Sarah opened her eyes suddenly and saw a bright line of light where the curtains on the south-facing window had not been closed carefully enough the previous evening. She smiled. It often happened when she was tired out, the candle flickering in her other hand, the window completely black unless there was a moon reflecting off the snow.
What a difference it made to getting up in the morning when there was sunlight. She got out of bed, wrapped the extra rug from the foot of the bed round her shoulders and tramped across the wooden floor to stand on the rag rug she’d made in her first year as a bride in her new home.
She drew the curtains back, looked in amazement at green fields and trees dripping in the sunlight. The last day of January and there was no new snow in the night. Clearly it was not so cold, for only in a thaw would there be jewels on the trees.
She felt her spirits rise as she pulled on her morning clothes: a heavy skirt and a very old silk blouse, many years ago a Sunday best, now worn and much-mended but treasured for its continuing warmth under a knitted woollen top.
Saturday and no Castle Dillon today, her work all up-to-date, she could do some of the things she only thought about when what had to be done was only too obvious. And then, of course, it would be light much longer than last Saturday. She’d not have to remember to get in the wood or the water, before the day ended in darkness as early as four o’clock.
She’d had some strange dreams last night and now images began to float back to her. She imagined she could smell hawthorn, the May blossom, and the touch of the rug on her shoulders felt like the delicious warmth when one could stand in the doorway, back to the sun and feel the kindly heat taking away the ache produced by heavy buckets and tending to the fire on the hearth.
She laughed at herself as her bare feet got cold, pulled on her clothes and ran downstairs to stir the fire and make porridge.
She worked all morning and marvelled that the sense of pleasure simply did not fade with the passing hours. When the postman came into the kitchen and placed a fat letter on the table, she simply assumed that Jonathan had been able to spend a whole evening by his own fireside. This was how he always tried to share it with her.
After the postman left she went upstairs, washed and changed, the letter sitting on the table like a child’s promised treat, only to be savoured when the appropriate things had been done. Laughing at herself for her imaginings, she made up the fire, peeled vegetables for the midday meal and finally sat down at the table to open the envelope and smooth out the multiple sheets.
My dearest Sarah,
How I wish I could take you in my arms and whisper in your ear, for what I have to tell you makes me so hesitant and so anxious, lest you should think me in any way unfeeling. I know not where to begin, alternately overcome by joy, and then by the frustration of not being able to speak directly to you.
My dear one, I have just received two letters both of which I should have received several weeks ago. One of them contained a death certificate for my wife issued by Dr Leslie, the medical attendant at both the workhouse and The Retreat, plus an account for funeral expenses. It also enclosed a letter in which I was informed officially by the director of The Retreat that my wife died only three days after I left you.
You will indeed remember only too well that she had fever. It seems the advice I was given when it was diagnosed was not alarmist, as we might have thought. Burial was required immediately because of the nature of the fever she had. There was simply no question of informing me, so that I could make appropriate arrangements or return to attend the funeral.
The second letter, which I received at the same time, was a note from my brother-in-law written some days after the funeral itself. A man considerably older than myself, he is somewhat reserved, so what he said took me aback completely. I shall copy it for you just as he wrote it:
‘Jonathan,’ he began, ‘you have done your part. You said you could provide well for my sister when you married her and you have done that. You have ensured that she wanted for nothing, “in sickness and in health” as we Anglicans avow. Now, she has no more earthly needs once the funeral expenses are settled.
If I may be so bold, I would like to tell you that if you were to engage with some other woman and want to make her your wife, then none of us would wish to see you delay making a new life for yourself. It may well be a custom in your faith group to show respect for the lost one by delaying any other potential marriage, but I hope you will not feel bound by this tradition at the expense of your own happiness.’
My own happiness, my love, my Sarah. He may or may not have found out that we are friends, but his words are sincerely meant and they contain a gift I could not have dared hope for.
You gave me your promise last year, beneath the summer-leafed trees on The Mall, may I now ask you, in all humility, to make me the happiest man alive and name a day, as soon as maybe, when we can become man and wife?
Please write as soon as you can. I am not sure I can contain my excitement or my joy till I have your letter in my hand.
My love and thoughts are ever with you,