_faded letters_
She writes to him daily - even Saturdays and Sundays when the post runs differently or not at all. Knows from his replies that he gets her letters as a single package not even every week.
He tells her in a reply that she should save her words for one single letter a week, shouldn't waste her money on paper, ink and stamps for him.
She tells him it's her money to waste as she likes and she'll thank him to receive her letters however she wishes to send them.
He says he has missed her temper perhaps most of all. She cannot say that she misses simply him the most, and so writes that the house is not the same without him.
She keeps his letters in a box by her bed, reads and re-reads them by candlelight each night.
The house continues on, but there is a pail about it. Upstairs they have sent too many cousins, fathers, sons and nephews, downstairs they are reminded daily of who is missing.
"I'm no Mr Carson." Mr Bates tells her one evening while they sip tea in her parlour.
"No," she agrees, and reaches out to pat his hand. "You are Mr Bates and there is nothing wrong in that."
It is not enough, his face tells her and as his fingers settle atop her own she cannot bring herself to disagree.