In the Shadow of Lakecrest(41)
They’ve all survived this, I told myself. They married Lemonts and had children and continued the family line. I can do it, too.
I did attempt domesticity, at least for a while. I tried knitting baby booties, which ended in snarled failure. I built elaborate houses out of playing cards, and I worked my way through the works of Charles Dickens, giving up midway through David Copperfield. I sent a letter to Mr. Haveleck, asking if we could meet.
I received his curt response a week later: Nothing to report yet. I appreciate your patience.
March gave way to April, with no relief from the rain. Matthew went to Minneapolis and Detroit; Marjorie escaped to a school friend’s winter home in Palm Beach. Although I invited Blanche out to Lakecrest for lunch—no drives into Chicago, Hannah had informed me curtly—she canceled three times in a row and began crying when I asked about Billy. I felt the physical distance fraying our friendship, and the occasional tea with Eva couldn’t take its place. Even Hannah seemed to disappear, spending entire days at the offices downtown. Is it any wonder I began roaming the halls, desperate for some kind of distraction?
All right, snooping.
I wandered for hours, dipping in and out of drawers and poking through closets. I hoped to find a treasure trove of Cecily’s possessions tucked away in the attic, but a day rummaging through old furniture and storage trunks revealed nothing other than a few of her landscapes—pleasant but unmemorable—and a scrapbook of old newspaper clippings. A list of debutantes, with Cecily’s name prominently featured, descriptions of parties she’d attended, a mention of her in a story on the latest style in hats. The last clipping in the book was a society column, Mrs. Whatchacallit’s Whispers, dedicated to Miss Cecily Lemont’s upcoming, soon-to-be-triumphant journey to Oxford:
The noted beauty and linguistic prodigy will be the first American woman to sit for the university’s ancient languages exam. Asked about her prospects, Miss Lemont said, “I plan to make my hometown and my country proud.” Accompanying her on the month-long excursion will be her father, Mr. Obadiah Lemont, and her tutor, Dr. Martin Rieger of the University of Chicago.
Dr. Rieger? It seemed odd that a doctor would be teaching ancient Greek in his spare time. There were no handwritten notes or captions on the pages, no way to know who’d put the scrapbook together. I put it back on the shelf where I’d found it.
I discovered a few more traces of Cecily in the office closet, which was filled with boxes of Obadiah’s papers. Not surprisingly, he was a pack rat who saved what looked like every piece of mail he’d ever received. Most were of absolutely no interest, but I pulled out anything that mentioned Cecily.
A note to the housekeeper, Mrs. Briscoe:
Staffing for the upcoming year: Two additional gardeners and one stonemason to complete the enclosed plans drawn up by Miss Cecily Lemont. The gardeners to be hired by Mr. Hutchins, under Miss Lemont’s supervision . . .
Attached were sketches of the Labyrinth and the Temple, along with a page of expenses for their construction. The stonemason, apparently, had been brought over from Italy and was given his own apartment in East Ridge. When this was added to the shocking amounts Obadiah spent on Lakecrest and his collections, it was a wonder the family had any money left at all.
A pamphlet touting a “rest cure” at a California hot spring seemed like an odd man out, until I saw a note in Obadiah’s handwriting enclosed inside:
Cecily,
Might this be of interest? Stimson’s wife found it helpful. Jasper is much in favor of you going, which may be a point against it in your eyes. No matter to me if you go or stay, only that you get well.
A letter from the editor of the Chicago Literary Review, dated June 8, 1895, was buried in a stack of social correspondence:
Dear Miss Lemont,
Thank you for sending the story “Artemis and Actaeon” for our consideration. It shows remarkable talent in style and execution, and we would be delighted to publish it in our winter issue. The Review has always been a champion of the fairer sex, and we believe your voice would be a welcome addition to the literary circles of our city. Please find enclosed a payment of $2.00, our standard fee for a story of this length. I also encourage you to pay a visit to our offices at your earliest convenience. It would be a great pleasure to meet you in person.
I didn’t recognize the title from Cecily’s Twelve Ancient Tales. Annoyingly, there was no copy of the magazine itself, and I made a mental note to see if I could find one somewhere else in the house.
The most intriguing discovery was the draft of a letter Obadiah had written to Jasper. Had he rewritten it later? Or simply never sent it?
I have neither the time nor the inclination to insert myself in women’s squabbles. Cecily has been on at me about the changes at Lakecrest, and I have told her in no uncertain terms that Hannah—as your wife—has the final word. You’d best heed that advice as well. Do as you wish in your city lodgings. I have never condemned your activities, as long as they are kept within the usual bounds. However, I urge you to show more respect to Hannah than you do your sister. I have indulged your childish games far too long, to my great regret.
What “activities,” I wondered, should be “kept within the usual bounds”?
I tried to imagine Hannah as a newlywed, walking through these same rooms. Ignored by her husband, looked down on by her sister-in-law. To my surprise, I felt a twinge of sympathy. Had Hannah worried about Obadiah the same way I worried about her? I thought of Marjorie and her jealous stares whenever I clung onto Matthew’s arm and wondered if Cecily shot the same kind of looks at Hannah. There were photographs of Jasper all over the house, some as a dashing young man-about-town and others as an older, distinguished businessman. But Hannah hardly ever mentioned him.