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LETTER, JAMES BARNES TO WINIFRED BARNES
Ma,
You’ll never believe this. Guess who’s getting married?
(Read this letter through to the end before running out to tell the neighbours, because it ain’t me.)
Remember that English girl I told you about? The one Steve was always tongue-tied around? Well, he must have gotten it untied. Not only did he talk to her, but he somehow talked her into marrying him. She seems like a smart girl, but I guess even smart girls make bad deals occasionally.
The wedding is six weeks from now. It’ll be a big show, in a famous church, with a reception afterwards at her parents’ house. They live in Hampstead, which is sort of a ritzy suburb of London (though people who live there don’t like hearing it described like that, go figure) and are footing the bill for the whole shindig.
Later today, Steve and I are going to see about a suit—because he has too much pride to ask his future in-laws to shell out for that too, and because the U.S. Army owns every piece of clothing he has, right down to his socks and underwear. (I don’t imagine they’ll be asking for those back, though with the craze for Cap memorabilia lately, who can say?)
Peggy (the future Mrs. Rogers) never gave us any clue that she might be well-heeled. It’s harder to spot a thing like that when everyone wears the same uniform, eats the same food, etc. I asked Steve if she ever said anything about it to him: he said he knew, but it didn’t bother him, which is a very Steve Rogers thing to say about finding out your smart, beautiful girlfriend is also rich. I guess if I won the lottery it wouldn’t bother me too much either.
It’s hard to imagine what her folks will make of Steve. Though I guess I’ll get a chance to find out soon enough, since they invited us both over for dinner this week to talk wedding details.
Anyhow, all of this is my way of breaking it to you that I’ll be home later than we planned, because Steve needs a best man. Don’t worry, though, I’ve got a place to stay until the wedding. Peggy is a close personal friend of Howard Stark—yes, that Howard Stark—and he’s letting me and Steve bunk at his place in the city until the big day, since I got my discharge papers and Steve is on leave.
Steve said I should apologize to you for him holding me up, and for you not getting to be here for the big day. (I don’t know where those fancy manners came from either. I guess Peggy is rubbing off on him.)
I’ll write again soon and let you know how everything went. Maybe even a few pictures, if we can find someone who can loan us a camera.
All my love to you, Pops, and the girls.
Bucky
P.S. I told Steve and Peggy we’d throw them a real party when we’re all finally back home. You may want to start cooking now. If you thought Steve could put away a meal before, remember that he’s twice as big now, and getting about ten times as much exercise. And Peggy will give him a run for his money every time. After sitting down to eat with the two of them, I’m surprised I’ve still got all ten of my fingers. Ain’t love grand?
TELEGRAM, HOWARD STARK TO LANA TURNER
ANGEL =
WHEN YOU WRAP ON CURRENT PROJECT COME TO LONDON =
BE MY DATE FOR WEDDING OF CENTURY JULY 21 =
THINKING OF YOU FONDLY =
H.S. =
DIARY OF MICHAEL CARTER
Thursday. Came home late, mildly shipwrecked, and wandered into an unholy row between Mum and Peg. Apparently Peg is engaged—again. What’s more, she’s already set a date, published the banns, and will not be moved, despite Mum’s proverbial wailing and rending of garments.
Hilariously, she has attached herself to an American, of no particular pedigree. In fact, she’s somehow managed to bag the most American American of all time. I had no idea she even knew the fellow—but then, we’ve both had to be rather tight-lipped about our war work, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
I can certainly see why the parents were a bit alarmed over it all. Naturally, Mum was more concerned about money (or in this case, lack thereof) than about the unseemly haste, or the fact that Peg is engaged to a bona fide comic book character whose likeness has graced a prodigious number of anti-VD posters. (Does he get residuals for that, I wonder?)
After Mum finally threw up her hands and stormed off, I asked Peg if she was serious about becoming Mrs. America. I was told in no uncertain terms that it is No Business of Mine, which is accurate, and also, that I could Bugger Right Off, which I promptly did.
Friday. Peg asked me to come out for a drink. Which is to say, she burst into my room without knocking, hurled my coat at me, and told me she needed a whisky and I was going to buy it. The fact that I was in the midst of writing didn’t seem to inconvenience her at all, which is nice for her, I must say.
On the way to the pub, she oh-so-casually dropped the news that we were going there to meet “Steve.”
“I’m not sure I’ve quite recovered from meeting your last fiancé,” I told her.
She looked a bit embarrassed and said, “This isn’t like that.”
“You mean, you don’t want me to like him?”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “Of course I want you to like him. But I’m marrying him whether you like him or not.” Which made quite a change from the last time, when she seemed keen to have me approve of Fred, perhaps because she wasn’t entirely decided on him herself.
Still, I was a bit apprehensive, wondering who my chameleon of a sister was going to turn into once we walked through the door of the Knight-at-Arms.
I needn’t have worried. Steve is the nicest chap—not at all what I was expecting from the newsreels and the radio play. Clever, but self-effacing, with a sly sort of wit. He didn’t talk over Peg, or for her, and she didn’t seem uncharacteristically restrained or ladylike in his presence.
“Michael is a writer,” said Peg proudly, if inaccurately.
Steve seemed very interested in this, and I explained that I’d had a couple of short stories accepted for publication while still in university, but that the war had scuppered what little career I might have had out of it. My mention of active service led to the usual swapping of CVs, his (obviously) somewhat more impressive than mine.
I had been planning to grill him about the engagement, and the reason for the unholy rush. Instead, we wound up talking about books. He’s surprisingly well-read, for an American. Before I knew it, I was telling him the plot of a spy novel I’d been thinking about (one must do something, now that one isn’t being shot at all the time). He listened patiently to my ramblings, and had a couple of pertinent suggestions that I really ought to have written down in the moment, since I’ve forgotten them now, though at the time I thought them very good.
Peg left to go to the lavatory, and was gone for nearly twenty minutes before either of us noticed (!) at which point Steve asked me if I’d mind standing up on his side at the wedding, along with his best mate, and I agreed to it. All in all, it was a very effective ambush.
On the walk home, Peg was smug, claiming she knew we’d get on, as we were both “creative types.” Apparently Steve was a commercial artist prior to the war, and is hoping to get back to it, provided the army will release him from his Captain America duties sooner rather than later. I confess I hadn’t thought about it in quite that way. One never really questions whether the man in the costume wants to be there or not.
As it turns out, that’s the reason for the mad dash to the altar: Steve will shortly be embarking on some sort of publicity tour in the U.S., and Peg’s best chance of moving over there is if she goes now, as a war bride. Otherwise, it would take months, and involve stacks of paperwork, which we all know Peg hasn’t the patience for. She’s also managed to wheedle her old boss into holding a place for her in their New York office, provided she makes the trip over PDQ.
Steve gets absolutely no benefit from being Captain America—he doesn’t even own the rights to his own image. According to Peg, he’s rather tired of the whole show, and would just as soon be living a quiet civilian life. I can certainly sympathize with that.
The one thing that concerns me is that I didn’t see any sign of genuine affection, beyond friendship, between the two of them. It was all terribly polite. Not that I want the fellow to snog her right in front of me, but there’s no harm in holding her hand or giving her a little cuddle. I know Americans can be a bit prudish, but I hope that’s all it is.
My sister is someone who loves fiercely and deeply, and she deserves someone able to give that back in return. Not sure yet whether Steve, nice as he is, is quite up to the job. Time will tell, I suppose.
Saturday—3 a.m. Couldn’t sleep (nightmares of the usual sort) so I went outside for a quiet smoke.
