They read the first letter sitting out on the beach. Resting on a piece of driftwood, Edith leaned into Anthony while he spoke the words aloud. More than once he had to stop because he lost his voice from emotion.
Her words were painfully sad, and they both cried as the memories surfaced. "I know you've done what you thought was best for me, Anthony," one part of the letter read. "I do know, and I know how deeply you must be hurting as well. Please reconsider, because I'm finding it difficult to breathe without you near." He had to pause and collect himself before continuing.
"Ever yours, Edith," he finished with a sigh. They sat in silence for a long while, watching the waves reflect the warm lights from the street front behind them. Even in the darkness Edith could see the tears pouring down Anthony's face.
"I don't want to hurt you, or to make anything worse," she finally explained. "I just want you to understand what I went through, so you might realize we've made the right decision. And to know how ridiculously, monumentally happy I am now."
"I don't know how you can ever forgive me," he muttered, kissing her temple.
"You will. That's what I mean. By the last letter you'll understand everything."
And so, between long walks and sightseeing and many hours spent together in bed, Edith and Anthony read through each letter. Some were happy, chronicling her successes as a writer, and a cook's assistant. Some detailed the mundane, or told funny, incidental things Edith had long since forgotten. Others admonished him for not writing to her, for not giving her the courtesy of listening.
The worst were the letters wrinkled and stained with Edith's own tears. The writing was shaky and erratic, eternalizing the raw despair and loss that had haunted her. When Anthony read those he always responded by pulling Edith close against him and apologizing profusely, and Edith would assure him over and over that all was well, all was forgiven.
And when their words weren't enough to express all they were feeling, they would rely on other, more profound ways of communication.
A week passed, and then two. They traveled to Antibes and Grasse and Provence, to Peillon, Sainte-Agnès, and Vence. They stayed in seaside towns with pink and green stucco buildings and street merchants and rowdy nightlives. They stayed in quaint, earthy retreats perched high in the mountains, overlooking the sea and the farms and the townships that dominated the valleys below. Anthony told Edith of the rich history of County Nice, and in the markets they talked about trade and produce and culture and society.
But mostly they laughed. They were both clever, and dry, and took delight in the most ridiculous things. At one of the more rustic places they stayed, the only form of running water was what the owners called a "pluie montagne," which translated to "mountain rain," but which Anthony said really meant "rain shower."
"What on earth is a rain shower?" Edith asked as they settled into their tiny room. It had stone walls and a curved ceiling, and their bed was two singles pushed together under one sheet. But the view was breathtaking and the privacy more than welcome.
"I have a feeling we'll find out," he replied, his tone somewhat apprehensive.
They didn't have to wait long, being the only guests. There stood Sir and Lady Strallan of Locksley Estate, soaps and towels in hand, gaping at the only semblance of a bath within an hour's drive.
A three-walled structure with no roof made completely of stones, its fourth wall was open to the mountainside. The shower itself was little more than a system of connected pipes running downhill from a large basin. It had a lever that released the water through a flat, stippled sheet of metal.
"Well, if ever you wanted to prove your adventurous side, this would be the time," Anthony said, holding up a hand to the rudimentary structure. Edith accepted his challenge. One eyebrow raised, she looked him boldly in the eye and began to undress right there, in the broad, Mediterranean sunlight. And when she was done, she started in on Anthony.
"Oh no, I think I'll wait, thank you very much," he tried, backing away from her.
"Anthony Strallan, I am not doing this alone," she demanded. Then, using his own words against him she said, "We do it together, right?"
"You can't win every battle, you know," he teased, kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie.
"I don't intend on having many battles with you. Not at all."
"I can't help but notice."
"Yes?" She urged, deftly slipping the last of his clothing down his legs and throwing it on the heap.
"All of the battles you do pick seem to involve you taking off my clothes."
Edith laughed and kissed his shoulder affectionately. "How do you think I always win them?"
Standing under the spout together, Anthony tentatively pulled the lever. A rush of icy water fell over both of them. Edith shrieked and instinctively snapped her arms around Anthony, pressing the entire length of her naked body to his and gasping from the cold.
