“No. It’s all about this new dog. They’re all besotted with him. Oh, here we are: Mary’s had measles but she’s all right now. Peter won a cup for chess. No other news.”
“Shall I read, then?” Jean picked up The Nine Tailors.
“I’m still eating.”
“Doesn’t matter. You can eat and listen at the same time, surely?”
“Go on, then.”
After an hour her mother begged her to stop; she was drowsy and wanted nothing more than to nod off. Jean closed the book and withdrew, dismissed, dreading her own company. Being left alone with her thoughts was like sharing a prison cell with a lunatic—terrifying and inescapable.
She felt a sort of rage toward Alice for handing her this burden from which there could be no relief. She could never tell Gretchen or Howard that Margaret was the product of rape, her angel voices perhaps a sign of something dark and destructive to come. It would be pointless and cruel and blight all of their lives. And she herself would never be able to look at Margaret’s innocent face without the shadow of that knowledge coming between them. She would always now be watchful and fearful.
Another issue—less serious but still a tax on her spirits—was Roy Drake. She couldn’t share her discovery about Victor with him—or anyone else—while keeping it from Gretchen. But if she didn’t tell him, and proceeded to publish the story as planned, she would be perpetrating a deception against him and the Echo and all of their readers. Whichever way she turned it around in her mind, there was no way to make it good.
Two things stood out clearly, though. Margaret was owed every advantage that a united family could bring—all other considerations blew away like straws in a gale. The other certainty: if she spoke out, it must be now; if she kept quiet, it must be forever.
Jean lay on the couch in the living room as the night deepened around her. She was determined not to move from there until she had decided what to do. The coals in the grate had given up the last of their heat some hours ago and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Through the open curtains she could see a bright sickle moon and a smudge of stars. There was a sort of majesty in the indifference of the universe, but its vastness didn’t seem to make her own dilemma any less significant.
The hours passed, marked by the whirr and scrape of the hall clock. At three o’clock she levered herself up, creaking and stiff with cold, and took a sheet of paper and pen from her mother’s writing case in the bureau.
Home, 3 a.m.
Dear Howard,
It’s only a few days since we were walking in the woods but it seems far longer. I’m sorry I didn’t offer much in the way of sympathy or support after springing Gretchen’s news on you—I was out of sorts and thinking only of myself. I’ve had time to reflect now.
Perhaps you have already made up your mind what to do, but in case you haven’t, here is my view, for what it’s worth. It’s no exaggeration to say that the last month with you has been the happiest time of my life. I had thought I was beyond all possibility of experiencing love, but you proved me wrong in the nicest possible way.
As you know, I was always uncomfortable about the effect of all this on Margaret, but while the decision had already been made by Gretchen, it was easy enough to go along with the situation—not an admirable moral position, I admit. But the situation has now changed, and if there is any chaínce that you and Gretchen can find a way of living together and rededicating yourself to the marriage, putting Margaret’s happiness first, then I think you should take it. She is the innocent party in all this and her needs should override all other considerations. I said this to Gretchen when she first left you and I must stand by it now.
It should go without saying that my feelings for you are the same as ever, and unlikely to change soon. It would be nice to think we could still meet as friends occasionally as we used to when I was first a visitor to Burdett Road. But I can already see that might be difficult and painful, and I will understand if you prefer not to.
Anyway, this was not easy to write and I don’t suppose it’s easy to read, but if I know you at all, I know you will accept what I say is true and do what is best for Margaret.
With love,
Jean
She put it in an envelope and addressed it to Bedford Street, in case Gretchen might already be installed at home. She hunted for a stamp—it was essential that she took it to the mailbox right now while she was resolute and gave herself no chance to weaken. There in a drawer of the bureau was the collection of un-postmarked stamps torn from previous correspondence and saved to be steamed off and reused. A momentary qualm about this practice—disrespectful to the Queen and almost certainly illegal—was allayed by her conviction that it was the sort of shrewd and thrifty thing the Queen would do herself.