Today I have sent you a telegram with the most wonderful news. I hope it reaches you safely. Perhaps it is silly of me to write as well. Given how long this letter takes to reach you, these words will not be news at all, but the brevity of a telegram simply cannot do for news like this.

As I write, I am two months along. Yes, my love. That night we spent in the boatshed before you shipped out. Do you remember it? I can never forget it myself. How you picked me up from the bench after our supper by the sea and carried me through the door, the way your hand reached beneath my petticoat and the warmth of your touch on my thigh. I loved staying there all night with you, staring up at the stars through the portal window.

I appear to have escaped the torture of morning sickness, though I am often tired. Every day I walk along the peninsula down to the cove and imagine you home, playing with our son – I am certain we are having a son – teaching him to fish. I picture the three of us running along the sand, splashing in the waves that tease our feet, collecting sea shells to lay on the mantle.

I wonder if he will have your handsome face. My hair perhaps.

Father is overjoyed with the news. Mother, it seems, is unmoved. Not even the thought of a grandchild is enough to soften that woman’s contempt for your ‘lack of breeding’. I suppose a child that carries a bloodline anything less than aristocratic is an affront to her. You should be thankful you have not yet met. Though I do wish she had at least let Father walk me down the aisle.

Maybe she will come round when our son is born, and then she will finally forgive me for marrying ‘below my station’.

Maybe I hope too much.

If only she had given you a chance, she might have realised that breeding and money do not determine character and that there are more good people outside her circle than within.

Yes, I hope too much. Light and joy fill me, however, as I am sure you.

We must discuss names, my love. Thomas Junior is an obvious choice. I am not one to do the expected though, as well you know. We never would have danced that night three years ago if I did what was expected of me.

What do you think about Charles? After Father’s favourite author. It is a strong name. Or Matthew? After your beloved grandfather. Something for you to ponder in those lonely moments between rest and battle.

My nights are a little less empty now, with our son growing inside me. You are here with me. A part of me. Though I miss you every moment of every day.

Stay safe, my dearest.

Ivy