Archive of Our Own ^beta

15 January 1947

Dearest Sophie,

Thank you again for having us at Christmas. It was a wonderful thing for you to do, and such an inexpressible joy to see you all. I must confess that when we first received your invitation, I worried at the prospect of asking Dawsey to leave our friends here in favor of spending the holidays surrounded by people all but unknown to him, especially as 'friends' already seems so inadequate a word to describe what the Society members mean to us. Chosen family, perhaps, would be a more apt description. However, he assured me that, knowing how dear you are to me, he should be most pleased to meet you at last, and Dominic and Alexander also. I don't know what I did to deserve him, or you, but I'm so grateful.

And how well it all went! We had not even reached the train station before Kit demanded to know when Dominic could come to visit us. It made my heart sing, Sophie, as silly as that sounds. Now, I don't know when, but it my dearest wish to repay your kindness with an invitation to Guernsey next Christmas, or preferably sooner—when do you expect you'll be able to travel again? On our end, it all depends on when we finally manage to get our house in order. You'd think four months would have been time enough, but what with Kit, the book, the Christmas season and our continued joy in discovering more and more of each other, I'm embarrassed to say that we have made very little progress.

As he was on the journey up to Scotland, so Sidney was once again heroic on the trip back to London, taking it in turns with us to entertain Kit on the train. He was then kind enough to permit us to invade his flat for the night before continuing on to Guernsey. Sophie, did you know Sidney had originally thought of taking an additional fortnight off and flying out to Australia? He decided against it only after Susan very politely threatened him. He didn't say much more, and I didn't want to pry, but I am now bursting with curiosity as to what that might mean with regards to him and Piers. Since his extended stay last year, we have broached the subject only once, and only in a circumspect manner: Sidney indicated that a future might be possible, but the present was unsustainable. Sophie, do you suppose that future might have become this present?

Thank you once more for having us. I can hardly believe my good fortune these days.

Love to all of you,
Juliet

21 January 1947

Dear Juliet,

As I hope you know, I have nothing but respect for your skills as an interviewer, but one thing you are not, I am afraid, is sneaky. I have just received a letter from Sophie laden with insinuations in which I could hardly help but detect your hand, so in order to save you both from further embarrassment, I shall answer you directly.

You could have just asked, you know, and some part of me had rather hoped that you would. It may surprise you to learn that in the past year, I have begun more than a few letters to you concerning the current state of my relationship, or lack thereof, with Piers Langley, only to toss them aside, dissatisfied with my ramblings and preferring to focus instead on your adventures on Guernsey. I cannot promise that this letter will make any more sense than any of my previous discarded drafts, but herewith the answers, such as they are, to your enquiries, such as they are.

As I acknowledged to you last June, Piers and I did indeed rekindle our connection during my visit—an eventuality that was perhaps inevitable, and one that I had desired and dreaded in equal measure. Those long hours in the air I insisted to myself that I was making the trip only to do what I could to pull Piers back from the brink, as a friend. What true friend could do less? But even then I could not deny how my heart leapt with the news that he had been found alive. During the war, I never dared to hope it, and I admonished myself that I mustn't dare to hope for anything more. If Piers was indeed attempting to drink himself to death, any kind of overture on my part would surely be taking advantage.

So it was in this state of mind that I arrived, and I managed to hold myself to it for the first few weeks. Those nights Piers tossed and turned, waking me, and I seized his hand and held it. No meaningful words were exchanged, as none were needed. Gradually Piers began to find his physical strength again, and I thought it would be to his benefit to go outside. At first it was just walks in the garden of the convalescent home, but when he was released into my care, we began undertaking other activities—exploring the seashore and the city centre, and then, as Piers' spirits reinvigorated, and he began sleeping better, more lavish outings. This is how I came to fall off a horse in the first place.

As Piers recovered, our dynamic shifted to one more domestic—and romantic. By the time I fell, I could hardly deny that, in the words of Jane Austen, my affections and wishes were unchanged. Happily, Piers could say the same, and we renewed our affair.

