anymore. Also, I never did manage to get the cover up, and the upholstery is a bit soggy from a downpour in the Lakes, but I’m sure it will dry out right as rain.
We should be back next week and Evie means to invite you to dine with us. I don’t know if she can cook, but she seems to think so. You might want to eat a little something before you come, just in case.
I happened to hear from a friend in the forces that Johnny arrived safely in France. He wasn’t allowed to tell me where, but I thought you’d like to know.
Warmest regards,
G.
P.S. Since you were responsible for matchmaking us, we’ve decided to name our first child Delilah. Shame if it’s a boy; he won’t much like that.
P.P.S. I can’t imagine it matters, but no, I didn’t drink any of your punch that night. I feel our friendship is stout enough to withstand the truth—your punch is poisonous stuff. Evie liked it well enough. She wants me to ask you for the recipe, but if you’re any friend of mine, you won’t give it to her.
* * *
Wretched Gabriel,
What do you mean the grille isn’t entirely square anymore? And precisely how soggy is my upholstery? Never mind. I’d rather not know. Just dry it off and send it back when you’re finished. Without the sheep!
All my love to you both (in spite of your misbehaving),
Delilah
P.S. Of course Evie can’t cook. Didn’t you ask her that before you married her?
P.P.S. The punch recipe is included.
Delilah nearly added another postscript—this one explaining that she had never made the match between them. She had intended Gabriel for her Nordic blonde friend who modelled nude and Evie had been intended for Quentin Harkness. But Quentin had gone off to drown his sorrows with that dull, grey fellow, Tarquin, and the statuesque Norse model had left on Jack’s arm—Granny Miette’s May Water had failed to work its magic this time. Evie and Gabriel had found each other entirely by chance. Some random alchemy had brought them together. A bit of fairy dust or enchanted moonlight had done the trick, and she couldn’t take credit for it. But Granny Miette had always warned her that magic could be funny like that. Sometimes the merest whisper on the wind was enough to change your fate, and sometimes the thing you wanted so badly your heart burnt cold was simply not to be.
She left the letter as it was and sealed it with a kiss for the newlyweds. She had another letter to write. She wrote every week to Johnny. She never asked him about where he was or what he did. Instead, she gave him London. She walked the streets he loved, gathering up the bits and pieces of his favourite city for him to assemble far away in the muddy fields of France. She wrote to him about fishmongers and cloistered abbeys and barristers with woolly wigs. She wrote about Buckingham Palace and glasses of stout and steak-and-kidney pies, all the things he missed so terribly she gave him in every letter. She walked the places he walked, and she used his words to describe them. Just that morning she had walked to Kensington Gardens and sat under the statue of Peter Pan. She had never seen it before, but like any London child, Johnny had awakened to magic when he had first seen the play, convinced Peter and the children were flying, convinced fairies were real and crocodiles could hold grudges. So she walked to the statue and held hands with the child he had once been. She sketched the little rabbit and a nanny with a pram who walked sedately down the path by the Serpentine. As she sat by the statue, she saw a tiny glimmer of green at the base—a bit of clover, pushing its way to the sun. It shouldn’t have been there, not in the cold and gloom of January. But there it was, green and bright and trying.
She plucked it and put it into her pocket. The news from France was not good. The newspapers were full of things she would not let herself read. But she had done some good, whether accidentally or not. She was responsible for Gabriel
We should be back next week and Evie means to invite you to dine with us. I don’t know if she can cook, but she seems to think so. You might want to eat a little something before you come, just in case.
I happened to hear from a friend in the forces that Johnny arrived safely in France. He wasn’t allowed to tell me where, but I thought you’d like to know.
Warmest regards,
G.
P.S. Since you were responsible for matchmaking us, we’ve decided to name our first child Delilah. Shame if it’s a boy; he won’t much like that.
P.P.S. I can’t imagine it matters, but no, I didn’t drink any of your punch that night. I feel our friendship is stout enough to withstand the truth—your punch is poisonous stuff. Evie liked it well enough. She wants me to ask you for the recipe, but if you’re any friend of mine, you won’t give it to her.
* * *
Wretched Gabriel,
What do you mean the grille isn’t entirely square anymore? And precisely how soggy is my upholstery? Never mind. I’d rather not know. Just dry it off and send it back when you’re finished. Without the sheep!
All my love to you both (in spite of your misbehaving),
Delilah
P.S. Of course Evie can’t cook. Didn’t you ask her that before you married her?
P.P.S. The punch recipe is included.
Delilah nearly added another postscript—this one explaining that she had never made the match between them. She had intended Gabriel for her Nordic blonde friend who modelled nude and Evie had been intended for Quentin Harkness. But Quentin had gone off to drown his sorrows with that dull, grey fellow, Tarquin, and the statuesque Norse model had left on Jack’s arm—Granny Miette’s May Water had failed to work its magic this time. Evie and Gabriel had found each other entirely by chance. Some random alchemy had brought them together. A bit of fairy dust or enchanted moonlight had done the trick, and she couldn’t take credit for it. But Granny Miette had always warned her that magic could be funny like that. Sometimes the merest whisper on the wind was enough to change your fate, and sometimes the thing you wanted so badly your heart burnt cold was simply not to be.
She left the letter as it was and sealed it with a kiss for the newlyweds. She had another letter to write. She wrote every week to Johnny. She never asked him about where he was or what he did. Instead, she gave him London. She walked the streets he loved, gathering up the bits and pieces of his favourite city for him to assemble far away in the muddy fields of France. She wrote to him about fishmongers and cloistered abbeys and barristers with woolly wigs. She wrote about Buckingham Palace and glasses of stout and steak-and-kidney pies, all the things he missed so terribly she gave him in every letter. She walked the places he walked, and she used his words to describe them. Just that morning she had walked to Kensington Gardens and sat under the statue of Peter Pan. She had never seen it before, but like any London child, Johnny had awakened to magic when he had first seen the play, convinced Peter and the children were flying, convinced fairies were real and crocodiles could hold grudges. So she walked to the statue and held hands with the child he had once been. She sketched the little rabbit and a nanny with a pram who walked sedately down the path by the Serpentine. As she sat by the statue, she saw a tiny glimmer of green at the base—a bit of clover, pushing its way to the sun. It shouldn’t have been there, not in the cold and gloom of January. But there it was, green and bright and trying.
She plucked it and put it into her pocket. The news from France was not good. The newspapers were full of things she would not let herself read. But she had done some good, whether accidentally or not. She was responsible for Gabriel
Similar Books
