“I, for one, think that the baby will be the best medicine for everyone,” suggested Gladys as they began to talk again about the future. Death had a way of burying the living in the past. Gladys knew it well enough, having lost her mother so tragically. So she was just the one to pull her friends out of their grief.
Dottie nodded, her eyes still reddened by the burn of tears. “You’re right. There haven’t been a lot of reasons for hope lately. But this”—she rubbed her stomach with a flattened palm—“this is all the reason I need.”
The women grew pensive with their own thoughts, and for a moment, all that could be heard were the staccato clicks of their knitting needles. Metal on metal.
“That would be a nice name for a girl,” offered Margaret. “Hope.”
“Hope Beck,” Dottie tried. “I like that. It’s simple. I’ll add it to the list.”
Gladys squirmed, and Margaret asked her what was wrong.
“It’s nothing.”
“Gladys, I have never known you to keep something to yourself.”
Gladys pursed her lips but continued. “I like the name too. And I hate to be the one to throw water on that, but will the baby be a Beck?”
Margaret and Dottie looked at each other and realized the truth of her words. Without a marriage, the baby would be born a Troutwine.
The color drained from Dottie’s face, and she put her hands to her forehead. “Oh my goodness, she’s right.”
It struck Margaret that Dottie had never lamented the loss of the army stipend that she would have received if she’d been John’s widow. But the withholding of the legitimacy of his last name seemed to crush her.
“And the baby can’t be a Troutwine either. My father would never agree to a bas—”
“Don’t say it, Dottie,” interrupted Gladys with a force that took Margaret and Dottie by surprise. “Don’t even think that word.”
Margaret nodded. “What you mean to say is that your father would not agree to a child born out of wedlock sharing his name.”
Dottie’s cheeks colored. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I meant to say.”
They turned upon hearing a knock at the door.
“That will be Oliver,” said Gladys. “And don’t you two get any ideas about what that means. I told him we’d be here tonight, and he wanted to stop by and check on you, Dottie.”
Margaret held back a smile. Gladys could pretend all she wanted.
But it was not Oliver at the door. It was George.
Chapter Eleven
Tom set his pencils down on the desk near the fireplace in the Browns’ house. He was testing out a sketch of a corncockle and wanted to get it just right before adding it to the bottom of the next letter. Its tips were a vibrant pink, which was difficult to accomplish with the limited colors in the box he’d bought at the newsstand. But at last he was satisfied and began to fade it into a white at the flower’s base.
“Are you sure?” he asked William.
“I’m sure.”
“But your cast is finally off and you’ve healed up well. You could start writing these letters yourself.”
“Nah. Your handwriting is better than mine anyway. Probably from all those papers you wrote in college, Professor.”
Tom shrugged. He wasn’t going to put up any more of a fight. He’d come to anticipate writing to Margaret as much as anything he’d ever enjoyed. William continued to dictate, though he gave Tom carte blanche to fill in words of his own to make it sound better.
“Besides,” William continued. “The girl has lost her brother. She needs constancy right now. No need to give her a jolt with my scribble when she’s probably come to love receiving the envelopes you’ve written.”
They both fell silent. John’s absence weighed on them heavily and the mention of his name always brought a fresh sadness. Though he’d had the most comfortable bed in the attic, they left it vacant because something just didn’t feel right about taking his spot.
Tom would give anything to be kept awake by his friend’s snoring.
Tom nodded at William’s suggestion. It made sense. No need to rock the boat for Margaret just yet. Surely she felt the loss even more acutely.
Victoria lifted her shaggy head, pulling them out of their thoughts. Her hearing was attuned to the particular sound of Mr. Brown’s bicycle as he rode down the path that led to his house. She was always several seconds ahead of any human ears.
Mrs. Brown came downstairs, as was her habit, when this played out, and stood in front of the mirror by the door fluffing her thinning gray hair.
Tom smiled. What a delight to witness a couple married so long yet still preparing to greet the other with the care that one might with a new love.
If he ever married, he would like for it to look like this.
As predicted, Tom saw Mr. Brown set the bicycle against the side of the house and come around to the front door. William jumped up and opened it for him. He had a large parcel under his arm, which he handed to William.
“I ran into your Winters fellow while I was picking up flour near Littlecote,” he said. “He asked if I could bring this to you.”
“What is it?” William asked as he pulled a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and started to cut the twine.
“Letters. A couple dozen of them, your Winters said. Looks like your family had the wrong address this whole time. They were sending them to that house in Aldbourne that you were originally assigned to. Since no one was at the carriage house, they’d just been collecting. The owners never noticed until they were given a new soldier to use the space. They drove them over to Littlecote hoping someone would know where you were.”
It was the longest string of sentences Tom had ever heard Mr. Brown say and he was charmed by the joy in the old man’s eyes at delivering something that had troubled William for the past few months.
William opened the parcel fully and looked at each one as if it were a Christmas gift.
“They’ve all written,” he said. “Even my father.” He held them all to his chest. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go read them upstairs.”
* * *
February 1944
My dearest Margaret,
William’s latest letter began the same way they always did, but it had a ring of sincerity each time.
Tom found a new word to share with you—“bespoke.” So you can add that to your list, though if you use it in Brooklyn, people might look at you funny. It’s the British word for “handmade.” As in, “The scarves you made for Tom and me over Christmas were bespoke.” I tried to find words to rhyme with it, and though Tom initially teased me, his competitive side—silent but deadly—came out and he made some woefully inaccurate attempts. But, after putting our heads together and setting the ground rule that the most authentic rhyme would be dual syllabic, we arrived at a few: “awoke, provoke, revoke.” We challenge you to try all of those in a sentence!
Enclosed, you will find a birthday gift. “But you don’t know when my birthday is,” you will protest. And the lady doth be right. However, I looked at my calendar and I realized that we’ve been exchanging these letters for nearly half a year. Half a year—can you believe it? Anyway, I have either missed your birthday entirely, in which I apologize and sent this belatedly, or I am impressively early. I’ll hope for the latter.