“No!” I called out. It felt as if my last connection to Caro was burning.
“Never.” Father spoke over me while watching the letter blacken, twist, and disintegrate into ash. “We will never speak of this again. Nor of her. Do I make myself clear? She has betrayed us and . . . we should have known better.”
“What—” I balked.
Mother trembled but kept her lips pressed tight.
“Enough.” Father turned on me. “She worked for that woman and believed every lie fed to her. At first she was headstrong and got caught up with things she didn’t understand. But at some point, your sister made a choice, Margaret. Never forget that. She chose to run away with a Nazi and cast her future with that lot.”
“We don’t know it’s true.”
“Of course we know it’s true. She’s avoided commitment here—to the war, to Randolph. She has had one foot here, one foot there, and now . . . it’s over. She made her choice.”
Mother reached for my hand and squeezed. She was begging me to submit and be silent.
Everything cried out that he was wrong, but I’m weak. I couldn’t hurt him. I couldn’t fight. That’s what Caro never discerned—what a personal affront her words and actions were to him. She meant to spar and incite conflict to engage him and to make him notice her, but her statements were knives slicing at everything he held dear. I doubt she believed ninety percent of what she spouted. But he did. He believed that, with every declaration or insolent comment, she was choosing another way. This letter confirmed his every fear. In many ways, it felt as if he’d been expecting it all along.
I said none of that. I pressed my lips shut until I could command my voice. Then I simply said, “Yes, sir.”
Father’s gaze swept over me, not pausing, as if I was difficult to look at. And considering we are—were?—identical twins, I am sure I was. I expect I will be for a very long time.
Father disappeared into his study. Mother rang the bell and told Trent we would not dine tonight. She then left through another door. I suspect she went to Caro’s room before seeking sanctuary in her own.
I retreated here.
I passed Caro’s room on my way here. It looked the same. It felt the same. I expected somehow it would have changed, felt colder and reflected her loss. Yet, I felt her presence in all her warmth and could almost see her rounding the corner from her closet to laugh with me. I walked to her bookshelf. Her four journals from Father sat on the top shelf. If I wanted to know what happened, I thought to start there.
They were all empty.
I ran my finger across her other shelves. Her books from Mother filled two of them. The Wind in the Willows. Briar Rose. Hans Christian Andersen. The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales. All of Austen. Jane Eyre. Little Women . . .
Stories we have loved. Stories that created and defined us. Had she changed so much? Could I be wrong about my sister? Could our father be right?
Caro’s room is such a soft purple. It’s beautiful and sophisticated, just like my sister. I remember feeling jealous when she picked her colours first. My room is green. And while I’ve grown to love it more over the years, I have never felt more grateful for its bright tones of light and life as I do tonight. Caro’s purple feels like death, and I wonder if she actually is dead. Would I feel it? I think I would.
Closing my eyes, I trust she is still alive. But I sense nothing more than that. Even that might be wishful thinking.
Father came to my room moments ago with the announcement that he will report to the Navy tomorrow. He had planned to continue to work here and assist with Parkley’s transformation into an Army hospital. He’s past the age required to serve, though he does in every way possible.
“It’s not enough anymore. They need ship commanders.”
He will pay penance for Caro.
“You and your mother will leave for the London House tomorrow as well. You can be of more help in the city, and General Leighton has Parkley well in hand.”
“I thought you said we were needed here.”
“Things change. We can no longer let others sacrifice for our freedom.”
“I didn’t think we were,” I retorted.
I expected Father to snap at me. He only sighed.
We will all pay penance for Caro.
He looked around my room, his arms hanging limp at his sides. He looked so old and broken, I backed down. In my words and in my heart. I can’t protest. I can’t refuse. I can’t add anything to his pain.
“What will it be like?” I asked. I’m not sure what I was asking. What will London be like? What will life without Caro be like? What will this betrayal be like?
Father chose the one he could answer.
“You’ll be fine. The bombings have stopped. You’ll find good work with the ATS there. You’ll also find that it’s surprisingly easy for the mind to adapt to a new reality.” He offered a ghost of a smile. “I have faith in your resilience. I also know you will take care of your mother.”
He glanced to the connecting door to Caro’s room. I’d left it wide open, needing to feel her presence. He stepped toward it and pulled it closed so slowly and carefully, I didn’t hear it click shut.
“Pack what you need tonight. Tomorrow you both will take the afternoon train. I’ll have the staff dispose of Caro’s things while they’re storing ours for the transition.”
“Dispose of her things?” My voice cracked.
“She’s gone, Margaret. I hope you understand what happened tonight. Your sister, if she survives this war, will never be allowed back into this house nor into our lives.”
I remembered reading almost an identical line in literature, always finding the father’s stalwart declaration funny—especially as he failed to uphold it three chapters later and invited his wayward daughter home. But I didn’t say that—because it wasn’t funny and my father would never show such inconstancy. He will never back down.
I dread tomorrow, Beatrice.
I dread all the tomorrows yet to come.
What has she done? And how will we survive it?
Twenty-Nine
I was shredded. It was seven in the morning, and while Mat had been at this for twenty-four hours, I’d been immersed in these letters, and these sisters, for well over seventy. It was heartbreaking and I was losing hope, not to mention running out of time.
“Hey . . . Don’t look so gloomy.” Mat circled the table with a letter in hand. He lifted the diary from me and turned to its beginning. “Read this entry. Then this letter. They’ll cheer you up. The crumbs are there.”
2 January 1941
Dear Beatrice,
I’ve just come home. After Christmas, I got a few days leave and went back to the London House with Caro. She wasn’t going to stay at Parkley, and our time is so short. I feel it. It’s not just the war either. Something is off . . .