was taken? I thought you knew, Davey. I was thinking of you.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

August 20, 1915

My dear Sue,

Do you realize how nervous I’ve been, waiting for your reply? If I were a betting man, I would’ve put a large wager on you not replying at all. But the small part of me that saw signs and portents in every letter you sent, the part of me that not only read between the lines but above and below, that part would have put a wager on you writing back and knowing exactly what I was talking about. I’m glad that part of me won the bet, for the prize is so much greater.

What happens now? If you lived down the street in Chicago, I’d ask you to dinner. Or maybe not. What does one do with a married woman, apart from leave her alone?

See, I’m going to make a muddle of this. Whatever “this” is. You’ve seen how I’ve been failing at just about everything I’ve set my mind to these days. A guy with nothing going for him but guts. Why would you want a guy like me?

Isle of Skye

6 September 1915

Davey, Davey, Davey,

You’re not a worrier. Why are you thinking so hard about this? The past three years, we’ve let things fall as they may, and love happened. Do we need to plan out what comes next? Do we even need to know?

I hope you realise that I’ve never thought of you as “a guy with nothing going for him but guts.” If you only knew how you keep me going, how you keep me waking up, simply because I know you’re thinking of me. You moved me to write again when I thought my muse had fled. You reminded me that I’m not just a lonely recluse. I have something more now. I have you.

Do you really think you need to prove yourself to me? Do you think you have to do anything but continue to be there? That’s all I ask. Just be there.

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

September 28, 1915

Sue,

So much has happened here. You’ll never guess—I’m going over to the front! Harry saw an ad for the American Ambulance Field Service, looking for volunteers to drive ambulances for the French Army. Wilson can’t get off his duff and let us Americans into the war, so we’ll have to find our own way in.

Think of it! Driving an auto as fast as I can, shells whizzing by overhead, men’s lives actually dependent on me driving as recklessly and as fearlessly as I can. Can you think of anything more perfect for me? I couldn’t manage as a teacher, but this… this I can do.

We don’t get paid, but I have a small trust fund set up by my grandfather. Harry has already said we’ll pool our resources once we get to France and, if we have to eat canned beans or brown bread or whatnot every day, so be it. No money forthcoming from my father!

Harry and I went over there for dinner last night to break the news. My mother left the table, dabbing at her eyes, and my father asked, “Why on earth are you going to France?” Harry leaned back in his chair and said, “Hell if I know. But it will be a damned fine adventure,” then saluted my father with his glass of Madeira. My father turned purple and I thought he would have an apoplexy.

We have a few things to do here. Have to get a typhoid inoculation, which will take a couple of weeks, and we’re waiting for official letters from the headquarters of the American Ambulance to send to the State Department. We’ll need letters of credit from our banks. We have supplies to get together (boots, sweaters, driving gloves), but we’ll get our uniforms in Paris. And photographs! I need a dozen or so copies of my passport photo for licenses and identification cards. So much to do and we’re trying to get it done as quickly as we can.

We officially sign on for a six-month term of service and can reenlist for three months at a time after that. Both Harry and I told them to count us in for at least a year. We’re not the kind of guys who do anything halfway.

I finally feel as if I’ve found my purpose in life, Sue, and I can hardly wait to get there!

Isle of Skye

15 October 1915

You stupid, stupid boy! Did you expect me to be happy about this plan of yours? With a husband at the front and a brother crippled from this blasted war, what on earth did you think I’d really say?

I don’t even understand why you’re doing this. What do you owe France? Or any other nation, for that matter? Why do you feel duty-bound to get involved in the foolishness on this side of the ocean? What makes you think this war has anything to do with you?

Did you stop to think for a moment about me in all this? How, only recently, I offered my heart up to you, tentatively, hesitantly, not trusting my own feelings but trusting you implicitly? And now you’ve trampled all over it in your haste to run off.

All I wanted was for you to be there. Why are you leaving?

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

October 31, 1915

Dear Sue,

I know you’re angry; please don’t be. Talk of “duty” and “patriotism” aside, how could you really expect me to pass up on this, the ultimate adventure?

My mother’s been floating around the house, red-eyed and sniffling. My father still isn’t speaking to me. And yet I feel like I’m doing something right. I messed up in college. I messed up at work. Hell, I even messed up with Lara. I was beginning to think there was no place in the world for a guy whose highest achievement included a sack full of squirrels. Nobody seemed to want my bravado and impulsivity before. You know this is right for me, Sue. You of all people, who seem to know things about me before I myself do. You know this is right.

I’m leaving tomorrow for New York and have to trust my mother to mail this letter. When you read it, I’ll be on a ship somewhere in the Atlantic. Even though we get a reduction on our fares if we sail the French Line, Harry and I are bound for England. He has Minna over there waiting for him. And I… I have you. Like knights of old, neither of us can head off to fight without a token from our love to tuck into our sleeve.

I’ll be landing in Southampton sometime in the middle of November and will be going up to London. Sue, say that you’ll meet me this time. I know it’s easy for me to ask, far easier than it is for you to leave your sanctuary there on Skye. Don’t let me go off to the front without having touched you for the first time, without having heard your voice say my name. Don’t let me go off to the front without a memory of you in my heart.

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

S 8.25 SOUTHAMPTON

15 NOV 15

E. DUNN ISLE OF SKYE=

HEADING TO LONDON WILL BE AT THE LANGHAM AGAIN

WILL WIRE WHEN WE ARRIVE=

POST OFFICE TELEGRAPHS

S 15.07 PORTREE

15 NOV 15

D GRAHAM THE LANGHAM HOTEL=

THURSDAY AT HALF PAST SIX KINGS CROSS STATION SPECIAL SCOTCH EXPRESS=

WAIT FOR ME MY LOVE=