The Manuscript
December 18, 1921
Ashfield, Torquay, England
“How lovely that Archie doesn’t mind you writing,” Mummy said. Sipping her steaming hot cup of tea, she sighed in satisfaction. Over the tea or my writing, I couldn’t be certain.
Mummy, Madge, and I were gathered around the worn, nicked tea table at Ashfield, a site shot through with memories. Madge had pushed for us to spend Christmas at her Dickensian manor, and in the past, the notion of retreating to Abney Hall, with its vast halls, endless nooks, and unexpected staircases and its decor of burnished woodwork and dusty tapestries, would have enticed. After all, Mummy and I had spent many wondrous holidays there with the Watts family after Papa died. But Archie felt uncomfortable at Abney, even though Madge’s husband and the entirety of the Watts family offered him nothing but an open-armed welcome, especially my dear friend Nan with whom I’d reconnected. Archie’s own background contrasted starkly with that of the Wattses’ heritage, and he perceived slights around every corner, even though I felt certain they were imaginary. This made an Abney Hall holiday difficult for me, so I’d entreated Mummy to host instead, and Madge and I had arrived at Ashfield early to help her with the holiday organizing and planning.
Madge exhaled cigarette smoke as she reclined on the sofa even further, ever assuming the pose of the confident older sister and first daughter. “Yes, I mean, imagine. Archie—of all people—allowing his wife to work.”
I knew better than to think Madge’s comment was a compliment; her barb about Archie’s lack of sophistication was hidden in plain sight. For the first time, I wondered if Archie’s sense of being mocked wasn’t paranoia after all. “Why ever should Archie mind if I write? It’s not as if it affects his daily existence in any way. I still arrange for his meals and dine with him every evening. The house and his wardrobe are well cleaned, and Rosalind is tended to beautifully. My writing is an invisible part of the fabric of our lives.”
I forced a confident smile upon my face, hoping to end this topic, as I knew it would devolve into a quarrel if the exchange went much further. Jealousy was motivating Madge’s thinly disguised critique. She was the one who’d shown the early promise in writing, getting her short stories published in Vanity Fair, and it irked her that I was now enjoying a modicum of writerly success. How apt were the title of those early short stories—Vain Tales—I thought to myself, and part of me was tempted to brag about the fifty pounds I was going to receive for the serialization of The Mysterious Affair at Styles from the Weekly Times. Shouldn’t I be able to share my small successes with my family in any event? But I swallowed the words, knowing that they would just exacerbate the situation.
“Oh, I can see that Archie is getting everything he needs,” Madge answered, not bothering to hide her snide smirk behind her cigarette.
I’d been willing to put aside her remarks the first time but not twice. Twice, she had to be called out and answer for herself. “What are you getting at, Madge?”
“Archie gets what he needs, but aren’t you stretched a little thin?” She took a long drag of her cigarette. “I’m just looking out for you, Little Sister.”
Madge’s attempt to hide her critique in the guise of protection of me was laughable. And insulting. “Your husband has allowed you to work when opportunity knocked,” I said. Then, because I couldn’t resist it, I added, “And if you had a book contract, I’m sure he would again.”
Her eyes narrowed as she understood my meaning. An angry spark ignited within those eyes, and she launched right back out into the battlefield. This time, using her financial superiority as a weapon, she said, “Agatha, that’s completely different. I have a full staff.”
Sensing the sibling discord, Mummy interjected, “What matters is that Archie believes that he is the most important thing in your life, that he’s always made to feel first. Madge, it sounds like Agatha is doing exactly that”—she paused for a smile at her youngest daughter—“all the while managing a successful career. The serialization of The Mysterious Affair at Styles in the Weekly Times was quite a coup, Agatha, and I’m guessing a financially beneficial one as well, and I’m sure The Secret Adversary is the same. I only wish Auntie-Grannie had lived to see it.” Mummy’s eyes glistened with tears at the thought of her mother’s death, only a short while after Rosalind had been born. I was surprised to see this wellspring of emotion, because I’d always found their relationship to be cordial but not warm.
