The Letters Of Rose Constance, Epistle V
28th June
My Darling James,
Midsummer has come and gone, and my efforts in the garden have finally begun to show some signs of success. I have replanted the peonies and snapdragons, and am pruning the rose bushes in the manner in which you instructed me, lo those many years ago when a young couple first came to this house, full of dreams for the future and convinced that everything should remain as it was for all of time. I smile at their naïveté now, knowing better, even as inside a part of me weeps at the price of this wisdom. Mrs. Dandry heard me speak thus last week and she told me I should not be bitter about the course our lives have taken, for the will of our Heavenly Father is not for such as us to question. But she does not understand. Nor could I expect her to do so. I have moved past despair into acceptance. And if the acceptance is bittersweet, what else am I to do but savor both the sweet and the bitter? The alternative is worse by far, as the past months have taught me.
I have begun making regular trips into the village again, to shop and sometimes even take a luncheon at our beloved Inn, through the good graces of Mr. Dandry and his sure hand on the wheel of our motorcar. Mrs. D. and her husband have been such a boon to me in these trying times, Jemmy. I cannot show them enough gratitude, and I hope you agree with me that when the Yuletide season is once again upon us that they are due a special gesture of gratitude. Without their help I might not have emerged from the dark night of my despair and illness into the warmer light of this new day. I know there has been little love lost between you and Mrs. Dandry over the years, but I hope just the same that you shall come to understand her through my point of view. She is not a bad woman, merely taciturn and unsmiling. I know without a doubt that in her heart is compassion such as would bring tears to the eyes of St. Francis himself. Please tell me that when you return, you shall make the attempt to see her anew.
And while that subject is at the forefront of my mind, I feel I must finally wonder when your duties in Paris will be complete. I realize that your research at Dr. Gilles’ Sanatorium is valuable, but it has been nearly a year now since you left. The rooms seem colder without you, even as these long summer days turn warmer. And the house is far too quiet.
I know some say that silence is golden, but I believe in my heart that those who do have never spent a year in forced exile from the person they love most in the world. And while I know that you asked me to come and visit you more than once, my troubled heart and the cage I built for myself within that heart prevented me from taking the proper steps. Too, I fear I simply could not endure such terrifying surroundings as a Bedlam—you know why as well as anyone. If this makes me weak, so be it. I hope you do not think less of me because of such weakness. Believe me when I say that if I could break free of my fears and come to you, I would be on a ship crossing the Channel at this very moment. Alas, such a herculean effort is beyond me, and I must remain content to await your next letter to me, and imagine your deep, slightly raspy voice reading the words. It is the time I feel your presence the strongest, and the time at which I miss you the most fiercely.
Your presence means so much in my life, and the lack of it, I think, has begun to toll on me ever the harder. I long to lounge in our garden once more with you, to hear you harrumphing as you peruse the disagreeable portions of the morning news, and to listen to your muttering as you pore over the books in the library, seeking relevant footnotes for your next paper. I feel that I have become half a person in your absence, even in light of my descent into the darkness, and my re-emergence from it. I simply am incomplete when not in your presence. Thus I long to be complete again, to hold and be held by you, and know I am safe in your arms; to smell the agreeable, woody aroma of your pipe smoke wafting from the study; to see once more the gentle smile overtake your handsome countenance as I play upon the pianoforte for you (and I regret to report that I still have not touched the instrument’s keys since it was tuned—perhaps I shall renew my acquaintance with music to-morrow). I miss these things, and so many more things (things best best not committed to paper, perhaps!), and so I ask the question I have scarce dared to think about in these strange, dark months of your absence: when shall you return?
Please do not think that I wish to place undue pressure on you, my dearest—I would not dream of demanding you come home with your work unfinished. I know how irritable you can become when too many unreasonable demands are made on your time, and would never wish to anger you thus. I simply wish to know when you expect to see your work finding its completion, and to let you know that I do, as always, miss you terribly and love you deeply. Our children may be lost to us, but our marriage, our unity, our love, still stands as the pillar of our lives. It is my fervent hope that it always shall.
Please write as soon as you are able.
Forever yours,
Rose
