From Parchment, I Found You

by Elodie Snape

For me, life after Captain James Nicholls was simple- it would never exist. I willingly gave up...and yet, all that changed when the major of his regiment came to tall. A tale beginning at the conclusion of the Great War, and of the ending Major Stuart should have been given.

From Parchment I Found You.

When a Stranger Comes Knocking

"Just a moment!" I called out when a knock sounded at the door. I set the still-drying plate on the countertop, and grabbed the rag settled in the window sill overlooking the back garden. I hastily rubbed the linen over my damp hands as I trotted down the hall. I unlatched the front door, eyes still cast to the floor as I righted my skirt, and began, "Hello, what can I do for-"

Parade uniform- a major by the markings.

"Forgive my intrusions," the man said smoothly, trying to meet my darting eyes. I needed to look everywhere but at him...that uniform was the last thing you saw James in. "I am sorry if my presence makes you uncomfortable, but I have some items in my possession that belong to you," the major explained brusquely, "May I come in?"

Mutely I nodded my head, and opened the door wider to permit him entry. He removed his parade hat as he walked past; he was only a finger's width or so shorter than James- he had James' fair skin, but that was the only comparable feature. Pointed where there should have been smooth; high cheekbones where there should have been latent. Flinty aquamarine where I needed to be inviting cerulean. My chest burned for air, but I could not summon the collective control necessary to seek relief. I shut the door behind him, and then motioned for him to follow me into the kitchen.

He glanced around and then congenially mused, "You have a lovely home."

"Thank you, Major," I mumbled, "Tea?"

"Thank you, no."

I felt suffocated and pressed upon; I took a tremulous breath before I managed to meet the man's eye. Would James have possessed that haunted look, if he had the fortune of returning to me alive?

The major cleared his throat and adjusted his hold on the parcel in his hands. He and I stared at the parcel for an immeasurable time, both lost in our own dark thoughts. "These are the remainder of Captain Nicholls'...of James' possessions," he murmured, "The ones he bequeathed to you."

"I thought all his possessions went to his family," I spoke faintly. I took a sudden seat in the kitchen chair just to my left. Shining, brown leather boots mocked me in my tunnelled vision. I clasped my trembling hands together on my lap, and tried to keep back the threat of tears until the major had left. "I forget myself," I apologised, "Please, Major, take a seat."

"Miss Thomas, my name is Jamie Stuart."

"James wrote about you," I agreed.

"Did he? Ol' beggar," he chuckled briefly.

A tender, nostalgic smile curved my lips at the moniker that was well-known to me. "I used to call him that," I murmured, "I did not think anyone else called him that."

"He made no mention of it to me- perhaps he liked the reminder."

"Perhaps," I hummed.

The major managed to retain his decorum despite his haste to hand me the parcel; born to nobility, obviously. I took it from him with restrained hands, and ran my fingers over the wax seal that hid the box within its paper skin. A few unfinished papers contained to a ragged box? Is that truly all I had left of James? "I can't," I moaned fervently, burying my face in my cold hands. Hidden tears burned in their need to escape from behind my tightly shut lids, and my shoulders trembled from voiceless sobs.

I jerked in surprise when I felt strong hands wrap surely around my wrists. "I expect this is quite difficult for you, Miss Thomas, but this is challenge is a surpassable one," Major Stuart murmured, so close to me that I could feel the heat of his breath crash against the back of my hands.

Has he gone through a near identical routine with other mourners of his men before me? Such despondent empathy hurt more than sympathetical neglect. "Thank you," I lied. Again, I folded my hands in my lap, this time atop the box of my last thread of James I had in the world. "I know you had no obligation to bring me this, but I am eternally grateful that you did," I added.

"It was under no obligation," Major Stuart explained, "I did it because of a promise I made to Captain Nicholls before...before he-"

"-Please," I pleaded, clutching the parcel to my bosom as my heart fluttered painfully, "Please, stop...I don't..." I shut more eyes in a futile attempt to shield my tears from the major's silent scrutiny. Nothing was ever accomplished with tears. But then, why was it so easy for them to fall so gleefully? "I cannot hear it again," I finished.

"My apologies," Major Stuart stammered, "It was...It was not my intention to cause you such great distress. I will show myself out...good day, Miss Thomas."

My hand reached out and took hold of his jacket sleeve. For a time, all I could do was marvel at the thick fabric held between two clammy fingers. I had done my best to touch James as little as possible when he was in uniform, and now I found myself amazed at the abrasive wool. I inhaled deeply and hesitantly spoke, "Will you...come to call again tomorrow?"

