Dearest Francesca

Dearest Francesca

Being a correspondence preserved between the years 1862–1865

Letter I

Camp near Manassas Junction, Virginia

May the 14th, 1862

Dearest Francesca,

I write to you by the light of a borrowed candle, its flame trembling as if it, too, were uncertain of the night. The men are settling into a restless sleep around me—some snoring, some murmuring prayers, some staring into the dark as though the darkness might answer back. I find that I cannot sleep, not while your face insists on appearing every time I close my eyes.

Charleston feels a world away. The jasmine-lined walks, the clipped sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone, the harbor breeze that always tangled your hair no matter how carefully you pinned it—these things visit me like kindly ghosts. I cling to them, Francesca. They are proof that something gentle still exists.

We arrived here two days past. Virginia is green in a way South Carolina never quite is—lush, almost defiant in its abundance. The fields roll on endlessly, as though God Himself refused to acknowledge that men intend to ruin them. I wish I could say I feel brave. I wish I could say I am eager. The truth is quieter and heavier: I feel resolved. I feel that I must do this, though I cannot fully explain why without sounding hollow even to myself.

Do you remember the night before I left? You stood on the piazza, the lantern casting soft gold across your cheek, and you said nothing for the longest while. When I asked what troubled you, you said only, “I am afraid of learning how to live without you.” Francesca, my love, I am more afraid of learning how to live without you.

I carry your handkerchief in my breast pocket—the one with your initials embroidered in that careful slanting script. I have already unfolded and refolded it a dozen times, as though by doing so I might smooth the distance between us.

Write to me as often as you can. Tell me everything—what the roses are doing, whether Mrs. Alston still insists on playing the pianoforte with too much force, whether the sea still smells of salt and promise in the evenings. Tell me you are well. Tell me you remember me.

Until I may sign myself so again in person,

I remain yours in all ways that matter,

Thomas

Letter II

Charleston, South Carolina

May the 28th, 1862

My Dearest Thomas,

Your letter arrived folded and refolded so many times I feared it might simply dissolve in my hands. I read it once standing, once sitting, and once again aloud to the empty parlor, because I could not bear to keep your words silent.

Charleston endures, though she does so with a kind of brittle grace. The harbor is watched constantly now; the sound of cannons from the distance has become an unwelcome punctuation to our days. Mama pretends not to hear them. I do not pretend at all. I hear everything.

The jasmine is in full bloom. I pass it each morning and think of how you used to tease me for lingering too long, breathing it in as though I might store the scent away for later. Perhaps I was practicing for this very moment.

Mrs. Alston does indeed still assault the pianoforte. Some things, mercifully, remain unchanged.

I attend sewing circles now, though I confess my stitches are uneven when my thoughts wander—which they do constantly. We make shirts and bandages and speak in hushed voices, as if the war might overhear us and take offense. Everyone has a brother, a cousin, a fiancé in uniform. Everyone is waiting. It is the great occupation of womanhood, it seems: waiting with dignity.

Do not doubt that I remember you. I remember the way you tilt your head when listening, as though every word deserves its own careful consideration. I remember your hands—steady, warm, always more expressive than you realize. I remember the sound of your laughter when it surprises you into being unguarded.

I keep your last letter by my bedside. At night, when the house is still, I trace your name with my finger as though it were Braille and I had gone suddenly blind.

Be careful, Thomas. Be observant. Be stubborn in your will to return to me. I do not require heroics. I require you.

Always,

Your Francesca

Letter III

Near Sharpsburg, Maryland

September the 20th, 1862

My Francesca,

I am alive. I begin with this because I know how you must read these letters—holding your breath until the essential truth reveals itself.

The battle here was like nothing I had imagined, and yet I find imagination wholly inadequate to describe it. The air itself seemed to tear. Men shouted, prayed, screamed for their mothers. There were moments when the noise ceased abruptly, replaced by a ringing silence so complete it felt like judgment.

