May 15, 1865
The White House
Washington, D.C., United States
My fingers woodenly pressed the piano keys to produce a simple child's song. My black dress swallowed the early morning light filtering through the linen curtains of the sitting room. The doctor said I needed a calm hobby, like knitting or sewing. I always hated needles.
It had been one month since the assassination at Ford's Theater. It felt like an eternity, as I had traded my physical ailment for a mental one.
My playing trailed off when a member of staff breezed into the room. I straightened on the piano bench and blinked my dry, red-rimmed eyes.
Bowing his head, he held out a silver tray to me. "Letter for you, madam."
I hesitantly took the thin envelope. It was stamped from overseas, but it wasn't Ireland's or even France's handwriting. I flipped it over to see the return address.
London, England
My eyes grew distant.
"Thank you," I murmured. I sat with the letter in hand until I was again alone. And then I sat a while longer, lost in thought.
In a moment of weakness, my fingers found the envelope flap and began to tear. A single page lay inside, carefully folded with the salutation exposed in large, elegant letters.
America,
A jolt of adrenaline caused my stomach to clench. Sighing in annoyance, I unfolded the letter with trembling fingers and began to read.
As I am sure you remain, I am much aggrieved by the death of President Abraham Lincoln. I labour to write this as words elude me. Please know that all of Britannia mourns with you.
Prayerfully,
England
The signature blurred as a new batch of tears filled my eyes. Sniffling, I abandoned the note on the piano in search of my handkerchief. The cost of the war and its consequences pressed down on me like a thousand tons of stone. Dear Lincoln, and half a million sons and fathers. I drew in a shuddering breath as my tears soaked into the cloth covering my face.
Several days passed before I managed to reply. The letter sat on my vanity, greeting me each morning and stirring troublesome thoughts each night. I eventually sent a telegram response, fulfilling my diplomatic duty to the nation. It read as follows:
RECEIVED
AMERICA
~
A/N: Are you curious about his longer letter from last chapter?
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Her Name Is America
Historical Fiction''I shall never be as powerful as the likes of you.'' France gave a reproachful hum. ''𝘈𝘮𝑒́𝘳𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦, you are but thirty years old. I am well over eight hundred. 𝘗𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦...almost three hundred.'' My eyes drifted downward, where Prussia's ar...
