"We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend."
Robert Louis Stevenson

Chapter 4 Domestic Pursuits

November had arrived, and Belle tried to snuggle into her warmest coat. It was already a couple of years old, but Belle had remained her tiny self, and she knew that material was so precious, that she made do with what she had. As a shiver overcame her, she said a prayer for those who were suffering in Europe. There was so much suffering in the world, too much for her brain to wrap around, so she prayed most especially for the ones that she knew that were there-the sons of her friends, Ruby, and since she knew his name, she prayed for Corporal Gold.

The library doors looked warm and inviting as she entered and the smell of old books hit her like a hug from a beloved friend. Mrs. Smith looked over the tiny spectacles dangling precariously on her nose and smiled in acknowledgement of Belle's entrance. She gave her a 'Hello, Belle' and went about her duties, for she was aware that Belle knew her way around the library about as well, or better than Mrs. Smith did, herself.

Belle gravitated towards the fiction section, like she did when she was in need of something to get lost in. She had borrowed, last week, a series of non-fiction books on Italy, France, and Japan, in an attempt to read about some of the areas the soldiers were traveling through. She knew there were many other areas that were affected, but she read about those places most frequently in the papers, so those were the places she chose to read about.

Her last correspondence had humbled her. She winced as she thought over the words she had written so selfishly and carelessly and wondered what her new friend would think of her. As she listened to the news updates on the radio, and read about what was going on (as far as could be given) in the papers, she felt ashamed that she had complained so much. He stared death in the face so often, and she was annoyed that she had yet reached the line over into adulthood. Was there anything more assuring of her childishness than such complaints? So-she was determined to learn everything she could, and thus be a better listener if he described any of the horrors (which she didn't know how much would be able to get through censors anyway), but she would be ready, and hopefully sound less like a baby.

Her fingers pulled a particular book, its red cover calling her, and its Scottish author having a particular pull to her for some reason. She took it. She wouldn't think about why, and went to the front desk to get the check out card stamped before she went to check on the mail.

It had been a bit longer of a spell between letters, at least since her first one. She wondered if her pettiness had caused him to scoff and refuse to write back-she walked in hopefulness to ask if there was anything, anyway, and today there was. There were two letters, in fact, one from Ruby and one from Corporel Gold. She smiled and bit her lower lip, happy that she had such a diversion this afternoon, for it would be a quiet one at the house.

Today her papa was at the office, which he liked to do a couple times a week, and Belle always reminded him when those days were. Morris didn't exactly enjoy them, but her papa was so oblivious to the resentment that he looked on at all the improvements with genuine joy, and that was all Belle cared about. This meant, however, that this particular day, this very dreary Tuesday, that the house was dark and cold and quiet. She built up the fires, pulled out what she wanted to work on in the house that day, and began working eyeing her book from time to time, giving into the temptation to read by giving herself little breaks, which turned into long stretches, which turned into making disasters of her homemaking because she attempted to read at the same time.

Finally checking off her to-do list and berating herself for all her mistakes, she allowed herself to go up to her room and relish in her letters. She opened Ruby's first.

'Belles,

I made it, where I can't tell you, but I am here and it is ghastly. I know your heart, Belles, say a prayer for these poor men. I am only doing basic tasks right now, as I am being trained in the finer points of nursing, but what I see just from that makes me want to cry! I won't though-I shall be a good soldier and let you cry all the tears for me, for I know you will regardless.

I must tell you about two particular soldiers, for they haunt my thoughts and dreams-one more specifically. The first one, Victor, is a blonde and as handsome as any man I've ever met in my life, the iciest blue eyes that could make even the hardest of stones break. He's doing quite well for his arm being completely severed from his body' (at this Belle gasped) 'and has the best of spirits and the sweetest of smirks for all the nurses, but I like to think he has the largest one for me.

I know you are shaking your head now, Belle, do not be alarmed, I have not let my head be turned by this beautiful man, whatever you might think.

There is another man, quiet, shy, with large, scared eyes. His bullet wound is not fatal or really anything to worry too much about, but I'm afraid there are deeper things going on under the surface and he is plagued by the worst of dreams. This man, Archie is his name, will go back to that terrible war as soon as he is recovered! I could cry Belles, I am fighting them back even now. Cry for him Belles, add him to your prayers and pray that he survives.

Tell Granny I love her. I wrote to her too, but I know she needs to see you and maybe she'll believe I'm doing well if you tell her too.

