“Oh, my loves.” I drop my handbag and coat on the floor, opening my arms to engulf my waiting children. Eleven-year-old Diana, nine-year-old Randolph, and six-year-old Sarah race toward me, nearly knocking me to the floor with their force. Before I left, the imbalance would have irritated me, but now I relish their embrace. It seems they forgive me my leave-taking.
I spend a moment studying the face of each child and kissing their cheeks, giving Randolph a ruffle of his hair. I do not mention how tall they seem—or how mature, as in the case of Diana—as I am wary of drawing attention to the length of my absence. The qualities I most associate with each of them—Diana’s quiet, watchful manner, Randolph’s sense of entitlement and desperate need for attention, and Sarah’s sensitivity incongruously mixed with a dramatic flair—seem enhanced. They are more and more themselves.
Sarah’s hand tentatively reaches up to touch my hair. “You wear silver thread in your hair now.”
At first, I wonder what she means, and then I understand. I have changed in our time apart too. Placing my hand over hers, I say, “It seems as though I’ve gone a bit gray since I saw you last.”
“What do you think of the place?” Winston asks, inserting himself into this moment with the children.
How can I begrudge him? I stare around the entryway to the Sussex Square house, where I glimpse a completed morning room and redesigned dining room. “Winston,” I say as I turn toward him, “you’ve handled the renovations beautifully.” Relief courses through me at the projects I needn’t handle, compounded by the financial comfort provided from a recent unexpected windfall of an inheritance from a first cousin once removed, Lord Vane-Tempest. Money worries, at least for the immediate future, will not be mine to shoulder. And for once, after years of dealing with leases and rentals and overlapping of both, we might have just the right number of houses—one—instead of too many or none at all.
“Not as well as you could have, but needs must,” he says, but I see that he is pleased with my compliment.
I see a shy Marigold in the arms of Nanny, standing in the back of the entryway. Slowly, I walk toward the ginger-haired, runny-nosed child, but she does not meet my eye. Does she not remember me? I suppose that the three months I’ve been gone constitute a significant portion of the twenty-nine months of her life. Or perhaps she’s angry at me for my prolonged absence.
“Mummy is home, Duckadilly,” I say to her, leaning close to her sweet-smelling face but careful to avoid the mucus.
“Mummy?” she finally asks, peering into my eyes.
“Yes, Mummy,” I answer, excitement building within me at the recognition.
“No,” she squeals, burrowing into Nanny’s chest. She begins to cry.
I feel Winston’s hand on my arm. “Not to worry, Cat. It may take a little time. Come join the rest of the kittens in the dining room.” His voice drops to a whisper. “They’ve made a welcome home cake for you.”
* * *
The next morning, I perch on the edge of my new bed, searching for my small traveling trunk. It lies hidden among the scarves and hats scattered on my bed, awaiting return to their shelves. I want to find the souvenirs I’ve brought back for the children from Egypt, Sicily, and Naples, where Winston and I ventured after his conference ended, and deliver them over breakfast.
I am focused on my task when I finally register the sound of someone knocking on my door. The banging is quite loud, uncharacteristically so, and by the time I open the door, a new maid has worked herself into quite a state. “There…there’s a telegram for you, ma’am. It’s marked urgent.”
“Who is it from?” I ask, skeptical of this “urgency.” From time to time, Winston has sent me “urgent” telegrams from across town when he wants my immediate opinion on a matter. Never once were those communiqués actually urgent.
“I can’t say, ma’am. I only know it’s from France.”
France can only mean one person: Mother, who had recently moved back to Dieppe. Why on earth is she sending a telegram? I wonder. Letter writing is her preferred means of communication, usually peppered with admonitions and judgments. Some things never change, no matter the alteration in my life station.
I take the envelope from the maid and close the door. Retrieving my letter opener from my desk, I sit down on the desk chair and slice open the envelope. I hold the telegraphed words up to the wan light from the nearby window.
