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There is a large patch of sunflowers that grow tall and high, none of them bending under their considerable weight. It is here that Margaret sits each day, letters written in a rough hand piled on her skirts, reading them through and smiling, tracing the scratch of the quill's nub with her finger. My dearest sisters, each starts and she shakes her head, for they are anything but dear - harpies all, not appreciative enough of all that William does - did - for them. They had received the official word months ago, but it had not sunk home until a few weeks past when a man in full dress uniform had stood at their door, his ribbon and star bright in the morning sun. His words had been stilted and officious, but the broken sound of his voice had caused Margaret to reach out and touch his hand. He'd looked shocked at her touch, but had stopped is speech immediately. "Mr. Bush was…your brother was the finest sailor ever under my command, and…" He had stopped again and shaken his head, turning and boarding his carriage with alarming speed. Margaret thinks of him as she reads William's letters, tracing the loving stroke of the ink over Hornblower's name. "You are not dead, William," she whispers, "so long as he and I remember you."
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