~·~

 

“When we look at the sky on a clear night we see two distinct classes of objects. The early astronomers called one class the planets, or wanderers; and the other class, the fixed stars. The term, “fixed star,” is a misnomer… There are no stars whose positions are fixed; they are all in motion, with reference to any point, line or plane we may define in general terms.”

from Stellar Motions, by William Wallace Campbell

 

~·~

before

November, 1915

Her hair was red, red like the leaves that crunched underfoot as the young man approached her. She was lost in thought, and he was, too. He didn’t see her at first; he would’ve gone a different way, kept closer to the winding gravel path that wandered down the sloping hillside if he had known anyone was there, least of all a woman, walking alone. Despite what people thought about him—despite what people outright said about him—he wasn’t the sort to prey.

But, his head was down as he walked, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his fine wool trousers, his shoulders slumped as if weary from carrying the burden of his thoughts. So he didn’t see her, not until he was only a few yards away from her.

Not until it was too late.

“Oh!” As soon as she saw him, the girl scrambled to her feet, brushing the flakes of bark and bits of leaves from her skirt, then clasping her hands in front of her. “I’m so sorry, f-forgive me, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” the man replied. “Truly, it’s—”

“—mean to disturb you on your walk,” she continued, her brown eyes wide and doelike. “I’ll j-just go in now, f-forgive me.”

“You haven’t disturbed me,” the man replied, his tone bemused, almost a little wry. “Do I look disturbed?”

Around the pair of them, the trees rustled their leaves. The oaks were old, and the humans who walked beneath their canopy were young, yet. A pair of saplings, one of them trembling in an unseen wind, and the other standing stout and strong despite everything that had assailed him.

The trees watched, and the trees listened.

“Y-you don’t appear disturbed, no sir,” the girl said.

“Sir,” the man scoffed. And at this, the girl looked up, curious.

“You’re—”

“Yes, I know who I am, thank you.” He brushed aside the words almost as if she had accused him of something unspeakable and unforgivable. “The wayward son, the black sheep, so to speak. Every family’s got one. I suppose if you’re lucky your family has two, and that way they can keep each other company rather than dragging down the good children with them.”

Silence followed this. The wind blew, and even the trees seemed to dip their heads, hearing—the way the girl did—the hidden pain, the resentment, beneath his clever words, his flippant tone.

“I mean to say, you’re… you’re a member of the family,” she clarified, voice mild and steady, when the moment had passed. “And I am your sister’s new lady’s maid.”

“Ah,” he said, and nodded.

For a moment, he seemed almost abashed, scratching at the side of his bare forearm absently, pushing his rolled shirtsleeves back up, and once again tucking his hands into his pockets. “You mean to say that I am your employer, and therefore… it is you who must defer to me, whether or not I was the one doing the… disturbing.”

She nodded at this. The sun glinted off of her hair where she stood, but it was to the young man the trees looked next. They marked the familiarity of his features, having seen generations of his ancestors walk these same paths. It was easy to see how he had come from that illustrious line: He had the same golden hair, wavy and a little wild, not tamed and slicked-back like his elder brother kept it, the trees noted. The eyes were the same, though: such a pale blue they made the clear sky above look washed out by comparison. It was those pale eyes he lifted to watch the girl, and beneath them, a curve of a smile, just a lift to the corners of his mouth.

“I will go into the house,” she said quietly. “Good day, sir.”

She turned, and made to go back towards the house, picking her steps carefully as she maneuvered up the rocky embankment along the stream. Even the trees could tell how much he wished to reach out to offer his hand to her, the way a gentleman would; even the trees could tell how much he did not wish to frighten her, any more than he already had. Propriety, and decorum, and appearances—

“Dash it all,” he said, stepping towards her, his hand outstretched. “Come on, take hold of this; I’ll help you up.”

“I was quite capable of m-making my way down here, sir,” she replied, not lifting her gaze from each placement of her booted feet. “I’m sure I am grateful for your offer, but—”

“Down is not the same as up,” he said, exasperated. “Come on. I’m not going to tell anyone back home that you’ve gone and sullied yourself, taking my hand.”

She hesitated, then reached out, and her hand clasped his. He was firm and strong, hands soft like a nobleman’s; surely he would notice how hers were rough from her prior work. A man like him never had to scrub floors or boil laundry. A man like him lived a life as tender as his hands.

“Thank you,” she said, when she’d clambered up the bank, and stood beside him; her head came to his shoulder, but the trees could see she was no child. Just a woman, fine-boned and lovely, and small beside his towering height.

“You’re welcome, Miss…?”

“Kathleen,” she said, with a proper curtsey. “Kathleen Dunbar. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And you’re Meg’s, what, maid?” he said, when she came up from the curtsey; they started walking slowly back towards the house. “What all does that mean? Like a valet?”

Kathleen smiled at his easygoing tone. “Yes, of a sort. I tend to her wardrobe, her hair, her personal care. I help Lady Margaret with anything she needs, any… repairs, alterations. Packing and unpacking, when she travels. Your mother had one, I believe.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes. She would’ve.”

Both of them paused out of respect. His mother had taken ill shortly after Margaret’s birth; he’d been away at boarding school in those days. Neither wanted to speak of it.

The two fell into an easy walk, the urgency to return having dissipated now that she was beside him, replaced with a different sort of awareness. Above their heads, the oak leaves rustled. “And Meg hasn’t told you all about me? God, that sounds absolutely narcissistic. I mean to say, Meggie hasn’t warned you about me?”

“Should she have?” Kathleen arched an auburn brow at him, and felt a flutter of nerves at the way his smile widened. “What ought she have warned me about? Anything in particular?”

“Oh, yes,” he enthused. “There’s a whole swath of sins I am supposedly responsible for. Where should I begin? Once, I knocked over a crystal fruit bowl given to my grandmother by… was it a queen, or a king? I forget. Anyway, it shattered, and it cracked the floor, and the butler boxed my ears and when my father found out he cuffed them as well, and I was sent to bed with no dinner, and that’s just the start of my life of crime and dissipation.”

Kathleen laughed out loud at this. Beside her, her companion grinned as well.

She shook her head. “No. She hasn’t told me about that—likely because she wasn’t born yet when it happened.”

“I never said how old I was,” he replied. “I could’ve done that the day before leaving for university.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

The two of them walked on. And then, with a sidelong glance at her face, he began again: “Let’s do this all over, shall we? Introductions, I mean. Since you haven’t heard anything about me, I might as well be a stranger to you, and we can start with a clean slate. What do you say?”

Somewhere in the middle of his pitch, he’d turned, and begun walking backwards, just in front of her, with a carefree lightness to his steps.

“A clean slate?” Kathleen seemed to consider this. “I would be a very poor Christian if I did not accept an olive branch when it was offered. Very well.”

“Wonderful.” He beamed at her, and extended his hand for her to shake. “George Whitmore, at your service.”

“Kathleen Dunbar, at yours,” she replied, and shook the proffered hand.

“A pleasure,” he said, warmly. And she believed him. The way the word settled in his mouth, like a boiled sweet he was intent on savoring. His eyes were warm; he made her feel.

“I’m sure your father is delighted that you’ve come back for the holidays,” Kathleen ventured, all politeness. “That is—you are planning to stay for Christmas, aren’t you?”