That spring—autumn, for us—passed like a beautiful dream, but while Piers had grown much stronger and healthier as he took his turn caring for me, his trauma could not simply be wished away. You witnessed something similar, I believe, during Remy's stay on Guernsey. Island life and the Society's friendship gave her strength, but to truly recover, she had to find her own way. So did Piers, and I couldn't stay away from Stephens & Stark forever. So we agreed that when I was well enough to travel, we would separate for the present. I had done what I could to save him; it was now up to him to save himself.

So I returned to London and immersed myself in my work and yours. Piers and I have continued to write to each other, even as he builds a life for himself in Melbourne, without me. I have not given up hope that we might eventually find some way to properly be together, but for now I will have to content myself with a short holiday, as soon as I can get away again.

Now that I have, I hope, sated your journalistic curiosity, I have a question of my own. That last night at my flat, you declined the brandy I offered, stating that you were already tired. Dawsey didn't seem to find this strange, so I held my tongue, but having heard a similar excuse from Sophie four short years ago, I have to ask. Was there, perhaps, another reason?

Love,
Sidney

5 February 1947

Dear Sidney,

You guessed right—as did Isola, who apparently had some sort of premonition while we were away! At the time it was merely suspicion, but since our return I've been to the doctor and heard it confirmed. Baby Adams is due in September, and Kit is thrilled at the prospect of being a big sister. Dawsey and I both teared up a little as we watched her carrying on—I don't think he will mind my telling you so. We have discussed names, but have yet to decide firmly. Our first thought was that if we have a girl, she should be named for Elizabeth, but then we worried that this might be a bit odd for Kit, her sister named after her birth mother. You may be amused to hear that for a boy, the top contender is Charles.

As I'm sure you noticed, our baby's due date falls close to my deadline for the final draft of Elizabeth's biography. Sometimes I think I am near a turning point in the work, only to uncover yet another story of her. Just today I received a letter from a Miss Harriet Edwards, whose father spent much of the Occupation in hospital. It wasn't war wounds or malnutrition that put him there, but liver cancer. When he received his diagnosis, his first thought was to refuse treatment. He didn't see any point in fighting for his life while the island was occupied and starved out, but Elizabeth, thank goodness, intervened. He wasn't her patient, but nonetheless she stopped by his bedside every morning to tell him a joke—only she withheld each punchline for the next day, meaning he would have to be alive the next day if he wanted to know. She called it her Scheherazade strategy, and it worked. Miss Edwards' father made it through his wartime hospitalisation and is now in remission, for which she credits Elizabeth quite as much as the doctors and nurses who treated him.

All these new tales have meant that lately, I have spent as much time editing as writing. As frustrating as this can be, I take a peculiar comfort in it now. Oh, this will sound silly to you, but it's so cold, Sidney. They say this is the worst winter in living memory, and I can't disagree. Everything is so grey all around us, and good food so scarce, that each lately uncovered story of Elizabeth feels like a message of hope. Reading these stories of her, and seeing them reflected in Kit, who refuses to lose her spirit even when she can't be outside for more than ten minutes at a time, give me strength to endure it.

Now, concerning the substance of your letter—when are you planning to take such a holiday? If it's soon, I will be frightfully jealous of the Australian summer that awaits you. But you know that I adore you, Sidney, and wish you all the happiness in the world. What you say about Piers' need to find his own way makes perfect sense, but surely he's had time enough. Seize the day, Sidney, and bring some sunshine back with you, for all of our sakes.

Love,
Juliet

8 February 1947

Dear Sidney,

I hate to say it, but now really isn't the best time. I've picked up some temporary work around the docks to pay rent while I write, and between the job and the writing, I haven't got time for much of anything else. Now I know what you're thinking, even if you'd never be so impolitic as to outright say it: I could write in England, from your flat. You'd support me. I'd want for nothing, and we could finally be happy.

But you know me, Sidney, too well. If I want for nothing, I'll never finish the book. And perhaps I'm deluding myself with this idea that finishing the book will somehow close the book, so to speak, on what I've been through, but at the very least, it can't hurt. What I need right now is solitude, mindless manual labor, and time. The Christmas holidays set me back weeks, maybe months.