Major Stuart looked at me from over his shoulder, his aquamarine eyes ablaze in his curiosity. He had no cause- no reason- to entertain the desire of woman driven to the precipice of despair in her grief. He had no obligation to see me again, for he did not possess one to come to Thornton in the first place. At that moment, Major Stuart looked like thunder- a mighty surge of an unnameable something that yielded no physical tangibility, and yet it captivated people. "I shall see you tomorrow afternoon, Miss Thomas," he announced, and slowly turned to face me.

I released his coat sleeve and rose to my feet. I held out my hand and bid demurely, "Until then, Major Stuart."

Calloused fingers wrapped around mine as Major Stuart took hold of my proffered hand. I could feel my own pulse thrum uncertainly between our clasped hands. And in that moment, I felt like I had gained a sliver of James' memory.

I flitted about the cottage like a nervous, caged bird; the package remained unopened and carefully set upon the mantel...next to the portrait of James in uniform he had sent me shortly after leaving for the front. What was there to be said to Major Stuart that hasn't been said already? I rearranged the service tray I had set out once again; I fiddled with the pins containing my mess of hair, making sure that the riotous curls were marginally contained. I adjusted my linen blouse and smoothed out my worn skirt. All in all, I was a collective mess.

The same rapt, purposeful knock echoed through the humble sanctuary of Thornton. I exhaled tremulously and slowly opened the door. "Major Stuart," I greeted softly.

"Good afternoon, Miss Thomas."

"Please, come in," I said in turn, and motioned for him to enter with a well-practised sweep of my arm. I led him through the cottage and out to the back garden. "I have taken the liberty of setting fo tea outdoor, I hope you do not mind," I explained as I motioned for him to take a seat in the simple chair beside the stone table.

"Not at all," he answered politely, "A fine idea, Miss Thomas."

"I will go fetch the tray," I announced lamely, and nervously tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. I hurried into the kitchen and plucked the tray off the stovetop. I was passing through the doorway when I caught the faint notes of the tune Major Stuart was idly humming.

"There was a lady, fair and kind..."

I lost myself to memory.

A summer breeze combed its fingers through my unbound hair as the river sang just past my bare feet.

'This is what I am going to miss.'

'Let's not talk about it,' I beseeched, and looked at James over my shoulder.

'Stop- right there, hold still,' James urged, smoothly taking out his moleskin and charcoal from his ever-present knapsack. I did as he requested, but not without a conspicuous roll of my eyes. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of the pencil dragging and scratching against the paper, and basked in the thrum that seemed to wonderfully exude from James' person. He always did that- he always gave me that beautiful balance of peace and chaos.

'Are you quite finished?' I sighed.

'You should know well enough by now that these things take time, darling,' James remarked smoothly.

I do not know why I was complaining- this was the last I would see of the man I called my best friend since we were children...I should be happy that I could greedily take all of his time before he went to the front. My eyes began to burn and I hastily ducked my head to the tears- I had managed to keep them concealed from him until now.

'What's this?' James inquired, 'We can't have this.'

'James,' I whispered, 'Just stop pretending like everything is going to be fine!'

'I will be back from the war before you know it, Amelia, and we will be wed and living in Thornton before you know it.'

Shatter.

I fell to my knees to gather up the shards of chin that lay about my feet like frozen petals, uncaring of the hot tears that clung to my skin.

"Miss Thomas?"

"Major," I stuttered, "I am so sorry! My behaviour has been-" I struggled to find breath. I was met with the scents of leather, fresh parchment, and the scent of the something.

"You have suffered keenly, Miss Thomas," Major Stuart rumbled as he carefully plucked up the broken tea set off the ground, "Captain Nicholls was one of the very few people I could call friend- and he is a man worth grieving for."

"Were you there?" I croaked.

"Captain...James and I were the ones leading the charge."

We were surrounded by the shambles of our porcelain lives; we were as broken and lost by the hatred that so readily resided in the world. Yet there we were, kneeling in the doorway... Major Stuart rose stiffly to his feet and scratched the curved shell of his ear with the pad of his thumb.

"You must think me a sentimental fool, Major."

"Not entirely," he admitted, flashing a rare, wry smile.

At that, I smiled and let out a faint laugh. I took the service tray full of shattered china from him, and motioned for him to follow me inside. I set the tray aside, incapable of tossing it in the rubbish bin, and began to rummage through the cupboards for something suitable. "I am sorry, but I haven't gone to the market recently," I explained sheepishly, "Perhaps we could go for a walk in hopes of not making this a complete disaster?"

"I will wait for you outside."

I hurried down the hall to collect my coat, and fixed my tousled hair. Is that really me? I paused in front of the mirror to inspect myself. I looked so...Pale- haggard- sickly, even. "Stop," I chided aloud, "There is no time to pity yourself." I adjusted my skirt, and went to join the major.