In an instant, she knew it had been the wrong thing to say. George scoffed. “No. Well, yes. I’m glad to see Meg.”

“She does speak…” Kathleen fumbled for the words, “quite fondly of you.”

“Ah! And you’d said she hadn’t—”

“I said she hadn’t warned me about you,” Kathleen teased, “And she hadn’t. But she did say that her favorite brother hadn’t been around in ages, and that I would find him quite charming when and if he did choose to come home.”

“And you don’t take that as a warning?” George smiled. “My charm?”

Kathleen felt something warm gather in the pit of her belly. “Should I?”

“That remains to be seen, I guess.”

The truth was, she had been warned of him, but it had mostly been from George and Margaret’s elder brother, the heir, Albert. To him, this was George, the wayward son. The scamp, the one who never took anything seriously. So very different from the dutiful, obedient son that Albert had comfortably and smugly cast himself as.

But from Margaret, Kathleen had heard a different tale. George, her own Joji, with the patience of a saint, who would let her dress him in all of her scarves and beads and beg for stories until his voice was gone. He would, apparently, oblige her.

George was Margaret’s clear favorite. And Margaret was a dear, a sweet child who cried at the thought of lying, and would surely be devoured by society and whatever awful, titled man her father chose for her.

Both of the accounts painted different tones to the portrait that was George, in her  mind. Kathleen trusted Margaret’s assessment. But it did not mean she ignored Albert’s.

At any rate, she was attempting to give George the benefit of the doubt. Whatever she knew—whatever she had been told—he was his own person. He at least deserved that from her.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Kathleen gave him a small, close-mouthed smile. “Is t-that the going rate?”

George gave her a sidelong glance at this, and then burst out laughing.

“I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Well,” he sighed, wiping his eyes with his hands. “I think I like you, Miss Dunbar.”

“I fear I am in very grave danger of liking you as well,, Mr. Whitmore.”

“May I accompany you back up to the house?”

“You may.”

He offered her his arm, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. And the two of them walked side-by-side, out of the forest, into a clear, sunny autumn day.

 

~·~ 

BRITONS

LORD KITCHENER WANTS YOU

 ‘Men, Materials & Money are the immediate necessities.

Does the call of duty find no response in you until reinforced—

Let us rather say superseded—

By the call of compulsion?’ 

ENLIST TO–DAY.

 

~·~

 

January, 1916

He was not sulking.

Sulking was for boys, for children, and he was a man, and therefore it was impossible that he was sulking. He was simply

George kicked at a rock, and felt a vicious sort of satisfaction as it went sailing off into the trees, into the underbrush.

An instant later, a sharp cry came from the direction the rock had gone.

George straightened up, nervous.

Perhaps it had hit some animal, some…

When Miss Dunbar came out of the trees instead, he felt the familiar and ever-present sense of regret and embarrassment creep up from his belly to his throat. Her red hair was vivid and unmistakable, even tucked up underneath a knit cap. Her form was swathed in a thick, winter coat.

In her hand, she held a rock.

“Oh God,” he said, striding forward, “I’m so very sorry, did I—”

“There are other ways to get my attention, Mr. Whitmore.” Kathleen tossed the rock in the air a little, catching it in her mittened hand easily. “And no, you didn’t hit me. It just went sailing past my head—you have a way of disrupting people’s calm, Mr. Whitmore. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“My father,” George replied, dryly, “and often. Miss Dunbar, I’m terribly sorry.”

“You didn’t hit me.” She tossed him the rock. He caught it. “And you didn’t know I was there, so… don’t trouble yourself over it.”

He hesitated, and then nodded.

“Besides, I was just going back up into the house,” Kathleen continued. “I won’t trouble you.”

“You’re no trouble,” came his swift reply. “Really. I ought to go, especially after throwing a rock at your head…”

Kathleen smiled, and turned a little away from him. She was red-cheeked from the cold, her neck wrapped in a long, rather lumpy scarf, the ends tucked into her coat.

“We seem to keep meeting here in this part of the woods.”

“We do,” he replied, mouth curved into a wry smile. “You seem to be quite the outdoorswoman, Miss Dunbar.”

She blushed a little, but shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I suppose. I just… there are times when I prefer solitude. It gives one a chance to think.”

“I can understand that.”

“You can?” She seemed to be a little surprised at this, as if anticipating a different reaction.

“I needed to get away,” George said, nodding. “From… everything. It’s stifling, back there.”

She nodded. For a time, the pair of them stood there, silently. Not knowing where to go, how to proceed. After a moment, George gestured to a fallen log, wide and sturdy enough to sit on.

Miss Dunbar followed.

They sat, rather carefully (on her part) side-by-side, on the log.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Although… I don’t suppose my opinion is, well… go on, then.”

“No, your opinion is precisely the one I’m interested in,” George declared. He felt right about it, and he rarely felt wrong in matters such as these—the judging of one’s character. There was something about her that drew him in; he wanted to know her, but could hardly know where and how to begin. Especially given his usual blundering enthusiasm.

And the fact that he’d nearly hit her with a rock.

“Let’s play pretend,” he suggested. “Just for out here, just for in the woods. I won’t be the second son of an Earl, and we’ll just be… two people.”

She stared at him. “I don’t think—I mean to say, in the eyes of God, we are equals, but in the eyes of… society, your family, don’t you—”

“I haven’t a care for what they think,” he said, scooping up a chunk of the log’s bark, turning the piece over and over in his hands. “If I wanted more of their opinions I’d go back inside.”

Her playful, knowing gaze caught his; he had the sense that she knew precisely what he was speaking about, even if decorum—and the differences of their station in life—prevented her from saying so. He so fiercely wanted it to be otherwise.

“Mr. Whitmore, I—”

“Please,” he said, voice gentle, eyes clear and kind. “Can you call me George?”

“George,” Kathleen said, testing the name, looking up as the trees swayed overhead. Something about this place, this forest, and the game they were playing seemed to have emboldened her.

He smiled. “I want to know… I’m thinking of enlisting.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Why ever would you want to do that?”

“I need to… I need to go. Go somewhere.”

“Then go abroad, go to—oh, I don’t know—wherever you can,” she enthused. “I’m sure you can go, if you asked to—”

She halted her words, then, her cheeks coloring. George felt a rush of humbling awareness at the realization that he had the means to run away.

“You think, if I ask my father for money—”

“Please, I didn’t—”

“—he would give it to me?” George said, and that lump of embarrassment settled in his throat. “And you’re right. I could run. I must sound like an idiot, complaining about, well, everything.”

She blinked at him.

“You can be honest with me, Miss Dunbar.”

She didn’t say anything. Not for a long while. But then she wet her lips with her tongue, and spoke one word: “Kathleen.”

“What?”

“You can call me Kathleen,” she said softly. “If you are George, and we are equals—then I am Kathleen.”

George’s smile broadened. His nerves felt all fluttery, all of a sudden. Like a sudden burst of warm, summer’s air had swept through the frozen woods, gathered him up in its embrace.

“Kathleen,” he repeated.

She smiled.

“George, I do believe that if you have your mind set on something, not even good sense can turn you away from it.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, smiling.

“Just… be safe,” she continued, her expression growing somber. “Your family—well, they may have an… overbearing way of showing it, but they do love you.”

“I know,” he said, reaching his hand out, setting it down on the fallen log between them, close to her hand, but not touching it. “And I will.”