Bill is dead STOP Come to Dieppe at once
Bill? My brother? My handsome, urbane brother—only thirty-four years old and a survivor of countless Great War naval attacks—can’t possibly be dead. Images of his infectious smile at my wedding and family gatherings flash through my mind. Surely in my fatigue from the travel, I misread the words. Holding the flimsy telegram up to the light again, I reread it. There is no mistake.
My body is shaking. What should I do? I’m torn between despair and action. The latter takes hold, and I sit down to write letters to both Winston and Nellie, informing them of the awful news and instructing them about the need for Nellie and I to depart for Dieppe on the morning train. I ring for the maids to repack my clothes but only the black dresses this time. My trembling has not abated when I join Diana, Randolph, and Sarah in the breakfast room—Marigold is still sleeping—although I try to hide my upset by making a show of the presentation of gifts. Yet once their delight at receiving exotic embroidered scarves and slippers abates, I have no choice but to tell them about my impending departure.
“You’ve only just got home,” Sarah says, tears streaming down her face. Bolder than Diana, she is more apt to speak her mind.
“I know, my darlings. But Aunt Nellie and I must rush to Dieppe to see Grandmama and Uncle Bill. I received a note from Grandmama saying that Uncle Bill is ill.”
“Why can’t Aunt Nellie go by herself? You’ve been gone for ages,” Sarah continues.
I walk over to her side, kneeling next to her. “I promise to return as soon as I can. I am terribly sorry.”
Glancing up at Randolph and Diana to gauge their reaction, I watch as my son’s face blackens with a rage that will undoubtedly erupt at some point in the day. His temper tantrums have only increased over the years instead of diminishing as is more typical. Only Diana’s expression appears unaffected. Is this simply another example of her placid nature, or has she grown so used to my absence that one more departure impacts her little? It is no more than I deserve, I know, and a reality I must face upon my return.
Nellie and I clutch each other in a tearful embrace as soon as we board the ship for Dieppe. During the boat trip, theories about what happened to our brother plague us. Bill had gone into business after he retired from his checkered naval career, but his compulsion for gambling led to financial difficulties. Winston and I periodically loaned him money to pay off gambling debts and had only three months ago extracted a promise from him to stop, but I wonder whether he’d slipped back into old habits. The sort of fellows with whom he gambled had degenerated over time, and Nellie and I speculate that perhaps they’d harmed our beloved brother.
We disembark from the boat to the familiar sounds of ship bells and seagull cries. The distance from the port to Mother’s house in the center of Dieppe is short and our bags few and small, so we decide to walk. Nellie and I wind our way through the narrow alleyways, smelling strongly of saltwater and fish, until we reach the furnished house Mother rents. It is proper but modest, as her casino habit cuts deep into her finances. As does her increasingly serious drinking habit.
“Mama,” I call out as the sole housemaid lets us into the house.
“In here,” a small voice croaks.
Hand in hand, Nellie and I step into the parlor. There, in an armchair, sits the usually formidable Lady Blanche. Mother looks so diminished and tiny that she is hardly recognizable. I know she’s in the throes of grief, so perhaps my assessment is a bit unfair, but I cannot help but think
that the finale of her lifelong bohemian quest for romance and independence is terribly sad.
“He used a gun,” Mother says by way of greeting, closing her eyes. “A bloody gun.”
If Nellie and I hadn’t comprehended the nature of Bill’s death before, we do now. All our theories about violence being exacted upon Bill by some unsavory gambling characters were wrong. The harm to Bill had been done by his own hand.
Nellie sinks to the ground at Mother’s side. “No,” she keens, “not Bill.”
Mother offhandedly pats her on the back, as if her own grief is so distracting, she cannot register that of others. Then she stares at Nellie, and as if she suddenly remembered, she says, “He was your twin.”
They lean into one another, sobbing. I am left alone with my grief. I am neither mother nor twin, just the sister. I feel the loss of Kitty again. It is down to Nellie and me.