Major Stuart stood out in the front garden, taking in the neighbouring field. He stood like a soldier- ever the soldier- with his hands clasped behind his back. I silently walked up to his side, and remained mute as I looked at the Davenport's field. "I admit, I find this silence unnerving," he murmured, voice controlled so much that it seemed painful, "I keep expecting the routine spray- the Hun were like clockwork."

"James never told me much," I remarked, "He only wrote to me about the practice charges, of Lieutenant Waverly, of his horse...that was all he would speak to me about- he adamantly refused to speak of anything pertaining to the war." I cleared my head, and gave Major Stuart a sheepish grin to draw him awa from his own musings.

The walk into town was stilted- the two of us silent in our lack of knowing what one was to say to the other. We walked stiffly beside one another, with our eyes fixed ahead at an unknown destination. Was this how it was always going to be- should Lieutenant Waverly ever call?

"You must think me a terrible conversationalist."

"Not at all," I parrotted his own words, "At least entirely." I brightened when that caused the corners of his lips to twitch. The weight that pressed upon me seemed lighter, for the most brief of moments, and it seemed the major felt the same. "Come this way," I urged, motioning to a well-hidden path that drew away from the main road.

We ducked behind the protection of the tightly knit trees, and I breathed in the still air. I knew the path well- it was a way to temporarily clear my mind without worry that I would come across a villager. A farmer and his family used to live at the end of the path, but had fled to the city under the paranoia of the Germans invading the country...and they never returned. It seemed the place had become taboo, and so no one would harass the major or me.

"I am not a likeable chap, Miss Thomas," the major announced suddenly.

"If James liked you, then there must be some hope for you, Major Stuart," I chuckled, and shot him a demure grin before I ducked my head down. That is the first time you have managed to say his name without falling into tears.

Major Stuart leaned against a birch tree and looked around at the untouched surroundings.

"Where are you staying in town, Major?"

"I have put myself up at the Green Dragon until I settle our account and return to London."

"You must have family that wish to see you," I protested faintly.

"None of which I return the sentiment," he answered coldly.

"Forgive me, it is none of my business."

"I grew up in Middlesbrough," he noted curtly, and the increased tension in his shoulders.

"I have lived here my entire my life."

"At Thornton?"

"No, I used some acquired funds to purchase Thornton."

The walk back to Thornton was eventful, and fortunately we once again evaded the villagers' prying eyes. The crook gate of my cottage was a mo welcome sight. I smiled at the grand oak trees, whose leaves were turning from green to burgundy and gold. "I cannot in good conscience detain you any further, Major Stuart...and I insist that you allow me to make you supper," I finished warmly.

"I...I would like that."

"Again, I cannot ever thank you enough for bringing me James' things, Major Stuart," I said, fumbling with the handkerchief in my hands.

Major Stuart dipped his head in polite dismissal. He was in uniform again. It was the final piece to his façade of unapproachable forbearance. I used to love the colour of green wool...but now that splendid colour repulses me. "It was a privilege and an honour, Miss Thomas, to call Captain Nicholls my friend- for there aren't any now." He placed his cap back on his head, and looked at the face of Thornton. "Good bye, Miss Thomas," he said curtly.

"Until we meet again, Major Stuart," I amended, and held out my hand for him to shake. At the sight of his astonished expression, I smoothly explained, "We are nothing short of friends, Major Stuart, allow me that."

The major took a deep breath and firmly took hold of my hnd. He gave me a strained smile and another faint nod of his head. He was a laconic man, yes, but an honourable one. "Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Thomas," he murmured in farewell.

And that was the last I saw of Major Stuart for quite some time.

Correspondence

I hurried through the winter rain back to Thornton with my purchases sheltered from the downpour under the cover of my wool coat. Despite the wicked cold, and the potential of becoming ill, I adored being in the rain. With each keen sting from a raindrop on my heated skin, a crack would meld back together.

"Miss Thomas!" young Christopher called out as he lurched out of his father's shop, "There's a lett'r for ye," he panted.

"A letter?" I repeated, confused. I took Christopher by the arm, and ducked into a landing of a nearby shop. "A letter from where?" I thought aloud as I took the rain-flecked letter from the boy.

J. Stuart

Flat Eight, Grey's Inn Road

London

I shoved the letter into the pocket of my coat, and gave Christopher one of the sweet pies I had purchased. "Hurry home," I instructed him, "Understood?"

"Yes'm."

I smiled after the boy as he sprinted back down the road without restraint, fiercely clutching th sweet pie. I lingered in the landing for a while longer before I resumed the walk back to Thornton. I was slightly breathless as I blew through the doorway, and the letter in my pocket felt like a slab of stone weighing me down. I forced myself to put away my goods before I opened the letter. When I finished, I blindly walked to the hearth, eyes fixed on the envelope held firmly in hand.

