My love,

I am joyful. It snows, and I am far from what I love—but I am joyful. What a joy (it is too weak a word for how I felt) to see your neat handwriting, to touch the bottom of the paper where the heel of your hand would have rested, as you wrote it. I imagined I could feel your body’s warmth from it. I could not, of course—but in such a climate as this we can often dream of warmth, and think we feel it. As you know, I miss you very much.

I read your words in my chair, by the window. I had a view of the hill, and the north-east of the loch which is still thick with ice. I stoked my fire, pulled a rug about me and unfolded your letter—and it was as if you were speaking them to me, in that room. Once, I asked you not to say darling—remember? I thought it took all dignity and solemnity away—the qualities my father said a man must always have. I scolded you for darling, once. I was a fool to do so. Youth brings in such foolishness. Age, and absence, has changed me, for as I sat in my chair, I was grateful for the word darling, in ink. How did I ever think it took dignity away? The word itself is dignified, I think—for love is an honest, dignified, God-given gift between a man and his wife. I am blessed by it. I smoothed the word with my thumb.

I love that we are not the same. Some men wish for a wife who agrees with her husband, always—most men, I think. Not I. You are the wife I want, and no other, and Jane I love, deeply, how you see the world with your wide and dark-blue eyes. You reprimand me, I think? I will accept it. I can be zealous, I know, and selfish.

You write, perhaps the word “witch” harms her, and your cause? How you speak of the prisoner (I shall use this word, instead—for she is a prisoner, is she not? It is not wrong to call her that) is how I knew you would, for you’ve never liked the term. Yet still, you surprise me with your eloquence, and truth. She is a human, as we are, you wrote, but if we do not nourish or water a living thing it will twist itself, and rot. You are right, my love, and I am ashamed that I forgot it, or did not see—for I did not. I heard witch, and I saw her, and I was reviled. What did I write, in my letter to you? Of disgust, I recall. I will ask for the Lord’s forgiveness—for does He not teach tolerance, and that no lost soul was always lost? “For he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted” (Psalm 22:24—it is one of the torn pages in your Bible, where the moths found it. I trust it is still readable. One day, I shall buy you a new, uneaten one, my love—when I am on Irish soil again, which will be a good day).

So I must not see her as a witch, or a half-creature. She is ill. And perhaps, as with so many illnesses, a little care is half the remedy. Her lonesomeness and matted hair, and how she talks to herself are all parts of her twisting, from lack of love. It is indeed a wonder that she is not savage, and cruel.

I’ll say, Jane, that any cruelty in her life seems to have been done against her, rather than by her. But these are early days.

Such tenderness in you. I glance down on your note and see if she speaks of loneliness, then she is poor indeed, and they are tender words. You have not met Corrag, yet you talk with such measure that I feel you have—that you visit with her on your own, and neither of you tell me. Perhaps you cross the Irish sea weekly, take a lantern and your violet scent into the tollbooth, sit on that stool…I know you do not. But I also know that women keep secrets between them. Last night, I heard Corrag speak of a winter sunrise—of its pink skies and silence—and I think you would have loved to hear such words, to have seen such a sky. You are my little bird. You sing, and fill the house at Glaslough with your singing—even when you do not say a word.

Here is a truth that you have taught me: that if it was you, Jane, who played with your hands as you spoke, and whose voice was high-pitched, I’d think it delicate, and enchanting. Yet because it is a prisoner who has done, and does, these things, I call it madness. It is wrong of me.

Do not be blinded by James, dear one. Do not assume God’s will. You write far better than I do—and I was the student, the essayist. I read these words and pondered on them, in bed. Do I assume His will? His purpose for me? I cannot tell. But you are right to remind me of the need for a humble, open mind. I have always thought that James’s restoration was—is—my reason for being in this country. It is, after all, the reason that Ireland has banished me, called me a traitor for not accepting William as king. But I may be wrong, in thinking it. He—our Lord—moves in wondrous ways.

“I am like an olive tree flowering in the house of God; I trust in God’s unfailing love for ever and ever” (Psalm 52:8. Again—perhaps the moths had read it. They are well-read, Christian moths).

I am sorry to hear of the weather, in Ireland. Does it sound absurd, to say I miss such rain? I miss all weather save for snow, and ice. If I were in Glaslough I would walk out in the rain, feel it on my face. Then I would return, to you.

Of course, I will listen hard to her. You’re right—we all have our stories, and right to tell them, to have them heard. You do not see her as a wretch, and I must borrow your eyes. I know the thought of her death troubles you. In truth, I wonder if it does not trouble me somewhat, also. It did not, when I first found her—I was minded that Devil-worshippers should not be suffered to live. But I do not think she is one. She blasphemes, which is a sin, and she has known some thieves in her days. But is this worth murder? I cannot say. Moreover, she had been treated very poorly by soldiers. I will write no more on this, lest it distresses you—but I am glad to say she was not hurt in the way they tried for. Even prisoners do not deserve such things.

Dark times, these. There seems so little light—in the minds and hearts of us all. My Bible, and your name bring light to mine. I will confess, too, that there is something in her character—her love of living, I think, of being in the world—which lightens my step a little, when I walk out into the snow. I would call this bewitchment. But we have banished such words, now.

Thank you again for your letter. I cherish it, and will carry it with me. Would it be selfish and shameful to ask for another? If you find the time?

My love to our boys. Remind them that a father in Scotland does not mean a father who cannot punish, or reprimand. I hope they treat their mother as she deserves to always be treated—with love, and awe.

Charles