The forest darkened just as I reached the top of a familiar hill and the world opened to one of my favorite views. The hillside sloped downward toward Biltmore, framed by trees on either side and with a molten horizon glowing behind the tawny hue of the house. Despite the many castles I’d seen portrayed in fairy tales or European architecture books, nothing compared to this breathtaking collision of two adored sites. The house with its spires and gleaming roofline cradled by the familiar flow of those blue-tinged mountains. Two completely different worlds, but fitted together as if they belonged to each other.
I squeezed my parcel closer to my chest and smiled at the scene. Had God offered the same type of unexpected but beautiful belonging between the two very different worlds of Oliver’s and mine?
The breeze rushed up the hillside and blew against my cheeks, bringing the scent of pine. Lights glowed in the house’s windows along with the faintest twinkle of electric Christmas lights. It was magnificent.
Christmas at Biltmore held no equal. I’d witnessed it my whole life. The wreaths adorning the dark-stained front doors, the holly strategically draped over mantels, the carefully placed trees of varying styles throughout the public rooms, and, of course, the icing on the yule log. Then there was the massive Christmas tree in the seventy-foot banquet hall, lit with electric lights and adorned with Mrs. Vanderbilt’s gifts for all the servants’ children.
Even as I slipped around to the bachelors’ wing entry, the pine fragrance encompassed me and helped dampen my previous concern for my sister. Perhaps her behavior was related to going from the responsibilities of being a baker’s assistant to those of being a banker’s wife. The contrast must be astounding. My mind embraced the explanation. My heart failed to agree.
I rushed up the servants’ stairs and avoided two other maids in conversation by slipping into the storage closet to let them pass before completing the last few steps to my room.
Two letters and a package. I opened the envelope with the oldest date first.
December 9, 1915
My dear fairy,
How can you write a letter in such a way that I feel as though you’re sitting across from me? It helps with the distance, though I’d much rather have you really sitting across from me, talking of books or whatever we liked. Or not talking at all.
I received three of your letters in one collection today. I fear the war may have disrupted the post, but as long as your words arrive, I will not complain in what manner they do. Thank you for opening your heart to me through your letters. I feel as though I knew you in part while we could talk of stories and characters in Biltmore’s library, or life and nature over tea, but now, as you reveal more of who you are, my admiration for you grows with each letter.
Thank you for sending your tintype. I can almost make out the flakes in your eyes if I stare at it hard enough. I carry it in my school jacket pocket to keep you near me as I sit through tedious lectures or long hours of study.
As I enter the end of this term, I am thinking more and more of what really matters. I can think of three things. My faith, you, and my country. Fewer of my friends will return to university for spring term. They are enlisting, and I am compelled to do the same, though I have not decided for certain. I covet your prayers, my dear girl, especially for my friends and my brother, currently fighting on various fronts.
There is talk of conscription. Father will not like it and Mother will fall into hysterics. They’d hoped to keep at least one son away from the battle, but how can I refuse the call to fight for my country. I’d hoped to wait to enlist until I’d finished my education, but the need is great and our forces are floundering at almost every turn.
Which brings me to my current endeavor. I have employed what workers I can find to secure us a home, though it will be a unique one to start. It’s not a castle, but you might find it a bit romantic and castle-like. Or at least I hope so. It should meet our needs for both privacy and distance, from my mother more than anyone else, and give you ample access to Fenwick, should you need it. It’s taking longer than I’d hoped due to having to correspond with the workers from university instead of being on-site with them. Also, the number of able-bodied carpenters is drastically reduced due to so many being enlisted.
Well, that is enough talk on wars for now, but do pray for me as I decide what is God’s will. I seek to serve Him and love you in all of my choices.
I’ve heard that Christmas is beautiful at Biltmore. Could you describe it for me? Fenwick decorates a tree in the middle of town, and all the shops sport their finest festive decor. You would love it. It’s a storybook place.
I cannot wait to know what you think of the little Christmas gift I’ve sent along with my letter. Victoria helped me choose the perfect collection of items for it. She giggled so much in the shop, the store clerk thought I was tickling her, but in reality, the delight of choosing a gift for you proved amusement enough.
I must say, my face was sore afterwards from grinning.
I hope your Christmas is a happy one and that this gift will help me feel
