Directrice Blanchard confiscates Peter’s letters—
Father paid her handsomely for her trouble, I am sure—
so I intercept the letter carrier at the corner.
Every day the mailman on the corner.
Every day the envelope with the small scratchy lettering.
Every day bliss in my hand.
One day in March the letters stop.
One letter that had no trouble getting through:
Daughter:
Your mother and I have arranged for a suitable match—
A suitable match!
—and plans will progress immediately upon your return.
First, your coming-out cotillion:
time is of the essence, so
we may not wait for the social season,
but instead will proceed with
a small, tasteful
coming-out party
hosted by your aunt.
Then expect a proper engagement with announcements
and a ball in honor of your betrothed
to be given by your mother and me
as soon as propriety permits—
Oh, dread! Who can it be?
I skip ahead through all the parts
about persevering in my studies
and how “delicate” my health has been
since that “sudden brief fever”
at the club last year.
I try not to revisit
the long night in the carriage, my inexplicably quick recovery,
and the interminable weeks confined to bed anyway.
You will be under strict supervision this summer.
Cavorting with unseemly acquaintances,
thus jeopardizing your health
and your good standing in society,
will not be tolerated.
Mother will escort you to meals
and one hour of bathing in the lake daily …
etc.
etc.
etc.
Oh, by the way, the chap is Andrew Forrester—
That dullard!
Your mother says he looks quite dashing in his jodhpurs.
He has been all over the world big-game hunting, you know—
I know. I know!
He cannot help but remind one,
seemingly with every breath.
Always posing
with his dusty stuffed animal heads.
Reliving some tiresome story
of stalking through the jungle,
or stalking through the savannah …
always ending with POW!
and pretending to shoot something.
—Forresters are an impeccable family. Could not ask for better.
And they are equally pleased with the alignment.
I know you will do right by this family!
And I know that he wants me married off quickly—
in the event that Estrella’s secret gets out,
I will already be “settled.”
Mere suspicion can be damaging enough,
and no one in society
would consider aligning
with a family disgraced.
In the crosshairs of an arranged marriage,
I continue to write to Peter every day,
hoping his feelings have not changed.
But I have changed:
I already knew he was the one for me,
but now,
in this silence …
I realize I cannot endure
a life without his love.
Wild with imaginings,
I spend my last days in Switzerland
gripping the balusters of my balcony,
searching the gray sky for answers.
Is he thinking of me?
Does he feel the same as before?
Not knowing
is actually worse
than bad news.
Not knowing
has shaken me,
until all other fear
falls loose.