Looking up at the house in deep, writerly contemplation, I watched a strange, sinister shadow pass over the moon. A shadow shaped suspiciously like my sister’s fiancé, tiptoeing across the roof.
He crouched, cat-like, then sprang a distance of at least fifteen feet to the branch of a nearby tree. There was a brief rustling, and then he was on the ground, rolling to his feet just a few lengths away from where I happened to be standing. It was all very impressive.
“Ahoy there,” I called out.
He started, turning.
“You know, English houses have this marvellous invention, it’s called a door.”
He looked rather sheepish and said, very quietly, “I know what this looks like.” Presumably he was hoping to encourage me, by example, to lower my voice.
I replied, at top volume, “It looks like you climbing out of my sister’s bedroom window at half-one in the morning, my lad.” I tried to sound stern and older-brotherly, though in truth I was relieved to have my earlier observation about his prudishness contradicted. (There was, of course, no danger of my parents hearing us, as they sleep on the opposite side of the house, and are completely dead to the world after about nine p.m.) “I suppose you’re going to tell me you shimmied up the drainpipe for a late-night Bible study and a chaste kiss on the cheek? Incidentally, your shirt buttons are cock-eyed.”
He went red in the face, but thanked me, forthrightly, and set about fixing them.
“I was beginning to think you were going to spend your honeymoon playing canasta.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I thought the English were supposed to be reserved about that stuff.”
“Have you met many English people?”
“That’s fair,” he said.
“‘Reserved’ isn’t a word I’ve ever used to describe my sister.”
“Your sister isn’t like anyone else I’ve met anywhere,” he said, with such genuine feeling that I couldn’t help liking him even more.
I offered my cigarette case, but he politely declined. “All right, then,” I said. “Off you go, before you’re caught.”
He said goodnight, and made a humble retreat.
And so to bed—all of us to our own beds, that is.
Saturday—evening. I took it upon myself to let Peg know I’d run into her suitor the night before.
“And?” she said, haughtily, the way she does when she knows she’s been caught out.
“And, you’re lucky I wasn’t Mum or Dad.”
“Yes, because they so often like to go prowling in the garden after everyone else is asleep.”
“Are you planning to invite him over properly, or will you just keep sneaking him in and out of the house until the children are old enough to grass you up?”
She called me a rude name, which I won’t repeat here, and told me that everything had been arranged for Thursday. Apparently his best mate will be joining us too. Good luck to both of them!
LETTER, EDWIN JARVIS TO ANA JARVIS
My darling Ana,
As always, I miss you terribly—your charming company, your delicious cooking, and your perpetually ice-cold feet. In that order, of course. Hopefully the fantastically warm weather you mentioned in your last letter is enough to keep your feet (and the rest of you) warm, until I can resume providing that service personally.
It’s possible that, by the time this letter reaches you, the news will already be public, but in case not: what I am about to tell you is of the utmost secrecy. I have complete confidence in your discretion, as always.
Today, I fitted Captain America for the suit he will be married in.
Captain Rogers, as he is otherwise known, is a personal friend of Mr. Stark’s. The process of becoming Captain America caused him to outgrow all of his civilian clothes, and the circumstances make it a challenge for him to visit a tailor in person: neither the captain nor his bride-to-be are particularly keen to have the details of their wedding publicized—which is perfectly understandable, given how belligerent the press (from both sides of the Atlantic) can be. So I am acting as temporary valet for the captain, and general man-of-all-work for both halves of the happy couple.
Having collected several samples from the usual ports of call the day before, I did not anticipate the dual challenge that presented itself.
First: Captain Rogers has no preference whatsoever regarding colour, fabric, or fit—as was instantly evident from the clothes he wore to the fitting. Also, he has a rather challenging (albeit very dashing) silhouette, which will require some expert tailoring.
Second: the captain’s best man, Sergeant Barnes, has very strong opinions about fashion—all of them decidedly vulgar. He and Mr. Stark have taken it upon themselves to vigorously debate the merits of every trouser cuff, tie, pocket square, and so on, ad nauseam. No sooner is a decision made then it is unmade.
While he may lack sartorial inclinations, Captain Rogers is deeply concerned about cost, despite Mr. Stark repeatedly insisting that the new suit is an engagement present. He is suspicious of even the tiniest embellishments.
I was nearly at my wits’ end when rescue arrived, in the form of the future Mrs. Rogers.
I must say that she was not at all what I was expecting from the description furnished by Mr. Stark. It isn’t like him not to mention a woman’s looks, at least in passing, and Miss Margaret Carter is, if you’ll forgive my observing it, a stunning young woman with a superlative sense of style. On the surface, she seems as though she would be exactly Mr. Stark’s type, and I regret to say that, on that basis, I greatly underestimated her on first meeting.
She soon took charge of the exasperating Barnes-Stark confluence, and handily evicted them both. The language she used was not entirely ladylike, though I can’t say I blame her.
Thus relieved, I was able to get on with the job of dressing her fiancé in peace, while she sat quietly on the divan and read the newspaper. She did not offer her opinion, except when directly consulted; her comments seemed calculated both to make my work easier and to put Captain Rogers at ease with the extravagance of the gift. I believe the captain would happily be married in a potato sack, if it would please Miss Carter.
Fortunately, even in the midst of ongoing fabric rationing, we were able to manage something a bit better than that.
The two of them make an utterly charming couple, and I believe they will be, if you will forgive the pun, quite well-suited.
Yours, as much as I am my own,
Edwin
P.S. I do hope you won’t mind, but I’ve agreed to the loan of my silver cufflinks for the special day. Captain Rogers doesn’t own any suitable to the occasion, and he found the options provided by Mr. Stark to be somewhat ostentatious. I told him they were the ones I wore at my own wedding, and he has promised to guard them with his life.
TELEGRAM, HOWARD STARK TO KATHARINE HEPBURN
KATE =
COME FLY WITH ME LONDON OR BUST =
CATCH THE BOUQUET AT MY FRIENDS WEDDING JULY 21 =
THINKING OF YOU FONDLY =
H.S. =
DIARY OF MICHAEL CARTER
Thursday—evening. Late supper with comedy duo Barnes and Rogers. Good heavens. Disaster!! Will write more when sober.
Friday a.m. Nothing more to add. The above covers it nicely.
LETTER, JAMES BARNES TO REBECCA BARNES
Becky,
Ma said you wanted to know more about Steve’s fiancée, and if I think she’s good enough for him. (Hopefully this means you and all the rest of the neighbourhood girls in the Captain America Fan Club have stopped crying your hearts out over him being off the market.)
I worked with Peggy a little (I can’t say doing what exactly). She’s a real knockout, in the traditional sense, but also in the sense that if you’re a guy and you happen to look at her the wrong way, she’ll serve you a knuckle sandwich. She’s stubborn, hotheaded, loud-mouthed, and impulsive. So I don’t know if it’s a case of her being good enough for Steve—I’d say they’re a couple of holy terrors who deserve each other.
Last night I got to meet her parents and her brother at their house. It was one of the best meals I’ve had in weeks. Whatever horrible rumours you’ve heard about army food, I promise you they’re too generous.
No two ways about it: the Carters are loaded. The house was massive, and full of all kinds of expensive knick-knacks. Steve kept pulling me back whenever he felt like I was getting too close to anything too breakable, and changing the subject any time it seemed like I might say something rude. I’m not too sure why he brought me at all. I assume they told him to bring a friend, and he realized he only had one.
