He eyed the boys. Both were still engaged in their solitary pursuits. Leander, whose cage was on the floor near Effie’s feet, had fallen asleep, lulled by the rocking of the coach.
To distract himself from Julianna’s letter, Effie decided to work on his “Advice for Married Ladies” column for the December issue ofLe Monde Joli. It was due the middle of next month and would have to be posted shortly after he returned home.
The coach was too jostley for him to write, but he took out the letters he intended to answer. He would reread them. Ponder the predicaments presented therein, and in so doing, return to himself.
Dear Mrs. Landers,
I am the mother of two daughters and four sons ranging in age from ten years to two months.
Dear lady, he thought.Stop right there. I already know what your difficulty is, but I fear there is no settlement.He returned to the letter.
My husband is a barrister and works long hours. I am grateful for the living he provides our family, but by the end of the day, I am at my wit’s end. Everywhere I turn there is a child in want of something. Small hands always grasping, grasping, grasping. Yesternight, I asked my husband to hold the baby so I might step into the garden and breathe the first fresh air of the day, even as day became night. He refused, telling me that child-rearing is women’s work. It’s not that I disagree, but what woman will be around to do said rearing when I have lost my wits?
My dear Mrs. Landers, I am in despair, and that is understating the matter entirely.
Yours sincerely,
Bound for Bedlam
He smiled at the moniker she’d chosen. When “Advice for Married Ladies” debuted a year ago, the initial batch of letters they received had been signed with their writers’ real names. Julianna had decided to use descriptive pseudonyms, and they’d had fun naming their correspondents. Gradually, correspondents had begun naming themselves.
He flipped to the next letter.
Dear Mrs. Landers,
My son spilled castor oil on two of my husband’s three shirts. The oil will not come out. Have you any advice? Cordially, Mrs. Frank Lewiston
That one would be easy enough, though he would have to name her. “Oily,” perhaps. On he went.
Dear Mrs. Landers,
Is there ever a circumstance in which a wife might be justified in spending Christmas with her own family? My mother is taken quite ill, and I fear this Christmas may be her last. I should like to spend it with her. The dilemma is that my husband is equally bent on spending the holiday with his family, as we always do. I have offered, variously, to take the children with me, or to leave them with him—his reasons for needing me to be at his family’s home have changed from not being able to look after the children on his own to not wanting to be away from the children on Christmas—but he isn’t having it.
My mother is my greatest champion and confidant. I do not know what to do. Please help.
Cordially,
Home for Christmas
Poor lady. Yet how lucky she was to have a parent she considered a champion and confidant.
Dear Mrs. Landers,
I must confess from the outset that I am not a married lady. I was to be. If everything had happened as it should have, I would have been married last week.
My betrothed did not appear at the chapel at the appointed time. We—my sister, my parents, the vicar, and I—waited and waited. Eventually, my father dispatched a messenger to the home of my erstwhile betrothed—his family is from the next village. The man came back and reported on a conversation he’d had with my fiancé’s parents. They said he had left on a tour of the Continent, and what’s more, they knew nothing of a wedding—or of me.
I fear I am losing my grasp on sanity. This was the same man who’d met my family numerous times, who made quite an impassioned speech when he asked for my hand—after securing my father’s permission. And now he is gone without a trace.
I have read your column with great interest since its debut. I always find myself agreeing with your advice, and I have no one whom I may ask this question. My mother is horrified and intent on pretending the betrothal, not to mention the wedding-that-wasn’t, never happened. My father paces the drawing room muttering about bounders. My sister seems to be worried that being left at the altar is infectious and will somehow damage her prospects—she is eleven. No one seems to care about me and the ghost of my betrothed.
Is my heart broken forever?
Sincerely,
Miss Heartsick
“What are you reading?”