—

 

during

May, 1916

Dear Miss Dunbar,

Having written to my family and performed my due diligence in keeping them abreast of all the news fit to make them worry over me or chastise me should I return from the war, I hope you don’t mind receiving a letter from me as well. After our first meeting I confess I thought of you often, mainly because you were the only one I could think of back home who would be stout enough of heart and dry enough of humor to tell me things precisely as they are. If this is not so please disregard this letter in the most decisive and pleasing way possible—perhaps throw it into the river and watch it drift away, thinking one last pitiful thought of the ill-behaved wretch who dared trouble you on your pleasant walk?

If you don’t mind, then read on. To be honest with you, Miss Dunbar, I am writing from beneath a very soggy canvas tent here somewhere outside of Ypres, I think. Our transport out here from HQ was on the train, via cattle cars which looked and smelled of their former occupants. After some shuffling around we marched in and made camp here, on a bit of a high spot (if it could be called such) down below a very muddy, churned-up field. Considering how much gas the Germans have used so far I’m shocked we had a brief glimpse of sky today. But, don’t worry, I’ve tempered my expectations suitably and will be expecting to not see it again for at least a week.

They say over a million men enlisted in January of this year. Given the amount of men here I’d believe it. There’s also been talk of extending conscription to married men. One of the lads here said that given what he knows of his parents’ marriage, he’s surprised more married men haven’t rushed to enlist to get away. What a cynic! I told him that what little I knew of mine, Belgium wouldn’t be far enough from my father. But, alas, mother went as far as it is possible to go away from him. Ah, forgive me, Miss Dunbar. I thought writing you would cheer me up and now you see my black mood has totally ruined an otherwise thrilling letter. Farewell, give Meggie a kiss for me and tell her to be perfectly rotten as often as she can manage it.

 

Yours,

George

 

~·~

 

Germans Gain Ground Near Ypres by Using Asphyxiating Gas

Sir John French last night communicated the following, dated yesterday: Yesterday (Thursday) evening the enemy developed an attack on the French troops on our left in the neighbourhood of Bixschoote and Langemarck, on the north east of Ypres salient. This attack was preceded by a heavy bombardment, the enemy at the same time making use of a large number of appliances for the production of asphyxiating gases. The quantity produced indicates long and deliberate preparation for the employment of devices contrary to the terms of the Hague Convention, to which the enemy subscribed…

The Daily Mirror

 

~·~

 

May, 1916

Dear Mr. Whitmore,

I have no objections to receiving letters from you, although you must not think that all of your family wishes to chastise you. In fact, Margaret implored me to send you ‘all her love’ and tell you that she did not intend to be rotten, but was being very good all of the time. She laughed while saying this and I can only surmise that there is some private joke between the two of you about her character or conduct. Margaret is a lovely young woman who does not have a mean-spirited bone in her body, as you likely are well aware. But, she sends her love, and urges you to be safe.

When you came for the holidays I don’t think your family anticipated that you were serious about enlisting. They’re all still a bit vexed at you, but I expect you can manage to bear the feeling. Deep down I believe they love you very much, even your father. Granted, it might be very deep down. But you are his son, how could he not love you? Fathers are often harshest on the sons they wish to mold in their own image, in my experience.

Your friend takes a rather cynical view of marriage, but I must confess, my own elder sister has what sounds to be an equally unhappy one, so I can’t entirely disagree with him. But I should wonder why folks even marry in the first place if they cannot stand their partner before marriage. Or is it like an illness where it only grows after the vows have been said? At any rate I’m not likely to marry so it remains purely a hypothetical question.

You wrote of the use of chlorine gas by the Germans, but I did not realize how serious it was or how much of it had been used until I read of the conditions and casualties in the Daily Mirror. It sounds horrible, and so very deadly. Please do not get yourself caught in it, if you can avoid it! Be safe and keep your mask with you—you do have a mask, don’t you?

While I was writing this, I noticed a book your sister had brought in to read. Stellar Motions, by William Wallace Campbell. It appears to have your name written on the inside. I was not sure if you had made a gift of it to her or not. I had no idea you were interested in astronomy. She didn’t seem to think it had been the focus of your studies at university. But, regardless, she’s now claimed it as her own.

If you were concerned that your truthful portrayal of the war will offend my delicate sensibilities, I bid you not to worry, nor censor yourself on my account. I shared your first letter with Margaret, because she was curious and missed you so, but I will take your next one—should you wish to continue this correspondence —down with me to read alone in the forest.

 

Take care, and be safe,

Yours,

Kathleen

 

~·~

 

“Giordano Bruno, martyred by the Inquisition in the year 1600 on account of his original views concerning scientific subjects, was perhaps the first to question the immovability of stars. He said that we had no right to assume the fixity of the stars with reference to each other because, on account of their enormous distances from us, we could not hope to detect changes of position until after the lapse of long ages.”

from Stellar Motions, by William Wallace Campbell

 

~·~

 

July, 1916

Dear Ms. Dunbar,

It delights me to know that you’re reading this in the forest. I can almost picture it in my mind, the cool shadowed space underneath those boughs. We’re camped in a fearfully hot field and the air is stagnant and smells of smoke and all of the horrible smells of war which I dare not put to paper. Put this letter up to your nose and take a great sniff and you might be treated to a hint of it. Either that or the war office has redacted the smell, too. I’m not supposed to give away our position, lest this letter be intercepted, but if you want to find us on a map just find the most depressing hollow on the continent and there I’ll be.

Oh, and yes, let me assuage your fears: We do indeed have masks.

Truthfully, I was so heartened to receive your letter. It made me feel less alone, out here. Although I’m surrounded, day and night, by men, I still feel so alone. We received orders to march out of the mud-pit we’d been calling home, and did so, with all of our gear on our backs. So, it was a ten km slog out up the ridge and over to a stretch of farmland. I do not think the farmers were very happy to see us, but we were all even less delighted by the sudden bombardment coming from the west. We had to set our gear in one of the nearby barns and rush to form ranks and push the Germans back. And all of that on tired legs. We took the field, but there is no part of my body that is not sore, save for my hands. My ears are still ringing and my legs feel like jelly.

Yes, it is my book, or was. I didn’t study Astronomy at university; father thought it was useless and so right to history and classics I went. Fat lot of good that’s doing me here. I highly doubt a German is going to stop me at bayonet-point and ask me about Ovid. But yes, Meggie is quite the little scavenger. She has a fascination with my things, and I used to tell her stories from that book or make them up for her to calm her when she had night terrors. She was more interested in mythology than in the actual science of it until I informed her that it had been a woman who had devised the spectral classification system. Meggie has always believed that men are far too prominent in every field and having been surrounded by them for months now, I can agree with her, from a hygienic sense if nothing else. If you go in my room there’s another book about Ms. Cannon on the shelf by the door.

I share your opinion on the matrimonial state. Shouldn’t two people know each other well before getting shackled together? At least that way they can agree on the configuration of the shackles and on what metal is to be used in the foundry. If you would, tell me something of the forest, if you are reading this letter there now. Will you paint a picture of it with your words for me?

