14 October 1939

Charles,

You don't know how many slips of paper I've destroyed in my vain attempt to write something beautiful. Or simply and solely honest.

I, who've always prided myself on being able to speak the truth, find that I'm unable to say anything at all. I fear so much that if I do then you'll disappear into the mist, gone forever and—

I would miss you so much, don't you know?

Why did you have to be so wonderful? Why couldn't you have simply been that blustering, bellowing voice on the opposite side of the fencing arena? Why did you have to so...so clever and witty and indescribably true? In a world of so much pretense and distortion you are the one honest, shining truth I've tried to hold onto.

But my heart is such a wicked, traitorous thing.

The very moment I feel myself embracing that exquisite emotion poets call love, you are called away—torn from my side until this cruel war ends and I don't know if it ever will. I am so fearful of never seeing you again, of never giving you a thousand thank you's for all the times you've dragged me from the depths of wretched misery and made me smile. I'm so afraid I won't be able to hold you and think all those silly romantic thoughts—of your arms and how strong they are, of your eyes and your lips and the rhythm of your heartbeat.

I miss you so much even though it's only been a few days since your departure. I miss you and—

I love you.

I can't help but love you, not after everything you've done and everything you've made me feel.

I love you.

Please come back Charles. Come back.

I've still yet to tell you all these things, to perhaps kiss you and see if love is truly like a draught of honeyed wine.

I love you.

— E

17 December 1939

Dearest E,

I don't think I can put to words the things you do to me. The way you make me feel. I'm not sure if it's possible to be so explicit about an emotion I don't quite understand.

Do I love you? I can't say. But whether I do or not is inconsequential—and here, you might grow furious. Pink cheeked and angry. Perhaps you would even resolve not to speak to me for as long as you live.

We both know that would be a wretched, simple lie.

After all, what you hold over me is so much more than some fleeting, foolish fancy. Some plight of the heart. You could vanish into the Sahara and I would be the willing fool who journeys through sand and sky to find you.

And—are you laughing now? Smiling, with one hand pressed against your lips? With a mouth so perfect for kissing though you deny me time and time again—?

I feel rather lightheaded when I'm around you.

Foolish, as well.

My mouth moves on its own accord and I find myself dreaming of the ways you might fall into my arms and I would finally be able to have you.

Silly notion isn't it? Or is that just who I've become around you?

The romantic egotist.

Yours.

C. Grey

January 27, 1940

Dearest E,

I can't say for sure what part of France they've dumped me in but I can confirm (with absolute honesty) that I don't think I'll need the dinner jacket I've brought with me. (That little medical kit you prepared is, admittedly, helpful. Not that I've been injured or anything of the sort. It's been helpful to others you see?)

And—you wouldn't happen to be reading this by candlelight would you? Curled up on some couch somewhere, perhaps the one near the west wing window, in the same corner I spotted you all those years ago. I didn't think I could love you then you infuriating, enlightening silly little girl. Who's to say the change in my heartbeat was nothing more than a palpitation brought on by sudden cardiac arrest?

Silly, beautiful Midford. Always making me chase after you.

But it wasn't always bad now was it? I did get quite a smiles out of you—even if you deny it to high heaven. (And, I'll have you know, I now claim the sole honor of being the first to say that the dimple in your left cheek is rather fetching.)

(I know you're blushing now, don't try to hide it.)

In fact, burn this letter after you're done reading it. Like they do in those garish Hollywood pictures, with a candlestick or something equally inane.

It'd all be quite funny don't you think? A decade or two down the line and we could make legacies of these scraps of paper. Some lurid romance speculated for the ages.

We could be, as the Americans call it, a major motion picture one day.

Yours.

C. Grey

February 9, 1940

My dearest Charles,

I find it quite infuriating that I'm able to write you and receive your letters; to hear your voice, japes, and uncouth quips but remain unable to see your face. I certainly hope you haven't charged headfirst into the German defensive, all silver swords and arrogance. In fact, should you do decide on that ridiculous course of action then know that I shan't write to you any longer and you will be forced to ask mother for my next line of address.

I won't have your blood being spilled so freely. Knowing you, you'd probably bleed silver and that would just be a poor color triad now wouldn't it? Dirt brown, dull red, and bright, gleaming silver.

A wretched, awful combination.

After all, you've always been a man of…well, I wouldn't say taste but you have always known a certain kind of elegance.

Even if it's only with your sword and not your mouth.

(And gracious, please don't take that the wrong way. I know you and your raucous sense of humor. That line was not supposed to be anything more than a metaphor. A somewhat anatomical metaphor and—oh dear. I fear this letter may be the one that has to be burned. I don't quite know what's the matter with me.)

(Or perhaps I do.)