Dinner was late. I don’t know why the rich insist on eating in the middle of the night. I guess starvation is more fun when you do it recreationally? When it finally arrived, though, it was a dynamite spread. They have a cook—who must be some sort of magician with ration coupons—and at least two people who bring the food to the table, though I didn’t get their official job titles.
The Carters are apparently career drinkers—which explains Peggy, who can hold her liquor better than half the guys I know. We had an “aperitif” that I’m pretty sure was uncut moonshine. Steve, who has the constitution of a bull elephant, wasn’t affected at all, but I was feeling very relaxed by the time dinner was served.
And it was dinner and a show, since the purpose of the dinner was for Peggy’s parents to give Steve the official inspection. Boy, did they ever. They wanted to know where his family was from, what schools he went to, what jobs he’d worked at, what he was planning to do after his discharge. I'm surprised they didn’t ask for a doctor’s note and a notarized letter from his bank. There were also some cagey references to Peggy’s money, or money that she’s supposed to come into one day, or something, but Peggy shut that line of inquiry down fast.
Steve tried not to talk too much, which I think helped him. When he did speak up, it was about the free museums he got to see whenever he happened to have some time in London. As you know, if you get Steve talking about art, it’s hard to change the subject. I admit I tuned out for a lot of it, until Mrs. Carter asked me what I thought about impressionism. She didn’t seem too thrilled when I said that I wasn’t any good at it, but that we did have a guy in our unit who did a mean Jimmy Cagney. She mostly left me alone after that.
By dessert, the conversation had rolled around to wedding plans. Mrs. Carter seemed to have some pretty set ideas: the church (big), the vows (traditional), the party afterwards (fancy), the guests (half of Hampstead, but none of our crew from the 107th). She didn’t seem to care what Steve or Peggy wanted. Finally, Peggy snapped, “Is this your wedding, mother, or ours?”
Mrs. Carter said she supposed it was hers, since she and Mr. Carter were footing the bill.
You could feel the temperature in the room drop. Steve got very quiet, and Peggy got very polite, and I can tell you from experience that nothing good ever comes after that.
When coffee was being served, Michael, the brother, suggested that Peggy give Steve a tour of the gardens, and asked if I’d like to check out the library. I couldn’t think of anything I’d like less after a big meal than to look at a bunch of stuffy old books, but I could tell he sensed the storm brewing and was trying to get the fiancés and the parents as far apart as possible, so I agreed, and we all excused ourselves.
Peggy said something about not being able to find her scarf and then—get this—
Steve, like a lamb to the slaughter: “It’s on the chair in your bedroom.”
(It was his first time in the house—supposedly!)
Everyone froze. You could have heard a pin drop. Peggy’s mom looked scandalized. Peggy’s dad looked confused. Peggy looked ready to dig Steve a shallow grave, which was convenient, since Steve looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Fortunately, no one was looking at me—I was trying like hell not to burst out laughing, which wouldn’t have helped anything.
Then Michael saved the day. “What a memory you’ve got, old boy! I had him round the other day for a bit of brotherly vetting, and gave him a tour of the house. Peggy’s door was open, but we hardly gave it a second look. At least, I didn’t think so.”
It took Steve a second to catch on, but he eventually followed Michael’s lead. The parents seemed placated, at least enough to let Peggy take Steve out to the garden, where I’m sure he got his ear chewed off in one way or the other.
I went with Michael into the library, he broke out his secret whiskey stash, and we had a good laugh over Steve’s narrow escape. We traded a few childhood stories, which only confirmed that Steve and Peggy really are a match made in someplace, though I think heaven is pushing it. I was able to rope him into helping me with the bachelor party, since he knows the London night-spots and has some idea of where we can go to have a good time.
Peggy must have forgiven Steve for his little slip-up, since they came back from the garden in much better moods. They sat down with Mrs. Carter, and agreed to everything she wanted, both of them sweet and smiling the whole time.
I guess all wasn’t forgiven and forgotten, though, because someone leaked the wedding details to the papers. The only people who could have done that were the ones who were at dinner, and only one of those people had any reason to want to ruin Steve and Peggy’s big day.
But I guess if you’re paying for the party, it’s up to you who’s invited. Even if that means reporters.
I’ll write more when I can.
Buck
TELEGRAM, HOWARD STARK TO JANE RUSSELL
JANE DARLING =
BE MY DATE JULY 21 FOR THE BEST WEDDING YOU WILL EVER GO TO =
AT LEAST UNTIL YOURS AND MINE =
THINKING OF YOU FONDLY =
H.S. =
DIARY OF MICHAEL CARTER
Friday—noon. Have just overheard Mum on the telephone to the Morning Star and at least two others, giving all details about Peg’s wedding. Peg is away, seeing an old school friend about a dress, and may not be back until tomorrow, owing to the general cussedness of train timetables. Have sent a message over to Steve, inviting him to my club, to avoid reporters and hold an impromptu council of war.
Friday—p.m. Council of war required a change of venue, due to my sister gate-crashing. (Women are permitted in the lounge, but not in the private rooms, no matter how loudly or frequently they complain.)
I wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that she wasn’t staying overnight with her friend, though she could have had the decency to be slightly ashamed of herself, on behalf of my delicate sensibilities.
“Was there even a dress?” I inquired.
“Of course there was,” she said indignantly. “What do you think I am?”
“I’m not sure I can answer that in polite company.”
She silently mouthed a rude phrase at me, then admitted, “At the moment, it’s a fifty-percent stake in a piece of white parachute silk with grand aspirations. But I’ve seen it, and Sylvia said it was mine if I wanted it, and Joan seems confident she can make something of it in time for the wedding.”
“The wedding? I thought you were going to wear Mum’s dress,” I said.
“This lounge is very stuffy.” She tossed her hair, dramatically, the way she does when trying to evade a question. “I should demand my membership dues back, if I were you.”
I refrained from reminding her (yet again) that she had not been invited, and ordered her a double whisky, which seemed to pacify her somewhat.
Neither my sister nor her paramour seemed especially upset by the news that their wedding plans were now public, which should have been my first clue that they were up to something.
Over the next two hours, and several more drinks, they unveiled their plan. I don’t dare write it down, but it’s actually quite ingenious—assuming it comes off.
TELEGRAM, HOWARD STARK TO RITA HAYWORTH
RITA =
I KNOW YOURE MARRIED NOW BUT HEAR ME OUT =
LETTER, EDWIN JARVIS TO ANA JARVIS
My darling Ana,
It was a delight to hear your voice this evening on the telephone. I’m glad to know that you are getting on well, and that you aren’t too lonely without me.
I hope you’ll forgive my delay in sending this letter. The reason will, I hope, be clear by the end of it.
I’m sure that by now you’ve seen and heard: somehow, the newspapers got hold of the details of Captain America’s impending nuptials. Captain Rogers happened to be staying at the townhouse when the news broke; the gentlemen (I use the term loosely) of the press have descended on us in droves. We have had to hire extra security to mind the gates and both entrances, and I have procured a guard dog to patrol the grounds. (Mr. Stark has developed a long-range radiation beam that can theoretically neutralize camera equipment, but it is untested, and quite possibly hazardous to the user as well as the target.)
We are used to journalistic interest, of course, but I can only imagine how exhausting it must be for the captain, or for poor Miss Carter.
However, I have discovered that Miss Carter—despite her insistence that her work during the war was strictly clerical in nature—is quite adept at subterfuge. She has twice now managed to pass unnoticed into the house dressed as a charwoman, with the aid of a wig and a prodigious set of false teeth.
Captain Rogers does not share his fiancée’s talent for blending in; however, his legendary speed and strength present a considerable challenge for the ordinary Fleet Street denizen, and he is able to escape by scaling walls or jumping over fences.