Yours,

Jelly-Legs George

 

~·~

The Big Advance: “All Goes Well For England And France”

 

The nation was thrilled yesterday to hear that the Great British offensive on the western front had begun at last. Sixteen miles of German front trenches have been captured by our gallant soldiers to the north of the River Somme. Many prisoners have been taken. The French are also attacking with great success, while the terrible bombardment of the German trenches by the British artillery continues unabated. Thus it may be said that the great British offensive, for which we have waited so long, has started well…

 

Sunday, July 2, 1916

The Daily Mirror

 

~·~

 

July, 1916

Dear Mr. Whitmore,

I will do better than paint a picture with words, I will paint a picture with paints as well. Enclosed, please find a very mediocre attempt at painting ‘our forest’ as I have come to think of it. I think it is best appreciated at arms’ length so that you might not see the splotches and mistakes. Also enclosed please find a photograph which your sister insisted I provide, of myself and Margaret by the lake. The weather here has been clear and sunny and quite warm. We’ve had a few breezy days which have given us a respite from the heat. With all the windows thrown open the air is fresh and cool inside, but still not as lovely as the forest, I think. I wish I could send some clear skies to you as well as some peace and quiet. I imagine those are still in short supply where you are. I hope I am not rubbing it in if they are not.

Margaret was indeed delighted to learn more about Ms. Cannon’s work, as was I. With your permission, we entered your private chambers and retrieved the book of her work and Margaret read it with great enthusiasm. Although I believe I may have (quite indirectly!) been the cause of some distress between her and your father, for when she came back from supper she was incensed that he had told her a ‘proper lady’ ought not to ‘muddle her mind’ with such scientific notions, which will (according to your esteemed father) make her unmarriageable in the extreme. So there you have it, your dear sister’s best attempt at being rotten. I tried to console her and told her that there was nothing wrong with using the mind that God had given her, and that seemed to brighten her spirits. Although it pains me to think of a girl so sweet and clever as Meg going off to wed one of those pompous, stuffed-shirt fellows your father brings around for her to consider.

Forgive me. I should not be so uncharitable. Although I doubt it’s anything you haven’t heard yourself. As your family’s employee I ought to conduct myself more appropriately, even in written form. I apologise.

Tell me more about your studies at school. The classics are perfectly lovely. I always found the myths to be so romantic, especially the tragic ones. But tragic things are so much better read about than lived, don’t you think? Which is why you must promise me, for your sister’s sake, to come home and tell her more about the stars.

 

Yours,

Kathleen

 

~·~

MILLION SHELLS DAILY

FIRED BY THE BRITISH

Four Days of Steady Bombardment of German Positions in France

…Last night the sky from 20 to 30 miles in the rear toward the east was brilliant as if with the glare of the aurora borealis, from dusk to dawn. This was the only illumination along the roads for the movement of trucks and automobiles, none of which carried lights. From a point near a group of batteries the correspondent witnessed a scene of grandeur under the canopy of a cloudless and moonless night, with a broad sheet of flame and ugly flashes and darts of fire over the area of action…

 

~·~

August, 1916

Dear Kathleen,

No apologies are necessary, believe me, in speaking honestly about my dear father. You are quite right in that he wishes to mold me in his image, but he already has my brother for that, so I wish he’d give up. I’ll never be like him, but there was a time when I thought I wanted to be. Thank God I outgrew that notion! Quite a dull life—and to think, he wants to saddle Meggie with the same dull sort of man. She deserves someone who is her equal, and unfortunately most of the members of my sex are far below her intellect and spirit. But no, you’re right about my family. Sometimes it takes distance to get a good perspective on it. That’s why I left, I think. I needed to see things clearly. Of course now I just see things through a haze of gas, so, who’s the idiot now?

I swear I will do my best to come back, and it might even be in one piece if God is gracious. Then again God tends to have a sense of humor when it comes to me so I won’t push him too hard on that front. We marched for what felt like days to get further into position, heading to ███████ and making camp there. It’s frightfully hot and I think the only reason we had to keep going was to outmarch the stench. But then—thank heavens—a lake appeared, and we all had a grand time stripping down to our not-to-be-mentionables and cleaning off. I think we offended some nearby cows that had come to water, but the cows have probably seen worse.

Little did we know that later that same day we’d all see worse as well.

We’d settled down and made our way to the trenches, and there we sat for five days doing nothing useful whatsoever, until on the sixth night the Germans began their bombardment. Gas grenades and the rain of shrapnel and dust made the air so thick one could hardly breathe. The wind turned and more than half of the men were caught in the thick of it, quite literally, and many collapsed. The bombardment continued through most of the evening. Most of us were useless and couldn’t see to aim in the fog, and by morning we had just enough time to drag out and bury the dead before we had to take shelter once again. It was truly an awful sight. So many bodies or parts of bodies here and there. One of the younger men had to be taken back to the infirmary from nervous exhaustion.

You find the stories of the stars romantic? I will try to take your mind off of all I’ve just confessed and give you a story. Once, there were seven lovely sisters who were being pursued by the great hunter, Orion. The sisters’ father, Atlas, had sided with the Titans in the great war, and, having been defeated, Atlas was condemned to bear the world on his shoulders. Puts my gear quite into perspective, don’t you think? At any rate, the sisters were being hunted, and pleaded to the king of the Gods, Zeus himself, to escape his attentions. Zeus turned them into doves, and they flew to the heavens, where they now sit. Their constellation, the Pleiades, means ‘doves.’ Of course, Orion has a constellation up there as well, so I suppose he’s forever pursuing her. Upon further examination this was not the most romantic story to lead with. But it’s better than poor Andromeda, chained to a rock, isn’t it? Well, if you want to find the sisters, it’s easiest to start with Orion. Take the three stars that form his belt and follow the line of them up beyond his bow and you should find them there.

After everything, it gives me some measure of comfort to know that when I try and search for them, we’ll be looking up at the very same stars. Give my love to Meggie.

 

Yours,

George (or what’s left of him.)

 

—

 

August, 1916

Dear George,

Thank you for your reassurance. I agree that your sister is a wonderful girl and I hope she does get a chance to chart her own course.

Down in the village today the news came of the casualties of the Somme. Some seventy young men were reported killed in action, when last I heard of it. Poor Margaret wept like a babe when she heard the news that a particular friend of hers (Daniel Cogman? Perhaps you know of him) was killed as well as so many others. Our newspapers here had led us to believe that the offense was going well, but now it seems that was not the case. It sounds hellish–well, I did not think that war was a gentle stroll through a field of daisies, but still. Wherever you are, be safe, please.

Your sister is certainly taking your advice to heart, it seems. Just yesterday she and your father got into a terrible row where she declared that she was not to marry any of the men he had found for her, and was rather intent on moving to London and resuming the campaign to give votes to women. Your father bellowed that if she ‘wanted to follow the Pankhurst chits and set fire to mailboxes’ then she could ‘go and be force-fed like the rest of the WSPU girls in prison.’

I do not think he means it, truly, but I have never seen Margaret so determined. She has taken to walking down to the village and working to organize with some of the women; I accompany her there on her walks, and if neither of us tell your father what the true cause of them is then what he doesn’t know won’t trouble him. (Is that terribly ungracious of me? He is, after all, my employer.)