Please don't be upset. I do miss you, and I do want to see you, but May or June would be better.

Love,
Piers

10 February 1947

Dear Piers,

Don't worry, Piers, I'm not upset with you—merely jealous of the Australian sun you are enjoying day to day. Let me know when you're better able to accommodate me, and feel free to send me a few new chapters, if you're so inclined.

Love,
Sidney

10 February 1947

Dear Juliet,

I'd appreciate it if you'd burn this letter. The answer to your query is a definitive 'not soon,' and I'm irritated. I'm also well-aware that I'm being unreasonable, but no less irritated for it. Piers has informed me that, as much as he might like to see me, he cannot possibly see fit to release himself from writerly isolation before May at the earliest.

Tell me, Juliet, can this possibly be normal? It seems to me that you have written more, not less, since marrying Dawsey. I know that Piers has suffered trauma you have not. I understand that circumstances are different, but I would hate to think that my presence would somehow be a burden to Piers or stifle his muse. I don't think that's what he meant to imply, but I can't help feeling extraneous.

Making matters worse, Susan and Ivor are to be married within a week. I wish them every happiness, but I also wish it for myself—such that it may be to the benefit of all for me to take a few days off anyway, even with no Australian sun in my immediate future. Would you mind if I paid a short visit to Guernsey? Even the greyest island air would be an improvement over London right now.

Love,
Sidney

18 February 1947

Dear Sidney,

Certainly you may come to Guernsey—and quickly! We would love to see a friendly face as surely as you would. As concerns Piers, I do think you're being ridiculous, but having subjected you to many such letters of fretting about Dawsey, I am in no position to rebuke you too harshly. (Or at least, I'll save it for when you're here.) Would the coming weekend suit?

Love,
Juliet

10 March 1947

Dear Sidney,

I hope you won't mind my writing to you, and that you'll forgive Juliet for confiding in me. It was not her fault. When you came to see us last, I couldn't help noticing that your spirits seemed depressed, and Juliet and Isola shared such a look between them that I couldn't rest until I understood it. They did enjoy a laugh at my expense when I admitted that I had once feared you as a rival for Juliet's hand, and that this explained a great deal.

My main reason for writing to you is this comparison of your friend Piers to Remy. I wanted to tell you that while I see what you were getting at, I'm not sure it fits. I don't know what Remy expected to find with us on Guernsey, or what made her relent to my pleas for her to come here, but the more I thought on it, the more I saw how misguided those pleas were. She already had a path in mind towards recovery, and I achieved nothing but to delay it, as well as, I would later learn, my own happiness with Juliet.

Just before she left, I asked Remy about this, thinking I owed her an apology, and she assured me that it was not so. She said that she had found much love and support here, and that it was worth it just to find Elizabeth in each one of us. Were we as she expected? Yes, she said, but so much more than that. Nonetheless, she had begun to feel like a tourist in Elizabeth's life. We were to her as characters in books—fascinating, exactly as described, but ultimately fantasy. We were Elizabeth's friends, not hers.

Now, I have no way of knowing Piers' thoughts on the matter, but based on what Juliet has told me of your history, this cannot possibly be what you are to him. I am writing to encourage you not to give up hope. I would also like you to know that you will always be welcome in our home, accompanied or not.

Yours sincerely,
Dawsey Adams

18 March 1947

Dear Dawsey,

Thank you for your kind words—and no, of course I don't mind your writing to me. On the contrary, I appreciate having another person in whom I can safely confide, though I can't say I ever particularly feared your reaction. We may only now be corresponding friends, but I would like you to know that you have always ranked higher in my esteem than that.