I will not burden you with the particulars. It is enough to say that courage is not a constant state. It flickers. It goes out. It must be relit, again and again, often by nothing more than the thought of a face far away.

Yours was that face for me.

When I faltered, I thought of Charleston at dusk. When fear pressed too close, I remembered the way you say my name—softly, as though it were something fragile. I repeated it to myself like a charm.

I have seen things I cannot yet put into words. Perhaps I never will. I suspect there will be a version of myself that returns to you, and another that remains forever on this field, kneeling in the mud with blood on his hands and questions in his heart.

Promise me this, Francesca: if I am changed, you will still let me come home.

Yours, in hope and in truth,

Thomas

Letter IV

Charleston

October the 6th, 1862

Beloved Thomas,

I read your letter slowly, as one does when approaching deep water. I sensed the weight behind each line, the things you chose not to say hovering like shadows at the edge of the page.

You ask for a promise. Here it is, plain and unadorned: there is no version of you that would not be welcomed home by me. Whatever you carry, we will set it down together—or learn how to bear it side by side.

Charleston has grown quieter in strange ways. There are fewer young men strolling the Battery, fewer careless laughs drifting from open windows. In their place is a kind of watchfulness, a collective holding of breath. Even the sea seems subdued.

I volunteer at the infirmary twice a week now. It has taught me something I did not expect: that strength is not loud. It does not announce itself. It simply continues.

Continue, my love. Continue toward me.

Forever yours,

Francesca

Letter V

Winter Quarters, Virginia

December the 24th, 1862

My Dearest Francesca,

It is Christmas Eve. Snow has fallen, softening the world into something almost merciful. For a brief moment this morning, the camp looked like a child’s illustration—white and quiet and untroubled by consequence.

We have done what we can to mark the occasion. Someone produced a harmonica. Someone else shared a story from home. I wrote your name in the frost on a barrel, just to see it there.

I wonder what you are doing this evening. Are the candles lit? Has your mother set out the good china, as she always does, insisting that tradition must be observed no matter the circumstance? I picture you near the window, gazing out as though you might spot me walking up the drive despite all reason.

If I could give you one gift, it would be certainty. Failing that, I give you my devotion, undiminished by distance or doubt.

Merry Christmas, my heart. Hold me in your thoughts tonight, as I hold you in mine.

Yours,

Thomas

Letter VI

Charleston

January the 10th, 1863

My Thomas,

Christmas came and went gently. We left an empty place at the table—not in mourning, but in faith. Mama said nothing, but I saw her straighten the napkin as though preparing it for a guest who was merely late.

I placed your last letter beneath my pillow that night. Perhaps it is foolish, but I slept more soundly for it.

I have begun to imagine our life after all this. Not in grand terms—no sweeping estates or glittering futures—but in small, solid moments. You reading by the fire. Me pretending not to watch you. The simple miracle of mornings.

Come back and live those moments with me.

Always,

Francesca

Letter VII

Near Petersburg, Virginia

March the 2nd, 1865

My Francesca,

The war is drawing toward something like an end, though no one dares name what that end will be. There is exhaustion everywhere—etched into faces, settled into bones.

I have survived, and I do not take that lightly. I think often of the man I was when I first wrote to you, full of conviction and ignorance in equal measure. I am older now, though the calendar insists otherwise.

If God is kind—and I believe He must be, in some fashion—I will soon walk back into your life not as a soldier, but as a man ready to begin again.

Save a little of yourself for me, Francesca. I am almost home.

Yours, as ever,

Thomas

Letter VIII

Charleston

April the 18th, 1865

My Dearest Thomas,

This will be my last letter to you, if God grants me my dearest hope—because I believe the next words we exchange will be spoken, not written.

Charleston has changed. So have I. But love, I find, is remarkably resilient. It bends. It endures. It waits.

Come home to me. Whatever you are now, whoever you have become, you are still the man I chose—and the man I will choose again.

The jasmine is blooming.

Always yours,

Francesca