For the past week, I have been doing what I can to make things tolerable for them. My experience in concealing Mr. Stark’s romantic dalliances from prying eyes has been put to more benevolent use here: I am happy to carry messages, to facilitate rendezvous, or even to serve as a decoy. Twice now, I have left the house wearing Captain Rogers’ uniform jacket and cap, driving one of Mr. Stark’s less ostentatious cars, and proceeded to lead a merry chase all over London. I mean no disrespect to the uniform, of course, but needs must.
Last night, I collected the happy couple, individually, and shuttled them both back to the house, to eat a quiet supper and discuss their wedding plans in relative privacy.
As we made the journey, I couldn’t help but observe, aloud, that they both seemed somewhat frazzled.
“It’s these bloody reporters,” said Miss Carter (forgive my inclusion of the epithet). “I can’t so much as go out to the garden without some horrible man popping up from the shrubbery, asking rude questions and insinuating that I’ve put on weight. There’s a limit to how many cameras I can break before I’m brought up on charges. It’s all very well for you,” she said to her fiancé, who seemed rather amused by her last remark. “Not all of us can outrun a sedan.”
“I didn’t outrun it,” he replied, equably. “I let it hit me.”
Naturally, I sympathized, and asked if there was anything I could do. They exchanged a meaningful look, and I could tell that they were sizing me up, wondering whether they could entrust me with further confidence.
Apparently, I passed muster, because they proceeded to outline the details of a daring plan: for the past week, they have been planning for the July 21st date, while also arranging a secret second wedding, to take place a week earlier, at a country house owned by a mutual friend of theirs.
Because they are continuing to keep up appearances related to their official wedding, only a few trusted individuals have been informed of the details of the clandestine one. I was, of course, honoured to be among them, and said as much. At my urging, they have entrusted me with the staging of the entire event. Everything will be made to look as though Mr. Stark is planning a small surprise engagement party for the happy couple, until the absolute last minute.
Which is, of course, why I won’t be able to send this letter until after the day is done and the marriage is a fait accompli. Not even the post can be trusted, I’m afraid.
Mr. Stark is also part of the subterfuge. (I will admit that this came as something of a surprise, given his congenital lack of discretion.) Apparently, he has been sprinkling false leads anywhere he can, including drafting a batch of telegrams to various high-profile female acquaintances, inviting them to the decoy wedding. I am to deliver these to the telegram office with a great show of secrecy, but without paying any sort of bribe to ensure discretion. This will almost certainly lead to the press being alerted.
(I only hope that none of them take him up on the invitation, as I am not eager to repeat the Ginger Rogers Incident.)
Yours, always,
Edwin
LETTER, TIMOTHY “DUM DUM” DUGAN TO GABRIEL JONES
Gabe,
Cap and Carter were sorry to hear you weren’t going to make it back over in time for the wedding. It was dumb luck that I was able to change my ticket at the last minute, and that Stark was able to put me up alongside the boys here in London.
Because you twisted my arm, here are all the details of the stag night—those I can recall.
It was all very hush-hush, since Cap and Carter pulled a bait-and-switch on her parents (as well as her parents’ friends, the U.S. Army, and the entire staff of the Evening Standard). For that reason, it was a small raiding party: yours truly, Barnes, Stark, the lucky groom, and Carter the Elder (or Mike, to avoid confusion and save me the extra letters). Stark’s valet drove the getaway car and played lookout.
Cap made it clear from the jump that he wanted absolutely no female entertainment on this jaunt. Stark suggested a couple of private clubs he knew—tasteful joints where the dancers keep the essentials covered—but Cap wouldn’t budge. So we went with Plan B, AKA Operation Get Cap Drunk.
Stark suggested we try a scientific approach: track how much booze we were feeding Cap, and get him to recite the Pledge of Allegiance every half hour or so as a baseline sobriety test. Mike offered to be club secretary and keep notes. He gave me the notes at the end of the night, and it’s a good thing he did, because otherwise you’d be stuck with my best guess.
I wasn’t sure what to make of Mike at first, but he’s a Carter, all right: a little shit disturber with a classy accent and elegant handwriting.
Pub #1, we gave Cap whiskey, six doubles, over one hour. No effect.
Pub #2, the only liquor they had in volume was gin. We gave him half a bottle, and finished the rest amongst ourselves. No effect on Cap, though the rest of us were feeling our oats.
Pub #3, we drank the place dry. Mike lost track of the amount, and just wrote “a prodigious quantity of whisky and beer, most of it funnelled directly down Rogers’ throat,” which tracks with my recollection. No effect, aside from Cap’s pledge recitation drawing a small crowd.
We finally gave up and decided to go to a dance hall, over Cap’s protests, because the rest of us aren’t engaged and deserve to have a little fun. Mike said he knew the perfect place, so we left it in his hands.
When we walked in, there was this dame standing at the bar. A real bombshell, in a red dress. Great legs, sensational figure. Even Cap had to pick his jaw up off the floor.
It was the first time that night I saw him take a second look at any of the girls we’d seen, so I elbowed him and said, “Good thing you’re taking yourself out of the running. Maybe I’ve got a shot.”
Then Mike elbowed me and said, “That’s my sister, you nit.”
Once I recovered from the shock, I could see that he was right. Don’t ask me how I managed to forget that Carter cleans up like a pro. I’m used to thinking of her as one of the boys.
Cap either didn’t clock me leering at his fiancée or had decided to ignore it, which was swell, since I like my face in its current configuration.
Leave it to Carter to have her own version of a stag night. I guess her gal pals also teamed up to get her loaded, only they had more luck than we did. She had an apple in her cheek and a twinkle in her eye.
Once we got her attention, she wobbled over, and kissed each of us on both cheeks—except for Cap, who got the deluxe welcome. Even if it hadn’t been obvious that Carter was as tight as a boiled owl, that would have given it away. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve seen those two kiss in public, and this wasn’t a kiss so much as an amateur tonsillectomy. It went on for so long that we all had time to make introductions, while Stark ordered a bottle of champagne for the girls’ table. Finally one of Carter’s pals wolf-whistled, and the rest of us started applauding, and that broke things up.
For the sake of our science experiment, I asked Cap to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. He couldn’t do it.
We discussed taking our roadshow elsewhere, since the girls were there first, but in the end we decided to make it a combined celebration. The bride and groom seemed to like that all right, especially when the band started up and they took to the dance floor. Cap’s made some strides since you, me and Barnes tried to teach him how to foxtrot. I guess it helps that Carter lets him lead.
Carter’s friends are what you’d expect: pretty, brainy, slightly terrifying. They’re all scholars of some flavour, and they all worked together before Carter joined the SSR, which should be all the clues you need. They were familiar with Cap and the 107th, which makes sense, since I imagine we were a regular topic of discussion on the old tin can telephone.
Around midnight, Cap took Carter outside “to get some air.” He came back fifteen minutes later, red-faced, with lipstick on his neck, and she turned up shortly afterwards with a fresh coat of paint and a smug smile. Not sure who the smokescreen was for, since the wedding sort of lets the cat out of the bag, but it’s cute that they think they’re any better at hiding it now than they were then.
At last call, Stark offered the bachelorettes a ride home. We all piled into the back of the Fleetwood, except for Mike, who gallantly offered to hoof it so the ladies would all fit. Stark, Barnes and I each wound up with a girl on our knee, and two more squeezed into the front seat with Mr. Jarvis. It wasn’t until we were rolling that any of us realized we’d left both the guests of honour behind.