I would also like you to understand that my life is not, and has never been, a particularly lonely one. I've been married to my work for nearly all of my adult life, and between that, my family, and a handful of close friends such as Juliet, most of the time I am perfectly content. Once I realized what I was, I assumed that romantic happiness of the sort men and women share must necessarily be out of reach. Up to that point I'd done just fine without it, so I found it comparatively easy to accept my lot in life. Only when I met Piers did I truly begin to question this. He was hardly the first man I'd met who was like me, but he is, to this day, the only man I have ever loved in this manner. Before I met him, I had begun to question whether I was even capable of feeling romantic love—not because of my homosexuality, you understand, but just because I never had done. I apologise if this confession is too personal for you, or too frank, but based on what Juliet has told me of your history, I think you may understand more than most.

We met shortly before the war—through Juliet, as I'm sure she's boasted to you. She met him at another writer's reading, which sorely disappointed them both. Their mutual criticism led them to read one another's work, and Juliet promptly sent me a rapturous letter urging me to meet and publish him. I took the meeting with some reservations, as Stephens & Stark mustn't base its business decisions on Stark's friends' flights of fancy, but when I met him, I immediately saw what Juliet had seen, and more—including an unfortunate strain of insanity, as he somehow found something equally fascinating in me. Juliet came to the office to meet Piers on his way out, doubtless intending to apologise for my standoffishness, and there she waited, astounded, as we talked an entire hour longer than we had meant to do.

We had one year together, and then came the war. I enlisted in the Navy and Piers in the RAF. We continued to exchange letters, albeit of a much more carefully circumspect nature. If we both made it out, I was sure we would find each other. But then he went missing, and I supposed it was better to have loved and lost, as I struggled through those days and tried to survive. Most of the time, 'missing' was just another way to say 'killed,' and it was better to accept it, rather than let your heart break twice.

This is all to say that I am familiar with waiting, and with hoping against hope, against all odds. If I could be assured of a happy ending, I would sign my life over to it without hesitation. But we are not at war any longer, and if I must see my heart break twice, I would much prefer to get on with it. You don't need to tell me how awful that sounds, how horrifically insenstive. If what Piers needs to heal is to forge his own path forward, then I wish him all the best. I just want to know, sooner rather than later, if I'm not what he needs or wants, because I need to heal, too.

One last note concerning your musings about Remy: you mentioned that you were unsure what had made her change her mind. I can answer that for you. When she first met you, Juliet wrote to me that Amelia had told her you had a rare gift for persuasion, and she could easily believe it. So can I, as evidenced by how much I've allowed myself to confess to you, without your even explicitly prying.

Yours sincerely,
Sidney

PS: You may feel free to share this letter with Juliet, though she already knows much of the history it relates. I would never wish to create a need for secrecy between you.

27 March 1947

Dear Piers,

We've never been regular correspondents, which I feel ought to change. These days I hardly miss London at all, but when I do miss it, it's London before the war that I long for. Specifically, those long nights at the poets' cafés with you and Sidney, exchanging a feature of mine for a poem of yours, marvelling at each other's brilliance before Sidney seized both to deftly puncture two outsized egos with one red pen.

I know you're writing a memoir of your imprisonment, so I wondered if you might like me to read over some of it—or perhaps I should ask if you'd mind? I'd certainly love it if you could find the time to read over some of my pages, although if you'd rather not, I understand. I'm merely greedy. You could always create such inspired verse, and I'm eager to see your prose. Also, I miss you.

Love,
Juliet

8 April 1947

Dear Juliet,

Thank you for your letter. Feel free to send me an extract or several of your book, as it might help to show me where I'm going wrong with mine. Perhaps I'm simply not cut out for prose. Don't think I haven't considered trying to be a Wilfred Owen for our times, but it was my stream of consciousness I particularly wanted to turn into art, which hardly calls for rhymes. I'd put the question to Sidney, if only I dared write to him. Don't be cross with me, Juliet—I can see your mulish scowl already, and now that you have a toddler in your care, I know you can only have increased your already prodigious skill in this area. Sidney hasn't written me recently either, and yes, I know this was your real reason for writing to me.

