Jane

I will not write of her tonight. I will not tell you what she spoke of, for it will take up ink, and time, and light—and I have little of these things. What I will write of is what I should have written of long ago, or spoken of. We are two trees with out branches entwined, you and I—yet there are secrets we do not talk of. One secret.

My love. I do not want to distress you. But tonight all I have thought of is you, and our lost girl. Our little girl, whose birth and death was almost five years ago. I know—that you have asked for us to leave her be, and not mention her. You have said that to keep her unmentioned is to lay her to rest—but we think of her, do we not? I remember. Don’t think that my faith and duty have taken my memories of her away. They have not. I did not see her as you saw her, but I remember your own face. I saw your shame, and sorrow. We have never spoken of it.

We are fortunate to have our sons alive and well you said. Most women lose a child or two. It is God’s way.

But why did we not speak more of it? Why did you feel ashamed? What shame was there? In the days and weeks that followed you shook at my touch, like my touch pained you—or you felt that I should touch other, better things. Lives pass on, Jane. Our daughter came in strangled, and blue, but some must. Some fail in our eyes, but not in the Lord’s.

Did you ever think I loved you less, for it? I worry that you think so. It was hard to speak of our loss to you, for I feared to speak of it may widen your pain beyond all measure. But I will write it now. I will write what I did not say, in words, and should have done from the moment we knew: I do not love you less. I love you more, Jane, for it—for your firm little face which you showed our visitors, when your heart must have been broken. You were so frail in those weeks. But you still lifted up your chin, offered tea.

There is no blame. I know you, my love—I know you blamed yourself. I saw you in the garden, staring at the grass, and I know you saw it as your fault that our daughter was born sleeping. It was not your fault. It was God’s will that the only life she knew was tucked up, beneath your skin. That, alone, is a good life.

Speaking of a death does not worsen it, or change it. Our daughter does not suffer again, when we speak of her. Our girl is gone—but let us talk of her? Let us give her a second life, of some kind?

Be gentle with yourself. Do not try to understand God’s mystery, or wisdom—which none of us can know. Do not count the years, as I know you do. We have four sons of such strength and curiosity that I thank the Lord daily—more than daily. Four sons, and such a wife as you. I can ask for no more. I never even dreamt of half of this, half, of you. Jane, be gentle with yourself.

I read my Bible in a different manner, these days. The pages are damp which makes the business harder. But whereas I have mostly looked for guidance, it is not guidance I seek now. I look for proof—that my secret thoughts are noble, worthy ones. For I am having strange moments, Jane—I think as I have not, before.

“The Lord’s unfailing love and mercy still continue, fresh as the morning, as sure as the sunrise” (Lamentations 3:22–23).

I will eat supper now, and to bed.

My everything is yours—even from here, in Scotland.

Charles