The Letters of Rose Constance, Epistle II
17th January
My Dearest James,
The shortest day has passed, and whatever nastiness of weather remains shall soon be chased away by the coming of Spring. I need only be patient.
I miss you still. All those things I did not manage to tell you before you left? They do not fade. They multiply. They inhabit the eaves of my spirit like so many mice in the attic.
Or perhaps squirrels. But surely, in the attic. No matter.
Like you always said, I need not apologise for who - how - what? - I am. I don’t precisely believe that. Yet. To be honest, James, I just cannot fathom such a thing. Walking in the public market and meeting the judging stares head-on, without flinching? Sitting in church, hands folded serenely in my lap, with a natural smile on my face? When I picture such a scene, my imagination betrays me and my sister’s face superimposes itself on mine. She always met the world better than I did. She never regretted her choice of hat. She never quaked with shame and clenched her teeth, certain that the minister’s sermon was directed solely at her. Indeed living comfortably in this mortal skin of mine seems a dream, a dream that would require a miracle for its realization. But, as always, I trust in you. For you have never been wrong, darling husband.
I gaze out this frost-laden window, surveying what was once your verdant garden. What was not taken by passing soldiers was eaten by rabbits and deer, and what little remains is now encrusted with ice. Buried alive in the snow. The soldiers did not ask my permission any more than the wildlife did, but I begrudge them nothing. They are all hungry.
The vast empty rooms of this house, so chill in the winter, serve daily to remind me of our lost children. So much time has passed, yes, but that wound has never healed. We never spoke of it, but I know it was the same for you. My poor, sweet babies. Late at night when I cannot sleep I can still hear their croupy coughing, echoing down the corridor. The sound troubles me, but silence troubles me more.
The piano was tuned months ago. But I have not touched it. It mocks me. Why play when there is no one to listen?
Surely I have not written to you as often as I should, nor as often as I had hoped. Yes, I have abandoned my study for yours. Months ago. These moments, here at your desk, quill in hand, ink at the ready, surrounded by your books… In these moments I feel your presence. I can nearly smell your pipe tobacco, and oh how it comforts me. Truly I should write more often. Except…
Except there are things I hesitate to tell you, even now, especially now, because I do not wish to add to the weight of your burden. Things I have seen that I cannot have seen. Things I have heard that I cannot have heard. Voices whispering in my head. Smoky haze clouding my vision. In the clear light of day I know these visions for what they are, but when they come at night and I am alone, they fill my soul with the blackest of despair and terror.
Once, in a moment of sheer weakness, I mistook Mrs. Dandry’s footsteps for yours. I am ashamed to admit it, but I shouted at her. With sweet words and small lies and not a few tears I was able to smooth her ruffled feathers, but I fear that some day she will tire of the gloom of this house and leave me. And who would blame her? Surely she is needed by another, better household. One that can offer her light and happiness and the voices of children. One that is not defined by what is lacking.
Oh, darling. I fear I have written yet another letter that I shall never dare to post, lest it serve to distract your attention from trials far more important than mine. As always, my love, I shall try again tomorrow.
Forever yours,
Rose
