“My dear wife,” he had written in the margins of a piece of newspaper. “Imprisoned in Libby at Richmond, Virginia. No chance of exchange. Send food, socks, no money. Uninjured but want nourishment and clean water. Filthy and overcrowded, many sick here. Kiss the children. God bless you.” The hasty scrawl was nothing like Jonathan’s usual elegant flourishes, the abrupt phrases lacking all his poetry. Though she had read the letter only once, every word and pen stroke was seared into Gerda’s memory. She reminded herself that she was fortunate Charlotte had allowed her to see the letter at all; a more jealous wife would have forbidden the woman her husband loved to see his precious words. Only later, when Gerda’s shock subsided enough for her to reflect, did she consider that perhaps Charlotte had permitted her to read the letter out of spite rather than compassion. Gerda could not forget that, allowed only one letter, Jonathan had chosen to write to Charlotte. Likely, Charlotte wanted her to take note of that.