What else shall I tell you? My duties as your sister’s maid are to prepare her for engagements, attend to her hair and dress—much the same as a gentleman’s valet, I suppose. But your sister has declared she will not have dinner tonight with Lord Wharton or his son, who have come to visit for the express purpose of gauging matrimonial interest. Your father declared that she would, and she declared that she would not, and then she begged off due to a headache, and your father told her she could ‘bloody well take her aching head downstairs and keep her mouth shut’ and play hostess, and she then escalated to (forgive me! I know men are so delicate about things of this nature) complaints of a feminine nature, and your father retreated all red in the face, and Meggie laughed into her pillow as soon as he had left and I admit I smiled as well at the way she had won that skirmish, and so now that she is ‘resting’ (by which I mean, most likely, reading political pamphlets she has smuggled into the house) I am off-duty, and can write to you. 

Truth be told, I worry for her sometimes. For a girl in her situation, there aren’t many options for an independent life. Granted, now women are working factory jobs, but I can hardly imagine your father allowing her to do that. There really is no better option, save for going into well-funded spinsterhood for her. I wish it was different. Even Miss Cannon had to fight uphill to be taken seriously as a scientist. There are not many who believe women have a mind for science, or anything whatsoever. What do you think? Ought women to have the vote in England?

 

Yours,

Kathleen

 

~·~

War Emergency: Workers’ National Committee

WOMEN’S APPEAL TO WOMEN

Who Are Taking Men’s Places During This Period Of National Crisis

Never in the history of these Islands has the work of women been recognized as of such high value to the nation as it is to-day. Elsewhere, in great State departments and business offices, in the factories, in the fields, and on the railways, women are asked to take up the work which men have relinquished to join the Colours and add to the ranks of the Munition workers. At this crisis, we appeal to you not to relax your efforts to do the work demanded of you, but to join together in order to claim for yourselves the same conditions of employment and the same level of wages which the men, whose places you are taking, have won in the past. We appeal to you to uphold the standard of life of the workers of the Nation, and whether as a salaried worker or a wage-earner, to stand for

EQUAL CONDITIONS AND EQUAL WAGES

For the same work. While men are fighting abroad, you must uphold the flag at home.

~·~

 

August, 1916

Dear Kathleen,

Meggie is a genius. If we had only one of her in our brigade, all she’d have to do is tell the Germans of her female complaints and then this would all be over and we could all go home. Of course women ought to have the vote. Men have the vote and look where it got us. No, I think women ought to be in charge for a while. They’d certainly bring more sense to the world. If we’re fragile for dealing with their female complaints, I’d dare say they’re stout-hearted for dealing with male complaints—my father being the worst male complaint of them all. My brother being the second-worst.

Once, he had a bride picked out for me. Did you know that? Some poor well-born daughter from some family who he was sure would be receptive to breeding plenty of strong, strapping lads that he, of course, could raise. No offense to the girl, but I said no thank you to the offer after seeing her once. If I was to marry I’d choose my wife, or have none at all. It seems a very lonely existence having to be wed to someone who could not stand you, or only wanted you for your social connection, and not, say, your musings on space and stellar phenomena.

If you were to marry, what would you want? You already know I’m hopelessly impertinent, but since I am forced to spend my birthday here in a muddy trench, let that be your present to me: Tell me, what do you like, Kathleen? What do you dream about?

I’ve got to run. Orders have just been called. Wish I could say more. Hug Meggie for me, and be well. Enjoy our forest twice as much since only one of us can be there.

 

Yours,

George

 

—

 

September, 1916

Dear George,

I didn’t know it was your birthday! Margaret informed me that your birthday is on the 5th of August, which places you in the noble constellation of Leo, the lion. I myself am in the archer’s sign—December 1st is my birthday—although I do not put much stock in the astrological philosophies, as it seems quite perplexing that one-twelfth of the population should have the same traits and features? Do you feel you are much of a lion? How often do you prowl? And what are your thoughts on how you like your steak prepared? Rare, I’d imagine, like the great beast himself?

If I was to marry, I’d want a man who wouldn’t merely tolerate me, or see me as a burden. Something to be endured. I’d want to be cherished. It’s the same as what I’d want for any woman, your sister included. It’s difficult for me to write down what I want for myself, because it’s something I’ve both thought of and known would never happen for me. I never wanted to waste time with things that could not be, but every soul has dreams, don’t you think? We all have something of a secret self inside of us that we share with no one else. I guess… I would want a husband who could see that secret self, and show me his own, without fear or shame.

I hope that answers your question. I always fear I have said too much in one of these letters. I wouldn’t want you to think I—but of course you have vastly more important things to be considering, more so than my own little musings on my little world and my little life.

I’ve set this letter down and only just had a moment to come back to it. A great commotion has occurred which you will find amusing, if I know anything about you and can judge by the fact that your father and brother find it positively horrifying. Lord Wharton and his son, who I think I had mentioned had come to visit us at the end of August, with not-so-subtle interest in brokering (for lack of a better word) a union with Margaret, have just caught your sister climbing down the trellis outside of her bedroom window, in a pair of trousers, no less, and when she was discovered she did not apologize for it and stated that she was planning on walking to the village to attend an organizing meeting for workers. Needless to say your father and brother and Lord Wharton were shocked, and his son declared that he wanted to leave immediately, and your father is most displeased, although I have to say that I have never seen Margaret quite so pleased with herself.

I hope this chaos at home provides some diversion from the chaos of war. Now I see how much you and your sister are alike in spirit. Just as it pains me to think of someone keeping her cosseted and contained, stifling all that she is, it pains me to think of you bearing all the horrors of this war alone, thinking you are adrift in a sea of men who each yearn for home and peace. I am there with you—think of it when you fall asleep, if you can—if in spirit, not in body. Think back to the forest, and how it sheltered us. It stands the same as ever, constant and true.

 

Yours,

Kathleen

 

~·~

 

“Now astronomical observation is dependent upon the weather, over which we have no control. Not all clear nights, even, are workable. Freedom of the air from confused currents of unequal temperatures is more important than great transparency of the air. Some nights on which the stars shine with great brilliancy are absolutely useless to observers with telescopes…”

from Stellar Motions, by William Wallace Campbell

 

~·~

 

September, 1916

Dearest Kathleen,

I wish I could paint you a better picture. But the truth is, I’m just so damned weary. Weary of the war, weary of death. It’s all around me, everywhere I look. Death and pain and suffering.

We advance but a little each time. The weather has turned, and the bombardments from ground artillery and from the German planes is unceasing. The smoke is so thick, and the clouds from the gas moving sideways, that I can’t see the sky. It seems an inconsequential thing to miss at a time like this—and don’t get me wrong, I miss other things too, like dry socks and quiet, blissful peace and quiet somewhere far from here—but the stars are gone. It feels like a great hand has come down upon the earth and smothered them, snuffed them out like so many candles.

I can’t see the stars anymore.

I look up, and they’re not there.

I close my eyes and I can’t even remember what they looked like. All I have is flashes of light from the artillery, or the haze of gas, or just… nothing. Just dead black sky, like they were never there. Maybe I dreamed them. Even home feels like it was never there —even the forest, but you’re still real. I believe that you’re real. When I write the words might as well fly away like embers and burn up and rise to the sky. Maybe that’s what sets the stars back in place—these words.

