Page 14 of The Bachelor Spy
Her breath caught just a moment. She could almost hear him speaking those words against her cheek. Kissing away her tears. Her eyes flickered closed for a moment. The ache for him branched through her like nothing she’d ever known, and if she meditated on it for too long, it nearly consumed her.
I received the package you sent—the socks were desperately needed. The book of Kipling’s poems was surprisingly appropriate, and I have passed the book around along with my copy ofPilgrim’s Progressthat a chaplain distributed to some of us last week. Both have provided comfort and encouragement. I must confess the copy ofThe Scarlet Pimpernelhas entertained at least a dozen men. Know you are bringing smiles even here in these dark places, my darling. Though I find I miss your excited explanations of plot twists and red herrings nearly as much as I miss you.
Nearly, but not quite.
Her smile wavered wide, and she wiped a tear from her cheek. She would think of some more books to send in her next package. PerhapsThe Four Feathersby A. E. W. Mason. Its resounding message that true courage wasn’t the absence of fear but the mastery of it would be highly suitable for the climate of war. And … she looked to the ceiling … perhapsTreasure Island? Apropos particularly if someone were taken hostage, wished to learn the art of becoming a pirate, or … was fortunate enough to find a map.
Grace, my darling, I think of you constantly. Of your laugh, your impossible optimism, your way of finding hope and joy in the smallest things. I think of Zahra and hope she’s adjusting to my absence better than I’m adjusting to yours. Tell her that Papa misses her stories and her solemn little face when she’s concentrating on her reading.
And tell yourself—though I know you won’t need the reminder—that I love you more than words can express. That every bridge I inspect, every trench I survey, every difficult and heart-aching night, brings me one day closer to coming home to you.
Give our girls my love.
Yours,
Frederick
Grace leaned her head back against the chair, pressing the letter to her chest. She could hear Frederick’s voice in every word—his deep warmth that left tingles down her neck, his gentle teasing.
Five months.
Five months since she’d seen his face, heard his voice, felt his arms around her.
Five months of managing alone, of putting on a brave face for Zahra, Lily, the staff, and the wounded soldiers, of filling every waking moment so she wouldn’t have time to think about how terribly much she missed him.
But the nights …
The nights were the hardest.
Not even a good book could distract her aching heart sometimes.
And she had never thought that possible!
Grace carefully folded the letter and placed it in her desk drawer, where she kept all Frederick’s correspondence. Twenty-three letters now. Twenty-three pieces of him scattered across the past months from when he’d first left in October last year. He’d had only two furloughs in between, the last five months ago.
She changed into her nightgown, reveling in the comfort of less constriction, and climbed into bed—their bed, though it felt impossibly large with only her in it. The pillow beside hers still bore the faint impression where Frederick’s head rested when he was last there.
She reached out and touched it, offering a prayer for his safety.
He would come home. She had to believe that. Even if some of the books she’d read recently suggested otherwise … a fact that had immediately turned her away from war books back to romances and mysteries. There was no need for such realism in her fiction when real life posed its own gravity.
She tugged Frederick’s pillow close, burying her face into it to chase the faintest scent of him, and then nestled into the blankets, exhaustion pulling her toward sleep.
“My lady?”
Grace pulled her heavy eyelids open, blinking in the room, dim with firelight.
A round of knocks came from the door. “My lady?”
Was that Ellie? Grace sat up, pushing back her wild hair as she did.
Oh dear.Nothing good ever came from being woken in the middle of the night. Unless, of course, it was by Frederick.
Or if it was from a wonderful epiphany related to her guessing the ending of a book or solving a possible crime. Those had been excellent reasons for night-waking too.
Ellie slipped into the room still in uniform, her pale eyes wide. “I’m terribly sorry to wake you, but—”
“What is it?” Grace had already slipped her legs from the wondrous warmth of the covers and into her slippers.