I try to understand the reasons for Bill’s suicide. Was he deeply in debt from gambling and too ashamed to ask for money again? Conversations with his acquaintances yield no evidence that he’d been wagering again, and in fact, I learn that he’d just deposited ten thousand francs into his bank account. If debts hadn’t prompted his terrible act, had a failed relationship of some variety led to a depression? No one seems to know anything about his personal life, least of all his family. What did I really know about my brother other than the carefully tended persona he chose to share? I feel as though I’ve let him down terribly.
I turn my attention to the funeral. In France, suicide is a sin, not a criminal act, but the local clergyman resists allowing Bill a proper burial. Bringing the full weight of Winston’s name to bear upon the situation, I pressure the priest into capitulating, and we arrange the funeral for the Monday afternoon so Winston can attend. I allow the planning and investigating to consume me, and I don’t surrender to my grief until I see my husband’s concerned face enter the church for Bill’s funeral. Seeing his compassion and concern for me, all the guilt and loss and devastation I’d been suppressing wells to the surface. I sink into Winston’s arms and sob the tears that I’ve been holding back since I arrived in Dieppe.
* * *
A deep sadness follows me home from France. I try to pierce its gray veil and focus on the merry bustle created by Diana, Sarah, and Marigold, as Randolph has returned to school. But the girls sense the latent despair. Worried that my sorrow might prompt another departure, they uncomfortably cling to me at every opportunity. I fight my usual impulse to flee and leave them with the nanny, and with Winston distracted with colonial issues and Irish problems, the girls and I settle into a regular routine. I find myself enjoying the girls and think that the worst times—my breakdown and the heartbreak of losing Bill—are behind us.
I should have kept the fleeting nature of life at the forefront of my thoughts. Every time I heard the tap of Winston’s cane on the floor—the gold-topped Malacca cane that Bill had bequeathed him—I should have reminded myself that the gift of existence can be taken away at a moment’s notice. If I had done so, perhaps I would have been braced for Jennie.
The sixty-seven-year-old, who still styles herself as Lady Randolph even though she is on her third marriage with the much younger civil servant Montagu Porch, had been staying at her friend Lady Horner’s Mells country house in late May when she tripped on too-high heels while walking down a flight of stairs. The local doctor diagnosed a broken ankle, and Jennie returned to her Bayswater home to recover.
Because the issues of Irish governance distract again in the postwar period and preoccupy Winston and Jennie’s husband is away in Africa, I visit Jennie nearly every afternoon throughout June as she convalesces. Her house is nearby ours in Sussex Square, and I develop the habit of stopping by at teatime. One-on-one, without the presence of Winston, her young husband, or the children to compete for our attention, I discover the latent animosity we’d felt for each other over the years has disappeared, replaced by a begrudging admiration. My respect for Jennie only increases when her doctor appears during one of my teatime visits and, after inspecting her ankle, informs her that her foot has developed a gangrenous infection and must be amputated. This would be a bitter pill for anyone to swallow, but I guess that Jennie, who has prized her beauty and her shapely ankles all her life, will take it especially hard. Yet she accepts the news without histrionics, and I am impressed with her grace.
Ten worrisome days after the surgery, as Jennie appears on the road to recovery, Winston and I return to our usual habits. I retire for the evening on Tuesday, June 28, after several long hours reviewing proposed policies regarding Ireland’s rule with Winston, knowing he would work on some correspondence for a few hours more. When I hear an enormous crash in the hour before dawn, I assume Winston continued writing throughout the night and is finally stumbling into his bed in his room next door. Quite literally.
I roll over in my bed and attempt a return to sleep when my bedroom door flings open. Winston, in his pajamas, stands outlined in the low gaslight that lights the hallway between our bedrooms. “It’s Mother.”
I sit upright in my bed. “What’s happened, Pug?”
“Doctor says she’s begun to bleed. I’m going directly to her house.” He marches off.
Standing up, I throw on my dressing gown and race after him. As he thunders down the stairs, I call out, “Winston, you are still in your pajamas. You should at least change. Or let me arrange for a carriage.”
