Page 28 of The Haunting of William Thorn

To my most respectable reader, oh, how I have missed you.

I feel as though I should apologise for the delay since my last entry, but much has changed in England since then, and I fear that more change is to come.

Anyhoo, you must be sick of me saying sorry now, considering my last two entries began no different to this one.

It has been fifteen nights since the war began. Fifteen nights of worry, fifteen nights of this internal pending doom that comes with the thought that our time to help our country will begin.

Teddy has been my comfort, my constant. Although our evening escapades have been forced to come to an end, I still know he is close.

Even now, as I write to you, I can see the glow from the gatehouse’s window.

Teddy burns a candle on the ledge, always.

He told me it was his way of indicating that I am on his mind as much as he is on mine.

But the problem I am now faced with is that I cannot sleep.

I watch that candle flame, waiting for the moment it would extinguish.

Expecting the forced distance between us would evict me from Teddy’s mind.

I am pleased to announce that this has yet to happen.

For me, sleep is fleeting.

I long for nothing more than to sneak out of my bedroom as we had during our blissful summer.

But alas, I cannot. My father does not sleep either.

The rotary phone rings throughout the night, bringing news from London regarding the advancements in Germany.

He has friends from Stonewell visit Hanbury at all hours of the day.

The manor does not rest, because my Father does not.

And it is killing him. The stress, the worry.

I see it in the gaunt carving of my father’s cheeks and the heavy shadows that cling beneath his eyes.

But even I can recognise that death is our one constant – the terrible truth that is going to bind us all together.

The reason I have found the time to write to you today is because I have some positive news.

At least it is a type of news that makes the cage of butterflies within me flutter.

Earlier today, I bumped into Teddy in the gardens.

I use the term bumped rather loosely since I knew exactly where he was, and there was nothing accidental about our just-so-happen-to-bump incident.

In fact, I planned it. He was tending to Mother’s Honeysuckle, pruning it with the arrival of autumn.

Although the world beyond Hanbury is bracing for the war, life still moves on here.

It is Mother’s way of keeping some lick of normality.

I am thankful for her in a strange view of the world.

I kept my interaction with Teddy brief, already aware that my father had been noticing something between us.

I dropped a spare leather-bound journal – much like the one I write to you in – into the wicker basket he used for his pruning shears.

It was wrapped in cheesecloth, so in case my father was watching, it looked as though I was simply providing some lunch to Teddy whilst he worked.

Inside of the journal I left a note. A set of instructions for Teddy. He was to write his daily happenings, his thoughts and feelings, onto paper and in a matter of days we were to exchange our journals. This way he could read everything I am unable to say to him, and vice versa.

So Teddy, if you are reading this, I yearn for you.

And if you are not reading this, reader I apologise for a second time.

But it is true. My yearning for Teddy is so potent I want nothing more than to scream it across oceans and forests, demand the sky to listen and the stars to paint our faces upon the blanket of night. But alas, we cannot. Not yet at least.

Now, I must go. Teddy’s birthday is shortly upon us, and I have been dreaming up what I am to give him as a gift. Something special. I will give you a hint though, just in case Teddy is reading this as I do not want to spoil all my hard work.

He once said to me that he wished to see the world from my eyes, just so he could experience what it is I see when I look at him.

That is one wish I can grant.

I am going to show him just what I see, the nuance of his beauty and the subtle ways he has made me fall in love with him. All I will say is thank goodness for these long, sleepless nights. It awards me the time I need to complete the gift.

My only hope is that Teddy is around at Hanbury long enough to reach his birthday.

I have heard the whispers from behind my father’s closed study door.

Mentions of conscription… the horror of it.

But I dare not even contemplate it, murmurings of war and the part we may have to play in it. If I do, maybe it will become true.

Father told me not to worry. He promised me that I would never be touched by such evil, not like my dearly departed brother. However, Teddy is another matter.

I will do anything to keep Teddy here with me, reader. War or no, the threat – or promise – of conscription. He is not going anywhere. I refuse it.

As my mother always said, where there is a will, there is a way.