Don’t worry. Both of them made it to the church on time.
Miss you, brother. Here’s hoping we’ll see each other soon.
DD
DIARY OF MICHAEL CARTER
Saturday—too bloody late entirely. Got home at an unholy hour, feeling wretched, thanks to a combination of drink and poorly-selected footwear. Went to look in on Peg to make sure she’d made it back, since we’d lost track of her near the end of the night. I wasn’t worried, as I felt quite certain it was intentional on her part; she’s been pulling that escape artist trick ever since we were children.
Sure enough, she was there—sprawled limply across the bed, face mashed into a pillow, while her fiancé appeared to be in the process of trying to grapple one of her shoes off.
“Bit squiffy, are we, old dear?” I tapped her on the leg.
She mumbled something, and made a pathetic attempt to raise herself on her elbows, then apparently decided it wasn’t worth the effort and flopped back down.
Steve didn’t seem to be having much luck, so I knelt beside him and tackled the other shoe. “She’ll be all right in the morning,” I assured him cheerfully. “The Carters are world-class drinkers. Aside from my mother, which is a shame, because I think it would improve her outlook on things tremendously.”
We managed to defeat the infernal T-straps at nearly the same moment, and I toasted our success by knocking my left heel against his right one. Steve looked nonplussed, staring down at the shoe in his hand as though he’d never seen one before.
“You look like a man who’s just realized he’s getting married in the morning,” I observed, humourously.
He made a rueful face, and shook his head a little, as if to clear out worrisome thoughts. I categorically did not care for that, as it made me think he might be getting cold feet, and I was not especially keen to have to challenge Captain America to a fight over my sister’s honour.
“What’s on your mind, old chap?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We did all this on a tight schedule because I had to leave, and it was the easiest way for her to come with me. She’s giving up a lot. But, you know, I thought I could at least give her a nice wedding, surrounded by her friends and family. And now… I don’t know.”
“Listen here,” I said firmly. “If you think she’s not enjoying every single second of all this drama and deception, then you don’t know my sister as well as I thought. If she wanted a dull wedding to a crashing bore, she would be married to Fred Wells right now. If she wanted to do this quietly, the two of you could have eloped weeks ago, without any fuss at all. But she chose exactly this, because she’s a horrid little pest—” here I poked her foot for emphasis— “who lives to spread chaos in her wake.”
Said horrid little pest attempted, in vain, to kick me in the ear.
Steve smiled. “Agree to disagree on that last part, but point taken. Thanks.”
I told him that I hoped he’d had an enjoyable last night of bachelorhood. He assured me that it had been “swell,” and, in true masculine fashion, we shook hands and said good-night. When I left, he’d begun very tenderly tucking Peg under the covers.
Starting to wonder whether she truly deserves him, if I’m being honest.
Sunday. The big day. Peg made her escape before sunrise—leaving me to break the news to the parents, naturally.
There seemed little point in beating around the bush, so I went to their rooms just before nine and announced, “The car will be round shortly. And, just so we’re all aware, it’s actually Peg’s wedding we’re going to, not her engagement do.”
Dad seemed mildly perplexed, but took it in stride, as he generally does where Peg is concerned.
Mum was instantly in full bluster: demanding to know how Peg could have been so selfish, how I could be a party to this foolishness, etc, etc. She began to itemize the many deposits they’d made, and things paid for outright, and persons of high esteem who had been invited.
“Good,” I said, encouragingly. “Let’s get it all out now, so we don’t ruin her day. Any more than some of us already have.”
Don’t know whether she knew that I’d sussed her out re. anonymous tipping-off of reporters. Dad obviously didn’t know, and I doubt he would have approved.
Chastened, Mum allowed me and Dad to bundle her into the car, and off we went.
On the way, we collected Steve’s mate Dugan, who was in high spirits despite having been nearly insensate with drink mere hours before. His laconic drawl and his ability to spool out long, winding metaphors puts me in mind of the cowboy in Dracula. I don’t think Mum knew quite what to make of him; Dad seemed to find him fascinating, as a sort of cultural artifact, and asked a lot of questions about life in America. Having never been to America myself, I couldn’t tell how many of his answers were complete codswallop, but I had a wonderful time listening to them all the same.
Ceremony went off as planned. I stood up on the bride’s side rather than the groom’s, as it seemed a bit unfair for Steve to have two attendants, while Peg was left looking as though she hadn’t a friend in the world. Apparently, with the date change, none of her BP pals were free at such short notice. But I was happy to stand in.
Barnes was looking a bit peaky, after the revels of the night, but bore up manfully throughout. He and I wore our dress uniforms. Steve wore a well-made, if understated, suit. It was a bit surprising, as all the chaps I know who have gone the matrimonial route in the last year were married in uniform—but then, I suppose, in his line of work, one doesn’t like to think that the girl is wedding the institution, as it were.
He seemed considerably more sure of himself than he had at supper with my parents, and not at all nervous when it was his turn to speak. There was something rather charming about the way he promised to love and honour my sister, and I do believe he meant every word.
Peg had managed to finagle her white dress after all, and looked quite grown-up, with flowers in her hair, etc. Just as I’d predicted, there was no trace of her debauchery the night before. She had a pinched, determined sort of look through most of the ceremony—as though she thought someone might object to the union, and had already prepared her remarks, just in case. (No one did, incidentally. I suspect Mum considered it.) She recited her portion of the vows rather more emphatically than necessary.
Once they’d gotten through all the usual boilerplate, she started to relax a little, and even smiled at me once. I’ll confess I got a bit misty-eyed.
The reception was a garden-party—it had been planned that way to disguise it as an engagement party, of course, but I wondered whether Peg felt the same sense of deja vu as I did. Fortunately, this time there was no question as to whether I’d approve of her young man.
The seating arrangements saw me paired with another lonely bachelor, one Colonel Phillips of the SSR. He was a fantastic character who had worked with my sister and seemed to view her marriage as an inconvenience to him personally. (He referred to her as “Carter” throughout our chat, which was disconcerting—and technically incorrect, since she is in fact Mrs. Rogers now.)
I’m very tempted to see whether Howard Stark’s man, Jarvis, could be persuaded to defect. He is an absolute miracle worker, and managed to produce a full afternoon tea, seemingly out of thin air, and a cake that, remarkably, did not taste of either powdered eggs or sawdust.
About halfway through the afternoon, around the time the speeches were supposed to begin, Barnes got up to announce that the newlyweds had gone, and that speeches were cancelled, but the bar was open, courtesy of Howard Stark. He then instructed the band to start playing, which I’m not quite sure he was authorized to do, but they struck up in fine form just in time to drown out Mum’s extremely forceful sighing. She claimed to be insulted on my behalf; personally, I was relieved to be off the hook, as I’ve never been one for public speaking.
Some time later, the ubiquitous Jarvis sidled up and discreetly handed me a note from Peg, which I append here, unedited.
Michael,
By now, you’ll have been informed of our daring escape, assuming we can pull it off without being collared by Mum. Sorry for leaving you holding the bag yet again.
The bar is paid up, Mr. Jarvis has charge of the staff, and the house and gardens are on loan until tomorrow, in case anyone overindulges and needs to stay the night.
We are off to the seaside. I shan’t put down the exact location, or where we plan to stay, on the off chance this letter falls into the wrong hands.
I’ll be leaving with Steve in two weeks’ time. Please don’t say anything to anyone yet. I’ll break the news to Mum and Dad when I’m back. Save me a dram of the good whisky you keep hidden in the library. (I’ve had most of it already, I’m afraid. Planning two weddings at once is not for the faint of heart.)
