Keeping her promise, she passed along such snippets at her daily meetings with Isaak. While she hated to heighten his nerves, he repeatedly assured her: It was always better than not knowing.
Vivian didn’t necessarily agree. A large part of her wished she had not learned of the update over breakfast. Our plans have been set, her mother said while buttering a slice of toast. We’ll depart for home next Sunday.
We, however, did not include Vivian’s father. From behind his newspaper and between sips of coffee, he claimed he would follow once affairs allowed. This, Vivian realized, was the reason he had been so grave that night when inquiring about her feelings over moving back. She had answered him without knowing what he was truly asking.
After breakfast, on the way to church, she had voiced her wish to stay, to wait and travel as a family. He told her a delay would be too dangerous.
Yet if that was the case, should he not retreat as well? The same went for Isaak. How could she possibly leave him behind?
All morning these were the thoughts that plagued her, through the drone of hymns and now the solitude of her room. The clinking of china and rustling of paper traveled from downstairs, where the maid was busily packing.
Vivian sat at her small desk and flipped her diary to a clean page. She penned her dilemma in hopes of conjuring an answer. Time was running short. Isaak would be waiting by the river at half past eleven. Their frequent meetings had required an equal number of alibis to excuse Vivian from the house. Thankfully today, with political urgency trumping the Sabbath, her father was at the embassy, leaving only her mother as an obstacle.
Vivian scrolled through her options. It had been a while since she and Alice, a British diplomat’s daughter, had shared an outing in the city. It was plausible they would have made plans for ... a picnic ... or lunch in Piccadilly ... to say good-bye.
“Vivian, honestly.”
At her mother’s voice, she covered her diary with a magazine.
The woman appeared in the doorway wearing a yellow sweater and brown A-line skirt. Face powdered and rouged, she posed a cigarette like Greta Garbo. In fact, much about her resembled a film star, but aged from being too long on display.
“We’re not waiting until the last minute to pack all of our things,” she said. “You haven’t emptied a single drawer, have you?”
Vivian’s jaw clenched as she leafed through an issue of London Life. “Good grief, Mother. We have a whole week.” When it came to her parents’ marriage, she had never witnessed the slightest spark of passion. But given the current crisis, the woman could at least feign concern.
“Yes, and a week will be here before we know it. Dear, sit up, or you’ll ruin your posture before its time.”
Vivian obeyed from force of habit. When her mother crossed the room and opened the armoire, she deliberately slouched in her chair.
“You really don’t need half of these dresses. A single trunk should be sufficient.”
“Most of those are my work dresses. And yes, I will need them.” Vivian had resigned from the store solely to aid Mr. Harrington’s budgetary needs. It wasn’t a sign of her conforming to the dull aspirations of a housewife.
Her mother’s mouth sank into its standard frown. Smoke from her cigarette plumed past her hair, a brown swoop of proper style. Exasperated, she closed the wardrobe.
“So be it,” she murmured. For now, her tone affirmed. “I’ll be at Mrs. Jewett’s for an early lunch. Please, at the very least, pack up your winter clothes before I return.”
“You’re leaving now?”
“Very shortly, yes. I’d invite you to come along, but the last time I took you there, all you did was pout through their tea and crumpets.”
Vivian knew there was relief to be found, not having to craft an excuse to slip out. But it was difficult to celebrate when being treated like a child. More than that, she hated how often in her mother’s presence she reverted to exactly that.
“I did not pout.”
“You scarcely said two words, Vivian.”
“I just didn’t have anything to contribute to their snooty gossip.” The truth of it was, her mother’s desperate attempts to fit in always made for a disquieting visit. Presumably the woman’s pretenses could be traced all the way back to New Hampshire, where a suitable marriage had raised her from mediocrity. The family of Vivian’s father was far from the Vanderbilts, but enough successful investments and political ties had lent notable prestige. Then the Crash of ’29 took a decent bite out of those funds and, seemingly, out of the love between Vivian’s parents.
“Be that as it may,” her mother said, “I am in no mood to watch you scowl over lunch, as you did at breakfast and then at church. Heavens. For months after moving here all you could talk about was going home.”