You can feel free to tell him that I love and miss him, and that my hopes for our future are as they have always been. I'm giving myself until June to make this book come together, and if it doesn't, then I'll reconsider what London may have to offer me now. As ridiculous as this is, part of me has feared to come home. This life I've built for myself in Melbourne is in truth as much of a life as I can bear—that's to say, not half as much of one as I might like to pretend, but that's made it safe. Home will mean obligations, and I hardly remember how to meet them.

That's the long and short of it, really. I don't want to go home just to retreat into Sidney's care and leave all the messy business of everyday life to him to sort out. I want to stand by his side and meet it head on, and as long as I feel crushed by this inability to write, I don't know if I can do it.

Love,
Piers

10 April 1947

SIDNEY—WE ARE THRILLED TO ANNOUNCE THE BIRTH OF BONNIE BLAIR STRACHAN. MOTHER AND BABY ARE DOING WELL. YOURS, ALEXANDER

15 April 1947
Dearest Juliet,

Thank you so much for your letter and your box for Blair! And a particularly special thank you to Eli for the flute he carved for Dominic. He says he will use it to play lullabies for his baby sister, though it seems he and I disagree on just what ought to be considered a lullaby. Fortunately, Blair doesn't mind; she's fascinated by any sounds her big brother can make and already tries to imitate him with her gurgles. We are doing wonderfully, and between Alexander and Sidney, I am spoilt quite beyond what I deserve. If only you were here, I would truly want for nothing in the world.

Oh, there is so much more I would like to write to you, as Blair's every little move fascinates and delights me, but of course, you would have assumed that much, and I'm exhausted, Juliet. Spoilt and ecstatic, but nonetheless exhausted, as you will be soon. I fear I have only a few minutes before I nod off again. At least I have the benefit of doing so in my bed, unlike Sidney, who after his long journey up to meet his niece told Alexander that he would write a letter before retiring and not to wait up. Alexander found him in the kitchen at two o'clock in the morning when Blair woke us for her feeding, asleep over his half-finished letter. I'll give you one guess to whom.

Love to all of you,
Sophie

15 April 1947

Dear Piers,

You might have told me, you know. Here I was fearing I was about to lose you to the seductive lure of writerly isolation and sea air, when in fact you were just too embarrassed to admit to writer's block. All right, all right—I understand it's more complicated than that, but I am an editor, you know. I can help with this kind of thing.

Juliet tells me it's your stream of consciousness you wanted to capture, which you felt you couldn't do within the strictures of verse, yet you feel unsuited to prose. Piers, may I suggest free verse? I realise that would require you to scarf a hefty helping of crow, but it's all right, my love. You're allowed to be wrong. Take your time, but not too much time. I'm old, you know, and I may yet die of anticipation.

If it helps to encourage you: I promise not to let us lie about uselessly for more than a week or so. When I return to work, so will you. I won't just keep you, if that's what you fear. I don't want a kept man: I want Piers Langley, whose verse and presence stole my heart nine years ago, whenever he feels fit to return to me.

All my love,
Sidney

20 April 1947

Dear Sidney,

To quote Juliet: you're insufferable, especially when you're right. As soon as I read your letter, I knew that you must be. I've begun reshaping my writings into free verse and am far happier with it than anything else I've managed in the last year. Please find enclosed a few samples. They are dedicated to Sidney Stark, the appallingly self-satisfied twerp who stole my heart nine years ago. May he make haste in preparing his flat for two, as my temporary job wraps on 15th May.

All my love,
Piers

25 April 1947

Dear Juliet,

I suppose a thank you is in order. You may not be sneaky, but your letter reopened the line of communication between Piers and myself far more effectively than I could have managed, and I'm pleased to say that all seems, at last, to be as well as any of us has any right to be expect. Can you and Dawsey and Kit possibly come to London for a visit towards the end of May? I'd like to welcome Piers home in style. If this is impossible due to your condition, you may depend upon a visit from us.

In the meantime, Piers may send you some of his latest for review, and I'm sure you'll delight in them as I have done. Thank you, Juliet, from the bottom of my heart, and to Dawsey as well. I'm lucky to know you both.

Love,
Sidney