My dearest Venus,
Though you protest your life offers little of interest, I greatly enjoyed your stories about Delia and Gregory. I hope I have said it enough for you to believe me: I do not long for children of my own, for Matthew and Marjorie are as dear to me as any products of my own womb. How astounding it has been to watch them come into their true selves. Matthew is quiet and gracious, with none of the rambunctiousness common in boys of his age. Women flock to him already, fingers patting his cheeks and tousling his hair as if only a touch will convince them such a perfect creature is real. I foresee a trail of broken hearts in his future! Marjorie, for all her charm, has a stubborn streak that reminds me all too much of my brother. The servants shake their heads and call her a handful, which leads me to wonder if Queen Elizabeth and all great women weren’t also handfuls in their youth. Marjorie is capable of greatness, I believe, if she modulates her temper to fit society’s demands.
Yes, I have become that awful sentimental woman who moans, “How fast they’ve grown!” and blathers about turning back time as the specter of change looms ahead. The children are of an age when talk has turned to boarding schools, and the fragile peace between Jasper and me is cracking. My summer rite did not bring the usual release (I found myself quite dejected for days afterward), and I am left to wonder if such ceremonies lose their force over time or if it is my own soul that has altered.
This brings us to the man I call Orpheus. You mustn’t apologize for your ignorance of the name’s meaning in your last letter. It is a story that has intrigued me for years: the devoted lover who rescues his true love from hell. Not a happy ending, I’m afraid, but then you and I know all too well how stories of doomed lovers conclude. This Orpheus beckons me on a path I had not expected to walk at my age, two years shy of forty. I promise to be less mysterious in my next letter, but there is much I have yet to learn about him, and I shy away from confessing too much when it may all come to nothing. I will say he is steady and measured in words and manner, quite the opposite of Jasper and his rages.
I have wondered what my father would have made of this Orpheus; for all the differences in upbringing between them, I believe they would have liked and respected each other. It’s been years since Father died, yet I still miss him with a wrenching pain. Together, we created an American Arcadia and proved a prairie home can stand as proud as the palace of Knossos. I only wish Father were still here to rule over Lakecrest. Jasper has been an unworthy heir.
At the time of my last letter, I had turned to writing again, and you were kind to suggest Twelve More Tales as the title of my next work. Alas, I was able to complete but one tale before my muse deserted me. I consulted stacks of mythologies in search of inspiration, only to encounter one tragic heroine after another. How could I have read these stories so many times yet been blind to their full horror? Poor Leda, seduced by Zeus in the guise of a swan—such a depraved coupling cannot be transformed into art by my poor pen. The princess Andromeda, chained and naked, offered up to a sea monster as punishment for her mother’s pride. Mighty, swift Atalanta, besting the men she raced against yet forced into marriage through Aphrodite’s trickery.
The fault, you see, is in the legends themselves, not my talent. The Greek gods were cruel, vengeful creatures, and no retelling is clever enough to change the facts of their terrible deeds. My faith in the wisdom of the ancients rests on such a shaky foundation. Perhaps that is why I reach for the hand that offers escape.
I enclose my latest work and would appreciate your honest thoughts. Do not protest your lack of education—a reader free of prejudice is more valuable to me than the most lauded classical scholar.
Yours with greatest affection,
Cecily
I passed the letter to Marjorie when I was done, then skimmed the story, picturing Cecily as Eurydice, trapped in the underworld. I didn’t have the heart to read past the first page, knowing it didn’t have a happy ending.
“Do you have any idea who this Orpheus was?” I asked Marjorie when she’d finished.
She shook her head. I’d noticed her brush away tears while she was reading, but now her face looked composed. “Aunt Cecily never had suitors that I was aware of, poor old thing. She allowed herself one night a year to get raging drunk, take off her corset, and howl at the moon, and that got her a reputation! Nowadays, she’d be drinking cocktails and smoking at a nightclub or running off to Paris with this Venus. I’ve heard women live together there quite openly.”
If she’d been born thirty years later, would Cecily’s life have turned out differently? Marjorie had choices and opportunities her aunt never did. But I wouldn’t describe Marjorie as happy.
“You can keep the letter,” I offered, “if you’d like to have something of hers.”
Marjorie nodded. “Yes, I would. It’s so silly, but I miss her, all of a sudden.”
She stood, abruptly, and said she had to get going.
“One bit of sisterly advice before I leave,” she said. “I happened to be there when the mailman arrived, but you’d better be careful with your correspondence. Mum’s reading all your letters.”
The telegram came two weeks later.
THE EARL OF LOTHINGBROOK ASKED FOR MY HAND AND I SAID YES. SAILING FOR LONDON MONDAY. CAPTAIN TO MARRY US AT SEA. MORE SOON ON MY GRAND ADVENTURE. LOVE MARJORIE.
Hannah tossed it on my bed, her clenched jaw hinting at her fury.
“What can she be thinking?” Hannah fumed. “Married at sea!”
I could barely believe it myself. Yet I could easily imagine Marjorie’s voice, saying those words in her usual mocking tone. Had she decided to marry on a whim, simply to goad her mother?
Or was it because she’d do anything to avoid coming home?
Matthew and Hannah had never met or even heard of the earl. “Clearly, a title of no importance,” Hannah snapped. If Marjorie thought she’d make her mother proud by marrying into the British aristocracy, she hadn’t set her sights high enough. Perhaps, knowing Marjorie, she’d trade the earl for a duke in a few years.