Also, Steve wanted me to put in that he is very sorry to miss your speech, because he’s a much nicer person than I am.
With affection, your darling little sister.
Dear old Peg. She certainly keeps things interesting.
LETTER, EDWIN JARVIS TO ANA JARVIS
My darling Ana,
It was quite a day of plots within plots, but Captain Rogers and the newly-styled Mrs. Rogers were married in fine style, at Lord Falsworth’s beautiful country estate. It was a challenge, without your assistance, but I saw to it that no detail was overlooked.
We left the townhouse very early this morning. Out of respect for tradition, there were separate cars for the bride and groom. Mr. Stark, who was in high spirits despite the hour, suggested that it should be the English vs. the Americans: I chauffeured Miss Carter in the sedan, while the captain accompanied Mr. Stark in his roadster.
Miss Carter seemed to be in a contemplative mood, which was not entirely unexpected; and so, after a few pleasantries about the weather, we passed the first portion of the drive in companionable silence.
Once we were well outside London, she turned to me and asked, “You’re married, Mr. Jarvis, are you not?”
I told her, proudly, that I was indeed married, to a most remarkable woman.
“This may strike you as an odd question, but… do you like it?” Before I could reply, she continued, “I don’t believe I know anyone who does. Like it, I mean. None of my friends seem to be enjoying it. I suppose my parents do, but they’ve never talked about it—at least, not in front of me.”
“I do happen to like it very much,” I told her.
“Very good. One vote in favour, then,” she said, rather drolly.
I asked whether there was any particular aspect of marriage that was troubling her.
“Not as such,” she replied. “I’ve honestly not given it much thought, until recently. If you’d asked me a year ago, I wouldn’t have said I was the type. Steve is very much the type—but then, he’s a man, and men aren’t expected to make sacrifices for love, broadly speaking.”
I deemed it wise not to offer any comment.
She told me that, during the war, she and the captain had not often been together, and that much of their courtship had been conducted via written correspondence. After V-E Day, they reunited in London, and the engagement was rather hastily agreed upon, by both parties, with neither one making the official proposal.
She gave me to understand that it was mostly a practical matter, because she wanted to emigrate, and it would be easier to go as a war bride. (Having seen Miss Carter and Captain Rogers together, before and since, I find it hard to believe that was the only, or even the primary, consideration.)
“And now,” she concluded, “here we are, in a mad dash down the aisle. It’s impossible to get one’s bearings. How long had you known your wife before you were married, Mr. Jarvis?”
“Just over a month,” I said.
She gaped at me, flabbergasted. “One month! Good lord.”
I explained our unique circumstances, eliding some of the less than savoury details.
When I was through, she said, “I’m awfully glad that story had a happy ending.”
“As am I.”
“You must think me rather silly.”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “It’s natural to feel some trepidation over such a permanent change. I don’t believe it’s possible to feel entirely prepared for marriage, regardless of the length of the engagement. The only thing you can expect is the unexpected. And the best way to know whether you will be a success, as a couple, is how well you weather those unexpected moments.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s actually very helpful, Mr. Jarvis. Thank you.”
I said I was glad to be of service in any way I could.
We arrived at the house not long after. It was in decent shape, though a fair bit of airing out and dusting was required, and a family of squirrels had taken up residence in the drawing room fireplace.
The captain and Miss Carter were installed in bedrooms in opposing wings of the house, to be able to finish dressing without any chance of an accidental sighting. Miss Carter declined my offer to appoint a member of the day staff to assist with her toilette, wryly observing that she was ‘a dab hand at costume changes.’ She did ask me if I would valet Captain Rogers, which I did—though the majority of that effort was spent convincing him that the staff did not need his assistance in reaching high shelves, carrying heavy furniture, or evicting wildlife from the chimney. He seemed determined to find a way to ruin his new suit, which I suspect is why Miss Carter appealed to me to attend him. I had to brush his jacket and trousers no less than three times, owing to the amount of dust he collected.
Mr. Stark vexed me throughout by constantly attempting to interrupt the work of the staff—mostly local girls who, fortunately, had too much sense to allow themselves to be lured away from their duties.
When the guests began to arrive, I gave the captain one last, through dust-brushing, and sent him and Mr. Stark outside to greet people. After that, the mise en scène came together like clockwork.
The ceremony began after only a short delay, owing to a last-minute casting change: Miss Carter’s brother decided to serve as her de facto attendant, since the ladies she had invited to be in her entourage were not able to attend the improvised wedding on such short notice. This required some small revisions to the choreography we had previously rehearsed.
Despite the upheaval, it wasn’t long before the bride appeared at the end of the aisle, radiant and smiling, in white silk, with gardenias in her hair to match the ones in her bouquet. The groom also cut quite a dashing figure, if I do say so myself. When they first laid eyes on one another, I saw Captain Rogers’ shoulders rise and fall, as though he were trying to catch his breath.
It was a lovely ceremony. Despite having only known both halves of the couple a few short weeks, I was deeply moved by their heartfelt pledges to love, honour, and cherish one another.
The reception was very simple, as supplies here are still scarce. The only extra provision for weddings is two pounds of cooked ham, which I have no doubt you’ll agree is hardly the foundation for a banquet. I also had to be careful to avoid arousing suspicion that this was anything more than an engagement party. Which is why, in the end, we opted for an extended afternoon tea, rather than a full supper.
Miss Carter’s friends from the secretarial pool all generously donated their butter and sugar rations to the cause, in lieu of a wedding present. Through a local butcher, who is an established wheeler-dealer, as well as some rather shrewd bargaining with the staff of neighbouring households, I was able to secure the remainder of the supplies needed for the feast.
We had scones with jam, lemon curd, and clotted cream; sausage rolls; cucumber-and-cheese and ham-and cheese sandwiches; cream cakes with fresh fruit; real tea and coffee; and of course, the pièce de resistance, a three-tiered wedding cake, charmingly decorated (modesty forbids me from saying by whom) with candied violets and a generous amount of buttercream.
There was more than enough food and drink to go around, and I was even able to prepare a small packet of sandwiches and cake for the bride and groom to take along on the train. I believe they would have gone hungry otherwise, as they had determined to make an early exit, lest the gentlemen of the press get wind of the festivities.
As soon as the party was in full swing, Mrs. Rogers left to change into her travelling clothes. I met them both by the tradesman’s door and we made haste to the stables, where I had the car packed and waiting, and we made our daring escape.
The happy couple were silent for most of the drive, and appeared quite astonished—as if they somehow had not anticipated this particular outcome to all of the disguises and car-chases and mail fraud.
At last, Captain Rogers said, “Well, Peggy, looks like you’re stuck with me now.”
Mrs. Rogers replied, deadpan, “Yes, Steve, I suppose so.”
The next time I happened to look in the rearview mirror, she was tucked under his arm, her head against his shoulder. Both bride and groom looked perfectly content, so much so that I almost regretted disturbing them with our arrival at the train station.
When we said our goodbyes, they were careful to give no clue as to their eventual destination, though I’m certain I could hazard an educated guess. Mr. Stark did offer them their pick of his various properties on the Continent, but in the end, they preferred to make their own arrangements—for which I cannot fault them, as I feel his discretion was tasked to its absolute limits these past few weeks.
As I drove away from the station, I got the fright of my life when a man began running alongside the car, keeping pace even as I increased speed. Fortunately, I recognized Captain Rogers before deploying any of the experimental security features Mr. Stark had recently installed.