Miss A. Thomas

Thornton Cottage

Cotswold

I chided myself at the overwhelming feeling of unease that seemed to grow the more I looked at the letter. Finally, I broke the wax seal and turned the paper over.

Miss Thomas,

I am sure this letter caught you unaware, but I would make for an even poorer guest if I failed to send you a note of gratitude. Thank you for your hospitality, given the circumstance, earlier this year. Happy Christmas.

Hoping you are well,

Major J, Stuart

I had worked myself into a titter for that? I chuckled faintly, and folded the letter back into its previous state. I set the letter on the shelf of the hearth, propping it against the box containing James' things, and then went through the motions of making supper.

I could not wrap my mind around an explanation as to why the major had so suddenly decided to write a letter of thank to me- and so late in regards to when he came in the summer. He had already thanked me multiple times, so why did he possess the urge to send another round through the post? I glanced at the aforementioned to make sure that it was not the product of my overactive imagination...and it was still there.

It was not until I lay awake in bed that night that I felt the unignorable urge to write him back. I plucked my dressing gown from the fainting chaise at the foot of my bed as I made for the door, and made my way down the hall to my pitiful writing desk. I shivered at the ice that bit at my bare feet as I padded along to the study. This was meant to be James'.

Lost in thought as to what should have been, I took in the sparse furnishings. His books and mine would have overfilled the shelves. His wingback chair would have been tucked away in the far corner; his desk would have been centred perfectly to maintain the best light at all hours. Various photographs would have lined the walls, and I would have been tucked away in the window to read for hours while he worked. But instead all there was, were the half-filled shelves and the blaring, blank walls.

I sat in my rickety desk and reached for a piece of normally untouched stationary. I pushed away the avid assault at the recollection of the last time I had used it; I leafed through the mess of papers in search of a fountain pen that had not run dry, and when I did I could not bring myself to touch the nub to paper. I could feel the ink within the chamber's plea to blossom on paper, and yet I could not begin the swirling arches to begin my reply...I do not know for how long I sat there like a fool.

Major Stuart,

Once again, I hardly see the necessity of you to voice your thanks- for I was an abysmal hostess. When I was not in tears, I still forgot my duty to you, my guest. I, again, thank you for enduring your visit at Thornton. It was a honour to make your acquaintance.

Many thanks,

Amelia Thomas

It was strangely exhilarating- this anomalous camaraderie through ink. It was forged without reason, and would more than likely end the same. But, it was a divergence from the drowning monotony of my life, and it gave me a look into the world that James had dutifully shut me out of. Major Stuart was a quiet, dour man with a firm faith in the principles of the gentry- I could see why James saw him as a friend.

With an air of formal finality, I folded the most recent of responses to the major and then scribbled his address. The peculiarity of how simple it was to write a missive to whom I shared an unconventional partnership to- and yet the struggle to summon forth the courage necessary to actually send it- did not escape my notice. Perhaps it was an action that did not call for courage, but that sense of duty ingrained into the upper class. No, that was not it...

All the Years Come Back

It was not until New Year's Eve...I chose to detach myself from the festivities roaring in the pub in town by retreating to the shelter of Thornton. I was sitting in front of the hearth, listening to the jazz that warbled from my decrepit gramophone, and it was then I cast my eyes to the box atop the hearth in a new light...it was then I remembered the memories I wished I could forget.

Setting aside the tumbler childishly filled with cider, I picked up the parcel and set it on the floor in front of me once I had taken my seat on the rug once more. The lid of the box felt heavier than lead, and the sound of it hitting the rug thundered in my ears. Paper, scraps of fabric, small trinkets, and photographs...the lifetime of a beautiful, ethereal person limited to such mundane objects. My clumsy fingers sifted through the box, and blindly withdrew the first bit of cloth that ghosted against my fingertips.

It was my ribbon-the one I had faithfully bound my hair with every day before James had left for the front. My lips were drawn into a perplexed frown at the unexpected weight, but my features soon softened infinitely when I discovered the source. My vision grew murky at the sight of James' family ring fastened to the end.

Courage. Honour. A Willing Heart.

Those words killed him.

I dragged the ribbon between my fingers, the satin belying the hatred the innocuous strip held for me now. I placed it back in its tomb and plucked up another torturous memory. Held together by frayed twine, were all the letter I wrote...all bearing its corresponding postmark, but they all carried the same message- please, come home...I love you...tell me a story, James...remember when...

I could not do this to myself any longer- I slammed the lid back onto the box and kicked it away from me. As I did, a letter that had been unknowingly liberated from its prison came into my line of sight. My breath caught in my tight chest. That scrawl, was not mine, but James'.

Amelia Thomas

Marlborough Estate

Nether Alderley

How long had it been since I had received a letter from him? A year? No, three, three years of loving a man condemned never to return home. Could I bring myself to break the seal? I could- I did. I was ravenous to speak with him, my darling James, as I once did.

