True to her word, when Elizabeth brought their lunch the following day, she had with her a simple but nicely bound journal. She nodded to William and placed the book on his desk, but said nothing as she retreated from the room.
Daniel and Alasdair were too engrossed in eating to have noticed, for which William was grateful. It was silly, but he wanted to keep it to himself, a secret between himself and Elizabeth. Well, Matron too, but that was beside the point. He longed to begin writing in the journal, knowing immediately what—or, rather, whom—the first poem would be about.
With that in mind, he hurried through his lunch, scraping the plate clean though he didn’t have much of an appetite. Meal finished, he leapt up from the table and moved swiftly to the desk. Daniel had fallen asleep, and Alasdair was idly flipping through the morning’s newspaper; a cursory glance at both showed that neither was paying him any mind. Good.
William opened the journal, savouring the unique new-book smell. Ink-pen at the ready, he felt the first words of a new poem bubbling forth and flipped to the first page.
There, he was startled to find a short paragraph already written in large, but neat, handwriting.
28th June 1888
Mr. Pratt,
Forgive me for being so bold as to write in your new book. I simply couldn’t help myself. I hope you’ll put this journal to good use and write lots of lovely poems (which you will share with us, you know!) Did you realise that we already have a famous poet living here on the island? As Lord Tennyson himself put it:
“Where , far from noise and smoke of town
I watch the twilight falling brown,
All round a careless-ordered garden,
Close to the ridge of a noble down.”
He wrote it about Farringford, of course, but I find it rather fitting for our own gardens here in Ventnor. (I had to look up those lines in my aunt’s book, by the way. I don’t want to put any false illusions of my knowledge in your head!)
I’d be much obliged to read a finished composition of yours, one day.
Yours,
Elizabeth Summers
With a smile on his face, William did the very thing she had told him not to do: he tore a page from the journal to write his reply. Dipping his pen in the ink, he paused for a moment, then began writing frantically.
28th June 1888
Miss Summers,
First, let me thank you for the journal. I’m sure it will be home to many compositions, though how many of them will be read by eyes other than my own remains to be seen!
Secondly, yes, I did know of Tennyson’s occasional residence on the island. Though, ‘All round a careless-ordered garden’ hardly applies here! I’ve never seen such beauty. I do wish I could take a trip to the beach, but I doubt that Matron would be receptive to such an idea. Perhaps when I’m well again I’ll make my stay on the island an extended one.
I’ll leave off here; my writing awaits and I do believe it’s almost time for Sister Maclay’s rounds.
Sincerely,
William Pratt
***
The days progressed in much the same manner as they had since his arrival, with one slight difference. When Nurse Summers brought their meals, she would either pick up the piece of paper left on the desk, or discreetly slip one of her own under William’s pillow.
The notes were of silly, inconsequential things: she would talk of the weather, or of how many shells she’d collected that day and to which patients she’d delivered them. Sometimes she wrote about her family, how strict her father was, and how her work at the hospital was a welcome escape.
In turn, he told her about his life in London—leaving out the embarrassing parts, of course—and for a girl who had never set foot on the mainland, his tales were always a hit.
The letters started out as short, impersonal exchanges one would have with an acquaintance or distant relative. Over time, their words became friendlier, more carefree, and soon William felt that he could write anything that popped into his head, and she would enjoy reading it.
The one thing they never wrote about was the fact that they were doing this in the first place. William knew that it was wrong—he dreaded Matron or Sister Maclay finding out—but couldn’t help himself. The notes from Elizabeth were the bright spot of his day, and he awaited each one with an eagerness that surprised even himself.
Then again, he had always been ruled by his heart more than his head, so perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise after all.
***
It felt like the last day of summer. The air had a harsh edge, a chilly bite that pierced through the thick coat William was wearing.
How much longer would the nurses allow the patients to roam the gardens? Or would the winter air be considered good for the lungs? William had given up on trying to understand how medicine worked; he was a man of words, not science.
