Yours,
Edward Astley
He knew he could not sign the letter with any version of his real identity for publication, but for now, it felt good to affix his name to the sentiment.
Having been somewhat calmed by the act of writing a letter, Effie thought of his dear friend Olive Morgan, to whom he hadnotwritten as he’d intended. He had been too caught up in the events of the past week. Olive, no stranger to heartbreak, once told him that when she was in despair, she forced herself to act like a happy person.I put on a bonnet—the more outrageous the better—and take myself to the park and smile at people who smile at me. I’m not really smiling, mind you; I’m merely molding my lips into the shape of a smile, but no one knows the difference. Eventually, and for increasingly long stretches of time, I myself forget the artifice.
Comporting himself as a happy person was not within Effie’s reach. He wasn’t that good an actor. But he could act like a person who cared about himself. He thought about what Olive would do in this situation, or Archie and Simon. What Archie had done by sneaking into Effie’s room at night and sleeping next to him to ward off nightmares. He was lucky enough to have people in his life who cared about him. He needed to act that way toward himself.
That person, he decided, would change into a freshly laundered nightshirt. That person, understanding that sleep was restorative, that it, as Shakespeare said, “knits up the raveled sleave of care,” would fluff up his pillows and pull the covers up over his body.
That person would then lean over and blow out the candle on his night table and try to rest, even if dawn was just around the corner.
* * *
When the vigil was over and light began to slice in through a gap left in the curtains he hadn’t properly closed, Effie got up. Put one foot in front of the other and took himself to the breakfast room. He was the first one there, which was novel. He wondered if the boys or Julianna would turn up first. He wondered which option he preferred.
Everyone appeared at the same time, and there was a flurry of morning greetings in which he did not participate.
Neither did he make a plate for Julianna, as had become his habit. It wasn’t that he wanted to be hurtful, just thathewas so hurt, so set back on his heels, he couldn’t bring himself to consider what she would like, to deliver her a plate of the choicest morsels, as if this were a morning like any other.
The conversation was somewhat stilted. Archie carried the brunt of it, asking Julianna technical questions about the printing and distribution of the magazine. Julianna kept looking at Effie as if she were waiting for him to chime in, and indeed, on other occasions, he would have been very happy to participate in a conversation about such matters—he had learned a great deal being in her orbit all these years—but this morning, he felt as if he were separated from the conversation by a pane of glass. A wavy pane that, in addition to muting sound, warped sight. He was outside looking in.
He checked his timepiece. “I suppose we ought to go if we’re to”—he glanced around, noting that there was a maid in the room clearing the remains of their breakfast—“meet Uncle and Aunt at the appointed time.” In truth, Julianna was planning to take the eleven o’clock Brighton-to-London coach, and he didn’t want her to miss it.
Well, hedidwant her to miss it. But he didn’t. He wanted her to want to miss it.
He was as befuddled as he’d been on the journey here.
The boys stood when Julianna did. Effie got to his feet as well. There was a brief moment of discomfiture while they all stood staring at each other around the table.
Archie broke the silence by turning to Effie and asking, “Shall we accompany you and Lady Sarah to meet your aunt and uncle?”
“Yes, thank you.” He could tell Julianna was surprised, but he wasn’t going to turn down the company of his friends on this painful errand.
“All right?” Archie whispered, after Julianna had gone to fetch her reticule. Archie, who was always insisting he wasn’t smart, had an uncommonly high degree of acumen when it came to sentiment and relationships.
“Not really,” Effie said. He would tell them the rest later. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. He still had that feeling of being isolated behind a pane of glass. He’d have thought that feeling would be limited to Julianna, but he felt it as regarding the boys, too.
They took Archie’s coach, and the silence that settled as they rumbled out of Hove was dismayingly awkward—or it would have been had Effie not still been tucked away behind his glass. The protective pane ratcheted the discomfort level down to mild.
“Miss Evans,” Simon said, “I’ve been thinking about my piece on the Pavilion, and I wonder if I might ask you a few questions, just to focus my mind before I begin it in earnest.”
“Of course.”
They talked, and while Simon was, ostensibly, speaking to Julianna, he kept eyeing Effie. Occasionally, he made brief eye contact with Archie.
When they alit, Julianna thanked them for allowing her to impose upon their holiday.
“I assure you, it was no imposition,” Simon said. “I ought to be thanking you for that tour you contrived.”
“Well,” she said, hitching her reticule into the crook of her elbow, “I’ve had the most wonderful time.” She was speaking to all of them but looking at Effie.
The boys echoed her sentiments and started to fall back. Simon succeeded, but Effie managed to grab Archie’s arm to keep him by his side. He probably looked like a right fool, but he didn’t care. He needed reinforcements.
“I have finished my Mrs. Landers letters for December.” He held them out, but Julianna merely looked at them as if he were holding a strange object she didn’t recognize. “You may as well take them now.”
“Thank you,” she said after shaking her head as if to rouse herself from a daydream. “I am sure I will return to the office to find a stack of new entreaties. I will send you the lot of them so you may begin thinking about January.” She paused. “A new year.”
