Edith had seemed relieved when Maggie took to math and science. It was something she could understand, as she herself preferred Bunsen burners, singed notepads, and periodic tables to the messy, uncontrolled variables of so-called real life. “At least if you blow things up in the lab, you know it’s your own damned fault,” she’d say with mock severity.
Maggie had always thought of Aunt Edith as Queen Elizabeth—powerful and alone, imperious and sad. As she grew up, she tried never to ask for things, tried to make as little disruption in Edith’s life as possible. Other girls might have clamored for new clothes and complained about never going anywhere or having to cook dinner. Her peers embarrassed her. Didn’t they know how much their very presence cost, both financially and emotionally? Didn’t they ever worry that whoever took care of them just might have enough one day? Didn’t they see how easy it would be for resentment to set in and grow?
What she did know was only the most basic of facts: Her father, Edmund Hope, was Aunt Edith’s brother, a professor at the London School of Economics. Her mother, Clara, was his wife and an accomplished pianist. They had died in a car accident not long after she was born. “Just like newlyweds! Too busy kissing at the damned stoplight to pay any attention to the world around them,” she’d overheard Aunt Edith say, with more tenderness than anything else. Still, she’d never known anything about her grandmother.
“I had a grandmother? And you neglected to tell me this for twenty-two years?” Maggie had asked, half joking. But Aunt Edith’s face was resolved. This was no joke.
“We didn’t speak. She disapproved of certain … choices I made in life,” she said, picking imaginary lint off her skirt. They’d been in Edith’s tidy, book-filled office in Science Hall at Wellesley, a crimson-brick building covered in glossy green ivy. “She—well, it’s a long story. One that’s long since closed.”
Maggie was silent, thinking.
“Margaret, are you all right?” Even though Edith had lived in the States for almost thirty years, her accent was still clipped and British. Maggie sat in a straight-backed chair in front of Aunt Edith’s desk. It was late June, and outside the window, high, lacy clouds moved quickly across the blue sky. A grandmother, she thought. Her hands felt cold and clammy.
“Was it because of Olive?” Olive Collins was one of the Wellesley economics professors; some people called Aunt Edith’s relationship with her a “Boston marriage.”
Aunt Edith ignored the question. “Your grandmother left everything to you. I’ve had Mr. Davis, our lawyer, go over the will, and it seems while there isn’t much in the way of money, she did leave you the family house.” Maggie must have looked blank. “In London.”
“Well …” Maggie searched for the right words. Nothing. She was speechless.
“I think the best course of action is to sell the place and put the money into an account for your graduate studies. Mr. Davis has let me know the name of a reputable estate agent in London.”
“You’re going to London?” As shocking as the idea of a long-lost grandmother was, the idea of Aunt Edith in London was even more unnerving. She rarely left campus, let alone the town of Wellesley. Boston might as well have been oceans away. London was the equivalent of outer space.
“No,” she said, her face tight. “You will go. The property is in your name, after all. I feel guilty sometimes that your life with me has been so narrow, that you know nothing of the place where your parents grew up. Spending some time in London will do you a world of good. Consider it your year abroad.”
A year? Defer my admission for a year? And then it hit her. London. England. The homeland of Isaac Newton and Shakespeare, Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. It was somewhere she’d always wanted to go—but someday. Not now. Not for a year.
“I couldn’t possibly go to London. I—I’m starting M.I.T. in the fall. You know how important that is.” A dead grandmother? No, no, no. This doesn’t figure into my plans at all.
“You’d only have to defer for a year at the very most, Margaret. Mr. Davis thinks it’s important someone representing the family goes to appraise the property, clean out the house, and oversee the sale. I don’t trust any agent to get the best possible price without someone around to represent the seller. I’ve already spoken with the dean himself. There won’t be any problem with your matriculating next fall.”
Impossible. If this lawyer thinks it’s so important, let him go himself. But when Maggie looked into Edith’s eyes, she realized there would be no use arguing. Maggie hated Aunt Edith for that moment.