Which she realized was absolutely ridiculous.
But she didn’t regret any of it, not the anger, not the underlying hurt from which that anger had alchemized. For it had reminded her what was important—the magazine above all. The heartbreak wrought by Edith had made Julianna into the businesswoman she was. The woman who had been in earnest when she’d told Charles she didn’t want to marry him.
So she was a wee bit worried about the way, when she was with Effie, she sometimes experienced that same out-of-her-mind sensation. Not that she was pining girlishly over him. It was a more literal sensation. Sometimes, Julianna’s mind simply . . . emptied out when Effie was near. She was back to being that mindless starfish she’d been that morning she impulsively left Amy’s house. With no thoughts left in the brainless void, all that was left was longing. Longing that felt disconcertingly familiar.
Effie loped back to the carpet she was sitting on and lay back, his hands clasped behind his head. “Do you think it a good thing or a bad thing that I’m suddenly remembering unpleasant childhood memories?”
Julianna had to take a moment to absorb the question, to wrench herself from memories of lovers past. “When did these memories start?”
“About a year ago.”
“Was there any precipitating event?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Well, what was happening a year ago?”
“I suppose I was on an Earls Trip. We were in Cumbria. We were joined—’tis a very long story—by Archie’s now wife, Clementine, and her sister, Olive.”
“Did you emerge from that trip with any revelations? Was anything different about your life after versus before?”
“Olive and I became bosom friends. Correspondents.”
Julianna felt a twinge in her chest. Was she . . . jealous? No. Jealousy was for married couples, for people who had elected to tie themselves together permanently. As she hadjustbeen thinking, that wasn’t what was happening here.
“Don’t worry, Jules,” Effie said. “It’s not like you and me.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, mortified she was so transparent to him.
“Olive and I are only friends.”
“Weare only friends.”
He rolled onto his side, propped his head on one hand, and regarded her with an expression she could not parse. “Is that true?”
She didn’t know how to answer. All her introspection just now hadn’t really answered that question.
“Well,” he said, after a few beats of silence, “if you and I are only friends, we are very different sorts of friends from Olive and I. You and I—” He sat up suddenly.
“What is it?”
“Olive and I became friends rather quickly. The setting made for an accelerated path to familiarity. I cannot say more without betraying a confidence. But I did tell her about many aspects of my life. I unburdened myself in a way I hadn’t for some time.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I told her about you.”
“You needed to unburden yourself regarding me?” She wasn’t sure if she should be miffed or flattered.
“‘Unburden’ is perhaps not the correct word. It is . . .” He shook his head. “I also told her about my father. That is the relevant point. She was the first person I told about how much of a disappointment I am to my father. Well, the boys always knew that Father and I didn’t see eye to eye, but I’d never told anyone the extent of it. They thought I didn’t mind being a disappointment.”
“But you do mind,” Julianna said, as gently as she could.
“I try not to mind,” Effie said quietly.
I try not to mind.Oh, her heart ached for him.
“On that trip last year, I told Olive the true contents of my jumbled heart. And now that you mention a timeline, I think the nightmares—the nightmare memories—started after that. In retrospect, it was as if I’d opened a dam. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I do indeed. I don’t have anyone like that in my life, but I have often heard my sister say she feels better after having tea with a bosom friend who lives nearby.”
“But Idon’tfeel better. I can’t sleep!”