Forgive me, Kathleen. I know I’m not making sense. I can barely see enough to write these words down. You told me once not to censor myself, to be honest. Well here it is. As honest as I can be: Sometimes, when I am on the field, and the bullets are going past me, and my feet are churning up mud and blood and the men scream to either side of me, I think about you, and then I want to live one more day. Just another one, and another. I want to come back and see you. You aren’t a burden; your letters are my lifeline. I find myself thinking of your voice reading them to me—damn it all, I can’t even hear your voice in my head anymore. The sound of the shells… But I can remember it, the red in your hair, as red as the leaves in the trees. I want that, more than anything.

I would choose you, if I could. What do you say to that? Would you choose me, too? Say you’ll be there when I return. Tell me I can hope, here in this place without hope. That’s the best birthday present I could ask for—that I could see you when I come home. If I come home.

 

Yours, here and in the hereafter,

George

 

—

 

October, 1916

Dear George,

When your letter arrived, I could not read it, because I could not go to the forest straightaway and oh! How it felt like it burned a hole in my pocket until I could get away. As much as I wanted to know everything, and to hear from you—or at least I imagine I hear your voice, reading me your letter—to be alone with your words, I knew that I had promised you to only read them in our forest, and so it must wait. And consequently the reply must wait, and so I apologize for the delay in response, and hope it did not distress you.

The news here is so awful. Your words are so terrible to read, but I must thank you for them, even as they make me ache and cry for you. Hearing of the Lad’s Battalions all being cut down in one afternoon—oh, do be careful, George. I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t have the thought of seeing your face, your smile, your kind eyes once more as a beacon shining in the darkness. Selfish of me, I know it, but it’s the truth. You must come home. You must.

I care for you. Over the course of our writing I have found myself falling in love with you, however impossible it may be, and how ever much trouble I will be in at confessing it to you. I realize I may lose my position and my employment, but when weighed against the very real chance that I may never get to say this to you in person, I cannot let the words stay contained. I have come to care for you, deeply—not for your valor or for your name, but for you, a good and worthy man, someone who cares for the forest, someone who can still think of the stars at a time such as this. You must believe that they are still there, above you, shining down, even though you cannot see them. I will watch them for you.

Come home. Please, come home.

 

Yours,

Kathleen

 

—

 

October, 1916

Dearest George,

I haven’t heard from you in two long weeks. Come home safe—come home to me. I find myself walking in the woods, imagining that you’re there behind me, waiting to surprise me.

Come home. Come home to me. What else can I say? Have hope, even the smallest grain of it, and let it guide you home. It was no dream. My affections for you are as real as the earth or the stars, as steadfast as the seasons. Look up: Even now we are looking at the same heavens. You must trust in that. Trust in hope. Trust in the love I hold for you. If you believe in nothing else, believe in me. Believe in that.

I will be here, waiting. Come home to me. I love you most dearly, and always will.

 

Yours,

Kathleen

 

~·~

 

“As all stellar bodies are in motion, they are changing both their apparent positions on the celestial sphere and their distances from us.”

from Stellar Motions, by William Wallace Campbell

 

~·~

 

October, 1916

Dear Lord Kendal,

We regret to inform you that your son, L.Cpl George Whitmore, was wounded in action on the 17th of September, 1916. He was involved in action during the Battle of Flers–Courcelette, and fought bravely while sustaining a grievous injury from a German Tank unit, and was taken off the field. His condition at time of writing is stable, and he will be moved to British soil as soon as he is recovered enough to be transported. Full details to follow…

 

~·~

 

“It is too early to forecast the propelling effects of magnetic forces, whose existence in the Earth and Sun points strongly to their existence also in other celestial bodies. And we must not assume that other propelling forces, of natures entirely unknown, will not manifest themselves to future investigators. However, we cannot doubt that all the stars, all the nebulae, all the dark and invisible bodies which must exist in profusion throughout space—in brief, all tangible bodies making up our sidereal universe—are moving in accordance with definite laws.” 

From Stellar Motions, William Wallace Campbell

 

~·~

after

November, 1916

“How did you find me?”

Her footsteps crunched in the leaves as she approached him. How strange, he thought; if it were anyone else, he’d flinch at the sound. Being approached from the back, like this. Even now, even knowing it was her, his senses were on high alert. His hands ached to hold a weapon.

“I just followed the trail of audible self-pity,” Kathleen replied.

He whirled on her, gaze full of fury, face reddening with indignation, where it still could redden, around the already-garish scars on his cheek. “How dare you.”

Anyone else would’ve flinched as he stepped closer—close enough that she had to tilt her head to look up into his twisted face. This close, Kathleen could see that the lashes of his left eye had been singed off completely, and the scars twisted as he snarled at her. “How dare—”

“Are you going to hit me, too?” Kathleen said, standing firm before him, stout and strong. “Go on, then. Do it.”

At his side, his remaining hand clenched. Kathleen set her right foot back behind her left, just a little, and tilted her chin up defiantly, standing her ground. Taking him in.

He was not wearing his uniform. She could imagine him in it—she had imagined him in it, many times, thinking of how fit he would look, how fine—but it was a knit cardigan that now stretched across his shoulders, deep-green as the forest.

One sleeve of it hung empty. Impossible to ignore.

But he was good at ignoring things, she’d learned.

He’d been home for weeks now—weeks of avoiding her, which was easy to do in a house that size. She knew she had no claim on him, no right, but… Kathleen had imagined that he would run to her, and they’d finally be able to speak about the things they’d shared in writing, but he’d fled. She didn’t understand why, at the time. But now she did: He was ashamed. He was angry. Just that morning, he’d hauled off and punched his own brother over some squabble that neither Katlheen nor Margaret had been privy to.

George had run out of the house.

And she had followed him.

And now they were here. He was breathing hard, panting like he’d just run a sprint. In an instant, the rage crested with a near-feral growl, and he turned, swinging and hitting the tree beside her, punching the unyielding bark again and again and again. The tree seemed to shudder beneath him; its branches swayed, like a drowning stranger trying to get the attention of one on shore. The trees were no stranger to anger, to the gale-force pain that humans could experience. In their rings they wrote the messages of it all, and this, too, made a mark.

As quickly as it had come, the anger subsided, and he cried out, the pain at last ricocheting up his arm; when she looked down at his hand, his knuckles were split and bloodied.

His shoulders were shaking; he made a noise like an animal in a trap, a noise of primal, gut-deep pain. She reached for him, but he turned away.

“Don’t,” he said. The venom in his tone had turned almost plaintive. “I don’t want… just go.”

“I’m not walking away from you,” Kathleen replied, as she came around to stand before him. “I said I wouldn’t, and I don’t break my promises.”

“Just go!” he roared. “Are you stupid? Go! You see what I am—what’s left of me!”

“Yes, I can see perfectly well what you are,” she said. Gently, her little hands came down to cradle his hand. He let her take it, watching her, breath catching in his throat as she held the bloodied hand up to her lips. And when her kiss came down on the first knuckle, heedless of the blood and the dirt there, the tears, at last, spilled free.

But he did not pull away.

The oaks watched as she kissed her way across his knuckles, one after the other after the other, and then, at last, all of the tension left him, his shoulders sagging, his body softening, the tears coming down his cheeks, across the good skin and the stubble that still grew from it, and across the ruined skin, and the scars. Down, over his jawline, and onto the collar of his shirt.

This is what she had imagined, all those months. Touching him, being near him. Holding him, when the fear came for him, and the terror.

Bringing him here, into the forest. Just the two of them. Just like this.

And she was not afraid of his rage. Or his fear.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Kathleen, I’m—”

“I forgive you.”