My beautiful Amelia,

I do not know if you can recall, but in your last letter you confided in me that you were afraid...your exact words, "I am scared, James, help me not be." But I fail you in that regard, I am sure I do now- being away from you for nearly a year now. I am afraid- afraid that I will not return the man you need me to be- afraid that I will not keep the promises I made to you my last night.

My darling, I cannot help you be brave, for I am too much the coward of the two of us, and I am sorry. The men tease me of how often I am found drawing portraits of you...of your face. What I do not tell them is that I draw because I fear something will befall me that will cause you to cease your faithful presence in all recesses of my mind...I never want to forget you, Amelia Thomas, and I swear to you that if I fall short of all other vows- this will not be one of them.

I find strength in the words: Courage. Honour. A Willing Heart. For they have brought my family this far.

Do not worry over your ol'beggar, my Amelia, ever yours,

James Nicholls

The letter fell from my hands, for it was all I could do not to hurl the missive into the anticipatory fire. How could that man be so cruel? He wounded me in death where he did not in life. I exhaled loudly as I struggled to find the means to expel this displaced anger within me. Another letter lay beside the resting place of the first- only it was written by James.

Miss A. Thomas

Thornton Cottage

Cotswold

Major Stuart- a pleasant surprise.

Miss Thomas,

Happy New Year, I hope you are enduring the festivities better than I. I cannot say I have cause for celebration yet, but I hope your holiday lifts your spirits.

Regards,

Major Jamie Stuart

The clinical tone of the politely brief letter trapped me in a mad fit of laughter- so much that my side began to ache and I wrapped my arms around myself. Hysteria, that was the only solution.

"I will write my reply tomorrow," I panted aloud, and set the major's letter beide its brothers on the mantel.

'Amelia, dear, come into the parlour,' my mother called faintly, no doubt doing her embroidery as she was prone to do since the war began. I sprinted down the corridor; at any other occurance, my mother would have chided me on my unseemly entrance. 'Amelia, dear..'

There it was, the very thing I never wanted to see in my lifetime. Ironic, that they claimed the telegram to be red, but clearly it was pink...like a debutante's blushing cheeks. I pushed the whimsical thought aside as I regarded my mother as though she were stranger.

'Amelia, I am-'

I silently took the telegram from her trembling one; I turned about smoothly, and as silent as a wraith I retreated to my rooms.

I sat on the edge of my bed, and unfolded the notice with great care.

Officially reported Captain James Nicholls killed in action 14 August, 1915. Kindly inform mother and father, Earl and Lady Nicholls, and intended, Amelia Thomas, via Cotswold of sad news and convey regret and sympathy of King and country in loss sustained.

How many wives, mothers, and betrotheds had to try to swallow such tripe? It was detached sentiment, a professional attempting to be empathetic. And they had painfully fallen short.

It was then I packed up the few belongings I wanted to take with me, and left my family without so much as an explanation or sparing glance.

I awoke tight chested and the hair at my temples wet; I had been crying in my sleep again. Furtively, I brushed away the tears and then sat upright. Resting my elbows on my bent knees, I let out a deep breath and looked into the wall of darkness before me. Was this how I was to spend the rest of my days? Torn apart by grief or anger? How could I ignore all those years- all the good that James had brought to my life? It was too easy to believe that all the softness in me had died with him.

The best thing I had done for myself besides leaving my family's ancestral home was burning that cursed telegram the moment the last, blaring, word scarred my eyes for the rest of my life.

Major Stuart,

In regards to your last letter, I cannot say that I am capable of empathising- or even sympathising- the odd quirks of London life. I am surprised that you have not returned to your home in Middlesbrough- surely, you miss your home?

The back garden of Thornton is laying the beginnings of what will be a beautiful series of flowers...I cannot wait to see the blossoms that will burst forth like silk from stone in the trees that line the property. This is my favourite time of year, my friend, when new life fills the air- full of memory still. I wish you could see it, but you have your life in the capital I am sure.

I thank you again for continuing to correspond with me- you break apart my dull days.

Sincerely,

Amelia Thomas

Finding Courage Where I Had None

Miss Thomas,

My grandmother, when she was not chiding me for coming back from the stables covered in debris, told me that help will always be available to those who need it. I am sure that you have the heart to finish going through the parcel of what James wanted you to have. If you think you cannot do so- do it anyways. You owe him that much, as do you to yourself.

The life of a layabout Londoner is not quite as grandiose as people paint. My neighbours try to cajole me into attending their dinner parties to regal my service in the war. For obvious reasons, I decline the offer and have yet to grace them with my presence...

I smiled at the blatant wry tone of the major's letter, sharing a laugh with my shadow.