(This is the last time I drink coffee so late at night. I find it winds me up and I'm unable to think of any one thing for too long. And why on earth have I included parenthesis in every other sentence—?)

You must come home soon Charles or I'll—well, we both know my impulse control is just as poor as yours. You might even find a new recruit in your regiment with badly cut blonde hair and a tendency to chide you when you disobey your superiors.

Eat well and take care. No massacring innocents or blowing up tanks. (Though I suppose you could vandalize them. Can you imagine? The Führer's tank painted with the Union Jack—that would be a photograph for the ages, wouldn't it?)

All my love,

E

March 1940

Dearest E,

I think I've gone and drowned in mud. I never thought I'd say this but England fairest, how I've wronged you! Despite your intemperate felicity and strangely endearing petulance, I rather miss you. From the way your body curves like the River Thames, soft and full and flourishing to the cathedral's church bells that make up your voice.

I'm so in love with you that I've gone to fight for your honor—defense and duty and all that.

But no amount of self-righteous noble appeal could have forced me to cross the Channel had it not been to protect you.

(Oh. And I rather think I miss you as well, Midford. Just a bit. Give a kiss to Lady England for me won't you?)

Yours.

C. Grey

March 1940

Dearest Charles,

If you could see me now I'm sure you'd laugh. Laugh and fall over (should you be sitting in a chair) because here I am, a Red Cross nurse, working under a ward sister who could singlehandedly win this war. Just last week she brought the fire of dragons down on poor Millie Deighton who'd been caught flirting with one of soldiers in our ward. I didn't think Millie could blush such a violent shade of red but by the time Sister Andrews finished with her, Millie was reassigned to draining abscesses for the remainder of the week.

Furthermore, I think mother was quite right about fencing.

After all, I've never had to saw off a man's leg before but—we're so short of anesthetic that we must conserve it, giving only small portions to those who are about to undergo amputations or surgeries. I sometimes feel so useless here, Charles, in my white dress and red cape, looking far too pristine in this time of war.

Yet even more than that, even more than this, I find myself wondering where you are—what you might be doing, what horrors you must have witnessed. And—I sound awfully melancholic and bleak don't I? It's silly of me, what with you brave men defending our lands, I ought to be proud. Or, at the very least, a little less sad. And I promise this shall be the last pensive, somber letter I send you. It shall be my new goal—to make you smile, at least once, while you're so far away.

Would you like to know something that no one else does? Well, even if you don't I'll tell you because I think it would feed your ego quite well and in a time of such sorrow, I believe a bit of pomp could go a long way in alleviating the soul.

I must confess, the silly, shy truth is this:

I go to sleep thinking of you, wringing my hands as I lay in bed, hoping that you've done nothing more than irritate your superior officer that day. (And don't you roll your eyes at me—the superiority of your sword ought to be enough for you. Leave a few morsels of glory for the others won't you?)

Now, I truly hope you won't mind when I ask you to complete a little assignment for me. I've always longed to see the sunrise in France—all those hues of soft pink and pale violet intermingled with the white and gold sunshine.

Please keep well, I do believe your eyes ought to see the next sunrise too.

With sincerest affection,

E

April 1940

Dearest E,

I think I rather like this ward sister of yours! Funny old bird, I can just picture her pruned and pickled face all squished like a kidney bean—gave me a right long laugh before Phipps threatened to bury me alive. Hah. As if he could. This camp depends on me for entertainment, did you know that? Who'd a thought a bit of rain and mud could make a man so miserable? Sober toffs the whole lot of them.

And you must know how good it was for me to hold a bit of your stationary in my hand—did you spritz it with perfume? I smelled nectaries and tulips but that could have just been delirium. War makes crackpots of us all, eh?

But, to be quite frank, there was something about that missive that troubled me. You, of all people, feeling useless?

Now that must be self-pity talking. (Or in your case writing.)

What's the matter with you Midford? Have you lost your courage? If you think your abilities wasted and your energies withered then I say this—

Bullshit.

I know for a fact that there isn't a lady in England who can wield a blade better than you. After all, whoever said surgery was a man's business? You did a fine job stitching me up after that shotgun wound and even managed to pick out all that shattered glass from my arm! (Remind me never to bring you to a bar while you're cross Midford.) What I say is, you ought to take your due. The quickest swordswoman in all of England fair.

I've always thought amputations to be your level of business. And—enough moping Midford. I'm at war, not dead. In my case there simply isn't a correlation between the two. After all, I can't very well expect his majesty to pin a medal on my breast coat pocket if I'm six feet under now can I?

Now my ministering angel of medicinal bliss, go forth and like the dominatrix, take your due.

Curiously awaiting your next letter,

C. Grey

PS, Saw the sunrise. Quite unimpressive. Might've been better had I been with you.

