In the Shadow of Lakecrest(68)

At the time of my last letter, I had turned to writing again, and you were kind to suggest Twelve More Tales as the title of my next work. Alas, I was able to complete but one tale before my muse deserted me. I consulted stacks of mythologies in search of inspiration, only to encounter one tragic heroine after another. How could I have read these stories so many times yet been blind to their full horror? Poor Leda, seduced by Zeus in the guise of a swan—such a depraved coupling cannot be transformed into art by my poor pen. The princess Andromeda, chained and naked, offered up to a sea monster as punishment for her mother’s pride. Mighty, swift Atalanta, besting the men she raced against yet forced into marriage through Aphrodite’s trickery.

The fault, you see, is in the legends themselves, not my talent. The Greek gods were cruel, vengeful creatures, and no retelling is clever enough to change the facts of their terrible deeds. My faith in the wisdom of the ancients rests on such a shaky foundation. Perhaps that is why I reach for the hand that offers escape.

I enclose my latest work and would appreciate your honest thoughts. Do not protest your lack of education—a reader free of prejudice is more valuable to me than the most lauded classical scholar.

Yours with greatest affection,

Cecily



I passed the letter to Marjorie when I was done, then skimmed the story, picturing Cecily as Eurydice, trapped in the underworld. I didn’t have the heart to read past the first page, knowing it didn’t have a happy ending.

“Do you have any idea who this Orpheus was?” I asked Marjorie when she’d finished.

She shook her head. I’d noticed her brush away tears while she was reading, but now her face looked composed. “Aunt Cecily never had suitors that I was aware of, poor old thing. She allowed herself one night a year to get raging drunk, take off her corset, and howl at the moon, and that got her a reputation! Nowadays, she’d be drinking cocktails and smoking at a nightclub or running off to Paris with this Venus. I’ve heard women live together there quite openly.”

If she’d been born thirty years later, would Cecily’s life have turned out differently? Marjorie had choices and opportunities her aunt never did. But I wouldn’t describe Marjorie as happy.

“You can keep the letter,” I offered, “if you’d like to have something of hers.”

Marjorie nodded. “Yes, I would. It’s so silly, but I miss her, all of a sudden.”

She stood, abruptly, and said she had to get going.

“One bit of sisterly advice before I leave,” she said. “I happened to be there when the mailman arrived, but you’d better be careful with your correspondence. Mum’s reading all your letters.”



The telegram came two weeks later.



THE EARL OF LOTHINGBROOK ASKED FOR MY HAND AND I SAID YES. SAILING FOR LONDON MONDAY. CAPTAIN TO MARRY US AT SEA. MORE SOON ON MY GRAND ADVENTURE. LOVE MARJORIE.



Hannah tossed it on my bed, her clenched jaw hinting at her fury.

“What can she be thinking?” Hannah fumed. “Married at sea!”

I could barely believe it myself. Yet I could easily imagine Marjorie’s voice, saying those words in her usual mocking tone. Had she decided to marry on a whim, simply to goad her mother?

Or was it because she’d do anything to avoid coming home?

Matthew and Hannah had never met or even heard of the earl. “Clearly, a title of no importance,” Hannah snapped. If Marjorie thought she’d make her mother proud by marrying into the British aristocracy, she hadn’t set her sights high enough. Perhaps, knowing Marjorie, she’d trade the earl for a duke in a few years.

Marjorie’s boldness encouraged me to plan my own escape. I was desperate to get outside, to breathe fresh air and feel the breeze off the lake. How could that possibly hurt the baby? I listened to the car rumbling along the front drive whenever Hannah went out on her rounds, and began scheming. If I timed it right, I could get out of Lakecrest for an hour or so without her knowing. I’d need help; in my weakened, clumsy state, I didn’t trust myself not to fall down the stairs. Could I get Alice to take my side? She was young and curious enough to be talked into a grand adventure, unlike boring old Gerta.

I made an effort to be friendlier with Alice than usual over the next few days and was encouraged when she began lingering by my bedside to talk after she’d finished cleaning up and putting away my clothes. Several times, I got the feeling she was steeling herself to ask me something—for a raise, most likely. I’d already decided to go to Hannah on her behalf, if she ever got around to it.

On the afternoon Hannah told me she was off to her monthly garden club meeting, I summoned Alice with the bell on my nightstand. She arrived a few minutes later.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Come in. Sit down.”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t.”

“Hush,” I said. “Mrs. Lemont’s not here to see, and I couldn’t care less. You make yourself comfortable.”

Alice sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair.

“What’s going on downstairs?” I asked. “Are you very busy?”

“I was ironing Mr. Lemont’s shirts. Gerta’s helping Edna with the canning.”

Perfect—they’d be busy in the kitchen for hours. If Alice was willing to stand guard, I might get a precious hour to myself on the terrace.