I slowed to a stop and cranked the window down, whereupon he reached in and handed me—my own silver cufflinks! In all the excitement, I very nearly forgot that I had loaned them for the day. Fortunately for me, the captain is a man of his word, and remarkably quick on his feet. He shook my hand again, and thanked me, before sprinting away, hat in hand.
And that, as they say on the Captain America Adventure Program, is the thrilling conclusion to our saga. It was all very exciting, of course—but most exciting of all is that Mr. Stark has just asked me to pack for a hasty departure. If all goes as planned, I hope to be home, and in your arms, in just a few days. In fact, it is entirely possible that I will reach you before this letter does.
In either case, I hope that the weather is fine, that your toes are warm, and that you feel yourself to be as dearly, deeply loved as you are, my darling. I shall see you very soon.
Yours, now and forever,
Edwin
LETTER, STEVE ROGERS TO WINIFRED BARNES
Dear Mrs. Barnes,
On behalf of myself and Peggy, thank you for the camera. Bucky told me that you wired him the money to buy it for us, from the family, so that we‘d be able to use it on the day of the wedding. Neither of us had one, and we were both surprised and touched. The guys from our unit pitched in and bought a few rolls of film, so we’d have everything we needed. We picked up the photos just this morning, and it’s nice to be able to look back and remember, since it was all a blur on the actual day.
I’m not sure how much Bucky told you about the wedding, or if anything made it into the papers there. We had to change our plans at the last minute, but it all worked out. I can’t claim a lot of credit for that, honestly. Peggy is smart, resourceful, and charming, and I’m just the lucky fellow she said ‘yes’ to.
We had nice weather, and our friends pitched in to see to it that there was plenty to eat and drink.
As thanks for the gift, I’m including a few of my favourite snaps from the wedding. We got two sets of prints, so these are yours to keep.
The big guy with me and Bucky in the first picture is our friend Tim Dugan, affectionately known as Dum Dum. You’ve probably already heard about him, but you’ll get to meet him in person soon, since he’ll be back stateside around the same time as us. He’s from Queens, but we try not to hold that against him.
The second picture is Peggy with her parents and her older brother, Michael. Her dress is made out of parachute silk, if you can believe it. She had a friend who was saving it for her own wedding, and they had a third friend who figured out how to cut it so they’d have enough for a dress each. I think my Ma would have loved that—the resourcefulness of it, and the creativity—and I know she would have loved Peggy.
I don’t know who took that last picture of the two of us in the rose garden. The camera was a big hit, and everyone wanted to try it, so we were asked to ‘say cheese’ a lot. It’s impossible to take a bad picture of Peggy, but I think that one really captures something special about her that not everyone gets to see. We don’t have an official wedding picture, so I’m hoping to get it framed, as a surprise.
I’m also putting in some snaps from our honeymoon trip. We stayed in a little seaside town with a nice beach, a dance hall, and a boardwalk that reminded me of Coney Island. It rained most of the time we were there, but neither of us minded too much. Turns out we’re both pretty good at carnival games, and share a competitive streak, so we’ll be bringing more than a few toys for the kids when we visit.
Most of the snaps are of Peggy, since I was the one taking the pictures. She’s a lot cuter than I am, anyhow. She did get a couple of me on the beach, buried in sand up to my neck. The one picture of us both, we took by balancing the camera on a mailbox (or pillar box, as they call them here) which is why it’s a little crooked.
Bucky said you asked about some of Peggy’s favourite things to eat and drink, for when I bring her to visit. That’s awfully sweet of you. We don’t need anything special—it’ll be great just to see everyone. But since you asked: Peggy’s favourite thing in the world is a cup of tea. She also likes coffee, especially in the morning. I haven’t seen her drink soda pop, though that doesn’t mean she won’t if it’s on offer. I don’t think she’s a very picky eater, in general. She does have a sweet tooth, especially for anything lemon or chocolate. Sugary treats of all kinds are still hard to come by over here. Our wedding was the first time either of us had tasted cake in ages, and we were both a little stunned by the sweetness. I don’t think a day has gone by since that one of us hasn’t mentioned it.
Which brings me right back to where I started: I’m sorry you couldn’t be here for the big day, but thanks again for the gift, and for thinking of us. I know Peggy is looking forward to meeting you and the family when we finally make it home, and I can’t wait for you all to meet her.
All the best,
Steve
LETTER, PEGGY ROGERS TO MICHAEL CARTER
Dear Michael,
Please excuse the hotel stationery, as I haven’t sufficiently unpacked to be able to find my own. Steve hasn’t bothered unpacking at all, as he leaves tomorrow morning for the first stop on his wretched bloody victory tour. I might write a bit more frequently while he’s away, just to pester you. You don’t have to write back every time, of course, though I would appreciate a line or two. You always used to write such howlingly funny letters when we were both away at school.
But I see that I’m doing this all out of order. I’ll start again, and try to describe everything properly. My pen may need a bit of warming up, as it is accustomed to writing only unembellished, fact-based accounts. You may, if you choose, impose a fine or other punishment for too many instances of the word “rather,” as a former tutor of mine used to do.
First: I did not enjoy the crossing. At the risk of coming off as frightfully mercenary in my choice of friends, I did hint forcefully to Howard that a flight over the Atlantic would make a smashing wedding present. He did not take the suggestion, owing to the fact that he wanted to use the trip to time-test some sort of new, ultralight, single-person aircraft. As a consolation, he did offer me two first-class ocean liner tickets, which I accepted, overruling Steve’s objections (he is a cheapskate, even where other people’s money is involved, and he dislikes dressing for dinner).
Our stateroom was lovely, but the journey itself was miserable—not for Steve, but we don’t all have his remarkable balance and constitution. He was kind enough to deliver several strong cups of tea from the dining hall, which was about all I could stomach. (Lest you think him too perfect, he also amused himself by suggesting I ‘close my eyes and think of America.’ He’s lucky I didn’t make him sleep on the deck.)
We (yes, I am one-half of a “we” now, it’s deeply mortifying) arrived in New York early in the morning. By mid-afternoon, we had braved the subway, installed ourselves at our hotel, and regained our land legs sufficiently to ring Mrs. Barnes’ doorbell.
I was in no way prepared for the whirlwind of introductions that followed. I believe I have now met the entire Barnes family, including Grandma Barnes, a stately personage in her unspecified seventies, and little Bessie Barnes, who is just one month old, and perfectly round, as all babies ought to be.
The moment we were in the door, Steve was immediately embraced by all and sundry—apart from Bessie, who had not met him before, and can be forgiven for preferring the company of her mother to that of a stranger who held her at arm’s length, as though she were some sort of incendiary device. (This did not go unnoticed by Mrs. Barnes, who teased him that he should be more comfortable with babies in this new phase of his life. Steve quickly changed the subject, while I concentrated very hard on transforming into a fine mist and escaping through a nearby floor vent—sadly, to no avail.)
Mrs. Barnes is a true matriarch, as vast and commanding a presence as a ship in full sail, with a wide wingspan and a strident voice that brooks no argument. She did not stop to inquire whether I wanted hugging, but simply folded me into her arms, crushed me to a pulp, then immediately declared that I must be fed.
Mr. Barnes is a comparatively quiet presence—a lanky, blue-eyed, perpetually amused spectator, firmly installed in a low chair in the corner of the living room. He is very charming, in a way that makes one feel instantly at ease. I never saw him get up, though I’ve been assured that he can and does. We greeted one another in the manner of true gentlemen, with a nod across the room. (I’m told that he is somewhat hard of hearing, which may be why the entire conversation took place at top volume.)
