My darling Isobel,
I cannot begin to tell you what a joy it is to see you like this after so long, even if only through a letter. That I am partly responsible is almost more than I can bear, in the very best sense of the phrase.
It could only ever have been you for me, I know that now. Oh, my hands are shaking as I write this. 'Simply Isobel' is all I have ever wanted, though I hardly knew it until these past long months.
It feels so odd, to be writing you love letters in the midst of all this death and destruction. And yet what do we fight for, my Isobel, if not for love itself? How much easier Africa or Afghanistan would have been had I had you to fight for! I cannot be sorry I didn't, since where your life has led you is what made you the woman you are. And yet… I don't mind admitting, Isobel, that I would have liked a life with you. Oh, my love, I would have liked that very much indeed.
But never mind that now. Not now I know you are coming home to me. Who can regret the past when the future is so bright? Bright and warm and lovely.
You are so warm, Isobel. Fire and light. Warm smiles, warm touches, warm words. Even at your most cutting your good nature shines through. Perhaps it is that about you I miss the most. Your warmth. Everything seems colder without you here.
I've never seen you with your hair down, you know. Will that, too, be fire and light? I can see you now, the clover honey colour rippling down your back, spread full and heavy over your shoulders. Perhaps I shouldn't be thinking these things, but with you so far away I must conjure up the waves of your hair and the glow of your eyes and know every moment that my imagination is but a shadow of the reality.
Oh, Isobel my love. You are not the only one burning.
Do I dare tell you what I dream of now? And yet you must know they are all of you. Your hair, spilling down your back. Your smile, so bright even on the darkest days. The swish of your skirts and swirl of your petticoats as you move from one hospital bed to another. Your voice, soft and sweet as poetry. The fire in your eyes when you challenge me – or anyone. I could watch you at work for hours, Isobel, and never tire of the sight. You have such a quiet competence about you, and a passion, too. You would fight, I know, for every patient to come through your door, no matter how hopeless the cause. You fought for this hopeless cause, after all, and won the day.
Do you kiss with the same passion you fight, Isobel? Will your mouth on mine be fire and light, too?
Enough, and enough again. I am not practised in love letters but with you I cannot stop, and yet I find I must before I cannot focus on my work for want of you.
The very minute, Isobel. The very minute you are home, so help me, I will never let you go again. I am,
As I ever shall be,
Your Richard