I’m also fed up with all of the tasks around here. A croft is hard enough to run with a whole family helping out, but a single person? Everything seems to be falling apart on me. Another rope snapped on the roof. I climbed up again and realised that all of the ropes are weak. I don’t know if they’re shot through with mould, if the birds have got them, or if it’s a problem with my plaiting, but they are fraying and pulling apart. I ask you, Davey, what is a well-published poet doing scrambling onto a thatched roof in the dead of winter, a length of heather rope between her teeth? Shouldn’t I be somewhere in a leather armchair in front of a roaring library fire? Would you be there too?

I enjoyed the ending to “The Mouse King’s Cheese.” Lottie grows up, she learns to share and say “thank you.” I still think it would have been splendid if she had fallen in love with the Mouse King, checked jacket and all. What did Lara think of this story?

Take care, Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

February 16, 1915


Dear Sue,

You’ll never believe, but I sent one of my fairy stories to a magazine! I don’t expect a reply for some time, but I thought you’d be proud to know I screwed up the courage to get “The Fairies’ Twilight Ball” out there. Without your encouragement, I never would’ve even written the stories down. What made you decide to send out your poetry the very first time?

Your new book is marvelous! And you’ve even autographed it for me. I rate as a “dear friend” now? I can see what you mean about the lightness of the themes (of course, I haven’t read anything that you’ve been writing recently), but perhaps we all need to read about flowers, clouds, and summer days in these times.

I’m back at school now after the holiday. I’ve been bringing in newspapers for my students to read. I’ve found them to be woefully uninformed about what is going on in Europe. If Wilson lets us into the war, some of my senior students could enlist. At least now they no longer think that the Balkans are somewhere near Sweden.

To answer your question, I don’t know what Lara thinks of “The Mouse King’s Cheese.” She hasn’t read any of my stories. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what it is that she reads. I’ve tried to lend her some of my favorites, but she passes them back as “boys’ books.” All I catch her reading these days are fashion magazines and guest lists as we plan for the wedding. After then, she should have more time to settle back with a book. Right?

I wish you luck on moving in with your parents. You are a brave woman! Over here, I’m looking forward to just the opposite.

David

Isle of Skye

8 March 1915


Dear David,

Soon after to writing you, I received a letter from Iain, saying they were being sent to the front at last and would be leaving on Friday. Of course, it was Friday morning when I got the letter, so they were already gone.

Why couldn’t he send a telegram? Maybe I would have been able to work up the courage to get on that ferry, to see my husband one more time. I haven’t seen him since just after war was declared, more than half a year ago. I know he’s had leave in that time, as Finlay has been home to visit. But when I asked him about it, he said he certainly didn’t have enough money to make the trip all the way from Bedford. He’s infuriating! I have a modest amount put away from the sales of my books, but Iain stubbornly refuses to touch a penny. All he had to do was leave his obstinacy in his kit bag and let me buy him a ticket to come say goodbye. Now he’s at the front, and who knows if I will see him again?

I’m doing well, aside from all of that. We’re not as hard hit on Skye as in the big cities. My brother’s widow, Chrissie, is in Edinburgh, and she writes of how scarce some foodstuffs are becoming. At least we have our own produce and as much milk as our cows will give. This time of year is always a bit tougher, when we’re hoping for some fresh greens and soft fruit. But I still have a good stock of neeps, swedes, tatties, and smoked fish, so I can’t complain. I am running low on tea, though, and have been reusing my leaves when I can. Sugar has gone up in price, but it’s not as though I’m making marzipan cakes or sugar biscuits these days.

So Iain is in France and, beyond that, I don’t know what is happening. I just pray that he and Finlay will keep an eye on each other, the way they always have. I pray they will stay safe.

Elspeth

Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.

March 29, 1915


I hardly know what to say. I’m trying to put myself in your shoes, in your frame of mind, so that I can empathize as well as sympathize. I simply can’t do it. I’m sorry.

