Dear Missy,
There are so many reasons I wish I didn’t have to write this. The first is obvious—I have to write it while I still can. Eventually the mists will descend and swallow me whole, and then the Leo you know will be swept away for good. So while I have this brief and terrible period of clarity, I have to say the things that must be said. Forgive my poor scrawl—this is written in haste. Not to get it over with, but to make sure it’s done properly, before it’s too late.
Firstly, the money. Horace Simmonds will keep an eye on our investments, and we should muddle along for a good while yet, but if it comes to it, you must do as you see fit. Don’t worry about me; I will cease to have any say in the matter anyway. But know that whatever you decide, you have my blessing.
Secondly, Melanie and Alistair. I am sorry I never warned you of Alistair’s plans, which were evident to me. I thought it might not come to pass, but now that it has, please, Missy—when they finally go, send him off with a smile. That day when we took him to those grim digs in Selly Oak—I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I remember your face that afternoon, your fingers clutching his sweater. You smiled then, so bravely, and you must do it again. Because if you don’t, you will lose him anyway.
When he is gone, lean on Melanie. She was always my girl, wasn’t she? From the moment she was born, my little curled-up hedgehog. But I know her spikes have irked you. You find her difficult for the same reason I admire her so: she reminds us both of you. Try to recognize Mel’s fine qualities as your own, and rely on them to carry you through this. She will be your rock.
I don’t deserve such an accolade. One of my greatest regrets is not being a truer and more devoted husband to you. Now I sit amidst all the books I wrote, I wonder if I couldn’t have written a little less and attended a little more. You were always there, always present, always loving, however hard you tried to hide it, while I . . . well, perhaps my fate is a fitting one, to be forever absent.
My other great regret—the main reason I wish I didn’t have to write this letter—is that I failed you. I remember Bertie. That night you told me—I did everything wrong. The shock of it, the anger, and the grief . . . and then it was blown away in one of those hideous blizzards where everything blurs and I can barely hold on to who I am. But it came back, bit by bit, and I pieced it together again. So I remember you telling me about him. And I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to say then what I can write now: let it go. The guilt, the pain, the loss—anything you are carrying with you is not yours to bear alone. I shoulder it now, and when I go I will take it with me.
We had such happy times, you and I, and that’s what I want you to hold on to. More than half a century rubbing along, and that’s something I don’t regret. You were always the one, Missy. The one I saw across the room at the St. Botolph’s party, sipping your wine and looking so out of place. The one walking down Sidgwick Avenue with the sun in your curls. The one swaying in my arms in the cellars of the Cambridge Union, with tears on your cheeks. You thought I didn’t see, but I did. I just never said. I never said.
I’m sorry for all the things I didn’t say, all the things I wasn’t. But I hope you’re not sorry. Don’t spend what’s left of your life feeling guilty or apologetic—move on. Onwards and upwards, Mrs. Carmichael. I’m going to forget about you; you have my permission to do the same. Let go. But know this: we may have sung different songs, and sometimes we were out of tune, but I think we harmonized rather well in the end. Don’t you?