George and Cora sailed to England, taking one-year-old Laurence with them—as well as Lizzie Jessup. Once again Elvira stewed. “That lump! And in England! She’s got the grace of a plowhorse, and she picks her nose. I’ve seen her do it. What if that poor little boy becomes a bumpkin like her when he grows up?”
But when George and Cora had settled into a small house in Surrey, postcards began arriving for Elvira. And finally, a fat letter. Here, then, was recompense for having to stay at home.
Dear Elvira,
I wish you could see our cottage and this village that looks torn from a children’s picture book. Such flowers! Such vistas of lush rolling green in every direction. What would I give to run across those fields!
Blessed George takes me for a drive every afternoon, and we’ve been invited twice for croquet and whist at “friends of friends.” Since croquet isn’t possible, I’m polishing my whist and becoming a cardsharp. The ladies are shocked, I believe.
Next week we’re taking the train to London so I can visit doctors and dressmakers. I have more faith in the dressmakers than the doctors. While we’re in the city, I will shop for a little London remembrance for you. You would lose your senses there, with so much to do and see. Theater and music and museums. Far more than Boston even. And so much history. Sadness, too—I mean, sadness in the history.
My great failing these days, Elvira, is that I get blue. I don’t think it’s my nature. I used to be a flibbertigibbet, always looking for fun. This awful seriousness has come on since the wheelchair. I try not to let George see; being blue is so unattractive. And George is the kindest, most loving husband—he deserves everything good and golden.
Forgive me, Elvira, for unpacking my blue laundry this way. I had not intended to. When I’ve posted this, I’ll be sorry and embarrassed, I’m sure, but I need your kind ear, and I trust you. Lizzie Jessup is a good girl and loves the baby, but I wish you were here, with your jolly enthusiasm.
Despite what I’ve written, I implore you not to worry. I have plenty of sunshine, notwithstanding the English climate. And if I learn to be a good person—a loving, generous, blithesome person—I can be a good wife and mother and friend. Isn’t that so?
Until later, Elvira.
With affection,
Cora Lundeen
P.S. George asks to be remembered.
Because Nell could keep secrets, Elvira felt no disloyalty in sharing the letter with her.
“Poor little girl,” Nell said when she’d read it.
“That business about having more faith in the dressmakers than the doctors—that worries me. How can I buck her up?” Elvira asked.
Nell pulled a darning needle through the heel of a stocking. “Tell her about the runaway horse on Main Street.” She knotted the thread and set the needle aside. “And try to reassure her without being obvious. If she’s embarrassed at letting down her hair, she won’t want to be reminded.”
For three days, Elvira spent her spare moments writing and rewriting the letter to Cora. Leaf after leaf of cheap lined paper went into the kitchen stove. At length she handed Nell the latest draft and, with a few teacherly corrections, Nell pronounced it fine.
Dear Cora,
Thank you for your letter. I was so happy to receive it. In the post office I let out a squeal as if somebody had stuck me with a hatpin. Everybody turned around to see if I’d been stabbed. I had to explain that it was my first letter from a foreign country.
Even now, just holding the letter in my hands and thinking of the miles and miles it has come, across a whole ocean, makes me want to jump up and down. The stamp is beautiful, and the London postmark sends a shiver right down my back.
Also, the paper, which is the nicest I’ve seen—crisp like a dry leaf—was touched and written on by you, so in a way it’s as if you took my hand to talk to me. See how much pleasure you have given me?
Things are going along smoothly at the store. Four more businesses have ordered telephones and two or three houses also. Anna says if the switchboard gets any busier, she’ll have to grow another arm. But she is tickled. That switchboard makes her feel important. The other day she said, “Someday the whole world is going to be connected by telephone, and here I am, in at the start.”
I wonder. Do you think the whole world should be connected? I can’t make up my mind. I mean, we do have a transatlantic cable, and I suppose that’s handy, but personally I believe people already know too much about each other’s business.
A good example of this is Aunt Martha Stillman. I hope that woman never gets a telephone, because she will be a menace. She was in town shopping last Saturday and she came into the store. I hate to see her coming as she always has a nasty something or other to say about someone.
I was ringing up a box of handkerchiefs and she started telling me about Lucy Shellam, who is the country teacher in Aunt Martha’s township. According to Aunt Martha, Lucy Shellam was seen with a man at a dance in St. Bridget. Not only that, but alcohol was served!
A. M. said she was going to bring the matter to the school board and have Lucy “dispatched.”
“Was Miss Shellam drinking alcohol?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” A. M. said.
“If she wasn’t drinking alcohol, I can’t see how she was doing anything wrong.”
“It isn’t what she did. It’s what she might have done and what people will think she did.”
Are you able to follow that, Cora? I had a hard time.
“Your argument won’t hold up in a court of law,” I told her, “and Lucy’s gentleman will have you in court, you can bet on it. Probably for defamation or something.” I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it sounded scary.
Aunt Martha gave me an evil look, but I could see that she was going to think twice about “dispatching” Lucy Shellam.
I am not Aunt Martha’s favorite relation, but she’s the kind of person whose favorite relation you don’t want to be. (Cora, I couldn’t have gotten myself out of that last sentence without Nell’s help, just in case you’re thinking I’ve been to college since you left.)
I have babbled so much, you’ll have eyestrain if you get to the end of this. To save your poor eyes, I will close, but first I have to tell you that everybody here misses you. You are all the things you said you wanted to be—good, loving, generous, and blithesome, which Nell tells me means cheerful.
With affection,
Elvira Stillman
P.S. Please remember me to George.