...I have been thinking of my mount, Dilios, more so than ever. I try to convince myself that such a magnificent beast had to have survived- just as I had done- and yet I cannot believe my own lie. Forgive my melancholy musings, they are undesirable to the both of us. Do take care, Amelia Thomas.

Hoping you are enjoying the spring,

Jamie Stuart

Help will always be available to those who need it. Once again, the major had proved himself right without having been presented with an argument. I set the letter beside the many others from the major; it was brutally conspicuous of how ironic my situation was. I could so greedily read the letters from Major Stuart, and yet when I was faced with scraps of notes and sketches from my intended- my knees quaked.

You owe him that much.

I came up to the box, its screams of neglect deafening to my hypersensitive ears, and I regarded it as a bird views the approaching serpent. What piece of myself would I find in there? Perhaps, it was time to free myself from the cell I had locked myself away in- to linger always in the past- and look to what James' memory could be done to enrich my future.

It was a sketch this time, and intentionally partial. All that marked the paper from James' skilled hand were several defining features. The gentle curve of two eyebrows spaced perfectly above a pair of twinkling, dark eyes; the pronounce line of a straight nose, and the smooth, bowless lips. It was me. A sad smile tugged insistently at my lips; it never ceased to amaze me how lovely James could make a simple girl such as me...perhaps it was the knowledge he possessed of my face, or more likely- the selfless sentiment he held for me. His love was what made me more than I was- more than I am.

I traced the lines of his pencil with a ghosting finger, afraid that my touch would smear the already fading charcoal away forever. The major knew that in order to not overcome, but accept, James' death did not involve attempting to pretend that James never existed- meant that I needed to see the life that James led when he went to the front. It meant reading and seeing the things that caused me to cry myself to sleep- to haunt me when I finally did.

Do take care, Miss Thomas.

Take heart would have been more apt. I rose to my feet, James' letter still in hand. I went to the mantel and tucked the drawing safely back in the box that had started it all. My thumb traced the ragged lip, and a small smile flickered across my lips...yes, it was time to hope again.

Miss Thomas,

I will dutifully disregard you quip in regards to your opinion of Londoners, as a proper lady would dare to be so bold. That being said, I cannot agree more.

I took a walk to the library and was tremendously disappointed in the array they call selection- perhaps it is time to retrieve my collection from my family estate in Middlesbrough...although, I am do not anticipate doing so in the near future, in all honesty.

When I was passing through Shepherd's Market, I came across a most welcome sight- snowdrops. And it reminded me of the ones that encircle Thornton, how I marvelled at the multitude. Are they still as glorious as before?...

He recalled his brief time at Thornton fondly...what a strange man...he remembered the snowdrops.

...I find myself romanticising the North to myself- I fear you have forever warped my perception of the place, Miss Thomas. I attended a dinner party, per your sage advice, and it yielded results that were undesirable at best.

I was hounded by a harpy of a reporter "to tell the country my sacrifice in the name of king and country." But I pale in comparison to the sufferings and sacrifices that I somehow evaded. I could do little more than stare in disbelief at the loathsome character...I admit, I thought of you at that moment, of the ever present ache from James' sacrifice...forgive me if I am too assuming.

Ever Yours,

Jamie Stuart

My eyes kept returning to the closing statement of the major's letter. Had he ended a previous correspondence in a similar fashion, and I only just noticed? I sifted through the stack of letters, all safely kept from the very beginning. No, they all ended the same, except for the one I held firmly in hand. The ambiguity alone nearly finished me; ever yours...ever your friend, ever your confidant? What did it mean? I could ask the major his meaning, but that ran the risk of seen as the ultimate fool and to never hear from him again. Would I wager that risk simply to obtain an answer?

I set the letter on my bedside table, and fell unceremoniously onto my mattress. My eyes drifted close on their own volition as I sunk deeper into thought. One, two, three- inhale...one, two- exhale... My mind's eye painted the image of Major Stuart and I sitting beside each other on the slope of the Davenport's pasture. The distance between us was polite, but my arm securely looped around his- my fingers loosely grasping his wrist- conjured a gentle lull of intimacy. I found myself yearning for such a scene to come to fruition; longing to be able to feel unobligated to bind myself by the intangible dictations of society. To be able to be free of suppressed, stifling and wonderful, feelings. I imagined being capable of touching the major to affirm that I cared for the enigmatic man as ardently as I believed.

I combed a slow hand through my tangled curls as I looked up into the void that consumed my ceiling. Was it wretched of me to feel the flutters of something wonderful when it felt so soon after James' death? Could I love any other man as passionately as I did- and still do, to an extent, James? I wanted to be able to breathe the vibrant air when in the company of the man I love- to feel like magic o starlight when he looked at me. Was I allowed to love again?

