I don't usually write letters in fics, because they lead to that fearful thing, The First Person(!), but I've given it a go, because I think they would have written to each other.

Turning on the gas light to a low burn and taking her coat off, throwing it carelessly to hang over the iron bedstead, Isobel looked down at the post in her hand that had been handed to her by the landlady on her way up. The first was a letter with only a Paris postmark, and she recognised the handwriting as that of the secretary at the Red Cross headquarters. At the moment she couldn't quite face the idea of ploughing through more wordy instructions, and she threw it wearily down to the foot of the bed.

Seeing the typically untidy handwriting on the front of the next envelope and the post mark of Ripon Sorting Office in the corner her breath caught sharply in her throat. The dear wonderful man! She hadn't really expected a letter from him so soon, but she couldn't deny that every time she returned to the building, a little knot of apprehension tied in her stomach in case one had arrived. The address she had sent had got there after all. She tore impatiently at the envelope, sinking down onto the bed with the paper in her hand, suddenly feeling wide awake. It read:

Dear Isobel,

Is it too soon to want to write to you? You have barely been gone a week, but again I find myself unable to sleep this evening, and it is all I can think about doing.

You must forgive me, it is a while since I have written to anyone for any reason other than on official business and I don't quite know where to start. It seems you were right in what you said to me once; do you remember? You asked me if I wrote all of my letters at my desk in my office, and I told you, rather begrudgingly, that I did. You said you had thought so, but you were were sad to be right in this case because you'd only ever seen me write letters regarding hospital work. You said that writing personal letters was an art form that could be attained with practice but which could also be easily lost if allowed to run dry. I dare say I found you presumptuous to say so at the time, but you were right, of course you were. There, you have that in writing now.

You must forgive me rambling like an old fool, but increasingly I am coming to feel as if that is all I have become. Work at the hospital is bothersome, copious and I need not say difficult without your able assistance. It would do her a disservice to say that Lady Grantham shows any smugness at your absence, but still I find myself rather resenting her for being here when you are not. In fact, I think she feels your loss too; we all miss you, Isobel, though I dare say- I hope, at any rate- that no one quite misses you as I do.

We said once that we would not allow there to be any secrets between us, nothing other than the most complete honesty, and I feel there is little point in concealing the fact from you that without you there even the smallest task seems more of a chore than it did before. The thought of you, of you returning to me is almost a warrant to help me endure the days of mere routine, and it is my sole thought throughout the difficult ones. There, if anyone reads your post- does this happen to Red Cross nurses, I'm not sure?- I am sure to have embarrassed you dreadfully and I daren't say any more than this, but I am not sorry about anything I have said so far. I love you Isobel, and without you here to put it into writing at the moment feels like the best thing in the world.

Reading back, it seems that I have been selfish to only talk of myself, but in fact I am desperate for information about you. How is Paris, and more importantly, how are you? Are you happy, or at least approaching it? I don't need to tell you that to think of you as unhappy is to make me desperately unhappy too. To hear that you are happy and well would be the utmost blessing.

Never forget that I love you,

Your Richard.

After reading the letter twice, as avidly as if it had been an Austen novel, its words reeling around her head, Isobel could do nothing than press the paper softly to her chest. Dear, wonderful man. She didn't think she had ever received such a letter in her entire life, she would have been sure to have kept it.

For a few moments she simply sat there, completely numb, allowing his words, his turn of phrase to wash over her, to submerge her in the world she had left and dearly missed. The letter was so very Richard; it made her miss him more than ever. It was strange to think of him at home in almost the same state as she was here, given how alien their surroundings felt from one another.

Suddenly, she rose, full of purpose, crossing the room to the writing desk in the corner where another lamp stood. Lighting that too, she hurriedly opened the drawer, taking out paper, ink and her fountain pen and lying his letter out in front of her to remind her of what he had said. Sitting herself at the desk, she was ready to write a reply as if she were full in the flow of working rather than weary after a long and busy shift at the hospital. She did not feel weary any longer.

Unscrewing the cap of her fountain pen, she began to write, deciding first to put his misapprehensions to right :

My darling Richard,

Of course no one reads my post! I don't seem able to convince you that I'm not a soldier! You needn't worry that anything you have said may cause me embarrassment: no one will ever hear of it but me, unless I go out now and proclaim it from the rooftops, which I admit I am sorely tempted to do. I have never been so happy to receive a letter in my life, and rightly too: I have never read one more wonderful. You defy my assertion that practice makes perfect.

Paris is what one would expect from Paris; of course it is wonderful, but I am kept too busy to see much of it beyond the walk to the hospital in the morning and back in the evening. If I ever complained of feeling no use then that has been sharply put to right. The problem now is rather feeling too much in demand. That is not to say the work is difficult, well, it is, the hours are long and the patients only common factor is that they're all in a very bad way, but it's not too much for me, I can manage it. I am exhausted on an evening, but I can manage it and I feel useful. And that is, after all, what I wanted in the first place. I am not unhappy, at any rate, I promise you.

Of course, I do get time off, usually a Sunday when everywhere is shut except the churches but there are plenty and I go to different ones and have a look at them. It is often on Sundays when I wish I had you here with me, and we could look at them together. I miss you whenever my mind has a moment to wander away from the patients, but it is on Sundays that I feel it most keenly. I miss working with you because you know how to handle me better than anyone does here (some of the younger girls find me a bit of tyrant, I think. I haven't a clue what gave them such an idea.)

I miss you in the evenings most of all, when I'm left alone. I miss your arms around me, and the feeling and the sound of you asleep beside me; the bed, though it's tiny, feels far too wide and barren without you in it. I don't think I've ever said this to you before, but I feel so safe with you there next to me. I miss- I might as well say it- I miss you as my lover, because I'd be foolish not to. I miss the way you make love to me. It feels oddly daring to put that in writing, but if it will convince you that no one reads my post, it is worth it. And, I love you too. That is my warrant to get me through lonely nights here.

It was so good to hear about goings on at home from you, as well. Believe me, in a strange place it is nice to get news about the normal things and now that I know a little I feel myself craving more. How is dear Sybil? And the other two girls, though I don't imagine you see as much of them. Is Mrs Hughes still holding the fort as far as the staff are concerned, and is she still keeping an eye on Mr Carson for you? If anyone works themselves into the ground before either of us, it will be one of those two. It is good to hear that Cora is behaving herself. And- dare I ask this?- but how is Cousin Violet? Busy as usual, I expect.

You know as much as I do about when I will be back. How far can anyone say how the war is going? All I know for certain is that, as soon as it's over nothing will be able to keep me from you.

Once again, you know it already but I'll still say it, I love you.

Your Isobel.

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