So lost in thought, he didn’t notice he had company until she spoke. “Hello.” It was Elizabeth, who grinned when William jumped and turned his head to her. “I shouldn’t be out here,” she said, then paused. “Or rather, I shouldn’t be out here with you.”
William smiled and nodded. “Yes, it’s quite improper. You should return to the hospital at once.”
“And I shall, when I’m finished collecting shells.” She held up her basket.
He nodded, suddenly tongue-tied for what to say next. How was it they could exchange letter after letter, him pouring his heart out in words, but he was unable to say a thing in her presence?
“Are you all right, William?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. “You’ve gone red.”
Her mention of his blush only made his cheeks flush harder, and he turned away, embarrassed. William hated the silence that stretched on awkwardly and cursed his social ineptness.
“You’re a long way out,” Elizabeth said eventually. “Most patients don’t like to come this far into the gardens.”
“I like it,” William said, gathering his courage, determined to talk to her. It was rare that he had the chance to speak to her without anyone else around. “It’s quiet,” he continued. “I like that I can think here. Without Daniel’s snoring or Alasdair’s bawdy sleep talk.”
“Bawdy?”
“Oh, yes.” William exclaimed. Then added, teasingly, “But such things are not for a lady’s ears.”
Elizabeth pouted. “I hate that: being excluded for being a woman. It’s the same with my parents! If I were a man, they’d have allowed me to leave for the mainland by now.”
“I—I’m sorry.” William stammered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I was joking, mostly,” Elizabeth said, laying a hand on his wrist. He shivered at the touch, though her palm was warm, and a small part of him wondered: what’s happening here? What is this thing between us? Their eyes met and held for some time, until Elizabeth looked away and put her hand back in her lap. She continued talking as if nothing had happened. “I really would like to leave, you know. Go somewhere exciting… like London!”
William chuckled, his discomfort at the previous moment passing. “London’s not exciting, believe me.” He frowned. “Or perhaps it is exciting and I’ve just led a terribly boring life. That sounds more likely.”
“You’re not boring, William.” She said it absently, as though remarking on the weather, in a way that he supposed meant she thought it was true. “Fine, then. Not London. But… Paris! Don’t you think it would be wonderful in Paris?”
“I’ve been,” he said. “It was when I was a child, so I don’t remember much. It was before my father died.”
“Can you speak French?”
“Un peu,” he replied, biting back a smile.
“Say something else.”
“Tu es très belle, Elizabeth. Je pense… je pense que je t’aime.”
Her eyes lit up in delight, though William knew that it wasn’t because of the meaning behind the words, but the sound of the French falling from his lips.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Oh—nothing. Inconsequential things. ‘The weather is beautiful and I love… the view’.”
“I wish I could speak French,” she said. “Or something more than English. You see? This is why I hate living here.” She sighed. “I used to dream, you know? Dream of a handsome stranger come to take me away. Someone who’d see me for me and not the obedient nurse or dutiful daughter.”
“Perhaps it will happen,” William murmured, feeling a pang in his heart that he was neither handsome nor in good enough health to whisk her away.
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth agreed, frowning. She stayed quiet for a moment more and then stood, smoothing out her skirt and stooping to pick up her basket. “Well, I’ve spent longer talking to you than I should have. There’s no time now to go to the beach.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t complaining! I’ve enjoyed your company.”
“Me too,” William said. “Your company, I mean.”
Elizabeth smiled, but then her expression turned fearful. “William… you won’t say anything to anyone, will you? I could get into a lot of trouble…”
“Of course not!” William was quick to answer. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“All right. Thank you.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment before setting her face resolutely. She leaned over and kissed him briefly on the cheek, flushed bright red, and turned to run from the cabin, her empty basket in hand.
William stared after her, his eyes wide and the skin of his cheek tingling. He touched his fingers to the spot, blinked, and smiled.
***
2nd September 1888
Dear Elizabeth,
Your last letter had me wishing once again that I could see more of the island and less of these four walls. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly don’t begrudge my time here if it will get me well again, but I admit to tiring of the same view day in, day out.
