“Good morning,” Margie muttered. She took a piece of toast from the toast rack and spread it with marmalade.
Her mother lifted her eyes above her teacup, saying nothing. Margie chewed her toast, the crack of the crumbs between her teeth loud as artillery fire.
Finally, her father turned the last page of his paper, folded it, and put it on the table. Margie swallowed hard, the dry toast scraping its way down her throat.
“You’re going to Europe,” he said. Her father had the habit of starting conversations wherever his own thought process was, which generally caused a great deal of confusion and required catching up on the part of the listener.
“I’m sorry?” she asked. Of all the possible scenarios she had imagined last night, many of them deeply melodramatic, inspired by Gothic novels and a handful of Valentino movies, being sent to Europe had not been high on the list. Hadn’t been anywhere on the list, really.
“I’ll book your ticket today. Your mother will take you to New York and you will leave from there.”
“I don’t understand.” Was this supposed to feel like a punishment? A banishment? Europe. Margie had dreamed of going, of course, but it had always seemed just that—a dream.
“Your cousin Evelyn is going on her Tour.” Margie’s mother spoke finally. She lifted her napkin, dabbing carefully at the edges of her mouth, though there was nothing there, and Margie wished, sadly, for the millionth time, that she had been born with the tiniest amount of her mother’s poise. “And she’s in need of a chaperone. You’re to go with her.”
“But,” Margie started to object, and then closed her mouth. Evelyn was eighteen and incorrigible. Margie and Evelyn, being the only two cousins close in age, had been thrust together at family gatherings for years, and Margie was ashamed to admit Evelyn had bullied her from the start. Spoiled, demanding, and domineering, Evelyn took great pleasure in ordering Margie around. In their games, Evelyn was the princess, Margie the lady-in-waiting. Evelyn was the knight, Margie was the steed. Evelyn was the brave hero, Margie the (actually fairly ineffectual) villain. Evelyn was greatly experienced in setting up situations to her best advantage, and Margie would rather have eaten broken glass than spend six months traveling with her.
Except the alternative wasn’t broken glass. It was a lifetime with Mr. Chapman. And in contrast, dragging Evelyn to art galleries sounded like an absolute treat. And in Europe! London! Paris! Rome! The cobblestone streets, the cathedrals, the opera houses, the museums, the castles, the princes. Margie sighed a dreamy sigh.
Her mother, catching Margie’s slip into fancy, frowned. “You’ll be responsible for Evelyn, you understand. They’re sending her on the Tour in hopes that she will . . . mature somewhat. And frankly, I’m hoping the same thing for you. You’ve proven yourself unwilling to accept any responsibility here. I pray, for your sake, Margie, that this trip teaches you the value of everything you seem to think so little of.” She took a sip of her tea, but from the way her lips were pursed, she might as well have been drinking grapefruit juice.
She could have argued. But here she was, twenty-four and unmarried, and her best—well, only—prospect was someone she would marry only if he were the last eligible man on earth, and even then she would have to think hard on it. So here were her options: embrace her destiny as a maiden aunt to one of New York City’s most notorious harpies, or marry Mr. Chapman and be doomed to decades of conversations about municipal bonds and tax acts.
“When do I leave?” Margie asked.
five
MADELEINE
1999
Despite my exhaustion, I had stayed up late reading my grandmother’s journals, and I dreamed of flappers and debutante balls all night. When I woke in the morning, I was sleepy and disoriented. I blinked at the ceiling a few times, wondering why it was a different color, until I remembered where I was. Thought of Phillip. My mother. Sharon. Tensed, relaxed. Tensed again.