James is the eldest of four, and the only brother. The youngest Barnes girl, Rebecca, plainly has an enormous pash for Steve (for which I cannot fault her, obviously). The only person apparently not aware of this is Steve himself, who spoke to her very kindly, and thanked her for the socks she knitted him last year, while poor Rebecca turned redder and redder and finally stammered out some excuse and fled the room entirely.
James’s other sisters both became mothers while he was overseas; Mrs. Barnes has no shortage of grandchildren to dote upon, although that didn’t stop her from opining at length on the beautiful children with which Steve and I might bless the world, should we be so inclined. (Being married seems to give people all sorts of license to openly discuss one’s breeding prospects, as though one were a farm animal.)
It’s quite a different sort of household than you and I are used to: shouting, doors slamming, endless volleys of questions, neighbours popping in without knocking, roving gangs of children underfoot. One is always being offered food or drink: coffee, tea, or “something stronger”; cake, biscuits, and all manner of sweets. We were pressed into accepting meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and forbidden to leave without taking a share of the “leftovers” and a brick of lemon pound cake. (I was still rather green around the gills, but after all the baby talk, I wanted to avoid giving the impression that I was suffering from any particularly auspicious stomach ailments, so I made my best effort.)
I was as thoroughly vetted as Steve was at ours, though I believe, of the two of us, mine was the more pleasant experience. No questions about finances, pedigrees, or prospects; I wasn’t even asked what schools I’d been to. Mrs. Barnes mainly wanted to know what I liked to do for fun, whether I had any talent in the domestic arts, and whether I would be kind to Steve—whose life has had a great deal of unkindness in it, much of it when he was growing up. Something about my answers must have pleased her, because she offered to host us until we were “on our feet,” but we politely declined in favour of our current, more private arrangements. (I can practically hear you snickering, dear brother, but lest you accuse me of newlywed single-mindedness, the alternative was Mrs. Barnes’ living room settee. One settee, for two adults, one of whom is Steve’s size.)
After we’d eaten as much as humanly possible, and gifts had been exchanged, and everyone’s curiosity about me had been satisfied, we moved on to the most enjoyable portion of the evening—namely, embarrassing childhood stories about Steve, who endured in heroic silence.
After some coaching, he was entrusted once again with lovely baby Bessie, who took to him more enthusiastically, having been properly introduced (and changed and fed, which I suspect is more to the point). She fell asleep on his shoulder, for which I must applaud her excellent taste, and only barely dribbled on his sleeve, which puts her slightly ahead of me.
It was a long day and a late night, but I couldn’t have felt more welcome.
Just writing all that has made me very tired. It has also reminded me that we have cake, and so I must adjourn. More tomorrow.
(Two days later.) Picking this up again. I’m the most dreadful correspondent. Let me appeal to your sympathy here: yesterday morning, I saw Steve off at the train. He will be away for six weeks; we haven’t been apart even six hours since the wedding. To make matters worse, the train station was packed to the rafters with young couples reuniting, kissing one another madly. I was in an insufferable strop all day because of it.
That being said, it is awfully strange, to suddenly acquire a new housemate. I’d quite gotten used to doing for myself, and doing as I pleased; it’s been a mild shock to the system to realize there is now someone who must be consulted on, or at least informed of, even the smallest decisions. Steve is similarly independent—having lived on his own since before the war—so we are both having to find our footing. It’s all been painfully diplomatic. One feels an immense pressure to be interesting. To take a nap, or sit quietly and read a book, instead of paying attention to one’s spouse, seems unforgivably rude. I’m not sure why; Mum and Dad spend entire days together at home, without feeling the need to even speak to one another.
And we are together often! While we were engaged, everyone would scold us (yes, even you!) for trying to carve out a little time alone; now we’re married, people assume we want to be left alone all the time, and consider it peculiar if one of us appears in public without the other.
No one warned me about any of this. The fault is yours, really, since, as the elder sibling, it was your duty to get married first, and give me some idea of what to expect. The only person who gave me any helpful advice at all was Mr. Jarvis, who told me to expect the unexpected.
It isn’t that I don’t want to be left alone with Steve—of course I do!—but romance isn’t the only pursuit in this life, and even if the spirit is willing, the flesh needs time to recover. (If my frankness embarrasses you, dear brother, you have only yourself to blame, as you opened this door by telling Steve you thought we might spend our honeymoon playing cards! So I mention it only to ease your troubled mind.)
And that’s not all. There are details you simply can’t know about a person, until you’ve been around them long enough for them to be off their best behaviour. I’m relieved to report that Steve’s worst habits are nothing distasteful or shocking—though he has a few eccentricities that will take some getting used to. He talks in his sleep, calmly and coherently; at least twice now, I’ve had entire conversations with him—rather heartfelt ones, at least on my side—not realizing he was unconscious! In the morning, he doesn’t recall a word of it. Aside from that, I keep finding single socks in the oddest places—as though he removes them, stands in the centre of the room, and flings them as far as he can in opposite directions. And, as if all of that weren’t enough, he can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life. (I’m fairly certain he hates drinking it as well, as I’ve observed him quickly dump a fresh cup down the drain when he thinks I’m not looking.)
Steve is still too polite to say what he thinks about my personal habits, though I’m confident that will wear off.
Despite the fact that I’ve just finished telling you how bizarre and awkward it is to have him underfoot all day long, I believe I shall miss him dreadfully while he’s away. (You can make fun of me for that, if you want to. I certainly deserve it.)
First order of business, after finishing this letter, is to find a more permanent place for us to live. It isn’t that I have some sudden, domestic inclination to “make a home” for my new husband; however, I do think it would be nice if he had a home to which he could return, after such a long time on the road, and since I no longer have a Mr. Jarvis to cleverly arrange my life, the task must fall to me.
Mrs. Barnes’ very un-subtle predictions notwithstanding, our preference is for a modest flat, rather than a house with extra bedrooms in some sprawling development. James’ sister Josie (mother of Bessie) has volunteered to help me find something, hopefully close to the rest of the family, and a reasonable distance from the office.
Speaking of which: I report to my new work assignment on Monday. It remains to be seen what sort of future the organization can have, when other departments and agencies of its type are being mothballed, but until I am told to go elsewhere, that’s where I’ll be. It’s a relief to be of some use, and it will make the days pass more quickly.
That’s all my news for now. I’d better close, before I put this down, and another week passes, and I feel the urge to go back and edit myself.
You know that there are few things I loathe more than having to admit I’ve been wrong, so I hope you’ll enjoy this: you were, absolutely, beyond all doubt, right about everything you said the night of my (first) engagement party. You have the most tiresome habit of knowing me better than I know myself—and of always telling me the truth, even if it’s the last thing I want to hear. You were right about Fred not being the great love of my life, about me making myself small to please Mum and fit into a mold, and about the job. All of it. If I hadn’t listened to you, I would never have gone on to discover what I was meant to do, and I wouldn’t have met Steve when I did. I love him awfully, and I’m shatteringly happy, and you’re at least partly to blame for that. So thank you, dear brother, for being such an insufferable know-it-all engagement party ruiner and general pain in the arse.
All my love,
Your darling little sister,
Peggy (Rogers, née Carter)
P.S. Steve telephoned just as I was finishing up writing this, and has asked me to put in that he hopes you’re well. He also said that he might write to you from the tour. I’ve assured him that you would like that very much. I suggested that he start by sending you a postcard of Captain America (autographed, of course), as I know Mum’s reaction to that will please you tremendously. He said he would look for one with a suitably smug expression. You’re welcome.