Mr.Churchill's Secretary(63)

“If your father’s still in the area, he’ll at least have shown his face at the High Table once in a while.”

“Sounds like a good place to start.”

Maggie must have found him by now, Edith realized. And if she hadn’t, she would soon; she was too smart not to. The game was over. Now all Edith could do was explain herself and hope—pray—that Margaret would understand. After all, Edmund had gone insane, undoubtedly still was. Surely what she’d done was forgivable.

Wellesley, Massachusetts

Dear Margaret,

I write this letter with a heavy heart.

As you may have ascertained, I had quite an unusual childhood. Not only did I show an aptitude for the sciences, believed to be quite rare for a young girl, but I also went to university, one of the few young women who did in the late 1800s. Being such a fish out of water at Cambridge, especially in graduate school, it seemed as though no one understood me and my place in the world.

Except one other graduate student. She was doing advanced work in economics, and soon we became best friends. As time passed, I fell in love with her, and she with me. I asked her back to London with me for Christmas holiday and, well, your grandmother must have guessed the true nature of our feelings for each other. She called me “unnatural” and worse. My friend never spoke to me again; the experience had somehow tainted what we had. What was pure and loving and tender had become twisted and perverted when exposed to the outside world.

It became impossible for me to continue on, either denying who I was or living a life I couldn’t share with the rest of my family. It was impossible to reconcile what I felt—who I was—with what was expected of me. I had to leave. Otherwise, it would have destroyed me.

When Clara died and Edmund, well, had what we referred to as “the incident,” of course I took care of you. Edmund and I had discussed it when he’d drawn up his will—that I would be the one to look after you, should anything happen to him and your mother—your grandmother would be too old to look after a young child. Although we planned for the eventuality, it was always in the abstract; we never thought it would ever happen, let alone while you were a baby.

The circumstances were just so unusual—to say the least. Edmund had just lost his wife.

At first I thought he was entitled to go a bit mad.

But as time went on, he didn’t seem to be getting any better.

And despite the fact that I’d never even liked babies or children—well, I fell in love. With you. You weren’t just any baby. You were Margaret—with your serious eyes and shocking red hair that indicated an inner fire. As you contemplated your chubby little fingers and toes with such wonder, I knew that I could never let you go. And even though he was your father, I realized Edmund wasn’t up to the task.

When I came to collect you, your grandmother had to mention my “lack of moral rectitude,” intimating my home would not be a proper environment for a child, and so on. I was once again cast out by my own mother, and suddenly the brave new world that I had created for myself was falling apart. And yet I had to pull myself together and take responsibility for this little life that had come into mine.

When I finally got my Ph.D. from Cambridge, I sent my c.v. to various women’s colleges in the States that were hiring women faculty. When Wellesley made me an offer, I jumped at the opportunity. It was a chance to start over, as myself, in a place where I had no family, no roots, no responsibilities to anyone but myself. America seemed not just the new world but a place for new beginnings. My new beginning. At Wellesley, I was able to live the life of the mind I so desired, while I was still able to be the person I was in my private life. With an ocean between us, there was no way your grandmother could sully my feelings or make me feel any less of a human being for having them.

And so we went to the United States, you and I. I needed to get away from my mother’s judgments. And I truly didn’t think Edmund would ever recover.

The situation was complicated. I’m not making excuses, but it was just easier when you were younger to say that both your parents had passed. I always meant to tell you the truth, but as years went by, it just … never seemed to be the right time.

I hope you can find it in your heart to at least try to understand my position, if not forgive me. I am, by the way, very proud of you for staying in London, even though I still hate it and worry myself sick about your safety every single day. Since Mother’s passing, I’ve also tried to understand her position, and although I still don’t, I have—at least most of the time—learned to forgive her.

I do love you.