Her clever hands found the button on his shirt, and worked it free; reflexively, his single hand reached for her, landing on her waist, then flinching away, as if he had been burned.

“Your shirt,” he panted. “I’ll get it—I’ll get you dirty…”

“You think I care about a little dirt?” She was working at the buttons of his shirt, her brown eyes nearly amber in the fading sunlight. “A little blood?”

He looked down at her. It was true; there was a speck of blood, his own blood, just there, beside her plush mouth. She had kissed him, and she was undressing him, and she… she was fearless, his little warrior, his steadfast one.

“George.” She said his name like a prayer, as gently as the wind in the trees. And even the trees sighed to hear it, such love, such tender concern. “Did you mean it? What you wrote in your letters, did you mean it?”

He had closed his eyes, mouth parted softly as she worked the buttons of his shirt free. “Wh-what part?”

“That you thought of me, at night, when the bombs shook the earth and the planes screamed overhead.” She lay her hand flat on his chest, above his beating heart. His brows drew together a little, as if remembering that place, remembering the war. “How you would think of… of me, and try to remember my touch, my scent.”

He nodded, and leaned towards her, drawing a breath of her in slowly. Lilacs and vanilla, and soft, clean cotton. His hand tightened on her hip, just a little. Even the one he had lost ached to touch her skin.

“How much you wanted to come home?” Kathleen resumed her unbuttoning, emboldened by the near-sacred forest that surrounded them, embraced them.

He nodded again, and groaned. “Yes. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted you more than anything.”

“Would you really send me away, then?”

His eyes opened at this. Those same pale blue eyes, clear as a cloudless morning, but behind them there was so much pain and anguish. They were red-rimmed, but no less beautiful for their pain.

“Never,” he gasped, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close to him. “Never. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave.”

Kathleen felt his hand press against her lower back. It splayed out there, as if she was about to run, or fly away, and he was intent on tethering her to the ground—to himself. But she was in no danger of running; she was no illusion. She was real, flesh and blood and bone, and his, most of all. He needed to understand that. She had to make him understand.

“I won’t leave,” she said softly, and although her words were muffled by his jacket, he still gasped like he was surfacing from a near-drowning to hear them. She clung to him. “I won’t. I’m here.”

For a long while, it didn’t seem that he would ever loosen his grip. He sobbed, first loudly, then quietly, and then into her hair, and she just held him, and let it pour out of him, everything he could not say. But then he did pull away a little—not rejecting her, but as if to look down into her face, into her eyes, to search and find the truth of her words. She wasn’t going.

She smiled at him.

He leaned down, and kissed her.

The press of his mouth to hers—

The taste of his tears—and then, when his mouth parted, the caress of his tongue across the tip of hers, and the chase of brandy behind it—

Kathleen clung to him, feeling him walk her backwards, until her back was against a tree, and she felt the roughness of the bark at her back, and felt the roughness of his stubble on her cheek, and she breathed him in, all the leather and the smoke of him, the brandy, the soap and sweat and male scent of him—

It was overwhelming.

It was everything she had been craving, everything she had been praying for, all this time.

He kissed like he was certain of something, like he had made a decision, like an obstacle had just been removed. He kissed like it made sense, and it did. It was right, kissing him here, in this forest.

And overhead, the trees watched, swaying, and gloried in the union at last. The saplings had grown; their roots were stronger, and they would grow and twine and delve deep for nourishment. The trees could feel it in their sap. The forest was silent, and holy.

“I’ve come so far down.” His voice was raw when he spoke at last, when they parted to catch their breath. “So far. It’s like the world is a trench, and I—I claw my hands at the dirt and the stone but I can’t—I can’t crawl up. There is no way out. No sky above, no air—”

George halted, and seemed to realize the unconscious mistake he had just made. Hand, not hands. He had only the one, now. He pulled away from her, looking down at his hand, and the vacancy where the other had once been. Beside them, the tree he had just struck thought of its own broken limb, too—the lightning strike which, long ago, had once severed a bough from the trunk. It remembered the shock of it, the way it had felt so imbalanced, so strange, when the storm had passed. But it had healed, in time, as all things do.

“Then let me be there with you.” Kathleen reached out, and touched the side of his face. “The river… Down isn’t the same as up. It’s all right to need some help—isn’t it true for you as well?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

With a soft smile, and gentle hands, she began working the sweater’s buttons free of their holes, one by one, until she could brush her hand flat on his chest, and feel the solid thump of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. He was nervous to be touched; so was she, but that did not stop her. She felt she could be bold here in the privacy of the woods in a way which would never be allowed back up at the house. Above her, George put his hand on her hip, and let it rest there; he inhaled a little, as if to reassure all of his senses that she was truly there.

And Kathleen continued to divest him of his sweater. He watched her, as if in a daze, but the moment she pushed the garment off of his shoulders, he reached up and stopped her, catching her wrist in his hand.

She stilled. “What is it?”

“I don’t want—I don’t want you to see me like I am now.” George let out a shaky breath, and turned his head away. “If I could’ve… the way I was, before…”

Gently, Kathleen reached up, and cupped his face in her hand. “Do you want me? Do you feel this? The way I feel it?”

His gaze snapped back to hers, plaintive, soft and clear, those sky-blue eyes piercing her with both pain and ragged honesty. “Of course I do.”

“Then believe me,” she said. “Believe in this.”

George watched her, and, at last, he nodded. Just once, curtly almost, like he was acknowledging orders. Not feeling it with his body. Kathleen could see the war he carried inside of him, the war he had lived through and brought home. But there was peace all around them as well. When she touched him, he sighed, almost despite himself. He shuddered under her searching touch—one hand on the center of his chest.

The other hand removed his sweater.

It was then that a weight seemed to lift.

The air around them seemed to become languid, liquid and soft. Her hands on his undershirt, now. And his hand, searching down the front of her dress, the way the two halves wrapped and crossed over the delicate white of her corset cover beneath—he pulled at it with one finger even as her hands found a way to tug the undershirt he wore free from the waistband of his trousers.

This was wildness, madness, but she was hungry—for touch, and for contact. For the sounds he made, when she placed her bold hand low on his warm belly. As if her touch could paint peace across his skin, as if she could touch him everywhere, and be touched, and join as one as urgently as the fire in her blood demanded it. One hand of his seemed to do the work of two, and her dress was swiftly untied, left open along the front as her hair came down, freed from its pins as she helped him. Beneath her dress she wore the corset cover, which came to her waist, plain cotton lawn in white, and beneath that, now, he could see the edge of the lace on her slip, the line of it, and the twin points of her nipples as he boldly pressed his hand to cup her breast.

She groaned; he echoed the noise, and neither of them pulled away.

“Let me see you,” he murmured. “Please… I need to see you…”

The thought of scandal or shame had no sway over her, not here, not in their forest. She shrugged out of her dress, let it fall atop his discarded sweater, and pulled the camisole off, too. Then, she was standing before him in her underthings—unashamed, emboldened by their shared want—and he looked down at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“You’re…”

His voice trailed off. She blushed under his wordless, nearly overwhelmed appraisal.

Her underthings were cotton, trimmed in narrow bands of lace. Practical, perfectly serviceable, and yet they captivated him. Her breasts were small; she wore a corset over her slip that shaped her from beneath her bust down over her hips, and his fingers traced the coutil, his touch firm and dulled through the layer of tightly-woven fabric.