"Perhaps we should limit our adventures in the future," he managed, clearly suffering from the freezing water that trickled over them. But as their bodies adjusted to the temperature and they grew more comfortable, Edith laughed again at the absurdity. Stretching on her tiptoes, she pressed her mouth to his, making her intentions clear. "Then again," he said huskily as he kissed her neck, "maybe we should install one of these at Locksley."
It was only one of many such escapades, but likely the one Edith would remember best. They had such fun, working their way along the coast, Edith presenting her letters periodically as they went.
When they opened the last envelope, number 338, they were sitting in the Jardin de St Martin in Monaco, eating cold chicken with beer and watching the sailboats far below in the glittering green bay. It was a short letter, written in neat scribe the day of the Lesters' dinner party.
My Dearest, Absent, Anthony,
I had a dream about you last night that I can't seem to clear from my thoughts. We were near the stream, at Locksley, down by our favorite picnic spot. (Do you remember as clearly as I?) At any rate, I was sitting in the grass and you were standing, hand in your pocket, watching the fish jump in the water. We said nothing profound, really, but you were there and I was happy. When I asked if I might kiss you, you said, "I'm yours, Edith, you needn't ask permission." But when I stood, you looked away, and when I reached for you, you disappeared.
Oh how I cried when I woke. I'm glad I'm well-practiced at doing this quietly, or I fear my sobs would have roused the entire household. Anna, who seems to have a sixth sense about these things, came to dress me first this morning. When she asked whatever was the matter, I simply said your name. Because it's not that I'm angry anymore, or even sad necessarily. It's that without you here, there is such vacancy in my life, such emptiness in every day that I feel completely hopeless.
I keep waiting for you to turn up. At a shop, or in the village, or a concert like the ones you used to take me to. I don't know where you've gone, and I don't know that I'll ever see you again. But should I ever lay eyes on you, I will never, ever let you go. I will chase you around the world if I have to, as I should have done that wretched day in the church. And I will do everything and anything I can to convince you of what I am so certain: that my heart beats not for me, but for you.
I'm yours, my Anthony. I always was, I think, from the day I was born. And the only thing I hold dear now is the hope that we will find each other again, in this life or the next, because we belong together.
I have to dress for yet another party I have no interest in attending. I have to make graces and put on airs and try to please my family. Have I told you my secret to getting by? It's to pretend you are there beside me, whispering clever things to me about the absurdities of our class, like we used to.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Thinking of you always, even when I sleep,
Your Edith
They were quiet for a long while. Edith leaned into Anthony's side, his arm around her as they processed all that she had said, all that they had felt over the course of a long and lonely year. Or, to be exact, 338 days.
"Thank you, for making me read those," he finally said after a time. His voice was quiet, contemplative, but not sad or overwrought.
"Do you see now why I wanted you to?"
"I do, sweet one. And you were right to make us hash it out."
"I adore you. And not just that, but I need you. Do you believe me now when I say that I rely on you? That you make me happy?"
"Yes, I do. I'm only sorry I didn't know before. Before I left. I am so sorry."
"Oh, Anthony. I didn't really know before you left. That's my point. No more apologies. We're here, together, and we're happy. And now that we're certain of each other, of us, we can carry on being happy and not have to look back."
Edith stood, taking the bundle of letters from their picnic basket. She set three aside, saying, "These are the most important. Lest we forget, we'll revisit them." Then she pulled Anthony up after her.
Walking down the stone path that meandered through the Garden, Edith led Anthony to one of the many turnouts that overlooked the sea. Sitting at the bench, partially hidden by the lush greenery, Edith handed the letters to Anthony.
"Let's let it go, Anthony. All of it. All the sadness and insecurity and miscommunication. Let's set ourselves free, hmm?"
And together, one by one, they threw their sadness and grief over the cliff, watching the papers catch and blow in the wind before falling into the waves that crashed into the rocks below. And when the last of them were gone, and an unbridled happiness settled on them like the hot Mediterranean sun, Anthony pressed Edith's hand to his lips and said, "Are you ready to go home?" She nodded. They both were ready, and long-overdue.
Thanks again for continuing to read. Now it's back to England, to Downton and Locksley. I'm sure there's lots to be caught up on after so many weeks away. :)