Dearest Agatha,
I am returning your letters. Given how events have turned out, I thought you would want to keep them yourself. While I have found them most enjoyable, I am sure you will take greater pleasure in their memories. You might even someday want to pass them on to your daughter. Oh dear, did I say daughter. I still am unable to imagine either of us as mothers.
Love,
Edith
At the word daughter, I almost choked. First, there was this unknown husband, now it seemed Aunt Aggie might have had a child. I ripped the ribbon from the packet and settled down to read the first letter.
Paris
September 15, 1913
Dearest Edith
You know how we’ve always talked about meeting the man of our dreams. Well, I’ve finally met him, and he is much, much more than I ever dreamed of. Tall, very tall, taller than Father, wavy brown hair with deep, deep blue eyes and a wonderful smile. And oh, he is so charming and correct. He has even tamed Father, and you know how difficult Father can be.
We were introduced a month ago at the Comte de Montigny’s Ball. He asked me no less than five times to dance. I was so surprised that such an aristocratic gentleman would pay such attention to plain boring me, that you can imagine my greater surprise when he asked me to dance seven times at the Duc du Bois Ball, three nights later. Since that evening, he has been in constant attention. He even asked Father if he could call on me.
Oh, Edith, I am so excited. Imagine, a German baron actually being interested in little old me. Oh dear, I can see I’ve forgotten to tell you his name. Baron Johann von Wichtenstein. Isn’t that such a wonderfully elegant name?
I had better close this letter. Mimi just knocked on the door to say Johann has arrived. Yes dear, I even call him by his first name. I will write you as soon as I can.
Love,
Your very best friend,
Agatha
I wondered if Baron von Wichtenstein could be the mystery husband. His name at least started with a “W”, although it was hardly a simple English name. His description, tall with brown hair, fit the man in the wedding picture. And he was German. So, if Eric’s theory was right, this Baron von Wichtenstein might have had a duelling scar too, like the man in the photo.
Several letters later, the possibility became more promising.
Gasthaus Lindenhof, Berlin
December 18, 1913
Dearest Edith
As you can see, we have finally arrived in Berlin. It took us more than a month to travel from Paris, one long, lonely month without Johann. I was dying from impatience, but Father insisted on taking his time, saying he wanted to experience the German countryside. But it was hardly countryside we toured, more like every factory from the French border to Berlin. They were filthy and dreadfully boring. But I shouldn’t complain, now that I am with my Johann. And he was even waiting for us at the railroad station with his new horseless carriage. What a treat. I donned veils and sat fearless in the back with Father.
Oh, Edith, it was wonderful to see him again, and it was very difficult to remain perfectly correct in front of Father and the servants. I wanted to fling my arms around him. In two days time, we travel to his castle, Schloss Grünwald, where we will spend Christmas. I hope we can find someplace in this castle to escape from our parents.
I am very nervous about meeting his parents. Whatever will they think of me, a commoner from an uncivilized land? Johann says not to be frightened of them. They look much sterner than they are. He says that I only need smile and be my usual charming self, and they will be won over as he has been won over. Dear, dear Johann.
Unfortunately, our timing doesn’t appear to be good. The Germans and the British are going through one of those periods when they don’t like each other. In fact, Father is worried that it may develop into something more serious than a diplomatic spat. So if we are going to get married, it must be soon.
Just imagine marrying Johann and staying with him forever and ever, here in Germany. I know I would miss you and Three Deer Point terribly, but I would miss Johann more if I couldn’t be with him. Edith, pray that his parents approve of me and my family. He needs their approval before he will formally ask my father for my hand. I don’t know what we will do if they don’t give it.
Love,
Your very best friend,
Agatha
To this point, Aunt Aggie had written her dear friend Edith every two weeks, if not more frequently. With this last letter, she suddenly stopped. The next and final letter was written four months later.
Villa Bencista, Fiesole
April 3, 1914
Dearest Edith
Thank you so much for your letters. They have been like a ray of sunshine in this dark hole I’ve been buried in. Whenever I felt I couldn’t continue, I would reread them and feel so comforted.
I apologize for being such a poor writer, but I know you understand. It has been most difficult these past months, but I think now I can even say his name, Johann, without falling into a pit of black despair. The penetrating Italian sun has helped and, of course, your letters.
We are coming home. Father has booked passage on the H.M.S. Lusitania, leaving Southampton on the 31st of May. I am so looking forward to returning to you and all that is familiar and comforting. It will be wonderful to hear your sweet voice again and to see your smiling face. You must come with me to Three Deer Point. I hunger for its cleansing wildness and isolation from all that has gone so terribly wrong.
Johann has written many times, even came to the villa, but I refused to see him or even read the letters. It is over. I cannot forgive him for what he has done.
Love,
Your sad but much wiser friend,
Agatha
I mentally scratched out Baron Johann von Wichtenstein’s name from my very short list of candidates for secret husband. Poor Aunt Aggie, she wasn’t any better at keeping her men than I was.
Unfortunately, it left me with Mother’s disreputable gentleman with a short English name, beginning with “W”, and so far I’d not come across a name like that in these letters.
But it was Edith’s mention of a daughter that confused me the most. Aunt Aggie with a daughter was even more implausible than a husband. A husband you could pretend never happened if the marriage ended quickly, but a child was an entirely different matter. Unless, of course, the child had died. Still, this would be something my family would know about, not something to hide.
Poor Aunt Aggie. I could still picture her on lazy summer afternoons, sunk into her rocking chair deep within the shade of the verandah, glass in hand, the pale liquid flowing with the rhythm of the rocking. “Me medicine,” she used to call it.
Well, it never did her any harm, I thought as I refilled my vodka glass. No reason why it should
