grate; outside, the wind gusts and rain lashes the windows. Tonight, as on many other nights, my mind reflects upon the happier past and ponders questions unresolved.
Was the joy of knowing Mr. Slade worth the sorrow I felt at his absence? Had I been able to predict that this terrible, empty solitude would be my lot, would I have married him and gone with him to Russia? Would my misgivings have been overcome had I known that I would soon lose my beloved companions and long for a husband to love in their place?
Reason tells me that I would have stayed. That I did allowed me to spend Anne’s and Emily’s final hours with them; I was able to comfort Papa. I would not have willingly given up those privileges.
Yet I cannot help imagining how much richer and happier my life would have been as Mr. Slade’s wife. Nor can I dismiss the superstitious notion that if one thing in the past had turned out differently, so might everything else. If I had married Mr. Slade, would Anne and Emily be alive now? My imagination fills the room with voices, laughter, and warmth. Anne and Emily sit across the table, Mr. Slade beside me-he and I are home on a respite from our world-wandering. I add Branwell to the picture; miraculously restored to life and health, he entertains us with poems. The firelight glows on our happy faces.
But reality cannot be altered. The apparitions of my dear departed fade away; the room is again quiet. The pages of this manuscript are my testament to the valor of Emily, Anne, and Branwell. Someday may it be read and their heroics known. In the meantime, blank pages wait ready for me to fill with other tales. My writing is my comfort, as it has been in the past. And although I have had neither sight nor word of Mr. Slade, and my yearning for him pains me yet, I would not have forgone that which we shared. Somewhere in the world, he walks and breathes, and I feel in my heart that fortune will someday bring us together again.
God speed him to me.
Farewell.
