As the newest Mrs. Lemont, I was the star attraction on the North Shore social circuit that fall. Through a whirl of dinners, card parties, and tea dances, I played the part of Poor Girl Made Good: grateful for my unexpected fortune, gushingly adoring of my perfect husband. Matthew’s mother, seemingly resigned to the marriage, sorted through all my invitations, telling me which to accept and which to politely decline. I was also subjected to regular lectures on topics such as managing the help and where to summer. Following Hannah’s orders was an easy way to maintain peace, especially since I couldn’t keep all the people I’d met straight and didn’t yet think of any of them as friends. Hannah could be bossy and high-handed, but she and I shared a common goal: Matthew’s happiness.
My days arranged themselves into a predictable routine: A hurried early-morning good-bye to Matthew, followed by breakfast on a tray in my room. A morning walk around the estate, which I’d drag out by sitting on the rocks along the lakefront or watching the gardeners at work. A midday meal in the dining room with Hannah, during which she’d drone on about dull housekeeping matters, followed by an afternoon of reading or writing letters. Matthew usually caught the train that arrived in East Ridge at six o’clock, and his homecoming was the highlight of my day. After supper, we’d gather in the sitting room to play cards or checkers while Hannah went on about the “appalling manners of today’s youth” or “that terrible noise that passes for music these days.” I became quite expert at nodding while stifling a yawn.
Marjorie was rarely at home. I’d see her occasionally in the upstairs hall or front entry, trailing cigarette smoke, and we’d exchange polite but distant chitchat. She didn’t discuss how she spent her days, and I didn’t ask. Most evenings, she was out with friends. Hannah and Matthew didn’t seem concerned by her frequent absences, but I wondered what she was up to on all those late nights out in the city. Was she really a dope fiend? Some evenings, when I heard the squeal of tires on the front drive and rowdy, slurred shouts as Marjorie was dropped off, I couldn’t help feeling jealous. The weeks I’d spent with Matthew in Chicago had already taken on the heart-tugging weight of nostalgia, and I wondered if I’d settled for marriage too soon. On the nights Marjorie stayed in, the sitting room seemed brighter, and Matthew’s laughter was easy and free. Marjorie brought a spark of life to those monotonous hours.
Christmas passed in a flurry of holiday parties, and then winter swept in. The invitations dried up, and Matthew disappeared along with the sunlight. Pleading work, he began sleeping at the downtown apartment on weeknights and carting home loads of papers on Friday. There were muttered hints about trouble at the office, though Hannah forbade business talk at the dinner table, and Matthew told me it would blow over soon enough. But I couldn’t help worrying that he was pushing himself too hard. I’ve never been the kind of person who needs to fill every silence with chatter, so I was perfectly happy to sit quietly with Matthew in our room, both of us absorbed in our own tasks. But even on those occasions I had him to myself, he seemed distracted, caught up in thoughts he was unwilling to share.
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked. “I’m no financial genius, but there must be some way I can help.”
Matthew’s face sagged into the weary, haunted expression I’d glimpsed on the deck of the Franconia. “You can’t,” he said.
What could possibly be weighing on him so heavily? From offhand comments Marjorie had made, I’d understood Matthew to be largely a figurehead at Lemont Industries. Hannah sometimes took calls from the company’s business manager, and I suspected she had the final say in important decisions, which, given Matthew’s mental state, seemed wise.
“You should be able to share your burdens,” I said, squeezing Matthew’s shoulder. “That’s the point of marriage, isn’t it?”
“It’s my burden to bear, and I hate that I’ve worried you. What a disappointment I must be.”
I protested that of course he wasn’t, that I couldn’t be happier, but my cheery words only made him look sadder. His nightmares had become more frequent—once a week or so—but I kept to our mutual agreement never to discuss them. When I was jolted from sleep by a sound or vibration of the bed, I shook Matthew awake and comforted him the only way I could, with fervent kisses and greedy fingers. When his eyes sometimes spilled over with tears, I pretended not to notice.
My life felt like the grounds of Lakecrest: trapped under a layer of frost, as lifeless as the bare trees that formed a stark tableau against the lake. From time to time, I took the train to Chicago to visit Blanche, but for the most part my excursions were solitary, to a tearoom in East Ridge or the town library to check out the latest mysteries. If the sky was clear, I’d pull on my boots and tramp through the soggy snow along Deertrail Road, the narrow lane that skirted other properties. Only once did I see anyone else outside, a figure on the front lawn of a Tudor-style mansion that had sold for a fortune a few months before. It was a woman—I could tell by the cut of the coat—but she didn’t raise her hand in greeting or call out. She just watched as I trudged on, and I felt more alone and invisible than ever.
One Sunday in late January, as I was on my way to the kitchen for some tea, I heard shouting from the study. I paused outside the door, listening. I couldn’t make out individual words, but I recognized Matthew’s and Hannah’s voices, his heated and demanding, hers curtly dismissive.
Suddenly, I heard Matthew from what seemed like inches away, his declaration crystal clear: “I’m my own man, not your puppet! When will you treat me accordingly?”
Surprise made me pull back, and just as well. The door flew open, and I barely had time to back into the Arabian Room, out of sight. Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall, followed soon after by the click of Hannah’s heels. I hurried to my room, thinking Matthew might tell me what happened. But he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the dining room that evening.