Having lived so many years as a servant or the daughter of a servant, I knew the interminable way in which society packaged people and the almost impossible feat of rising above one’s station…or, in this case, reputation. Anna’s story mirrored others within the community, some with less favorable futures than hers, and I wondered what could be done to change the course of these women’s lives.
I’d seen it in Asheville, of course, and also in the opportunities the Vanderbilts created to help oppressed or disempowered people change their prospects. Biltmore School of Domestic Science offered training to young black women so they could find gainful employment and dictate their own futures. The Moonlight schools taught illiterate estate workers how to read and write, broadening not only their minds, but their opportunities.
Where would a woman like Anna fit if she wished to grow beyond her reputation?
I happily took over Anna’s responsibilities at the bookshop, leaving her to clean and cook to her heart’s content. She even enjoyed salvaging my attempts at a garden. Within the first week of Oliver’s absence, I found myself wonderfully distracted by sore fingers from binding books as well as by delightful discoveries in the broken manuscripts Enoch recovered, pleasure in storybook reading to some of the children of the town, dinners with Helen…and, occasionally, Victoria, when she could get away.
Oliver’s letters came almost as soon as his train left the station. He’d ceremoniously left one on our bed for me to discover when I came back from seeing him off. Anna found one the next morning, stored in my favorite teacup, and brought it to me straightaway.
Even as I cried, I smiled. I’d left letters in the pockets of his jacket, in a pair of socks, and one carefully tucked within his Bible. If he received half the pleasure I did at my little discoveries, then perhaps the distance and the uncertainty wouldn’t feel so vast.
Victoria made the two-mile trek from Camden House to the gatehouse twice a week during her mother’s shopping trips to Keswick, Durham, or Yorkshire. She happily joined in our book talk and gardening, and Anna took her into the kitchen and taught her how to make a few special treats.
The routine in my little world became enough to keep my mind busy during Oliver’s absence, and the nights were punctuated by books and my bridegroom’s letters. For he was as prolific in letter writing as he was in charm, and I harbored no complaints. If we couldn’t be together in person, then at least I could have his words. He sprinkled a great deal of himself in those wonderful words.
We wrote of Anna and her situation and women similar to her, attempting to think of creative solutions. I even hired one of Anna’s friends, Ellen, to help with the laundry once a week so she could earn extra money. Every day, after Ellen finished her duties, I helped Anna teach her to read.
Oliver encouraged me to write to Lark and make arrangements for her to travel to England. Having her safely away from Wolfe and sharing my castle with me until Oliver’s return would ease the ache a little.
Two weeks into our separation, one of his letters gave me pause.
I cannot understand why the deed has not arrived to you as of yet, my darling. I received a letter from Mr. Long yesterday that confirmed he’d sent it at least two weeks ago. But do not be anxious, since the post during the war is inconsistent, at best. I feel certain it should arrive within a week or two, and then you can place it in our box. It will be safe there.
I wouldn’t have been concerned, but the very next week one of Oliver’s letters arrived with the seal broken. The postmaster apologized, his face growing redder the more he stuttered his regrets, but I just smiled and thanked him, thrilled to have words from my husband.
But the next week, another letter arrived, and something about the way the envelope seal hung loosely from the paper, as if it had never been closed at all, left an uneasy twist in my stomach. When I mentioned it to Anna, she suggested someone may have steamed the envelope open, but I dismissed the idea. Who would care to read my private letters from Oliver?
The third week, four letters arrived over two days. As soon as I finished at Enoch’s, I rushed home to close myself away in our library to pour over Oliver’s intimate messages. Though he mentioned a few elements of the war in passing, such as the tasteless rations or uncomfortable sleeping conditions, his letters kept his usual optimistic tone. Though once, he spent an entire page writing about a situation where one of his fellow soldiers died in his arms. He’d prayed with him at the last, offering some solace as they sat in the muddy ruins of a once beautiful French field. I prayed constantly for Oliver. For his heart as it stretched against the wounds and devastation of war.
He wrote mostly of books. Of his favorites, recalling my mind to certain scenes or characters. We shared ideas of our shop, and how we wanted to create a story world for anyone to enjoy, even those without the money to purchase new books. And he wrote of us. Special memories. Sweet scenes from our lives.
I dreamed of unpinning your hair last night. It is one of my favorite memories, the way it falls over my skin like silk and smells of spring. Perhaps our daughter will have hair like yours, and your magnificent eyes, and my dimple. No, perhaps not a dimple. I feel certain that a little girl who looked like her lovely mother and had a dimple would undo me.
Every letter ended the same way.
Until we meet again, my love.
Oliver
I often read
