January 3, 1916

Stir-crazy, I took a walk this morning. The weather was fine, the sky azure, the snow only boot-top deep and my confidence in du Bois’s health soared. He can walk, not well, but with a cane he gets around. His frostbitten, black tinted feet look terrible, but the physician had not found a reason to amputate toes. Our respite continues, but I know I did not want to spend the winter in Hot Sulphur. Make that doubly for du Bois.

The eastbound, decelerating, vibrating train screamed to a metallic halt at the Hot Sulphur station. Passengers departed for the water closets; porters loaded more luggage onto the railcars than came off. I walked closer. Women I recognized from Brooklyn returned to the platform, furtively glanced at me, and dropped their gazes to the boarding steps. There was no hint of greeting and fortified in a group for protection, they moved presumably, as wraiths from one nightmare to another. They will deny the feminine profiteering, the aura of promiscuity and survive or go down with vicious animal instinct. Men, in contrast, fold and gallantly go to hell.

Servitude is economic in America. One is free until totally broke. A little money buys freedom. Fiddle it away like the grasshopper and pay dearly soon. In the U.K., it is an atavistic class structure. One will be mostly what one’s parents were. Your father was a teamster and delivered beer? Young man, you will be too with the same correct mustache. Thomas saw the rebellion of my generation against their Victorian parents. He considered it fatuous, puerile brinkmanship, but knew things would change.

My thoughts were interrupted by the station master running outside and asking, “Are you Thomas Brandon’s nephew?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you know a certain Anthony du Bois?”

I was not sure how to answer, but truthfully had to reply, “Yes sir.”

“Good, I have a telegram for him in care of your uncle. Will you deliver it and save me some time?”

“Of course, sir,” and I ran with relief to the house and handed it to du Bois. “It has a five-cent stamp franked with a Puerto Rician emblem. Could it be from Nellie? How would she know we are here?”

“She has mysterious ways,” he stared at the envelope.

“Open it Anthony!”

He flipped open the envelope, gazed at the message and then read out loud, “UPDATED WITH ANGELA’S LETTER. I HAVE A VILLA IN SAN JUAN, ROOM FOR ALL, RESPOND WITH SHIP AND DATE. HOPE YOU SEE THIS CABLE.                 MICHELLE MARTE’

Du Bois stood and continued staring at the invitation to the future. Slowly, a smile crept on his face and broadened to a massive grin, “Captain Reynolds will eventually sail to the Caribbean through the Panama Canal to pick up rum. I’ll meet him there. Are you up for a change in adventure?”

“Peculiar travel suggestions intrigue me, I’m in. Write to the good captain with your new plans. The doctor should release you for a long train ride soon.”

“Especially to a warmer climate.”

“Indeed. We’ll stay at the Windsor Hotel in Denver and continue our escapade south.”

Julia in Salisbury, England

December 25, 1915

Dearest Julius,

Thank you for your correspondence, it keeps me in better spirits. Your descriptions of Colorado continually enchant me. It sounds so different than dreary Salisbury. This year has brought me the highest heights of joy and now the lowest of despairs. Alfred was killed on the front in France. I did not care two-pence for him when we were younger. Perhaps you knew that.  I feel guilty about it now. He was not handsome and at times socially clumsy, but when he started making seven pounds a week, I was willing to marry him. As I wrote earlier, after a drunken night of patriotism, he joined the army. He did not have to do that. He could have kept his position at the hospital. Now he is dead.

That makes two brothers, two uncles, three cousins and my husband killed this year by this senseless war.  My greatest hope is the New Year will bring an end to it. Oh Julius, it is so sad, there is no one to dance with except old men. So many people have died.

Father is not well, but he is determined to continue working. He has good days and bad. Joseph, the footmen helps as valet for the master. Mother carries on with a happy face and complains about food shortages. The staff loves and supports her, but deaths in the family and the poor health of father is taking a toll. Her hair is rapidly turning gray. She told me she is sleeping poorly. She must worry constantly and the happy face, I fear, is just a mask.

I miss you terribly, but if you and Uncle Thomas were not in Colorado, you most likely would be in France. I could not bear that. I am crying as I write this letter. A teardrop fell and smudged the ink. I simply cannot rewrite this letter. I hope you understand.

Your loving Sister,

Julia

Yampa River winter morning