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Dearest Quinn,
By now you’ll have discovered my departure. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I feared if I told you where I was going and why, you would try to convince me not to go. You would probably have been able to do so, for up until the moment the train pulled away from the station, I wavered between going or staying.
In the year since I lost Clive, my life has been tattered and hapless, like a ripped hem of a dress. I have been breathing and making dresses and spending time with all of you, but part of me has been absent. It was like this after we lost our little Mary. I thought I might not be able to go on but all of you, my beloved family and Clive, kept me upright until I was able to return to my work.
You know all this, of course, having been by my side then and recently. Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I couldn’t have made it through without you and Alexander and your unwavering support.
The reason for my sudden trip has roots that began thirteen years ago. Do you remember my trip to Florida in 1924? The Hunting family hired me to design a wedding gown for their daughter, as well as the bridesmaids and mother of the bride. The brother of Mr. Hunting, Bromley, was staying at the house and we became friends. He was unmarried, divorced actually.
We spent time together, Bromley and me. Our relationship remained chaste, I can assure you. Nothing either of us said or did compromised our families or my marriage. However, I felt a deeper connection to him than I’ve ever felt for anyone else, my husband included. It was as if Bromley knew me as well as I knew myself. He understood my nature and what I wanted for my life. I know, I was married and should have felt this about my husband. I wish I had. For this, I am sorry. I do not feel shame, though. We did not act on our feelings, as hard as it was. The discretion came only from my imagination. But as we know, this too is a sin. My unexpected rush of feelings shook me to my very core. Bromley and I agreed that we must never see each other again.
I left him and returned to Clive. To home, where I’ve belonged. At the time, it felt as if I’d only narrowly escaped with my life.
To this day, I’ve kept that promise. But the longing, dear sister, was almost the undoing of me.
Last month, I received a letter from Bromley. He had read of Clive’s death in the newspaper. It turns out you were right about that, too. I am moderately famous, as his death was noted in theNew York Times, not as a partner in a butcher shop but as my husband. That would have made him smile. He was always so proud of me.
Bromley’s correspondence was a surprise indeed. As was his news. I’d thought for certain he would have married again by now. I was wrong. Bromley’s been alone all these many years, living in Paris and throwing himself into his art, he told me.
He finished his letter by asking me to come to Florida, the place we first saw each other. I pondered it for a month, wondering if it were wise to open up such a wound. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. My hand trembles writing this. Yet I’m still alive. I’m relatively young. Clive would not want me to hide away and concentrate only on my work. He knows more than anyone how heartbroken I was to lose Mary. He was there by my side through all of it. If anything, the loss of our baby brought us closer together. My time in Florida faded somewhat in the years afterward. Clive and I clung to each other. Our devotion deepened, as it sometimes does when tragedy appears. I’ve devoted myself to my marriage and have had no regrets for having done so.
But a new season has come to my life. Perhaps it’s time for me to be free, to see if the love I felt all those years ago was true or only a figment of the sea air and warmth of the Florida sun.
Lately, in the middle of the dark night when I no longer feel the bulk of Clive next to me, I wonder if his early death was my fault. He was so good, so true and loyal. Although he never fully understood my ambition or obsession with design, he let me be myself and never asked that I make myself smaller to fit better with him. On his deathbed, he asked me if I’d been happy married to him. I told him yes. This was the truth. We had a good life together, even after losing a child. A day does not pass that I do not think of him or our little Mary. I will miss them the rest of my life.
Still, there was this small part of me, even loving Clive as I did, that I left behind in Florida. I buried the memories best I could, after writing it all down. (As a side note, you were right that the exercise of recording our thoughts and stories allows us to move forward with our lives.)
I’ll be in touch, dearest. Please do not worry about me. After all, I’m a woman in my forties, no longer the impulsive girl I was when I married Clive. Or when I stepped off the train with Mother all those years ago to see about this life you’d made for yourself in the foothills of our glorious mountains. I do not know what will happen once I arrive, only that I will return to you and Alexander and the family you’ve made and allowed me to borrow all these years at some point. I cannot promise when or if I will come home alone or in the company of Bromley. I suspect it will be alone. These kinds of feelings surely do not last almost a decade? I’m quite prepared that he will seem ridiculous to me and I to him.
Much love,
Annabelle
P.S. Do not be angry at Delphia, who was the only one privy to my plan. She understood that it is something I must do. She had to be brave enough for both of us. Right now, I am shaking with fear of what is to come. Isn’t the unknown always the most frightening?
* * *
The letter flutteredto my lap. “I wonder what happened?”
“Is there any way to find out?” Darby asked Mr. Barnes.
“I have some ideas. Once I find out more, I’ll let you know.”
We escorted him to the door and then turned to each other. “I hope it worked out,” I said.
“Do you think they got together at long last?”
“I don’t know. Do people really have happy endings? People like us?”
“Do you think they’re like us?” I asked.
“We had one night. They had two weeks.”
I stared at him, trying to decipher what he meant. “Except we didn’t fall in love that night, did we?”
“I’m starting to wonder about that.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I wasn’t able to let it in. The enormity of our attraction scared me to death. Not after what had happened with Arianna. But I wonder if we’d met later—what would have happened then?”
“We’re here now,” I said. “Now is later.”
