I found myself looking forward to Hannah’s visits like a child anticipating Christmas, hoping she might grant permission for a walk in the garden or even a morning on the terrace. I smiled obediently and did whatever she said. All I got in return were vague assurances: “We must ask Dr. Westbrook.” Or “We’ll see.”
With nothing to do all day but brood, it was hard to avoid thoughts of Matthew and Marjorie. Wondering what they might be doing, out of my sight. You can convince yourself of anything if you try hard enough, and I probed my memory of that kiss for evidence that Matthew was innocent. I’d seen her run after him; I’d seen her throw herself into his arms, and he’d clearly been upset afterward. She was the one I blamed; she was the one I longed—and feared—to confront. The scene became so vivid that I could barely look at Marjorie on the few occasions she came to see me, and my sullenness gave her the perfect excuse to cut her visits short. No need to drag out what I’m sure she saw as an unwelcome duty.
A week or so after the funeral, she stopped by in the late afternoon, as I was groggily emerging from my usual nap. She looked as glamorous as ever, with her radiant hair, silky dress, and stack of bracelets that jangled as she walked. But something was different. She greeted me more quietly than usual; her eyes looked concerned rather than restless. She sat in the armchair by the bed and made even that simple gesture a lesson in elegance, sliding her legs down and to the side in perfect alignment. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, fidgeting without their usual cigarette.
“I wanted to stop in and say good-bye,” she said. “I’m leaving for Newport in the morning.”
Of course; it was August. None of her crowd would be caught dead in Chicago at this time of year.
“Good for you,” I managed.
“Do you remember that day in the Labyrinth, when I said I liked you?” she asked. “You looked shocked.”
“Because I was.”
Marjorie smiled, a gentler version of her usual brash amusement. “The thing is, it’s true. I do like you, still. Yet we’ve never become friends. I don’t know if we ever can be.”
Because you sicken me, I wanted to say. Because you’d do anything to keep your brother all to yourself.
“I saw you kiss Matthew,” I said. “By the lake, the day of the fête.”
She hadn’t been prepared for that. But she was a quick thinker, just like me.
“You must have been confused. I may have hugged him . . .”
“You kissed him. The way a sister should never kiss her brother. How many times has it happened before?”
“What has Matthew told you?”
Nothing, but Marjorie didn’t need to know that. “He’s told me the truth,” I said.
“Then you know it was all childish nonsense. We were best friends, always together. You know how little boys and girls are—of course we were curious about why we looked different under our clothes! It was Mum who made it something it wasn’t, that day she found us, and from then on, we were never left alone. There was always a nanny or a governess on watch until we grew out of all that.”
All that. A phrase that could mean many different things.
“At the fête, I saw the way Matthew looked at you, and it was the way he used to look at me, and I know it’s nasty and unforgivable, but I was so damned jealous. I’d somehow thought your marriage would never come between what he and I once had. I picked a fight, and Matthew tried to walk away—quite rightly—but I wouldn’t let him. I kissed him because I was desperate. To see if there was any trace of him I could still claim as mine.”
Maybe there was. Maybe that was why he’d given in, if only for a few seconds.
“With all that’s happened since then—Aunt Cecily, the investigation—I’ve barely spoken to him. I think he wants to forget it ever happened. I’m willing to, I promise. If you can, too.”
Could I? Marjorie would be in Newport, and then there’d be the baby. Matthew and I would move to a new house, where Marjorie wouldn’t constantly be lurking or finding ways to wedge herself between my husband and me. Knowing I’d won allowed my bitterness to soften. I knew I’d miss her gossipy conversation and irreverent jokes and the way she livened up even the stodgiest dinner table.
Besides, if I truly loved Matthew, how could I hate his twin?
“Consider it forgotten,” I said.
Marjorie tapped an envelope lying on my nightstand. “I brought this up for you. It came today.”
There was no return address. I tore the envelope open and pulled out several sheets of paper. The page on top was signed with a name I didn’t recognize, but the letter underneath made my heart pound. It had been written by Cecily.
Marjorie stood up, watching me, unsure whether to leave or stay. I showed her the name, and she sank back in the chair. Stunned.
“There’s a note here, at the front,” I said. “I’ll read it.”
July 30, 1929
Dear Mrs. Lemont,
I write to you at the urging of our mutual friend, Mabel Kostrick, who has been contacting friends of Cecily Lemont on your behalf. Please forgive me for not including my name or address; it will soon be apparent why I guard my anonymity so fiercely. While Cecily was alive, I promised to guard her secrets, but the news of her passing has affected me deeply. After great thought, I have decided Matthew deserves to have this. She loved him very much.
I met Cecily in 1896, when I was eighteen years old. We came out the same season, and I was quickly entranced by her confidence and grace. I had undergone some difficulties due to my nervous temperament, but Cecily was very kind, and we soon became the closest of companions. Young women can succumb to powerful feelings of intense friendship, and though some describe it as a form of madness, I would simply say I loved her. When my mother discovered one of Cecily’s rather indiscreet notes, she was horrified by references to wine and the passions of the artistic mind. I was sent to live with an aunt in Louisville to avoid further corruption.
It was many years before I dared contact Cecily again. We established an occasional but heartfelt correspondence, sharing our most intimate thoughts. Given my past experience, I burned all our letters after reading them. The only one I saved was this one, the last I ever received from her. I now pass it on to you and Matthew.
I will end with a brief request. I live a quiet life, free of scandal, and wish to continue doing so. Cecily referred to me as Venus in her letters, and I hope that name is enough. Please do not try to find me or pester Mabel. All I know of Cecily’s last days is in this letter. Do with it as you wish.
Yours,
“Venus”
I glanced up at Marjorie. She looked like she was trying not to cry. Cecily’s letter covered three sheets of paper, with a typewritten story afterward. I handed the story to Marjorie and looked at Cecily’s letter. How strange to think of her writing this at Lakecrest almost twenty years ago.
August 13, 1912