A/N: It's been awhile since I've posted a letter. I blame the fact that they were happy and I was loving that too much.
Disclaimer: I own nary a thing in this.
He was restless. It didn't matter what position he was in. There would be no sleep this night. He reached into the little crevice where he kept his letters and fished out the one that he'd received earlier that day. He hadn't been able to read it yet because Craig kept pestering him.
He knew that most nights that he wouldn't be able to read it, but guard on duty had forgotten to turn off most of the lights. He ran his hand over the paper, smiling at each crossed out word and each blob of ink. She was not the most careful writer in the world.
My dearest,
It has been raining for about 3 weeks here at Downton. The grounds have become so sodden that stepping off any of the paths means a good hour's worth of work scrapping off dried mud. Mrs. Hughes has had quite a time keeping the house free of mud. I've been hearing the younger housemaids grousing about having to wash the mud away. Of course they never say it in her hearing because while she's a kind women, she will brook no argument over her skills at running the house. The mud has made dressing Lady Edith and Lady Mary a bit difficult because I have to specially launder so many of their skirts. I'm hoping that the weather will pass soon. If it doesn't, I think that the late autumn fair won't come.
Mr. Crawley has started to visit the house more frequently. After the death of Miss Swire, he almost never came, even when his mother came to dinner. I used to think that it was because he could not bear to be where she had died, but I am beginning to think that there is more to it than bad memories. He's always careful to avoid being seated near Lady Mary, preferring to sit near the Old Lady or Lady Grantham. Maybe he still loves Lady Mary. If he does, I wish that he would just say something. Sir Richard continues to treat her more and more like a piece of property and not a person. She would be far better off without him, but I doubt that she'll ever break that attachment.
I had a chance encounter with Gwen on the way back from visiting my parents during the harvest. We had a cider and had a chance to catch up. She sends her good wishes to you. She's done very well for herself in her secretarial position. She actually supervises a couple of the newer secretaries and I am sure that she runs a tight ship. She keeps a flat with another secretary, a widow who lost both of her sons in the war. Of course it's only a temporary arrangement because Gwen is getting married in the spring. I hope that I'll be able to go and see her on her happy day. I should write to Lady Sybil with the news.
I can hear the wind and rain, even though I'm down in the servants' hall. It's night like this when my mind tends to paint the pretty domestic picture of the two of us in front of a fire. You're always reading aloud some poet that I seem to have never heard of. I'm mending a shirt or an apron. Sometimes there's a little boy trying desperately to keep awake on the rug before us. Even when I wake from my reverie, I don't feel any sadness. You're an innocent man and we will have that placid evening. Some not-so-placid evenings as well, I hope.
With lots of hope,
Your Anna