“You’re perfect.”

Kathleen blushed, then shied away from his searching gaze, knowing how much her blush bloomed down past her cheeks, to her neck and down her chest; she’d always been self-conscious over it, but he… he seemed to have quite the opposite reaction to it.

And then all thought of conversation was thrown completely to the wayside as he leaned down and began to kiss as much of her blushing skin as he could find, which was an ever-increasing amount, once he started really applying himself to it. Kathleen clung to him, draping her hands over his shoulders, restless with need. She hardly knew where to touch him, where to hold on. But he knew what to do with his free hand—as his kisses came down, brushing the hem of her slip just across her chest, his fingers came up, finding the bottom of her corset, working up beneath it to no avail.

It was madness. It was scandalous—more than scandalous, it was ruinous—but Kathleen didn’t care. She pulled her hands away from him somehow, reaching behind her to loosen the laces. It wasn’t an overly snug contraption, more fitted than confining, but she exhaled all the same when the busk came apart. She dropped it, and immediately forgot about it. The cotton beneath it billowed a little in the wind as if caught by invisible hands, before his hand molded itself across her breast once more, then down to her waist, and she shivered wildly, feeling touch there, where she had only ever felt her own touch.

They were on the edge of something; she could feel it. A precipice from which there was no retreat.

“Let me see you, then,” she said.

He hesitated, and she knew he feared frightening her, exposing her to what was left of him. His arm moved—she wondered if his mind still searched for the severed connection, the hand and the fingers, the flex of his wrist—and then his hand pulled his shirt up and over his head, and then his chest was bare to her as well.

Kathleen drank in the sight of him hungrily.

She had seen shirtless men before.

She had brothers, but it was most certainly not the same. For one, she did not think of George in anything akin to a brotherly fashion. And for another, he was built so solidly and so broadly that, even after an injury and subsequent convalescence, he was still strong and golden.

It was impossible to not notice his injuries, though. The healing marks and new scars which marred the symmetry of his form made her want to cry for the pain he had endured. He stood before her, as if braced for her appraisal, and she looked, and it was…

She brought her hand to his upper shoulder, then trailed it gently—just the fingertips—down the biceps, and then to the crease of his inner elbow. His skin there was thin and sensitive; he shivered, but did not flinch away from her.

When she glanced up, Kathleen could see that his jaw was clenched. He was looking away. She did not want him to look away.

With one last glance down at his arm, Kathleen grew resolute.

He was shirtless now, and she was still clothed; it was unfair, she thought. She pulled the hem of her own slip up and over her head, setting it down on the forest floor, revealing her small, high breasts, the taut nipples, puckered in the cool air, and all of the blush and love-bites which he had given to her.

“Christ,” George choked, looking back at her, eyes fixed and widening.

His hand came to her skin again, hesitating just before making contact; Kathleen moved so his hand touched her skin, and he groaned.

“Your skin is like silk…” He kissed her, mouth parting a little, tongue swiping at her tongue. “I want to buy you everything made of silk… silk as soft as your skin… I want you always like this…”

Kathleen could not manage a response, between his kisses. Nor did she want to.

From there, the rest was… simple.

Her hands went to the waist of his trousers, unbuttoning them, finding the hardness swelling within. His kisses grew more frantic, more needy, and she matched him. They parted long enough for him to spread his sweater out for her. She lay back on it, on the soft green wool, still warm from his body. He stood above her, staring as she took down the last remaining article of clothing, and cast the drawers aside. And then, his trousers and underclothes were gone as well, and he was there, skin-to-skin, face-to-face, his hips between her spread thighs as they embraced.

“I thought about… about having you a thousand different ways,” he said, brushing back the hair from her face, leaning on his forearms, his face close. “I really ought to apologize.”

“Don’t,” she replied, shifting beneath him. She felt wet and aching and empty and so damned needy, warm where her skin touched his, cool where the wind touched her. “Don’t apologize.”

He smiled at her, a soft, almost sad smile. “In the trenches, I thought—I imagined I’d come back to you, and we would—we would marry. If you’d have me. And then I’d take my time with you.”

“We can make time for that,” Kathleen replied. “I thought of you as well.”

His eyes lit up a little. “You did?”

She nodded.

He kissed her again. And then again—and then his hips moved, and her thighs spread a little wider, as he found a place there between them to press in against. It was just like their letters: Tentative at first, retreating and then searching, both too shy or too bold or too uncertain to know what the other felt, or needed. But then there was laughter, and the intimacy blossomed, and throughout it all he spoke to her gently, and called her his brave girl, and whispered I love You, and she echoed the sentiment, and melted for him, and felt the thick intrusion of him fill her, snug and tight and wonderful.

A few tentative thrusts made her cry out in surprise and exhilaration, but it left him imbalanced; it was clear he had done this before, and she had not, but he had done it before with two hands, not just the one. But before he could grow frustrated by it, she urged him to go to his back, and she sat astride him, fearless and eager to chase that feeling of fullness, of expectation, once again.

From this perspective, she could look down at him and admire him as she rode him. Her thighs were strong and his hand went to her hip as she rose and rocked above him, the pleasure building. Now, the flush was on his cheeks as well as hers. He was so lovely, so very alive, and as she found her peak she felt tears fall on her cheeks—not tears of grief or sadness, but profound love, and deep gratitude.

He’d survived.

He’d come home to her.

He was here.

“Shh, darling,” George said, gathering her to his chest. “Shh, it’s all right.”

He held her close, moving enough so that she could lay beside him. His prick slipped out of her, still stiff; he hadn’t reached his own peak yet, but that didn’t seem to matter as much as comforting her.

“Did I… darling, was I too—”

“I’m not hurt,” she said, turning her head a little so she could kiss his shoulder. “I’m just… I’m just so very glad you’re here.”

They kissed then, and he held her against him as he wrapped his hand around his prick. She turned and looked at it—ruddy and flushed darker than his skin, such a thing had just been inside of her, and she was still wet from their kissing, only faintly sore from riding him—then up to his face.

“I love you,” she said. She kissed the side of his jaw, and then his cheek, and then his mouth, and then he shuddered and gasped, and she felt his body shake, his jaw clench. The pleasure crested over him; she felt honored to witness it, and resolved next time to feel it for herself when he was still deep inside her.

“I love you,” he answered her, when some long moments had passed, and when he’d caught his breath and the chill of the forest had come over them.

The trees swayed in the wind, watching the lovers as they stood and dressed, pressing kisses over skin as it was hidden away, under clothing. They walked slowly up the winding pathway, hands clasped together. The world was chaotic; anger and violence cut down young lives before they had a chance to flower, but for the lucky few who found each other, and survived it, there was warmth and life and love. That was the way it was, and the way it would always be. In a universe of chaos, and swirling energies, there were bright sparks of light, shining out in the distance, waiting to be seen.

 

~·~

 

The Honorable George Whitmore, son of The Right Honorable the Earl of Kendal and the late Countess, is lately married to Kathleen Dunbar, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Dunbar, of Maryport. The couple were attended by his brother, The Most Honorable the Marquess of Kirkby, and his sister, Lady Margaret Whitmore. The wedding was conducted at St. Catharine’s church by The Reverend Kenneth Beaulieu…

 

~*~