The Manuscript
August 7, 1926, and October 14, 1926
Surrey, England, and Guéthary, France
A curious calm settled upon me when Rosalind and I returned to Styles. To be sure, during the days at Ashfield after Archie departed for London, I surrendered to my devastation. Madge sat by my childhood bed, holding my hand and letting me sob, when she wasn’t tending to Rosalind. As I lay in that bed, more bereft than I’d thought possible, I replayed the few times I’d seen Nancy and Archie together over the past two years since we’d moved to Sunningdale, hunting for any sign of their tryst and wallowing in my husband’s betrayal. But once I decided to leave Ashfield and take the train to Styles—a place I could no longer think of as home but only as a way station—I squared my shoulders and determined that I would do whatever necessary to rebuild my family.
As the train chugged past the bucolic, sunlit countryside, which seemed to mock me with its verdancy and hopefulness, I realized that Archie wasn’t the man I’d believed him to be. I’d conjured up that man. On some level, I’d always known he didn’t fully embody the characteristics of his fictional character in The Man in the Brown Suit—Harry Rayburn—but was he entirely different from the brave, moral man I’d created in my mind and on the page? No matter, I told myself. Archie is my husband, and I will accept him in his truest self, even if that is not what I’d hoped. Anyway, it was likely my fault that he’d become fascinated with Nancy. Hadn’t Mummy always warned me never to leave my husband alone for too long? And hadn’t I emotionally and physically abandoned him this summer in my grief? Even when he was in Spain, he knew my heart and mind weren’t with him but lost to my sorrow over Mummy.
With this mindset, I left Rosalind with Charlotte, who’d just returned to Styles on the heels of her father’s recovery, and I hopped in my Morris Cowley. Archie would be finishing his workday at Austral Limited, and I would meet him as he exited. I would whisk him off to a lavish dinner and beg him to return to his family.
Archie had agreed to my entreaties. But his agreement came with great reluctance and an abundance of conditions. Over my tears and several shared drinks at an out-of-the-way London pub—Archie didn’t want anyone from his office to see our emotional exchange—he consented to a three-month trial reconciliation as well as a holiday away for just us two. I thought the Pyrenees might prove the perfect setting for a reunion.
The snow-capped backdrop of the Pyrenees village of Guéthary was even more breathtaking by moonlight than by day. I’d considered planning our trip for Cauterets, another village at the foot of the Pyrenees that I’d visited with my parents as a child. Over the years, my memories of that trip—our hikes along paths lined with pine trees and vivid sprigs of wildflowers and the sound of my parents’ laughter echoing through the forest as they strolled hand in hand—had not faded. But I had worried that no matter how successful my trip with Archie could be, it would never compare to that perfect summer. Now, given how Archie was behaving, I was pleased that I hadn’t spoiled my vision of Cauterets and had chosen Guéthary instead.
To get a better view through the window, I stood on my tippy-toes by our hotel bed, which we’d slept in but hadn’t shared, to see the small mountain village in the Pyrenees, famous for its spas, now illuminated by hundreds of flickering candlelights. I opened my mouth to call out to Archie so he could see this spectacular view, then I thought the better of it. He’d grown silent over dinner in the lodge, and even a second bottle of cabernet and the warmth of the fire hadn’t loosened his tongue.
What had I done wrong this time?
Initially, I’d interpreted Archie’s willingness to take this Pyrenees trip as an indicator of his commitment to leave behind his mad idea of abandoning us for Nancy. But since we’d arrived in this picturesque mountain range in the Iberian Peninsula between Biarritz and the border of Spain, he’d grown more recalcitrant by the day. The first few afternoons, he’d been willing to undertake hikes, and he’d engaged in conversations over our meals, desultory exchanges though they were. But by the fifth day, his voice had seemingly disappeared, and aside from a series of terse yeses and nos, he stopped engaging in any communication or undertaking any activity with me other than meals.
I glanced around the hotel suite, with its connected bedroom and sitting room. Where was Archie? As the holiday had progressed, he’d taken to quietly leaving our suite and settling into the public areas of the hotel with a book. Reading alone had become his refuge and his rebellion.
Opening our door, I peeked out and down to the lobby below, but Archie wasn’t there. As I glanced back around the two-room suite, I wondered where on earth he could have retreated to in the short span of time since dinner. Was I so repulsive that he would have left the hotel altogether and fled to the town pub? I then realized I hadn’t checked the balcony, largely because I couldn’t imagine that my company was so abhorrent that he’d brave the frigid night air.
Pulling open the heavy oak and glass door, I stepped onto the balcony. Archie’s back faced me, and I called out in what I thought was a bright voice, “Archie?”
My handsome husband, a hat pulled low on his forehead and a plaid scarf wrapped around his neck and chin to ward off the chill, turned around. He dropped the pipe he’d been smoking and yelled, “Can’t a man be left alone for one second? I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet away from your endless chatter.” His face twisted and became ugly.
I felt as though he’d slapped me. Walking sideways away from him, I hit the wooden slats of the balcony balustrade. “I’m—I’m sorry.”
Archie approached me at a steady clip until his face loomed over me. “Do you think I like being here with you? Listening to you drone on about culture, music, silly book ideas, your mother, and your…your desperation.”
Was this really Archie talking to me in this awful way? I’d grown used to his coldness, but he’d usually wounded me with silence, not words. This was a new weapon, and it stung.
His face mutated again, forming a sick, self-satisfied smile. “Finally rendered speechless, are you? Well, I’ll answer the question for you. I don’t want to be here with you. I don’t want to be anywhere with you.” He was so close to my face I could feel his spittle freeze upon my cheeks. He raised his hand, and for a moment, I thought he’d strike me or push me. But then he abruptly dropped it.
A rogue thought passed through my mind, and I suddenly felt very afraid. What if he’d agreed to the three-month reconciliation with no intention of actually reuniting? He’d hardly been back to Styles except for the odd family dinner and a few golf club events. What if he’d agreed to the reconciliation for the sole purpose of bringing me to this isolated mountain town where he could get rid of me once and for all so he could marry Nancy Neele? I glanced down, realizing that with one shove, Archie could push me off this balcony forty feet to the icy, rocky ground below.
After all, that sort of thing didn’t happen only in my books. It could very well happen in real life.