Soli Deo gloria

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

Would I be who am I if I hadn't read this book and loved it? Reread it again and again and watched it on Netflix surrounded by excited relatives while delighting in old Guernsey delicacies? Would I?

22nd September, 1946

Mrs. Alexander Strachan

Feochan Farm

by Oban

Argyll

Dear Sophie,

I simply cannot apologize enough for getting married without your presence. All those girlhood dreams we'd stayed up late weaving together during our bookshop days have been utterly dashed—or perhaps, not so utterly. I was an almost perfect maid of honor for your wedding, which was half the dream. You would've been perfect in every way as my matron of honor, which is why you didn't attend, as it would've filled me with indescribable guilt about being a billy-goat at your wedding while you were so perfect at mine. Yes, that is completely and utterly the only reason—besides the fact that this authoress couldn't wait more than four days (and what long days they were! I'm dreadful at patience!) to marry Dawsey Adams.

Please respect my wishes to no longer be called 'Juliet' but 'Mrs. Dawsey Adams' for the rest of my days, for even I haven't imagination enough to think of a better name. It is a delight just to write a 'Mrs.' in my name, but to have it accompany 'Dawsey Adams' for the rest of my life is sheer perfection.

I am thoroughly happy, Sophie. You needn't worry about me any longer (though I told this to Sidney also, and I know that despite my protests, he shall always find time in his busy publishing schedule to worry about silly old Mrs. Dawsey Adams. To do otherwise is to go against his nature); I shan't be lonely, yearning and seeking any longer, as I have since the war. For the first time since the war, I can see the future. I don't see the here and now, the misery of broken buildings and broken lives. I see people standing up on their feet, offering a hand to their fellow man next to them to raise them up back into the sun.

To wake up on a farm with a shipment of piglets from the mainland coming in and Kit waking me up by bopping me on the nose and brushing my cheeks with a handpicked array of wildflowers mixed with weeds is pure heaven. Dawsey has yet to receive any pigs, but they're due any day now, and I wager the next time you visit, I shall be well enough informed as to be well able to argue the merits of pigs versus your merits of sheep.

Who would've thought we'd end up on farms, Soph? I always adored the farm and find myself at home again. City life was fun, and I still miss my poor bombed flat like a dead friend, but farmlife is really where it is at, to coin a phrase, eh, Soph?

Of course, I have been putting off major details to plunge you into further anxious suspense. I could never dawdle you along until the very end without a full timeline of the events of yesterday, could I, Sophie?

Saturday, 21st September, 1946, is a day to be immortalised forever in history—perhaps not in the accolades of England, but in the history book of the island of Guernsey—and in my own particular personal history, to say nothing else. It dawned crisp and beautiful, with an orange sunrise and drifts of clouds hanging low along the sky. The sea surrounding the cliffs spoke of salt and life. I spent a whole hour with Kit on my lap watching the sunrise, my legs dangling over the cliff. I never would've experienced that if I'd actually gone through and married Mark Reynolds, now would I? Ha!

The entire island was involved; the entire island was in a fantastic uproar, and for once, I was pleased to find myself the sanest person I knew. Amelia and Isola arrived at my house with an old wedding dress. Sophie, it was Amelia's. I found my newfound coolness crumbling to bits as I held delicate swaths of material in my hands. "It was almost destined for Elizabeth, but that never came to be," Amelia said. She was the only one able to speak, as I was making mad use of my hanky and Isola was taking to smelling salts and other bouquets of herbs and sorcery ingredients to stem the flood, only for her efforts to be in vain as she eventually had to give in to using the next available cloth—my curtains—as a hanky. "It was meant for you, Juliet. For this day."

"I've never wore a wedding dress," Isola said, popping up for air, "but I'd be grateful if that would be mine as well. Wouldn't that do, Amelia?"

Amelia smiled; tears were in her eyes. Her hand clapped on Isola's shoulder. "It would do splendidly, Isola."

Kit walked into the room to find the three of us in no shape to proceed with a wedding and said, "I'm hungry." I rustled myself up and made her some porridge and sliced apples. Stirring porridge to keep it from sticking and browning at the bottom of the pan does wonders for steadying one's nerves; I found myself quite myself again as Kit polished off all her breakfast. I made her eat it all. I couldn't eat a crumb. Who could eat on the most exciting day of one's life? (Not to poke fun at you, Soph; I well remember you were able to eat your ration of meat and cheese on the morning of your wedding with some vigor. We all have different methods of calming nerves.)