“At least she got to see Rosalind,” I offered, relieved that Mummy had taken the conversation by the helm and steered it to safer, more placid waters.
“Yes, that is something, isn’t it?” she replied.
Mummy’s efforts notwithstanding, Madge wasn’t going to let me win this little skirmish. “But we are ignoring the toll it must take on Agatha to perform this sleight of hand on a daily basis. To run the house, organize the meals, entertain the husband, oversee the child, while secretly writing books. On such a reduced staff.”
Enough, I thought to myself. Why can’t Madge let me have this one triumph? Can’t I enjoy the minor popularity of my two novels and magazine serials? Wasn’t it enough that she’d married into great wealth and had social standing I’d never attain as Mrs. Christie? Rage threatened to take hold as Madge clung on to her pretense of concern for my well-being, and I finally said, “It’s not a secret, Madge. I have Archie’s full support. And anyway, why are you speaking for me? I’m a grown woman, and if I tell you that I’ve reached a happy balance, then I have.” I hoped I sounded utterly self-assured, because in truth, some days, the so-called balance I’d struck overwhelmed me. Not that I’d ever let on to Archie, of course. Or Madge. I might be asked to stop writing, and I couldn’t do that, couldn’t let my family down.
“I think I know better than—” Madge continued.
“Girls, girls, that’s enough of your bickering,” Mummy interrupted with a rising tone. This was a familiar pattern. Madge ignited a heated discussion, and once I’d added fuel to the fire with my remarks, Mummy dampened the flames. She couldn’t tolerate dissension between her daughters.
Once we quieted, she reached out and squeezed each of our hands. “I am proud of both of my girls, and I’m tickled that you’re here at Ashfield with me for the holidays. This house has been empty of merriment for far too long.” She clapped her hands and practically squealed, “I know. Let’s play a game. We have an hour or so before Archie should arrive from the train—and then Rosalind and her nanny will undoubtedly be on the scene.” She wagged her finger at me. “Careful you don’t spoil the child, Agatha. You know a little neglect goes a long way.”
Ignoring Mummy—I’d heard her views about the importance of hands-off child-rearing often enough, which confusingly contradicted my own upbringing—I asked, “What shall we play?”
“Oh, I know,” Madge exclaimed. “Let’s play confessions.”
Mummy clapped with delight. “What a wonderful idea, Madge! It’s been an age since we played confessions.”
As we gathered the paper and pencils necessary to play the game, I was assigned scribe, and Mummy and Madge began calling out the categories in which we’d have to confess our truths. Favorite virtue, preferred color, beloved heroine, worst lie, present state of mind, perversion, chief characteristic, idea of happiness—the list went on and on. We laughed as we concocted our list and conjured up past remembrances playing with Father and Monty, who was due to return next year from whatever schemes he’d been up to in Africa. With all his absences, my brother was hardly part of my life, aside from whatever worries he caused Mummy with his gambling and dubious business deals.
Just as we settled down to play the game, one of the two remaining maids at Ashfield—the Marys—knocked on the door. “Mrs. Christie,” she called out through the crack in the door she’d just opened a sliver. “Mr. Christie rang. Work has detained him, and he will be arriving on the morning train instead of the one this evening.”
“Thank you, Mary,” I called back. I was disappointed, but what could I do?
Mummy eyed me and said, “Careful not to let him be alone too long, Agatha. He needs to be looked after.”
These last four words I repeated along with her. I’d heard them so much in my youth and my adulthood that I knew them by heart. “It’s not as if I’m in control of his work hours and obligations, Mummy. You know I tend to him whenever I’m given the chance.”
“I hope so,” she said. “And I hope you orchestrate chances so you can tend to him when he doesn’t present you with opportunities.”
Although she hadn’t joined us in this exchange, Madge now interjected. “Why don’t you ever say that to me, Mummy? That Jimmy needs to be looked after? That I shouldn’t leave him alone for too long? In fact, you encourage me to come visit you at Ashfield for long stretches even when you know Jimmy cannot join me.”
“Isn’t it obvious, Madge? You don’t need to follow my advice. Your husband isn’t uncommonly sensitive or uncommonly handsome.”