“Yes, of course, and we shall go properly, in Simon’s way. Take it in all at once, or what have you. We shall look at it, and our hearts shall be shattered.”
His own drama aside, Effie understood the aim of this trip. They had come to Brighton so Simon could see the Pavilion. Simon never asked for anything for himself, so accustomed was he to being the seldom-seen, and, not to put too fine a point on it—but Effie was putting a fine point on it because he was affronted on Simon’s behalf—unloved third son of the late Earl of Marsden. Simon had never expected to inherit, but here they were.
This was Simon’s trip, was the point, and Effie had so far made it all about himself. He would correct course. Tomorrow, they would go to the Pavilion and be overcome by the mathematical beauty of it.
With Archie occupied, Effie took the opportunity to pull out his lap desk.
Dear Bound for Bedlam,
My advice for you is threefold, and I shall dispense it in descending order of urgency.
First, you must not have any more children. Six is quite enough. Take yourself to see a midwife and express to her your desire to prevent subsequent children. If you do not know how to find a midwife, ask a housemaid or a kitchen maid. I am assuming the wife of a barrister has one or the other, if not both. If I am mistaken, please write me back and I shall provide more specific instruction privately.
Effie did not know how he would discover the correct instruction to pass along, but he would find a way. Olive would know someone who could help. She had aided him in other situations in which his qualifications fell short of what was required to properly advise his correspondents.
Second, and this will require a bit of subterfuge, you must remove yourself from the situation temporarily. And by “situation,” I mean your family. All of them, with the possible exception of the youngest child if that child is reliant on you for nourishment. Your mother has taken dreadfully ill. Or your sister. Someone has taken dreadfully ill, is the point. You are needed at the bedside. You will not be gone long, but you must go.
And then, you simply leave. Perhaps, if this proves impossible to imagine saying to your particular husband in your particular situation, you leave a note. Either way, you leave. For a day, two if you can manage it. Your husband, your children: they will survive. The aim here is for your husband to understand, in a visceral way, the weight of the yoke you wear. This is not something you can tell him; you must show him.
Third, time is your friend, dear lady. When despair has you in its grasp, close your eyes and imagine yourself twenty years hence. Your children have left your home, which is quiet and peaceful. Except of course when they come to visit, some of them bringing their own children. (The cries of one’s grandchildren, I think you shall find, are significantly less vexing than the cries of one’s own children. And grandchildren have the benefit that after an interval of spoiling them, you can hand them back to their parents.) From the center of your present storm, picture this lovely future. Children home to visit, to dote upon their dear old mum. As for your husband, he is either retired, and reminding you what first drew you to him (unless what first drew you to him was his raven hair and slim build. I regret to inform you that both are lost forever) or he is . . . absent.
Could he say “dead” instead of “absent”? He would make a note in the margin and ask Julianna.
She would almost certainly say no, but she would be amused by the question. He often annotated his “Advice for Married Ladies” letters with asides meant for her.
Though in this case, he truly did mean “dead.”
The point, dear reader, is that time marches on, which is both a blessing and a curse. Your charge is to focus on the blessings associated with such. This, too, shall pass.
Yours,
Mrs. Landers
When he was done, a kind of resigned calm settled over him. Archie was flipping the pages ofLe Monde Joli, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Simon was tucked into his bed, probably dreaming of Parliament.
This was where he belonged, with his letters and his friends.
For now, all was right with the world. Or at least as right as it could be.
Chapter 4
A Flock of Seagulls
Julianna’s heart shattered when she saw the Pavilion.
She had not thought the Pavilion would be all that it had been trumped up to be.
She had been wrong.
She had never seen anything like it. The eye was drawn first to the large spherical dome at the center, flanked by two smaller versions of the same. They, along with the structure’s many minarets, rose into the sky, spires liberated from churchly confines. The largest dome appeared to have windows in it, as if someone had thought to carve out portals to the sky.
She spent ages walking a slow circumference around the building, taking in the balconies and colonnade of the north face, the building’s broad eaves. There was also a stable rising from the gardens that looked like a palace on its own. She ought to disapprove of such a lavish building being used to house horses, but she could not. It was too beautiful.
It wasn’t just the buildings enchanting her. Though Julianna knew the Pavilion had been under construction for some time, had been remade more than once, it somehow looked as if itbelongedin the tranquil gardens surrounding it, as if it had grown up from the ground along with the flowers—an absurd sentiment, she realized, given the building’s Asian inspirations. No building in England looked like this.
Yet the whole was harmonious, nature and man-made structure looking as if they had always been there together.
She hadn’t believed it possible to be so delighted by architecture. Spellbound, even.