I kept my hands busy for the rest of the day. I must or I think too much and you know I make myself worry too much by thinking. Kit and Isola and Amelia and I walked through the salty breezes full of heather to find wildflowers; we raided citizen's gardens (with permission! I am not a trespassing vandal—most of the time) for flowers; we waltzed to the little church with our arms heavily-laden. Amelia's house was for our reception, all scrupulously clean and decked-out. Dawsey, despite all other construction work, built an arch for us to marry under. I found a man with just as a romantic heart as I, haven't I, Soph? What loads of charity and good deeds must I (and willingly would I) do to deserve my good fortune as to have Dawsey for all my own?

The church was ready; everyone had collaborated for the big feast. (What little Guernsey has, they share. I almost feel not good enough to be an official one of them, but then realize that they have all learned to be that way, and so I must be able to learn to be that way, too.)

Isola's a wonder with hair (I think she felt for bumps as she put my hair up, but I shall give her the benefit of the doubt). My hair was ruined by my running down to the docks as your brother descended down into the port. A quick hug and a look-over and he said, "Coming to your senses looks good on you, Juliet," because to not say so would physically pain him. Then he leaned over and kissed my hair right above my forehead and said, "I'm so terribly happy that that's your wedding dress. Your Mark wedding dress would've delivered the final blow to my heart."

Far be it from me to be your brother's slayer. I teased him that I could've coaxed Eben to the mainland to give me away if he fell dead seeing me in a Mark Reynolds' wedding dress; he knows, though, I would rather not get married than have anyone other than him give me away.

I expected myself to be of more nerves in the moments leading up to the ceremony, but instead I found myself irresistibly excited, like I was about to embark on the greatest adventure of my life. (From your epistles in ode to married life, I figure myself not wrong.) I was surrounded by those I loved most—everyone in the Society and other members made up the audience. Besides Susan and her beau (what a story! Which I assume you've heard? If not, expect another detailed, rambling letter, coming soon to a mailbox near you!) and Sidney, I had no others of my own at the wedding (no need to shame me—I missed you terribly and know the error of my ways, but I hope to implore your forgiveness—it was readier than your arrival by Saturday at half-past four).

Kit was the picture of a perfect flower girl. Isola stood with me. My wedding dress was over three decades old and I felt beautiful. Reverend Simon Simpless of old stood to marry us. And there was Dawsey, waiting for me. I could've run to him.

Earthly happiness cannot be this great, can it, Sophie?

There was quoted Scripture and Lamb. I married Dawsey as the sun's rays splashed down on us, surrounded by people who loved us and we them. I love him to bits, Sophie.

I never knew how unhappy in the soul I'd been for so long, until I received a letter from him. Until I arrived at Guernsey. Until I found where I belonged.

I daresay that our wedding reception was the happiest event at Guernsey since the war's end. We celebrated under the stars until night's end. With Dawsey holding my ringed hand (a simple ring from a pawn shop, but I don't give a hoot as to its fiscal value) and Kit tightly clutching my other hand, we entered our new home. At one point during the evening, she affixed her disconcerting gaze upon me and said seriously, "Juliet, am I going to be yours?"

Amelia and I had shared a phone call to Mr. Dilwyn; we were to meet with him within the next week. It wasn't settled yet, but it's very much settled. Dawsey couldn't be happier about it. I whispered to Kit, "Not all mine. You will be mine, but you will also be Dawsey's, and then also Amelia's, and Eben's, and John Booker's, and Isola's, and all of ours."

Kit may not be all mine (which is permissible; I am sure to learn how to share with those who had her before me), but it is fantastic to know that Dawsey, after all this time, despite Mark and Remy and my own fiercely wrong thoughts and feelings, is all mine.

I must put my pen aside, leave the words alone for a moment. I've developed a writer's cramp; I can't remember the last time I composed so long and rambling a letter by hand. Even then, I'm sure it's not long enough for you. I expect you and Alexander and Dom here as soon as you have your new baby and have it pretty well settled into living in our world. I'll have a piglet for Dominic to take home. Dawsey, Kit, and I look forward to seeing you. So does all of Guernsey.

Love,

Mrs. Dawsey Adams (neé Juliet Ashton)

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