The Letters of Rose Constance, Epistle III
13th March
My dearest James,
February was a dark month for me, darling. It was for both of us, remember? I have spent this recent February sitting quite still in the drawing room most of the time. I would attempt to read but the words seemed to move away from each other on the page and rearrange themselves into sentences and phrases that made no sense at all. I tried to stare at the pages but the book seemed to not want to be read, not by me at least. The piano also remains untouched but every day its call is louder and more urgent. One of these days, I promise I shall sit down and play something that you used to like, if only so I can imagine you sitting near me listening, a smile creeping onto your face as my fingers pressed the keys.
Mrs. Dandry has been ever so sweet lately, checking on me before she leaves for the day. I think she was worried as I’ve retreated into myself, my memories, this house even more so than usual. I think she hopes that the woman who used to employ her, the woman I used to be, will return and fix the flowers she has arranged and occasionally help make pies with intricate lattices. I barely remember that woman. I live so far within my own head now, James. These letters are practically my only interaction with humankind and I don’t even send them often enough. I am building the very birdcage that seems to trap me.
I couldn’t go anywhere in the upstairs portions of the house besides my bedroom for the entire month of February. I kept thinking about the children and how in a February long ago, we lost them. The coughing and the image of their tiny hands reaching for me haunted my dreams, still do from time to time, and I feel helpless. I kept waking up in a sweat imagining their tired eyes, the cough keeping them awake. I always wake up before I can reach them and I can’t do anything to help them just as I couldn’t do anything then. I miss them, James. I keep thinking of the kinds of people they would have become, the grandchildren we would have had.
I shouldn’t mail this letter or any of the letters I’ve written to you. I am needy and do mean to be hindrance to your work. This house is consuming me and I can think of nothing but of what used to be. I imagine your hand in mine as we walked through town, our fingers intertwined. I think of your face as I read aloud to you, tranquil in our home. I want nothing more than for you to come home but I cannot ask that of you. You are doing important work abroad and I must realize that my petty needs do not come before the work of science. I knew when I became your wife that I would have to learn to step back for the work you were doing. It’s just.. I miss you terribly sometimes, dear husband.
I wish I knew what to do within these walls. The house is lonely but not empty. I feel myself surrounded by things I can’t describe. I am scared to be alone and yet I’m not alone. I’m tiptoeing around as if not to disturb something at work here. I don’t mean to worry you, but I must speak freely I suppose. I am frightened of this house at times but more so my own mind.
I am trying to think of your smiling face rather than my own paranoia but it is hard when sometimes the only voice I hear for ages is my own.
Forever yours Rose
