“And Juliet knows?”

When he told her yes, I had always known, Isola jumped up, swooped down, kissed his forehead, and said, “How nice—just like dear Booker. I’ll not tell a soul; you can rely on me.”

Then she sat back down and began to talk about Oscar Wilde’s plays. Weren’t they a stitch? Sophie, wouldn’t you have loved to be a fly on the wall? I would.

Sidney and I are going shopping now for a hostess gift for Isola. I said she would love a warm, colorful shawl, but he wants to get her a cuckoo clock. Why???

Love,

Juliet

P.S. Mark doesn’t write, he telephones. He rang me up just last week. It was one of those terrible connections that forced us perpetually to interrupt one another and bellow “WHAT?” but I managed to get the gist of the conversation—I should come home and marry him. I politely disagreed. It upset me much less than it would have a month ago.

From Isola to Sidney

8th July, 1946

Dear Sidney,

You are a very nice house guest. I like you. So did Zenobia, else she would not have flown onto your shoulder and cuddled there so long.

I’m glad you like to sit up late and talk. I favor that myself of an evening. I am going to go to the manor now to find the book you told me about. How is it that Juliet and Amelia never made mention of Miss Jane Austen to me?

I hope you will come visit Guernsey again. Did you like Juliet’s soup? Wasn’t it tasty? She will be ready for pie crust and gravy soon—you must go at cooking slowly, else you’ll just make slops.

I was lonesome for company after you left, so I invited Dawsey and Amelia to take tea yesterday. You should have seen how I didn’t utter a word when Amelia said she thought you and Juliet were going to marry. I even nodded and slitted my eyes, like I knew something they didn’t, to throw them off the scent.

I do like my cuckoo clock. How cheery it is! I run in the kitchen to watch it. I am sorry Zenobia bit the little bird’s head off, she has a jealous nature—but Eli said he could carve me another one, as good as new. His little perch still pops out on the hour.

With fondness, your hostess,

Isola Pribby

From Juliet to Sidney

9th July, 1946

Dear Sidney,

I knew it! I knew you’d love Guernsey. The next-best thing to being here myself was having you here—even for such a short visit. I’m happy that you know all my friends now, and they you.

I’m particularly happy you enjoyed Kit’s company so much. I regret to tell you that some of her fondness for you is due to your present, Elspeth the Lisping Bunny. Her admiration for Elspeth has caused her to take up lisping, and I am sorry to say, she is very good at it.

Dawsey just brought Kit home—they have been visiting his new piglet. Kit asked if I was writing to Thidney. When I said yes, she said, “Thay I want him to come back thoon.” Do you thee what I mean about Elspeth?

That made Dawsey smile, which pleased me. I’m afraid you didn’t see the best of Dawsey this weekend; he was extra-quiet at my supper party. Perhaps it was my soup, but I think it more likely that he is preoccupied with Remy. He seems to think that she won’t get better until she comes to Guernsey to recuperate.

I am glad you took my pages home to read. God knows I am at a loss to divine just what exactly is wrong with them—I only know something is.

What on earth did you say to Isola? She stopped in on her way to pick up Pride and Prejudice and to berate me for never telling her about Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. Why hadn’t she known there were better love stories around? Stories not riddled with ill-adjusted men, anguish, death, and graveyards! What else had we kept from her?

I apologized for such a lapse and said you were perfectly right, Pride and Prejudice was one of the greatest love stories ever written—and she might actually die of suspense before she finished it.

Isola said Zenobia is saddened by your leaving—she’s off her feed. So am I, but I’m so grateful you could come at all.

Love,

Juliet

From Sidney to Juliet

12th July, 1946

Dear Juliet,

I’ve read your chapters several times, and you are right—they won’t do. Strings of anecdotes don’t make a book.

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