Tell me every detail of what is happening there.

Ruby'

Belle did cry. In fact, it took a good while for her to be able to open the other letter as she attempted to compose herself. Ruby was always so good at separating her feelings from anything she did. If Ruby was in despair at the conditions of where she was, how truly bad was it? Finally, she did pull herself together, said a long and pleading prayer for the man Ruby was worried about, and opened the letter she had been both looking forward to, and nervous to read.

'Miss French,

I first want to apologize for any delay in replying. I received both your letters at the same time, as I have been very busy.

Though I do not know you very well, I do not think you should be so hard on yourself. We all go through certain times in our lives where we realize how what we thought life was before, can no longer be (was it not your first bit of poetry an observation of the same thing?). You were right in your assessment of me being Scottish, and I grew up in that beautiful country. Life was hard, but I will not bore you with the details. I made it to America at twenty years of age, worked hard to try to earn something-though everywhere was plagued with hard financial times, and then five years later became a citizen. And then a few years later, Uncle Sam declared his need of me. I am now thirty years old, and I have yet made nothing of my life, and if I am spared in all this, I have not a single clue on how I will proceed. I suppose I wrote all this to say that your struggles are more than relatable, and I do not begrudge you your feelings over the world being an unsettled thing to place your feet upon.

So you enjoy reading, Miss French? I too enjoy a good book (Burns is a particular favorite for poetry), but you can imagine I get very little opportunity to read here. Novels are a joy within which to get lost. I was unable to get the full education I wanted growing up, so when I came to the States I read just about any book I could get my hands on to try to educate myself. I look forward to hearing your favorites.

Your Friend,

Cpl Roger Gold'

There were now other details Belle could add to the list of ways to picture her soldier friend. Not only was he Scottish, but he was much older than she had thought. For some reason she had imagined at first a youthful face, not unlike Paul's or Randy's. Now she took that same face she had imagined and matured it ever so slightly. His maturity made her ramblings on growing up that much more embarrassing, but also thankful with how he had replied so kindly to such ramblings.

He grew up poor, it sounded like. She had read that the great financial difficulties of the last decade were universal, and she was thankful for not the first time that even if she didn't exactly get along with Morris that his good head for numbers had made it where they did better than so many of their fellow citizens. She had been spoiled her whole life, there was no doubt, and if there was any, this letter confirmed it. The man that wrote this letter had gone through so much and yet still kept going, going from one hard thing to another! And then! He loved books! This made her happy for some unexplained reason-perhaps having someone else who understood the merits of them was something she had always wished for in a friend.

…

'You didn't have Thanksgiving in Scotland, I guess, did you Corporal ?' Cassidy asked. The boys were getting awfully nostalgic here lately. Birthdays of loved ones were hard for some men, special dates with their sweethearts or wives could also plaster a grim line on the most good natured of soldier, but the month of November, especially now that it had been a couple of weeks into it, and the group of American soldiers were downright glum.

'No, but I've observed the American Thanksgiving over the years.' He knew what Cassidy was at. 'You have a very large one then?'

Cassidy's eyes went all glassy as Roger was sure he was seeing the cozy scene in his mind.

'Oh yes! Well, I don't know if it would be exactly big, but it's wonderful. Mama pulls out all the stops. You've heard me say that life was a little rough for us after Dad died, but I always got us a turkey and she could turn a few vegetables into something glorious. And my grandparents would come, both sides, and all my uncles and aunts and cousins.' He looked down at the ground for a moment. 'Don't know how it will all work this year.'

Roger nodded and shifted his bag on his back to ease some of the pressure for a second. 'Have ye heard from yoor mam here lately?'

Cassidy nodded. 'Glad I can send money back now, you know. My youngest brother is only five and Mama said he had pneumonia. We would have been strapped for cash to tend to him a year ago, but she said she was able to take him to the doctor and when she wrote she said he's well on the mend now.' his face became stormy for a moment. 'I hope she wasn't being optimistic for my sake-do you think she was?' Roger felt bad for the boy. Thrust into being the man of the house so young and worrying over things that ought not to be his lot. Not that life was ever fair-he knew that better than most.