Major Stuart,

Surely there are better things to do in London than stay shut up in your flat and write to me. But I shall remain stalwartly selfish and welcome your distant company, for it is most welcome.

Cotswold is the same, with the exception of the ploughs being replaced with tractors. I do not think I will ever grow acclimated to the racket those metal beasts sound for quite some time. The spring rain has made its arrival, and I can safely predict that my flower beds are going to be exquisite in the coming months...but I will deny any claim of being so prideful..

I would like to travel to London, one day, to see the grand parks you walk through to clear your head; it amazes me that such a boisterous place can possess a reprieve. Do remember not to give that reporter- Smythe- such a hard time, Major.

Sincerely,

Amelia Thomas

Away to London...

I have put myself under an enchantment- some ageless spell...the wonderful, unbearable ache of two years wanting a man I had not seen in three years. Although two of those years had been faithfully spent corresponding through letters, I needed to see him again. I had changed- not entirely, mind, but enough to realise that my heart was capable of loving another...loving James and his memory all the while. I was terrified and so infinitely happy that I had fallen for the stoic Jamie Stuart, but none of that scared me as it would have in the past.

Whether the major knew it or not, I loved him. And I decided that I would come to him in London. My heart threatened to flee from its resting place nearl all the train ride south to the capital; each rotation of the train's wheels carrying me further away from the only life I had known and closer to Major Stuart. If I worried the ragged handkerchief any further, it would certainly fall to ruin in my clammy hands. I was the sole occupant in this compartment; I was spared the pained courtesy of small talk, but cursed with the ceaseless bombardment of my own insecurities.

What possessed you to board the train? He did not ask for you, nor did he profess any sentiment other than friendship- and yet here you are. You think it is possible to walk up to the man without notice and voice the claim to love him? You are a fool, Amelia Thomas, a sentimental woman blinded by the adrenaline-fuelled notion of being in love.

Are you prepared to have your heart broken a second time?

I felt like a conspicuous outsider as I walked the streets of London- as if everyone who looked upon me could tell everything that assembled my person in a single, disdaining glance. I fiddled with the skirts of my dress, conscious of the emphasis the hobble cut of the skirts drew to the curve of my hips. It was bizarre to be dressed with the expectation of scrutiny after wearing day clothes for so long.

Grey's Inn Road spoke of unassuming wealth, and yet the aristocracy had resigned the grandeur homes to the belittling title of "flats." If this is his flat, he must think Thornton as a hovel! I righted myself once more as I walked up the stone steps. Number Eight...the home Major Stuart had sequestered himself to. I raised my hand and knocked upon the oak door.

I nearly lost my nerve at the sound of approaching footsteps- I could all too easily descend the steps and vanish into the crowded streets. "Good afternoon, m'am," the housekeeper greeted me politely.

"Is Major Stuart in?" I asked faintly.

"He has stepped out for the afternoon, was he expecting you?"

"No, he isn't," I explained with burning cheeks, "I decided to make the trip here on a whim, and merely wanted to visit with the major before I returned to my home in the north."

"I do not think Major Stuart will be long," the housekeeper mused warmly, "Please, come in and I will put the tea on for you." She motioned for me to enter with a sweep of her hand, and she guided me into the parlour. "Please, make yourself comfortable while I put together a light lunch for you, m'am," she insisted before she vanished in what I assumed to be the direction of the kitchen.

The hardwood floors felt sure and well-cared for, unlike the ramshackle of a floor that I walked upon in Thornton. I did not know where to look first, this house was as extravagant as it was foreign. I had forgotten what it was like to be in home without fault. Two large windows overlooked the street below, filled with passersby who would never know that they fell under my gaze. Sparsely filled bookshelves occupied the walls on the outer sides of both windows, and so my feet carried me there. Essays by Thoreau, Encyclopedia Britannica, several pieces by Shakespeare, an array of journals pertaining to horses and various histories...an excellent beginning to what would be a splendid collection. A reflective glint of brass in the window nearest me ensnared my attention, and after I had turned I came across a fireplace. But it was what was on its mantel that captured my undivided attention.

"It can't be," I whispered, my hands suddenly clammy. I hesitantly plucked the framed portrait- afraid that if I touched it with more pressure than that of touching a peony's petals it would crumble to dust in my hand.

It was me. It was the drawing James had done our last night together; his pencil had not forgotten a single detail of my person. He had drawn the light spattering of freckles on my nose, the faint scar that innocuously skewed my right eyebrow, and he had somehow captured my love for him so perfectly in my eyes. I was more lovely than I would ever be, perfected by his love and memory on parchment forever. The condition of the paper that bore my visage was worn, flecked with brown spots that I morbidly concluded to be dried blood, and an entire corner was torn away.

