Beautifully Dead

Last Correspondence Before the Fall : A Teaser

Richmond, Virginia
April 9, 1861

My dearest Thomas,

I pray this letter finds safe passage to your hands before what we both fear comes to pass. The streets of Richmond swell with excited voices, and Father says men speak only of Fort Sumter and whether Anderson will surrender. Charleston Harbor seems so distant from my window, yet I feel its gravity pulling us all toward some terrible precipice.

Your last letter arrived with the seal broken—perhaps by accident, perhaps not. I've burned it as you instructed. Such precautions seemed melodramatic even a month ago, yet now... When Reverend Halloway spoke of brothers divided at Sunday service, Mrs. Pettigrew turned in her pew to fix me with such a stare I nearly fled the church entirely. Word has spread of our correspondence, despite our discretion.

Father says nothing, but I see how he studies the Northern newspapers with darkening brow. He knows, Thomas. Not everything, perhaps, but enough. Yesterday he spoke of the Methodist Church's division as "prophecy fulfilled" and I could not meet his eyes.

The hospital where I assist has received orders to prepare additional beds. For what purpose, none will say directly, though the implication hangs heavy. Dr. Merriweather has requested I join his surgical staff should... should conflict arise. He values my steady hands and says I've a gift for comforting the distressed. What terrible gifts to cultivate.

I must tell you something, Thomas, something I've observed these past weeks. There have been patients—three men returned from the harbor with peculiar symptoms. Dr. Merriweather has isolated them in the east wing. The official diagnosis is typhoid, yet their symptoms match nothing in my father's medical texts. Their skin burns with fever yet remains chill to touch. Their eyes... I cannot describe the vacancy there, nor the moments of terrible clarity that follow. Dr. Merriweather permits only himself and me to attend them. He speaks of contagion, yet takes minimal precautions himself. I've recorded my observations in the journal you gifted me last summer. Something beyond my understanding unfolds, and I find myself both frightened and—forgive me—fascinated.

If the drums of war do indeed sound, I fear this may be our last correspondence for some time. The postal service already faces disruption, and Father speaks of "appropriate loyalties" with increasing frequency.

Remember our discussions of Wesley's sermon on "Catholic Spirit"? I have been contemplating his words: "Though we cannot think alike, may we not love alike?" The chaplain at the hospital insists God has chosen sides in this conflict. I find I cannot believe the same Providence that led me to you now demands we view each other as enemies.

I shall continue to pray at dawn as we agreed. Though miles and armies may separate us, I will picture you in that moment, your face turned eastward in the same light that touches mine.

If silence must fall between us, know that it is not the silence of a changed heart.

Yours in faith, Eleanor

P.S. I've enclosed a sprig of dried lavender from the garden. Its scent may fade, but the memory it carries remains.

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