I didn’t get bitten, but my arm and my cheek got scratched very badly. Father sent for Dr. Barlow, who looked over each mark with a magnifying glass. He declared no bites and Mother cried.
Mrs. Dulles cleaned me up and put a thick, stinky ointment on my arms then wrapped them in gauze. My legs were scraped up too, but that was because of the branches. She said her grandmother’s ointment would keep everything from scarring and she was right. One year later and there is not a single mark on my cheek, and those were really deep.
I wonder if Randolph will notice or remember that day.
17 August 1931
Dear Beatrice,
I grabbed his book and ran. Caro rushed back to the house, and first he ran after her, then mid-lawn he turned my way and stopped. It was exciting, like a lightning bolt had struck between us. I can’t explain it any other way.
He started chasing me.
I ran behind the garage and headed to the South Field. That’s my patch and I know every inch of that land. There’s a steep slope beyond Mother’s gardens that leads to the river.
But I forgot Randolph likes to fish and he’s been here often enough to know what I’d be thinking. He headed straight for where I was planning to go.
To trick him, I climbed the fence to the orchards instead.
That was my mistake.
Squish. I stepped on the biggest, freshest, smelliest cow patty ever. Then I slipped and fell backside-flat into it.
Randolph was upon me in seconds. First he stared. I will always love him for that. He didn’t laugh. He reached down and pulled me up despite the muck. “Are you hurt?”
I lifted his book. It was covered like the rest of me. “I’m sorry. I ruined your book.”
That’s when he burst out laughing. “Oh, Margo Moo, you’re never boring.”
He swung an arm around me and walked me back. He was covered by the time we reached the kitchen door, but he didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t at all. He’s seventeen. That’s not overly far from thirteen, is it? I’ll be thirteen in two months. Ages merge as you get older. Father is seven years older than Mother.
Anyway, Randolph left me at the side door with Mrs. Dulles screaming for Betsy to bring me a robe.
Caro came and sat beside me as I bathed. I told her everything, except how it felt. I didn’t know how to explain it. Would she understand lightning? Or the tiny bubbles that filled my heart? Or that I didn’t smell anything at all because everything was beyond beautiful?
I could see by her face she would think I was crazy, along with smelling gross.
“Why are you smiling?” Caro asked me, looking confused that I wasn’t more upset.
I pushed it all down, and I lied. “You’d smile if you were finally clean.”
Was that wrong, Beatrice? I wish you could talk. You see, we share everything. Caro and I made that pact long ago because it’s just the two of us.
But I meant what I wrote—it feels like bubbles and I never want them to end. I think I love him, Beatrice, and I want to keep this delicious secret all to myself.
And maybe someday, I’ll get to keep Randolph as well.
2 December 1931
Dear Beatrice,
I’m in trouble again . . . and Caro keeps passing notes under my door. She won’t risk opening it. She never takes chances. Father calls her “quietly compliant.” She is everything I am not. She walks; I run. She sits; I squirm. She discusses; I protest. She’s certainly never had her mouth washed out with lye soap.
“I don’t want to grow up,” Caro whispered last night.
“What?” I pushed back against the pillows to sit fully upright. “I can’t wait.”
We got a lecture during last evening’s supper about “comporting ourselves with greater decorum.”
“Don’t you want to be on your own? Like we said? When we turn eighteen, we’ll live in the London House. Father will let us go if we’re together.” I nudged her.
She and I have talked about it for years, but last night she shrugged.
“You can’t change your mind. You promised, and Father will never let me go alone . . . Come on.” I bumped my shoulder into hers again, harder this time. “We’ll get to see things, do things, say things. In the magazines, girls have shorter hair now, shorter hems, and they’re out doing stuff. Amelia Earhart flew across the Atlantic Ocean, and when I go to Egypt to become a famous archaeologist, you can come with me.”
I reached for her in my desperation because if there is one thing that is true, it is that my freedom is tied to her. “We’ll have fun, Caro, I promise. While I study, you can work in a shop for a couple years. Do whatever you want. You can be a dressmaker. You’re amazing with your drawings and sewing. You can work for whoever makes all those beautiful dresses in Vogue.”
She guffawed.
“No. It’s true. Father will see the world is changing.”
“In a few years, you’ll be married.” Caro mimicked Mother’s voice so perfectly my jaw fell open. She then continued in her own voice. “If they have their way it’ll be to one of those awful Payne boys.”
“Why is Randolph awful?” I felt everything within me still.
Caro smiled and imitated Mother again. “Not ideal. After all, he is the second son with no title and no money, but he is a sweet young man.”
“True.” I laughed. None of that bothers me at all. “You can marry that bully Frederick, get all his money, leave him wherever you like, and come stay with me at the London House when I’m in town, or travel with me to Africa . . . I’m never marrying.”
She laughed because she knew I was lying. We do that sometimes. We say things to see if they fit. This one didn’t. I’ll marry Randolph if I can. He’ll come with me on expeditions. Because, if I’m honest, I know Caro won’t. She isn’t like that. She’s “quietly compliant.” But I do need to get her to the London House. If she doesn’t at least go there, I’ll never step beyond.
Yet even that is in question now. Caro left me last night with a hug and a parting comment that kept me awake and made my insides feel twisty today, which was probably why I decided to see if I could slide the servants’ stair rail all the way from the fourth-floor quarters to the kitchen. I wanted to do something daring and it was raining too hard to go outside. I fell off at the final turn and cracked the wood railing. Father heard it and punished me.
Last night she said, “Don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t come true, Margo. I like your dream, but Father will never let it happen.”
It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it. She wasn’t unhappy about it. It didn’t make her angry. She accepted it. She sounded pleased that he has us hemmed so tight, as if she found comfort in that.
She would feel that way. He loves her best. He sees her. He asks her opinion on things at the table far more than he asks mine. But you can’t talk to someone or care about them, much less love them, if you can’t see them.
But you can be angry when they trespass into your world and make a mess or cause a ruckus. Like today.
Like yesterday, if I’m being honest—again. That was another banner day for me.
Father made me walk up and down the front stairs forty-seven times after hearing me run yesterday morning.