Olive stared at Clementine for a long while. She looked as if she were trying to come to a decision of some sort. When she finally spoke, she said, briskly, “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Clementine followed Olive to her bedchamber. Inside, things were, as per usual in Olive’s domain, in disarray. Clothing was strewn on every surface, an open book lay facedown in such a way that had surely damaged its spine, and a half-drunk cup of tea sat on the bedside table alongside another embroidery hoop. Clementine marveled that Olive had managed to create such chaos in mere days, and even more so that she had managed to fit all this into the portmanteau she’d had on her person when she escaped Theo. Clementine moved to take a look at the sewing. “You’re doing another project?” The stitching Olive had been working on at Clem’s side, the one of the sheep near Chiddington, was already an ambitious endeavor.
“No, no!” Olive vaulted over the bed, grabbed the hoop and turned it over. “Just experimenting with something that isn’t ready to be seen.”
Well, that might be the most interesting thing Olive had said in a great while. Clementine’s hands itched to grab the hoop, but she kept them by her side.
It was strange, come to think of it, that Olive was stitching such a bucolic scene when she professed to hate the country. It was also strange that Olive did so hate spending time at Hill House. The young Olive of Clementine’s memory, while perhaps not as enthusiastic about scrambling up trees and stomping through streams as Clementine, had been quite happy when the family retreated to Hill House. And Olive’s beloved dogs were much more content there than in Town.
“Sit.” Olive pointed at a chair by the window, and Clementine obeyed, watching as Olive extracted her book of days from her valise—Olive was as attached to the worn leather volume as some children were to a doll or special bauble. She had carried it around for years. She slid out from between its covers an equally worn piece of parchment, which she handed to Clementine.
It was a list written in Olive’s familiar loopy hand. It didn’t have a title, but it was easy to see, as Clementine scanned it, that it was a list of experiences Olive wished to have.
1.Travel: the Continent, Egypt, America, Upper Canada.
2.Ride in a gas balloon.
3.Participate in a high-stakes game of cards of the sort gentlemen play.
4.Be the mistress of my own house and decorate it entirely in florals.
5.Have as many dogs as I want in my house decorated entirely in florals, and allow those dogs to do whatever they want in that house (after #1–4 completed).
6.Have children (also after #1–4 completed).
Clementine’s entire view of her sister abruptly shifted. It was a similar feeling to having drunk that ale on an empty stomach at the inn, as if the ground beneath her feet was not as solid as she had always believed. Who knew Olive was such an adventurer at heart? “This is extraordinary.”
“I want tolive, Clemmie. I want to live a big life. You know as well as I do that women don’t usually get to do that. I don’t pretend I’ll ever get to do most of the things on that list, but with Theo, the travel was guaranteed, and since he’s an unconventional sort, I thought perhaps he would not mind having a wife who wanted to do unconventional things.”
“There you were mistaken. Theo was very much in want of a conventional wife. A subservient one, even, as I discovered.”
“As did I. I hadn’t watched him sufficiently. That was my fatal mistake.”
“Youarealways saying you have to watch people closely.”
“Yes. If you watch people closely and carefully and for long enough, a certain kind of knowledge will result. A kind of truth. I admit that I made an error with Theo. It was because I wasn’t able to watch him for long enough before I had to decide what to do.” She leveled an implacable stare at Clementine. “And that, Sister, is your fault.”
Oh, dear. Clementine had blamed Olive for this mess, but she was afraid the heavy, uncomfortable feeling in her stomach meant that at least some of the culpability rested with her.
She was trying to think how to respond, but Olive pressed on, her countenance gentling. “Surely you can see my logic. I thought Theo and I would travel, and when we eventually settled down, I would become the mistress of my own house. Although I do so want to travel, my home must be in England, close to you and Father. I am not prepared to bend on that.”
Clementine grabbed Olive’s hand and squeezed. She was overcome by that last declaration.
“And, yes,” Olive continued, “I would’ve had to endure Theo’s attentions in order to have children, but only for a limited time, and after that, I thought we could strike an agreement by which he would ignore me and I him. I have observed that such an arrangement between husbands and wives, one of mutual benign neglect, generally leads to a content, peaceable union.”
“That is . . .” Clementine had no idea what to say. Such an arrangement sounded sad. But also practical. And like nothing her sister would even think of, much less settle for. It was certainly not the type of union their parents had.
“After all, our parents’ union was not a love match, yet they were quite happy together.”
“Ibegyour pardon!” Clementine cried, and had she not been so shocked she would have laughed at how her sister had all but plucked the very thought from her head—but inverted it entirely. “How can yousaythat?” Father had doted on Mother and she him. “You are wrong.”
“I am not wrong. I heard Mother talking to Aunt Susan once, saying that the best decision she ever made was to marry Father. It was back when Susan was trying to decide whether to accept Uncle Roderick’s proposal. ‘We are not in love,’ Mother said about Father, ‘but we like each other a great deal. He is my dear friend.’ She went on to say that she appreciated the fact that if Father undertook any dalliances, he hid them well.”
Clementine made a noise of dismay. Truly, she felt as if she might weep.
“Clemmie,” Olive said soothingly. “They had a good marriage. A good life. We had a lovely family.” She sighed. “Until Mother died, anyway.”
When all Clementine could do was nod because she was too overcome to speak, Olive said, “Do not be so distressed. I believe they came to love each other. I asked Mother outright, during the final months of her illness, how she knew she loved Father. It was a trick question, mind you. I wanted to know if she would say anything like she said to Aunt Susan.”