I really should be brushing off my morning coat and practicing my speech, as the wedding isn’t far off. And what am I doing instead? Sitting at my desk, writing to you, Sue. I know I should be more excited about the upcoming nuptials, but I suppose it is natural to feel a bit of apprehension. Not that I doubt my decision… but I’m feeling a little anxious about the whole event. Lara is excited enough for the both of us. She seems to be all wrapped up in dress fittings and whispered conferences with her friends.

I don’t know all of the plans being concocted, only that everyone we’ve ever met or could ever hope to meet will be there. We’ll probably serve platters of hors d’oeuvres that will go back to the kitchen mostly untouched and then twice as much roast meat as our guests could hope to eat. The women will all be dressed too elegantly and laced too tightly to do more than nibble on the food. This will be washed down with enough champagne to fill several bathtubs—the only part of the feast the guests will consume enthusiastically—and followed by a course of cakes and pastries so sweet they would make a dentist weep. After all this, I still have the honeymoon.

And I can’t help but think of you, Sue, sitting alone by the fire in your cottage, “making do” with salted fish and potatoes, weak tea and unsweetened cake. I do admit to feeling a twinge of guilt; all of my extravagant feasting and leisure when you and the boys at the front are doing so much but getting so little in return. If someone were to ask where I would rather be on my wedding day—in a room full of strangers, trying to consume my portion of the feast, or alone in a cottage with you, Sue, drinking weak tea—I know which I’d choose.

David

Isle of Skye

17 April 1915


David,

Well, I’ve moved into my parents’ cottage. It’s getting to be too much living by myself, in more ways than one. I was spending nearly every day at the post office, waiting for word, but I realised how pathetic that was. Bad news will find you, no matter how far you run.

Also, it was too hard for me to maintain the cottage. I’ve made a bold decision, though, to have a new cottage built, a modern stone building with a slate roof and a chimney. I have Iain’s separation allowance and he isn’t here to tell me I can’t. I’ve hired joiners and everything. Here’s a wee sketch of what I’m planning. I’m going to leave the old blackhouse up for the animals. No more sharing my cottage with the hens!

I haven’t heard from Iain in quite some time. If it weren’t so grim, I would laugh, as I get more mail from a man I’ve never met than I do from my own husband. But, as they say, no news is good news.

I know I didn’t say it in my last letter, but I am proud that you’ve sent one of your fairy stories off to a magazine. Have you heard anything yet? Please let me know how it goes.

You asked how I worked up the courage to send off my poetry. It was Finlay. Growing up, the two of us were never content. We’d sit on the beach, he carving, and me either sketching or scribbling. Our eyes on the horizon, no words were needed. But then he grew old enough for Da to take him on the boat. He’d go off fishing and leave me behind on the shore. He always brought me back stones he found, so that I’d feel I was with him. But I knew that, though he sailed away most mornings, it wasn’t an escape. Sure as anything, going out on the boats tied him to the island. He’d never be able to leave. And so he made me promise to send out my poems, to try to send something of myself out into the world. Because he, he was trapped. But the rest of the world was mine for the taking.

I broke into the schoolhouse every night for a week to use the headmistress’s prized typewriter, pecking away until I had a pile of poems typed to send. In this instance, crime did pay. The rest is, as they say, history! If you can believe it, I was only seventeen.

My publisher has been amazingly patient with me and my reclusion, but he sent me the most curious letter last week. Ages ago, he had asked for a photograph of me, to be included in the frontispiece of one of the books. He’s finally said that, since I do not have a photograph to send him, he will send a photographer to me! I am waiting to hear a final confirmation, but I believe he is coming in a couple of weeks. I can’t tell you how nervous I am, Davey! I’ve never had my photo taken before; I’ve never seen myself through someone else’s eyes (or lens, as it were). I have no idea what to wear. We don’t want the world to be disappointed at the one and only photograph of Elspeth Dunn.

At some point you are going to have to make a decision one way or another about the wedding, dear one. You need to decide if you want to be on the ferry when it sets off or if you are happier back on the sturdy pier. I know that you are not a man content to wait behind and just watch as the ferry chugs away. But perhaps this isn’t your boat. Perhaps it doesn’t sail where you want to go. You’ll make the right decision. I think you already know what it is.