The Manuscript
April 18, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
I would never forgive myself for failing to reach Mummy’s side in time to say goodbye. Although I raced to the train upon receiving Madge’s letter, leaving Rosalind in Charlotte’s capable care, barely even stopping to bring anything other than my large handbag, I was too late. Mummy died at Abney Hall while I was on the train to Manchester. She wasn’t Mummy by the time I reached her side; she was gone, a pale, lifeless shadow of her former self. I didn’t remember much of the days that followed—the funeral planning, the travel from Abney to Ashfield, the arrival of family members, the service. Perhaps the gaps in my recollection were a godsend, as by all accounts, I became a howling, sobbing animal.
All I remember was wanting Archie. His warm enveloping arms, his lips upon the top of my head, his words telling me that all would be well in time. I yearned for the comfort I hoped he’d provide, comfort I hadn’t actually received for many years but still believed in. He didn’t come. My eyes bleary from crying, Madge read aloud Archie’s telegram saying that he could not travel home from Spain in time for the funeral. I dissolved at the news, remembering only then his great dislike of emotion and grief. And I wondered, for the first time, about his absence.
Only one clear image from the day of the funeral remained with me. Rosalind and I stood with our fingers gripped around each other’s as we listened to the parson deliver a final prayer over Mummy’s gravesite. Hand in hand with my darkly dressed daughter, we walked from the parson’s side to the front of the newly dug grave. Glancing into her somber eyes, I nodded, and together we tossed a bouquet of bluebells and primroses onto the top of Mummy’s casket. I wanted her to be surrounded by the fragrance of her favorite blooms as she left this world.
How could my beloved mother be gone? I could not envision my life without her constant, reassuring presence, whether in person or in word. I’d involved her in every one of my decisions, events, and ideas; how could I proceed without her guiding hand? It was then that I realized the comfort I’d longed for from Archie was actually the solace that only my mother could have provided.
Even from my study, I heard his footsteps in the hallway before his key sounded in the lock. Could he really be home? It had only been a little over two weeks since he’d been on a work trip to Spain, but it seemed an eon since I’d seen his vivid blue eyes. My world had utterly upended in the passage of those days.
I sprang to my feet, dropping my notepad and pen on the floor. After I’d put Rosalind to bed, I’d been unsuccessfully trying to distract myself by outlining a new book for my Collins contract, but it didn’t matter now. Archie was home. Running to the door, I embraced my husband before he could even cross the threshold.
Half laughing, he said, “Can a man even take off his hat before he’s accosted by his wife?”
I laughed at his rare joke, a mad cackle that I knew was a mistake the moment it escaped my lips. It sounded brash and overreactive, and Archie wouldn’t like it. It smacked of disorderly emotions.
I swallowed the laughter and simply said, “I’m so glad you’re home.”
He slipped out of my embrace, placed his coat on the stand and his hat on the front table, and then put his suitcase down in the hallway near the stairs. Then, as if it was any other evening after a long day at the office, he entered the parlor to pour himself a whisky and sat down on the sage-green sofa. I settled at his side.
“The trip was long, of course,” he commented as he sipped his drink. “Although rather smooth.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” I answered, thinking that surely we’d race through these preliminaries to discuss the heart of things.
“The train a bit more reliable than the ship,” he continued on the topic of his travel home.
I struggled with a response and settled on saying, “I guess that’s not a surprise.”
“No, I suppose you’re right.” He finished his drink. “The business went quite well, though. I think I’ve just about wrapped up a new contract for Austral.”
“That’s wonderful news, Archie.” I tried to muster the appropriate enthusiasm.
How strange, I thought. Was he ever going to ask about the funeral? Mummy? My grief? We’d exchanged a few cursory letters since it happened, but I hadn’t been in a state of mind to pen any details. Nor, it seemed from the brevity of his missives, had he. Were we going to sit here and act as though a monumental loss hadn’t just occurred?
I waited. The house seemed unnaturally still and silent. Rosalind was asleep in her room, and the small sounds that Charlotte normally made were absent as she was still in Edinburgh tending to her ill father. Would Archie fill in the silence with meaningful conversation? Or would we continue to share niceties like two perfect strangers?
Pushing himself off the couch with a weary sigh, he walked over to the drinks area and poured himself a double whisky without even asking me if I’d like one. Instead of sitting back down next to me on the sofa or even near me on the adjacent armchair, he chose a stiff, wingback chair all the way across the room. Normal banter tempted me—I sorely yearned for a return to normality with my husband—but I resisted. I needed to see if he’d ever ask about my mother.
Finally, he spoke. “Everything all right?”
Was this meant to be his inquiry about the death of my mother? This simple question that could just as well be about the weather? For the first time, instead of concern over how he perceived me, I began to feel deep disappointment in Archie. Even anger. “Is what all right?” I needed to make him say the words aloud, to stop pretending.
“The funeral. All that about your mother.”
Tears began to well in my eyes. Not the tears of grief and sadness that had overtaken me since Mummy died but tears of fury that the loss of my mother should be belittled by his minimizing treatment. I pushed back the tears and, with as much dignity as I could muster, said, “No, Archie, it is not all right. I’ve been terribly despondent, and I’ve needed my husband. I need him now.”
He froze at my words; although he’d become accustomed to my displays of emotion, he was ill-used to any tone other than the passivity that he’d cultivated in me. But he said nothing. No condolences. No apologies. No professions of love. No embrace.
His mouth opened and closed several times as he tried on different phrases for size. I held my tongue until he spoke. “Time heals, Agatha. You’ll see.”
The suppressed tears broke free and spilled down my cheeks. “Time? I should just sit by stoically, waiting for time to heal my grief? Without the comfort of my husband? Not even an embrace?”
Archie suddenly stood up, spilling a bit of his drink on his pants. This normally would have upset him and necessitated an immediate trip to our bedroom for a change of attire. Yet he didn’t seem to notice in his haste to make his proposal. “Here’s an idea, Agatha. I’ve got to go back to Spain next week to conclude my business. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll take your mind off all this.”
He hadn’t answered my question about his ability to comfort me directly, I noticed. He hadn’t moved toward me and wrapped his arms around me in the manner I craved. He’d merely offered a temporary distraction, no real acknowledgment of my loss. Despite my disappointment, despite my sense of having been abandoned in my time of extreme need, I decided to respect the limitations of Archie’s nature—his discomfort with all this emotion—and forgive him. I reminded myself that a good wife would indulge him no matter her own situation, and I wanted desperately to be a good wife.