Trent found me and asked, “Why forty-seven, miss?”
“Because Father says ‘this is the forty-seventh time we’ve addressed this issue.’” Caro might imitate Mother perfectly, but no one mimics Father like me.
Trent laughed, then blanched and hastened away. I looked straight down and found Father had emerged from the library right beneath me. “Add another forty-seven for good measure, Margaret.”
“Yes, Father. My pleasure.” I stomped—just a little.
No wonder Caro wants to stay and I can’t wait to go.
Fourteen
I sat in awe of my grandmother. From later letters, I had gotten the impression that Caro held all the spark and fire while Margo was the more demure, even submissive twin. Caro constantly admonished her sister for being quiet, compliant, fearful, and timid. Margaret’s early diary entries defied that assumption. This was a girl I wanted to call my friend. A girl who climbed everything she could find, made games and puzzles out of anything around her, and wanted something so personal and uniquely hers that she named her diary Beatrice. She wanted to explore the world, dig up the past, and understand history. She wanted to try new things and live in Egypt. She wanted to find a place to stand. She wanted to see and be seen.
Time slipped away as I kept reading about her capers, hopes, and dreams, along with her sister and her Randolph. I soon found myself in the fall of 1932 with my fourteen-year-old grandmother.
14 November 1932
Dear Beatrice,
Father gave us new journals today. He said that you should be full by now. I didn’t tell him only half your pages are filled. Caro confessed she had never written in her diary at all. Not to him, of course. To him, we both nodded, thanked him, and lied.
She confessed that moments ago. She just left my room.
We celebrate every birthday this way, and have forever. After the party or whatever Mother and Father plan, we climb into my bed and go over the day and the year. It was a good year for Caro. But not for me. It was a good day for me. But not for Caro.
Would it surprise you that despite being always together and seeing the same things, hearing the same words, and eating the same foods, we see, hear, taste, and feel things completely differently?
I’ve been at odds with Father all year. I’m wild, immature, scattered, everything I shouldn’t be. I also grew two inches—and that makes me, for fourteen years of age, overly tall. We’re identical, but Caro hasn’t gotten her inches yet. I wonder when she does if she’ll have done something wrong too, or will it be the exact right and proper time for her two inches of growth?
But the tables got turned today. Father asked my opinion then said something nice when I gave it. It upset Caro.
“He was being a dear,” I told her.
Caro pushed back against my headboard. “Stop trying to sound like Mother.”
“Stop criticizing Father,” I snapped back. “He’s easier on you anyway, so why are you complaining? I get one nice comment in a year and you’re sniffly?”
That caught her because she knows it’s true. Caro never gets in trouble and I never get a compliment. She is quiet, obedient, and a modèle jeune femme. I learned that in our French text and Mother actually nodded to Caro as the example. Yes, she is the model young woman that I am not.
It could make me really angry, but it doesn’t. She is all those things to the world, but she’s honest with me. When we are alone, Caro is open and fun and even daring. There is a part of her she only shares with me. Sometimes I worry how much she pressures herself to appear perfect. I fear it’s only going to get worse as we become “young ladies” and French ones at that . . .
For another birthday surprise, Mother hired Mrs. Langston’s daughter to tutor us in all things French. Language, culture, style . . . I rolled my eyes and got a stern look from Father.
Claire, Mrs. Langston’s daughter, came for tea. She is très chic and has spent the last two years teaching in Paris. She said we can no longer speak English in her French class of two. She also said that, with her guidance, we will read and speak fluently within the year. She let us pick French names to make it more fun. She said playing a role helps one step into a culture. Father gave his great nod of approval, citing The Merchant of Venice as proof that role-playing focuses one’s energies and distills their character—whatever that truly means.
I am Bebe Dupont. Isn’t that glamorous? Caro made up Nanette Bellefeuille. She has always loved the name Nanette. Her first doll, a beautiful porcelain French doll that still sits in her room, is named Nanette.
After tea with Claire, we scrambled out of our dresses and got to do my favorite thing in the whole world. Betsy even anticipated the adventure and was waiting to help us into our gear. We went fishing!
The last hatch of the season always occurs around our birthday and it happens as the sun drops to about thirty-five degrees. The sun was getting right to that point as we ran in our waders to the river. Creighton had already laid a fire.
“The caddis flies are good. We will eat well this evening.” He shooed us off the bank.
After only a few casts, we had enough for a grand dinner. I caught three fat trout and Caro caught two. We ate one and Creighton carried the others home as we didn’t dare spoil our appetites for supper. Mother and Mrs. Dulles would never forgive us. Birthday dinners are always extravagant.
Creighton was talkative today. I consider that another birthday present. He told us about the Great War while we ate our fish. Mother would scold him if she knew, but we promised not to tell. She doesn’t like any talk of war, any disagreement at all.
He didn’t talk about the battles so much as he did about the smell, the smoke, and the burned flesh—not like the fish at all, he said, but “acrid,” he called it, like when I singed my hair on the candle last Christmas. He said despite the cold and the rain and the mud that got into every crack and crevice of his body, it was that burning smell that has never left him.
“Sounds linger,” he said. He can still hear massive booms in his head, even while working the silent gardens here at poky Parkley. I wonder if that’s why he is so quiet at times and doesn’t seem to hear us when we talk to him, even when we stand only a few feet away.
His stories put me in my place, Beatrice. I’ve always considered myself brave, but I didn’t feel brave listening to him. War sounds terrifying. I think I should be more respectful when Father talks about it. He served in the Navy during the Great War and was awarded a medal. If he saw even a fraction of what Creighton saw, I understand why he watches Europe so closely. How could the world ever endure such horrors again?
19 December 1933
Dear Beatrice,