In the Shadow of Lakecrest(67)
Could I? Marjorie would be in Newport, and then there’d be the baby. Matthew and I would move to a new house, where Marjorie wouldn’t constantly be lurking or finding ways to wedge herself between my husband and me. Knowing I’d won allowed my bitterness to soften. I knew I’d miss her gossipy conversation and irreverent jokes and the way she livened up even the stodgiest dinner table.
Besides, if I truly loved Matthew, how could I hate his twin?
“Consider it forgotten,” I said.
Marjorie tapped an envelope lying on my nightstand. “I brought this up for you. It came today.”
There was no return address. I tore the envelope open and pulled out several sheets of paper. The page on top was signed with a name I didn’t recognize, but the letter underneath made my heart pound. It had been written by Cecily.
Marjorie stood up, watching me, unsure whether to leave or stay. I showed her the name, and she sank back in the chair. Stunned.
“There’s a note here, at the front,” I said. “I’ll read it.”
July 30, 1929
Dear Mrs. Lemont,
I write to you at the urging of our mutual friend, Mabel Kostrick, who has been contacting friends of Cecily Lemont on your behalf. Please forgive me for not including my name or address; it will soon be apparent why I guard my anonymity so fiercely. While Cecily was alive, I promised to guard her secrets, but the news of her passing has affected me deeply. After great thought, I have decided Matthew deserves to have this. She loved him very much.
I met Cecily in 1896, when I was eighteen years old. We came out the same season, and I was quickly entranced by her confidence and grace. I had undergone some difficulties due to my nervous temperament, but Cecily was very kind, and we soon became the closest of companions. Young women can succumb to powerful feelings of intense friendship, and though some describe it as a form of madness, I would simply say I loved her. When my mother discovered one of Cecily’s rather indiscreet notes, she was horrified by references to wine and the passions of the artistic mind. I was sent to live with an aunt in Louisville to avoid further corruption.
It was many years before I dared contact Cecily again. We established an occasional but heartfelt correspondence, sharing our most intimate thoughts. Given my past experience, I burned all our letters after reading them. The only one I saved was this one, the last I ever received from her. I now pass it on to you and Matthew.
I will end with a brief request. I live a quiet life, free of scandal, and wish to continue doing so. Cecily referred to me as Venus in her letters, and I hope that name is enough. Please do not try to find me or pester Mabel. All I know of Cecily’s last days is in this letter. Do with it as you wish.
Yours,
“Venus”
I glanced up at Marjorie. She looked like she was trying not to cry. Cecily’s letter covered three sheets of paper, with a typewritten story afterward. I handed the story to Marjorie and looked at Cecily’s letter. How strange to think of her writing this at Lakecrest almost twenty years ago.
August 13, 1912
My dearest Venus,
Though you protest your life offers little of interest, I greatly enjoyed your stories about Delia and Gregory. I hope I have said it enough for you to believe me: I do not long for children of my own, for Matthew and Marjorie are as dear to me as any products of my own womb. How astounding it has been to watch them come into their true selves. Matthew is quiet and gracious, with none of the rambunctiousness common in boys of his age. Women flock to him already, fingers patting his cheeks and tousling his hair as if only a touch will convince them such a perfect creature is real. I foresee a trail of broken hearts in his future! Marjorie, for all her charm, has a stubborn streak that reminds me all too much of my brother. The servants shake their heads and call her a handful, which leads me to wonder if Queen Elizabeth and all great women weren’t also handfuls in their youth. Marjorie is capable of greatness, I believe, if she modulates her temper to fit society’s demands.
Yes, I have become that awful sentimental woman who moans, “How fast they’ve grown!” and blathers about turning back time as the specter of change looms ahead. The children are of an age when talk has turned to boarding schools, and the fragile peace between Jasper and me is cracking. My summer rite did not bring the usual release (I found myself quite dejected for days afterward), and I am left to wonder if such ceremonies lose their force over time or if it is my own soul that has altered.
This brings us to the man I call Orpheus. You mustn’t apologize for your ignorance of the name’s meaning in your last letter. It is a story that has intrigued me for years: the devoted lover who rescues his true love from hell. Not a happy ending, I’m afraid, but then you and I know all too well how stories of doomed lovers conclude. This Orpheus beckons me on a path I had not expected to walk at my age, two years shy of forty. I promise to be less mysterious in my next letter, but there is much I have yet to learn about him, and I shy away from confessing too much when it may all come to nothing. I will say he is steady and measured in words and manner, quite the opposite of Jasper and his rages.
I have wondered what my father would have made of this Orpheus; for all the differences in upbringing between them, I believe they would have liked and respected each other. It’s been years since Father died, yet I still miss him with a wrenching pain. Together, we created an American Arcadia and proved a prairie home can stand as proud as the palace of Knossos. I only wish Father were still here to rule over Lakecrest. Jasper has been an unworthy heir.