“I left a voicemail that I was here on family business and asked for the week. I went for Dad’s ‘assumptive close.’ Now I pray they don’t fire me . . . And there’s more.” I told her about Mat and his impending arrival. “Can he stay here?”
“Oh, Caroline McKeenan Payne.”
I straightened. When either of my parents used my full name, it was never good.
“He can. But if you’re looking for truth, you’re going to have to start offering it as well. You need to call your dad.” She gestured to my cake and coffee. “Finish that. You’ll need the energy. Then call him.”
I ate a real bite this time. The sharp and sweet, savory and tart, tasted in perfect balance. “There’s something to be said for the old adage that what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
“His whole life was framed by what he didn’t know.” Mom shook her head with a cynical, hopeless semi-chuckle. Her eyes glistened. “I thought you came to end that.”
Thirteen
I spent over an hour organizing the letters. All were dated, but they were terribly mixed up. A few had second and third pages nestled into different letters. I linked words, thoughts, handwriting styles, and ink colors. As I worked, I began to get a sense of when my aunt was upset and when she felt relaxed. She pressed her pen hard and the slope of her writing increased when under stress.
Once I got them in order, I pulled out the first diary and began, skimming some entries and savoring others. Margaret first started writing in 1928, years before the first 1934 letter, and, I suspected, those early days would be my best introduction to these twins.
14 November 1928
Today we are ten!
Mother gave me a beautiful copy of Cinderella, my favorite fairy tale. I told her I was getting old, but she says one never outgrows beautiful books and can never start a proper library too soon. She has given both Caro and me hand-painted books every birthday for our whole lives. I suppose we are already starting our libraries. She gave Caro Briar Rose with drawings that look like oil paintings. My book’s pictures are made from watercolours.
Briar Rose has always been Caro’s favorite fairy tale. I think she likes the idea of the princess sleeping until true love comes. She and I tease that I want to go to the ball—in my own carriage—and she wants the ball and the prince to come to her.
Father gave us each journals. That’s what he called you. A journal. Mother said you are a diary and that you don’t look like anything we would use. You are brown leather and your pages have gold-tipped edges, and you are heavy. Caro’s journal is navy. Father frowned at Mother and said serious thoughts go into journals and frippery into diaries. He expects serious thoughts from us, but I think you are a diary.
I didn’t say that, but I did say I would write in you. It’s odd writing to no one, so I will call you Beatrice, after Beatrice Potter. Mother reads her books to us at bedtime. I love Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Jemima Puddle-Duck, but I like Squirrel Nutkin best. Caro says that’s odd because Squirrel Nutkin is a teasing bully who got what he deserved. Maybe that’s why I like his story. There is a kind of proper justice there. And he learned his lesson.
But when things feel really bad, like after I’ve gotten into trouble, Mother always reads Peter Rabbit. He misbehaved and, rather than losing his tail, he was put to bed with chamomile tea with his mother nearby. That’s nice, isn’t it? Sometimes I also need someone to be nearby. That’s you now.
It’s our birthday today. We are ten. I told you that. We. Sallie and Rebecca get mad when Caro and I speak about “we” and “us.” Sallie says her mother calls that the “royal we” and not for us to use. But we are “we.” There are two of us with nothing between us. Mother made us wear matching dresses today and Father gave us matching diaries. That proves Sallie is wrong. Rebecca joined her, but as she only repeats what Sallie says, I didn’t bother talking to her about it.
The girls are spending the night tonight. Friends never stay without their parents, but Mother says we are very grown up. Everyone is dressing for supper. Poor Betsy is in Sallie’s room fixing her hair. That will take forever. But Betsy had better hurry because supper is served at eight, with no exceptions, and Mother says we can have the dining room all to ourselves. I suggested we play hide-and-seek throughout the house afterward. I also want to stay up until sunrise tomorrow. Caro said no to both. She says we’ll get in trouble. Caro hates to get in trouble.
But this is a birthday that only comes once a decade. A “great round number,” Father said smiling this morning. They are very important numbers and maybe that means we won’t get into trouble after all.
25 December 1928
Dear Beatrice,
It’s Christmas! There is snow! Tiny flakes of white make the whole wood look new. Father says we can stay up late tonight to play games. I will write more later . . . I must go. Caro is calling.
2 January 1929
Dear Beatrice,
You aren’t a Beatrice at all. You are a Beatrix, but how was I to know that? I found Mother’s box of all Beatrix Potter’s tiny books up in the nursery today. We never read them ourselves and I had never seen her name before. Beatrix . . . Isn’t that a funny name? But you can’t be a Beatrix now . . . I’m sorry. You’re stuck with Beatrice.
11 August 1930
Dear Beatrice,
I’m horrid. I said I would write in you, then Betsy put you in my bookshelf and I forgot about you. From the spine you look very much like a book I’m supposed to read but don’t want to. The Paynes are coming for the weekend. Lord Latimore—Father calls him “Payne”—is his oldest friend, and his family comes every year for a long weekend before their sons go back to school. Frederick and Randolph aren’t any fun at all. Father used to joke that he had two girls so that each Payne boy could have a good wife, but Mother says Frederick is wild so he stopped joking about that. We never liked it anyway. Frederick is twenty and returns to Oxford in a few weeks.
Randolph will turn sixteen while he’s here, so Mrs. Dulles is preparing a special cake. And I must be fair, he was nice last summer. I had made a fort at the beginning of summer and filled it with books and pillows. Then after our trip to Scotland, I forgot all about it. When we were fishing down by the South Field, I saw it and ran to see if my books were ruined. I crawled in the door, a tunnel made through the branches, and my right hand landed on a nest of squirrels. It was terrifying and I remember scrabbling, screaming, and claws and grey fur everywhere. All the sticks came tumbling down and the next thing I knew I was getting hauled out by my ankles. Randolph didn’t say a word as he hoisted me into his arms and ran back to the house. I could hear Caro sobbing behind us and Frederick laughing on the riverbank.