'I'm sure he's a'right. Doctors can do much more than they could even ten years ago-so much has changed since I was a lad myself and I don't think myself to be all that old yet, ye know?' He tried to put on his most optimistic air, which was really difficult for him-he had always just kept to himself and kept all his thoughts and feelings inside. There was never anyone else to care since he had left his aunties, and he never felt like he had to be optimistic for them. He had been used to suppressing his emotions, but morphing them into something like empathy and encouragement to help his fellow man hadn't been needed in a world where he was always alone.

Now, since Cassidy had been assigned to his unit, all big eyed and optimistic, and began to cling to him like he was his extra shadow, he felt a need to shield the boy from all he could, and where he couldn't, to help pull him back up on his feet.

Cassidy seemed to feel a bit better, which is what he wanted, and so they went quiet again.

The quiet gave him time to think about Miss French-or rather Belle's last letter. It had been given to him a few days ago, and he had made sure he made no outward show of pleasure or any other emotion, therefore nothing to cause any comment on the side of Jeffries. Mail from her was the only mail he ever got, and that was enough to make him almost groan when it came, but he was not upset enough to stop the correspondence. So, he had taken up the letter with much inward enthusiasm.

'Cpl. Gold,

I want to thank you for your kindness in your response to my childish ramblings. I cannot imagine everything you went through, and I imagine you have more than a few stories you could share of your adventures.

I know you said no food in my domestic tales, but I have just come from one of my biggest messes to date, and thought I might share and perhaps give you a laugh or two at my expense. In my garden I have a very large pumpkin, or I did have one, anyway. The others were small, sad little things, but I was prodigiously proud of my one beauty and had every plan to make pie out of it. Since I am basically growing up as an only child and the only woman of the house, I've been taking care of the household duties for as long as I could see above the counters (Which was quite young, as Papa made me a stool). This means that I'm fairly confident in the kitchen, most days, anyway. Today I came back from the library with Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stephenson (do you know it?) and I gave myself strict instructions to do my domestic duties before I began the story, but alas, I did not listen to myself, and before I knew it, I was cleaning out the inside of the pumpkin while also trying to find out what how Davey fared with my book propped against the wall. That was not so bad. I did get a pretty good harvest of seeds and set some aside for next year (the one thing that did go to plan), and began to roast the pumpkin. I only slightly overcooked them, for I ignored the time until I had safely ferried Davey across the river. I assembled the pie without once looking at my story, and was doing so well, but oh! David is very keen about getting into scrapes and suddenly I found that I had read the entire story and my pie was nothing but ash and cinders. Smoke billowed and I was able to put out the fire and clean up the mess without burning the house along with the pie, but I have been scolding myself for using up precious supplies and wasting my beautiful pumpkin. So you see, there was nothing appetizing coming out of my domestic pursuits today.

I hope you are well.

Your Friend,

Belle (no need for Miss French, we are friends now, remember?)'

It had been all he could do not to chuckle out loud. Her tone was so friendly and he could almost smell the smoke and feel her frustration over the ruined pumpkin. He had been a little worried about sharing such personal details about himself (he could only count one or two men who knew half the information he had shared), but for some reason it was easier to share it on paper to a faceless girl than to speak of such things out loud. He had only given the bare bones of his travels, but it was enough for her to wonder at, he was sure. Yet, she did not wonder at his lack of place in the world, instead gave a hint that he could share more and then followed through with her own humorous endeavors. It spoke of kindness, he thought. And a maturity much greater than her age, he imagined, to be able to see what he did not share, and yet give him the opportunity to relay more only if he wanted to. It had been settled, the faceless young woman was not a prim princess. She was a sweet and kind one, he was almost certain, and he had to hide the smile that wanted to form as he thought of it. The cold seeping through his clothes helped belay anything actually showing on his face and he trudged on.

Author's Note: History Notes: Becoming a citizen of the US could be done in as little as 2-3 years during this time, so it's feasible that Roger could have become citizen and then be called into the draft a few years later. Researching Scotland during this time is rather depressing-I'm glad he migrated ;)

Story Notes: I am trying to make sure and pace the letters well. Fun fact: My husband and I were long distant (different countries, we are from the same country, same town actually, but 'met' each other while I was overseas. we corresponded long distance for over 8 months before we ever met in person) for 18 out of the 20 months we dated, and while we did do skype, we wrote to each other quite a bit. There is something about letters which cause you to be more open than you would normally-it's like writing in your journal, you know? This may make Gold seem a little out of character for his openness, but I hope it seems feasible for him to have shared such things when letter writing helps him to be that way.

What did you think? I would love to hear!