May 1940

Dearest, darling Charles—

I should like to scold and scream and kiss you all at once! Oh I simply can't contain it! Charles you abrasive, curiously uplifting solider of a—

I've been made Dr. Holcomb's apprentice Charles! His apprentice! Oh the responsibilities are many and sleep, a rare thing indeed, but I couldn't rest even if I tried! My hands are hardly still and everywhere I go I can hear the strong, assured breathes of recovering soldiers. My pinafores are utterly ruined and I am absolutely gleeful. The operating room is horrid business, yes, but it's worth every ounce of terror I feel when the solider on the operating table opens his eyes and realizes that yes, he's alive, yes, his family awaits him, yes, tomorrow is here—

Oh Charles. Even when you're thousands of miles away you manage to inspire in me a confidence I would've never dared dream of. You raise me up with only a few lines and I think I could love you for that Charles.

(I promise my next letter shall be longer but I have first shift tonight. Enclosed below is a first aid kit Dr. Holcomb helped me prepare. I've included two doses of emergency penicillin. A wonderful man by the name of Howard Florey insisted I take his samples and I know they'll be of use to you.)

All my love,

E

May 1940

Dearest E,

Have you wept for me yet? Your last letter was terribly droll, what with your indignant quips and Charles Grey, I'll not have you drowning on foreign soil you lousy excuse for a noble! Where's your sense of national pride? If you die, it'll be in England so don't you dare perish beforehand!

Read that line out loud to the boys—I think they're all rather charmed by you, Midford.

But fret not—I know how you dislike false sentiment. So I challenged them all to a duel. Half backed out. The other half cried. Mind, I didn't do it for you, specifically, but this has given me quite the excuse to train. So I suppose I ought to thank you with something a bit more intimate than our general expression of gratitude—

When I get back, I want to kiss you.

Even if you're covered in dirt, sweat, and the scent of propriety. I want to kiss you, just once. Softly, on the mouth.

I know you're the guiding angel to so many of our fallen soldiers but I promise you, it won't be in vain. I have far too much pride to see our empire fall when I've yet to take you out to dinner.

The importance, after all, rests in what we have yet to do.

Wait for me won't you? For a little while more.

Yours.

C. Grey

4 June 1940

Dearest E,

Though it may seem impossible to believe, I've now committed the fatal sin of writing like a peasant during the Great War. Phipps says I look like I belong in the French Revolution. Cheering in the crowd and all that good shit.

War makes fools of us all, doesn't it?

Either way, I've little time to extrapolate on that sentence. Northern France hasn't been too kind to us but I think she's reached her fever pitch of fury. I'm currently dueling sand and sea and dreaming of ships beyond the horizon. (If the damn fog ever clears up.)

After all, it's enchantingly pathetic how I had to procure this slip of paper from the kindness of a French schoolboy. The intemperate weather all but destroyed the stationary you sent me and I'm quite upset that I won't be able to mail this using peach scented postage stamps.

Ah well. I suppose I ought to get to the crux of the matter before the moonlight goes out but—

I'm sorry.

I know that's an expression of complete and utter surprise on your pretty little face Midford but what can I say? France has made humble the man who loves you.

Taught me a damn fine lesson too because I'll tell you what Midford, you don't owe me a damn thing.

Was it selfish of me to ask you to wait? Yes—and it was cowardly too.

I doubt there's a single man in England who'd entertain you better than myself and to think otherwise would not only be an insult to your credibility (after all, I know of you and your exquisite taste) but to myself as well.

I can't imagine that I thought, even for a second, there would be someone who'd love you more than I do.

And in the end, if it comes down to it, I'll fight for you. Using a bayonet if I have to.

But I guess I just want to leave you with this before the whole thing boils over—

I love you, E, and it's a selfish love.

Say to me those coveted words that would turn earth into heaven.

I love you.

Yours. Always,

C. Grey

Notes:

- "Say to me those coveted words…" — Edgar Allan Poe

- "ministering angel of medicinal bliss" — adapted line from Charles Dickens' The Mystery of Edwin Drood

- Sir Howard Florey: an Australian pharmacologist who, alongside Sir Ernst Boris Chain and Sir Alexander Fleming, developed the antibacterial drug penicillin. It was used to treat a number of infections suffered by ill and wounded soldiers during WWII and the reason I've included Florey here is because during the 1940s Florey traveled to the United States to convince the government to sponsor research on the mass production of penicillin. I'd like to think he might have crossed paths with certain doctors and nurses during the Second World War while on his visits to England.

- The last letter Grey writes is while he's awaiting evacuation at Dunkirk. June 4, 1940.

A/N: For some reason I can picture adult Lizzy sounding just like Marilyn Monroe.