I’m sure my mother would laugh to hear me say such a thing. I wasn’t the adventurous type back in London (preferring to spend my days inside, writing) but now—what I wouldn’t give to actually see the sea, to feel the sand beneath my bare feet, and to hear the waves lapping at the shore! It is one thing to see it from afar, but it must be another altogether to experience it up close.
There is no hope of that until I am rid of this disease, I suppose.
Yours,
William
***
23rd October 1888
William,
I’m in a hurry so this note will be brief. My parents have returned from Southampton and wish to spend some time with me. Such a chore! I will undoubtedly have to listen to tale upon endless tale of whatever boring activity they got up to for the entire weekend.
Until Monday,
Elizabeth
P.S.: Check the cabinet beside your bed. It isn’t much, but should hopefully tide you over until you are recovered!
P.P.S.: ‘Tide’ pun in last sentence entirely intentional!
***
William’s heart sank on reading that Elizabeth would be gone from the hospital over the weekend, but he brightened considerably when he looked in the cupboard and found a seashell sitting on the shelf.
It was quite large, the twisted, pointy kind that hermit crabs carried on their backs, and it had another small note attached to it with string.
W,
Hold the shell to your ear.
E
Curiously, William did just that, a look of childish delight passing over his face when he realised that he could hear the rushing, roaring sound of the sea coming from within. He examined the shell, turning it over in his hands, before he returned it to his ear and listened again.
“How odd,” he said to himself, but a slow smile crept across his face and his heart fluttered slightly. He had complained that he wasn’t able to visit the beach, so Elizabeth had brought part of the beach to him.
Footsteps interrupted his musing, and he jumped, trying to hide the shell and the note behind his back but not succeeding very well. It was Daniel, coming back from a turn around the gardens. The other man frowned at William and then pursed his lips, looking as though he was debating whether or not to speak.
In the end, Daniel walked to his bed, sat down, and started to remove his boots. William took the opportunity to return the seashell to his bedside cabinet, before sitting down at the desk, where he took out his journal and ink.
Daniel was the first to break the silence, after a few long moments. “You should be careful, you know.”
William paused and set his pen down on the wood of the desk. “I don’t follow.”
“Your letters to Nurse Summers,” Daniel said. The man rarely spoke, but when he did, it was with a directness that William wasn’t used to. “Though I’m sure the notes are well-intentioned and perfectly innocent.”
“I—” William stumbled on his words, unsure what to say. He didn’t think that their exchanges had been noticed.
“I won’t say anything,” Daniel continued. “And it’s not in my nature to pry. But you should be careful.”
William nodded automatically, his mind racing even as he scribbled down the opening lines of his next letter to Elizabeth.
***
The weekend seemed interminable without word from Elizabeth. William hadn’t realised how reliant he had become on her daily missives until they stopped.
Daniel’s words played heavily on his mind. He had known that their communication would be frowned upon and would earn both himself and Elizabeth more than a stern reprimand, if it was discovered, but he hadn’t truly stopped to consider the consequences, or how it could look from an outside perspective.
She was young and unmarried. It wouldn’t look good at all. Especially after what had happened between them in the garden the week before…
He hadn’t thought anything of continuing the correspondence, hadn’t thought about whether it was a friendship they were starting up, or—and his mind hesitated over the word, but he couldn’t deny that his feelings towards Elizabeth weren’t strictly platonic— if it was a courtship.
Sighing, he tried to clear his mind. It is what it is. He had no intention of stopping the letters but he would just have to make sure he and Elisabeth were more secretive about exchanging them.
As evening fell, he opened his journal to a fresh page and began to write.
Ruled by heart and not by head,
I do not know where I am led.
Something strange and something new,
My mind is filled with thoughts of you.
What to do? the lines are blurred,
The only escape through our words.
Alone, I stare at the stars above,
As always, a fool for love.
***