In the Shadow of Lakecrest(50)
The bedroom that had once been my haven suddenly felt like a trap. Was it possible our voices had carried down a hidden pipe in the walls? That Hannah might have overheard us? Ridiculous, I told myself. Yet I felt shaky and unsteady. If I stayed in this house, I might disappear, too. I needed to clean Lakecrest’s musty odor off my body, to think in peace without jumping at every strange sound. And there was only one place I could think to go, only one place Hannah wouldn’t be able to track me down.
Home.
With fumbling fingers, I packed a bag. I slid The Ways of Madness into a side pocket, along with a copy of the Chicago Literary Review I’d ordered from the magazine’s offices; Ma would have something to say about Cecily’s strange obsessions. I tiptoed down the hallway and back staircase and out a side door, and hurried along the curved drive. I was already on Deertrail Road, making my way to the East Ridge station, when I realized I couldn’t catch a train because I had no money. Everything I bought when I went shopping was charged to the Lemonts’ account, and I never had to pay for taxis or bus fare.
Though I was richer than I’d ever been, I didn’t have a penny to show for it.
I could sneak back into the house; most likely, Matthew and Hannah hadn’t even noticed I’d left. But the thought of returning made me feel sick. The baby squirmed inside my stomach, urging me forward. I looked along the dark road ahead. Only one light shone in the distance, from the porte cochere of the Monroes’ house.
Eva and I had never shared more than polite conversation; we were more acquaintances than friends. But something told me she’d be sympathetic. Her marriage, from what I could tell, was not a particularly happy one. She might understand how it felt to have a terrible fight with your husband. She might even lend me the money to get home.
I knocked on the door, worried I’d cause a stir by arriving so late. To my relief, Eva was the one who answered and let me in. She looked at me, surprised and concerned, and I tried to explain what had happened, but all that came out were sobs. She took my bag and wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug. I was dimly aware of hovering figures around us—servants she whispered orders to as I let out all my fear and frustration and pain. Once I’d gained control of myself, she led me upstairs to a guest room, a feminine oasis of pink and white, and insisted I stay the night. I still hadn’t told her what Matthew and I had fought about, and she hadn’t asked.
“Should I call Lakecrest?” she asked. “Let them know you’re here?”
I shook my head. “No. Please. I need some time on my own to sort things out.”
“Can I get you something to eat? Soup?”
Eva gave me a sympathetic smile, and for a moment I thought she was going to tuck me into bed. I’d mocked her obsession with motherhood, but now I realized how lucky her children were to have her. How would I have turned out, if Ma had had half of Eva’s warmth?
“I’m not hungry,” I said, “but would it be all right if I sent a telegram?”
Eva looked surprised, but said she’d get me the number for Western Union. The message I dictated from the hallway telephone—and charged to the Lemont account—was short and to the point.
COMING TO VISIT. ARRIVE TOMORROW NIGHT.
Though I was mentally and physically exhausted, I couldn’t settle down, even after changing into my nightgown and washing my face with the warm water a maid brought in a basin. I slipped between the flannel sheets and flipped open the magazine I’d ordered, the one that contained the story that wasn’t in Cecily’s book. It had arrived in the mail that morning, but I hadn’t had a chance to read it yet.
As I began the tale, it felt as if Cecily herself was whispering in my ear.
ARTEMIS AND ACTAEON
BY CECILY LEMONT
There once lived a brother and a sister, two blessed children of the god-king Zeus. The boy, Apollo, was bold and golden as sunlight, his perfect features and imposing stature a model for male perfection. His sister, Artemis, was no less lovely, but her beauty was cloaked in modesty, hidden by her own reticence. When they were young, they were so close they shared the same soul, the same heartbeat. But time steered them along different paths, leading Apollo into the world and Artemis away from it.
Artemis chose the male arts of hunting and warfare over those deemed suitable for womankind. She learned to carve wooden swords and sharpen spears and how to follow tracks through dense woods and open fields. She spent countless hours with bow pulled taut, waiting for the moment to let her arrow fly. Her hands had none of the qualities praised in a woman; they were not soft or fragile or kind. Artemis’s hands hauled dead rabbits and skinned deer; they were calloused and rough and nearly as strong as her will and her heart, a heart that softened only for Apollo, the one person she loved without reservation.
As Artemis aged from girl to woman, her freedom grew ever more constrained. Where once she had hours to wander the forest in peace, she was now urged to stay inside, to be watched over rather than the one who watched. On rare visits to the wilderness she loved, branches ripped her silk gowns and her sandals slid in the mud. All she had trained for threatened to be snatched away forever.
Artemis sought out her father and threw herself at his feet, a humbling posture for such a proud daughter. She begged Zeus to grant her the life she longed for: the life of a huntress free to explore in peace. She did not crave glory or gold. No, she would be content as a goddess of the shadows.