“No time to waste,” he calls back, closing the door behind him as he steps into the street.
The walk to Jennie’s house on Westbourne Street is short, only ten minutes or so. But Winston is in his pajamas and dressing gown, which likely means he’s still in his slippers as well. I wonder whether I should go after him or send one of the servants, but the streets are pitch-black. I decide to wait instead.
I sit down in the embroidered wing chair in the parlor. I don’t dare retire to my room to change for fear of missing Winston on his return. The ticking of the grandfather clock that looms over the entryway seems deafeningly loud, but as I grow used to it, the ticktock recedes, and I imagine I can hear the children rustle in the beds and the servants open cupboards in the kitchen.
After three quarters of an hour, dawn begins to emit the palest of light, and the front door opens. Winston steps into the entryway with none of his usual blunderbuss. Sweat beads on his brow, and his dressing gown is wide open, revealing his striped blue pajamas underneath.
“She’s gone,” he says in a flat voice.
“You don’t mean ‘gone’ gone?” I ask rather stupidly. I understand the euphemism, of course, but it seems a preposterous word to use for the indomitable Jennie. Can he mean she was “gone” from her house? Perhaps rushed to the hospital?
“I do, Clemmie. She was already gone by the time I reached her bedside,” he answers.
“It seems impossible.” I wrap my arms around my husband. “Oh, Winston, I am so sorry.”
“I feel as though a part of myself has been severed.” He folds into me, and I feel his hands on my back. My shoulder is wet from his tears.
“I understand, Pug. It’s how I felt with Bill. And Kitty.”
We draw closer to one another, and I think how little we know of our futures. I’d believed that the strength I’d cobbled together during the time away from my family would help me weather the storm of Winston and his demands. I had no understanding that I’d desperately need that fortitude to help me survive other tempests.
Chapter Twenty-One
August 18–23 and September 14, 1921
Broadstairs and London, England
I shake Mrs. Burden’s hand as we step off the tennis courts of Eaton Hall. The American guest of my hosts, the Duke and Duchess of Westminster, has been a fierce competitor in the tennis tournament that lured me to Chester en route to our family holiday. Winston and I had planned a long stint away from London in August,
with all four children spending this first two weeks lodging at a house called Overblow in Broadstairs on the Kent coast with a new French nanny, Mademoiselle Rose, and then the older three children joining us in Lochmore, Scotland, while Marigold stays on with Mademoiselle Rose in Broadstairs, as the Scottish activities are not suitable for a young child. We had hopes that the holiday would give our family some respite from the terrible losses of Bill and Jennie. And I hoped to restore the internal peace I’d achieved during my time away alone.
As I share with Mrs. Burden my surprise over winning the match—after all, it had been months since I played a single game of tennis—a servant waiting on the edge of the lawn signals to me. He delivers to me an envelope on a silver tray. Is it another letter from Winston about the death of Thomas Walden, his faithful manservant? I wonder. Winston had been terribly upset at yet another loss, a servant who’d been devoted to him since his lonely youth when neither of his parents cared much for their son. I didn’t know how to console him.
I say farewell, examining the envelope as I walk toward my guest room. The return address on the envelope is Broadstairs, which makes me think the letter must be a report from the children on their seaside boat rowing, sandcastle building, and shrimping, as well as an account of their usual sunburns. But when I look closer, I see that the handwriting doesn’t belong to Mademoiselle Rose, who addresses the children’s letters.
Closing the bedroom door behind me, I open the envelope. Inside is a cable from Mademoiselle Rose, informing me that Marigold was very ill with septicemia and suggesting we come at once.
No, no, not septicemia, I think. Surely it’s just another of her terrible sore throats and colds. Too many children we’ve known never recover from the infection of the bloodstream, which so often turns deadly. I let the cable flutter to the ground, and the room spins around me. I clutch the bedpost for support as I will myself to steadiness. I must get to Marigold as soon as possible.
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