I tore open the back panel of the frame and snatched the drawing out of it. I have to get out of here- it was a mistake coming. I all but ran out of the room and into the main hallway.

"M'am? Where are you going?" the housekeeper called out after, and I answered by slamming the door loudly behind me.

I spun around wildly on my heel, swinging my head to and fro in an attempt to find a direction that I could walk until I was composed enough to board a train that would dutifully carry me back to Cotswold...where I could begin to forget Major Jamie Stuart.

I take a right once I have left the flat and follow the road until it forks with a bank on my right; take the left road and follow it for several metres and then cross the street due west. The side entrance to the park will be a short distance from there.

It was strange to physically see the markers that made up the route the major had taken to his favourite park; the scenery I had painted with my mind's eye fell short in both regards. I did not imagine the cramped feeling of the narrow street filled with bustling Londoners, nor did I the strange taste the London air left on my tongue. I did not capture the heady feeling of tracing the major's footsteps to go to the one place in the capital that he did not find at fault.

Two grand oak trees stood watch over the iron archway that signalled the entrance to the park; their ageless power to withstand bombs being dropped all around them amazed me. I ducked into the sanctuary without further ceremony, and aimlessly wandered the paths that composed the labyrinth within. I walked until my feet ached, and found respite on a bench nestled under the protective arms of a weeping willow that overlooked the large pond that ran throughout the park.

It was then I remembered the drawing that had ignited my bolting in the first place. The fancy to toss it into the pond that began mere inches away and watch it fall away to nothing danced through my mind at first, but I could never. I could never toss away the only tangible reminder I had of the most beautiful night I had with James.

"Miss Thomas?"

My eyes snap open at the tell-tale baritone voice that sounds behind me, and I force myself not to cry out in my surprise. "Major Stuart," I reply, breathless in my elation and rage towards the man's arrival.

"You did not tell me you were coming to London."

"I did not have the foreknowledge when I last wrote to you," I explained faintly.

"What do you have in your hand?"

"I think you know," I accused, "I am sure you would notice its absence the moment you entered your flat. I must be getting along, my train leaves in an hour."

"Train?"

"Yes, I am going home." Coming here was a mistake...those unspoken words hung between us like a thick curtain of smoke. I held the drawing to me as a shield, and brushed past the major.

"No," Major Stuart murmured, and gently stopped me by taking hold of my wrist. "I owe you an explanation for keeping that which clearly did not belong to me. Will you sit down?"

That irrational side of me wanted to lash out and depart without so much as sparing him a glance; however, the part of me that loved him...wanted to listen and hopefully understand. "I will," I murmured faintly. He guided both of us to the bench I previously occupied alone, and then seemed at war with himself. His aquamarine eyes glinted in the setting light as he looked everywhere but me.

"You shaved off your moustache," I mused, igniting my cheeks in a fresh spatter of pink across my cheeks. It made him...more human...and handsome- so incredibly handsome.

"It reminded me of my service, and it was time to be rid of it," he answered smoothly, still not looking at me.

I unfolded the drawing once more, and traced the curve of my face with one of my fingers. "Why did you not tell me?" I whispered in earnest.

"Because of how it came to be in possession. James unknowingly gave it me with another piece of paper bearing your name and address the day of the charge...I did not know I had it until I was being sent to the officers prison camp. I did not know anything about you before then- other than how much James loved you," he explained softly, hesitant in this revealing confession, "But when I had no one to write to from my prison, you became everything. I knew your name, Amelia Thomas, better than my own in a desperate attempt to survive that hell. I fell in love with your softness, that feminine grace I had never seen before I beheld James' drawing, I-" He suddenly grew silent, probably due to nerves and the feeling that saying those thoughts aloud to me was wrong. That in order to be a respectable gentleman, one did not need a heart or to feel sentiment.

"Tell me," I ordered softly, "You owe me the entirety."

"I fell for with the love you had James," he finished, tapping a finger against the aforementioned feature in the drawing. He looked away from me again and threaded his fingers together.

I hesitantly reached out a hand and cupped the both of his. "Major Stuart, I have not been entirely honest with you in turn." I ran my thumb over the backs of his calloused knuckles as I summoned the courage necessary to explain the purpose of my coming to London. "I came here with the intent of seeing you, Jamie, and I wanted to see you because-"

"-I understand," he interjected softly, a rare and genuine smile taking hold on his face.

And it was then I realise every word we had shared with one another, was a declaration of love.

"Will you come back to the flat with me?"

"Yes."

As Jamie pulled me to my feet, and escorted me back to his flat, I felt a lightness take residence of my chest. It was a lightness I would soon realise was love. It was a love that would live for nearly seven decades, four children, ten grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and the Second World War. It was a love built from fragility of parchment, and finished with the finality of time.