8th February, 1946
Dear Miss Ashton,
Dawsey Adams has just been to call on me. I have never seen him as pleased with anything as he is with your gift and letter. He was so busy convincing me to write to you by the next post that he forgot to be shy. I don’t believe he is aware of it, but Dawsey has a rare gift for persuasion—he never asks for anything for himself, so everyone is eager to do what he asks for others.
He told me of your proposed article and asked if I would write to you about the literary society we formed during—and because of—the German Occupation. I will be happy to do so, but with a caveat.
A friend from England sent me a copy of
I realize that our name, the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, is an unusual one and could easily be subjected to ridicule. Would you assure me you will not be tempted to do so? The Society members are very dear to me, and I do not wish them to be perceived as objects of fun by your readers.
Would you be willing to tell me of your intentions for the article and also something of yourself ? If you can appreciate the import of my questions, I should be glad to tell you about the Society. I hope I shall hear from you soon.
Yours sincerely,
10th February, 1946
Mrs. Amelia Maugery
Windcross Manor
La Bouvee
St. Martin’s, Guernsey
Dear Mrs. Maugery,
Thank you for your letter. I am very glad to answer your questions. I did make fun of many war-time situations; the
Since you should know something about me, I have asked the Reverend Simon Simpless, of St. Hilda’s Church near Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, to write to you. He has known me since I was a child and is fond of me. I have asked Lady Bella Taunton to provide a reference for me too. We were fire wardens together during the Blitz and she wholeheartedly dislikes me. Between the two of them, you may get a fair picture of my character.
I am enclosing a copy of a biography I wrote about Anne Bronte, so you can see that I am capable of a different kind of work. It didn’t sell very well—in fact, not at all, but I am much prouder of it than I am of
If there is anything else I can do to assure you of my good will, I will be glad to do so.
Yours sincerely,
12th February, 1946
Dearest Sophie,
Markham V. Reynolds, he of the camellias, has finally materialized. Introduced himself, paid me compliments, and invited me out to dinner—Claridge’s, no less. I accepted regally—Claridge’s, oh yes, I
As Madame Helena said, “The hairs, they are a disaster.” I tried a roll; it fell down. A French twist; it fell down. I was on the verge of tying an enormous red velvet bow on the top of my head when my neighbor Evangeline Smythe came to the rescue, bless her. She’s a genius with my hair. In two minutes, I was a picture of elegance— she caught up all the curls and swirled them around in the back—and I could even move my head. Off I went, feeling perfectly adorable. Not even Claridge’s marble lobby could intimidate
Then Markham V. Reynolds stepped forward, and the bubble popped. He’s dazzling. Honestly, Sophie, I’ve never seen anything like him. Not even the furnace-man can compare. Tan, with blazing blue eyes. Ravishing leather shoes, elegant wool suit, blinding white handkerchief in breast pocket. Of course, being American, he’s tall, and he has one of those alarming American smiles, all gleaming teeth and good humor, but he’s not a genial American. He’s quite impressive, and he’s used to ordering people about—though he does it so easily, they don’t notice.
He’s got that way of believing his opinion is the truth, but he’s not disagreeable about it. He’s too sure he’s right to bother being disagreeable.
Once we were seated—in our own velvet-draped alcove—and all the waiters and stewards and maitres d’hotel were finished fluttering about us, I asked him point-blank why he had sent me those scads of flowers without including any note.
He laughed. “To make you interested. If I had written you directly, asking you to meet me, how would you have replied?” I admitted I would have declined. He raised one pointed eyebrow at me. Was it his fault if he could outwit me so easily?
I was awfully insulted to be so transparent, but he just laughed at me again. And then he began to talk about the war and Victorian literature—he knows I wrote a biography of Anne Bronte—and New York and rationing, and before I knew it, I was basking in his attention, utterly charmed.
Do you remember that afternoon in Leeds when we speculated on the possible reasons why Markham V. Reynolds, Junior, was obliged to remain a man of mystery? It’s very disappointing, but we were completely wrong. He’s not married. He’s certainly not bashful. He doesn’t have a disfiguring scar that causes him to shun daylight. He doesn’t seem to be a werewolf (no fur on his knuckles, anyway). And he’s not a Nazi on the lam (he’d have an accent).
Now that I think about it, maybe he
I think I am a little giddy.
Love,
12th February, 1946
Dear Mrs. Maugery,
Juliet Ashton’s letter is at hand, and I am amazed at its contents. Am I to understand she wishes me to provide a character reference for her? Well, so be it! I cannot impugn her character—only her common sense. She hasn’t any.
War, as you know, makes strange bedfellows, and Juliet and I were thrown together from the very first when we were Fire Wardens during the Blitz. Fire Wardens spent their nights on various London roof-tops, watching out for incendiary bombs that might fall. When they did, we would rush forth with stirrup pump and buckets of sand to stifle any small blaze before it could spread. Juliet and I were paired off to work together. We did not chat, as less conscientious Wardens would have done. I insisted on total vigilance at all times. Even so, I learned a few details of
