Those words have played in my head for days now. Mother has hovered incessantly so I’ve had no time to write, no time to think. Not that my brain allows for much of that right now. Even the sunlight through the window hurts.
I’m so weak, Beatrice. And pale. Betsy brought me a hand mirror yesterday after my bath and I didn’t recognize myself. I should have known from the bath. I used to like my curves. Even my breasts were a good size. They’re gone. I’m flaccid, flat, and, I’m not exaggerating, my ribs stick out farther than my breasts.
And my hair used to shine. It now lays as drab and lifeless as I feel. Can bones feel limp? Mine do. I’m also a strange colour—a sort of pasty yellowish white that gives way under my eyes to the grey-blue circling them. They are still blue, but a faded and dull blue with no spark. They don’t look like me. I don’t look like me.
Mrs. Dulles often clucks her tongue and says the eyes are the windows to the soul. It never used to be good when she said that. It meant she knew I’d done something wrong and that I should confess and get it over with—and she was always right. But when she said it yesterday, I bit back.
“Thank you for pointing that out. Don’t you think I see it?”
“Your body and soul are only bruised, Little One. Let them heal.”
Little One. She called me, and only me, that when we were young. It used to make me feel warm and safe. She then hugged me tighter than anyone has yet. I almost cried. Mother seems afraid of touching me. Perhaps I’ll break.
Mother also won’t let Caro visit.
This morning, I got forceful. “I’m well. Send her up after lunch.”
When she didn’t, I walked next door to Caro’s room to find her. It felt sterile, like she hasn’t been there for some time. I suspect they’ve moved her to a far guest room, but no one will tell me. They keep changing the subject.
I don’t remember the last time I saw my sister. I counted back to what I could recall and got to mid-July . . . We were planning the Paynes’ visit for the first week in August. Frederick had commitments in town before classes began and Randolph was heading to Oxford early for rowing. Mother also told us that Frederick might not come at all because he was visiting Miss Adele Bennington’s family and would most likely propose to her.
I teased Caro that her future husband was straying. She laughed and said good riddance to the man, but good for Adele.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“She is one of five sisters and he inherits it all. Everything in the Payne family.”
“Who wants any of it if Frederick’s included? He’s dreadful,” I teased and moved on to a new topic.
But it bothered me all night and I didn’t sleep well. I tossed and turned, wondering how that would feel. To inherit nothing, not even the bed you slept in or the chest that held your clothes, simply because you were born second. I didn’t have to wonder actually. I heard it often in the way Randolph’s father spoke to him, like he didn’t matter, at least not as much as Frederick mattered.
I remember finally falling asleep that night feeling grateful that nothing like that would ever come between Caro and me.
With no sons, and us being twins, Father always said his decisions were easy. “Right down the middle.” He would raise his hand and slice an imaginary line between us. It always made us giggle—until we grasped how seriously he meant it. Right down the middle also meant he expected us to take our duty, our educations, and our futures, including his estate, very seriously.
For our part, we decided long ago that I would take the London House and Caro would keep Parkley. She’s always seen herself growing old here with tons of children and I’ve always wanted to leave—and I’m not entirely sure about children either. There’s a whole world beyond Derbyshire and for sixteen years I couldn’t wait to see it.
I’m not sure about any of that anymore . . . Maybe I’ll feel like me again when I gain a stone or two. Maybe I won’t. From my window, Mother’s garden is spectacular with roses, hollyhocks, hydrangea, and peonies. It’s lush and colourful and alive, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
There isn’t anywhere in the world I’d rather be right now.
Here, I am safe.
7 September 1934
Dear Beatrice,
I can barely write. The Paynes never visited and Caro isn’t here. She hasn’t been here for weeks.
The Paynes came a couple weeks after I got sick, picked up Caro, and drove her straight to London with them. Caro stayed with them for a week until Mother had the London House opened and Claire Langton hired to chaperone her—all summer long.
“When is she coming home?” I asked.
“Tomorrow, dear, but it’s been a hard summer and your sister . . . she’s been acting out. Your father and I feel it’s best for you and your recovery if she goes to school for a few months.”
“You promised never to send us to Harrogate.” That sat me straight. Caro wouldn’t survive boarding school, and certainly not without me.
“Not Harrogate, dear. Claire believes Brilliantmont in Switzerland will be best. Caro is so proficient in French. She’s fluent.”
“Am I going with her?”
“No.” Mother sank to the side of my bed. “You are not well enough to go anywhere right now. We must protect your health.”
Mother refused to answer any more questions and soon fled the room to avoid them.
As much as I want to know about Caro, I also want to know about Randolph. I didn’t dare ask, of course, but he was there, Beatrice. Caro stayed with his family for a week. Then after that, their home is only blocks from the London House on Eaton Square.
I—I can’t think right now. I wish you were real, Beatrice. I wish you were real and could tell me this is all going to be, as Sallie says, tickety-boo.
This does not feel tickety-boo.
10 September 1934
Dear Beatrice,
Caro did come home and left just as fast. She is different. Harder. Older. I can’t describe it, but I feel it. She cut her hair. It’s short now, right below her chin. It’s very chic. I’ve seen it in the magazines Mrs. Dulles lets the maids keep in the silver closet. She knows we read them—the only one who doesn’t know is Father.
Caro also wears red lipstick. It was a beautiful colour, but I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I was shocked and I was hurt.
She breezed in, kissed me, hugged me tight, and for a second I thought she was mine again—my twin, my other half. But as she turned away, a sharpness flashed through her eyes as she faced Mother and goaded her.
“It’s a wonderful shade, isn’t it, Mother? All the rage now.”
Mother told her to wipe it off immediately. They stared at each other a full minute before Caro, with calm purpose, walked to the water closet. Her message was clear—she was obeying on her terms and soon she wouldn’t. Mother’s eyes widened before she schooled her expression and left the room to “check with the kitchen.” Mother never “checks with the kitchen.”
“I can’t stand it here.” Caro returned and balanced on the edge of my small sofa. She looked tense and rigid, ready to flee.