Read Online A Cup of Tea: A Novel of 1917 by Amy Ephron - Free Book Online
Authors: Amy Ephron
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Historical fiction, General, Romance, Historical, New York (N.Y.), Triangles (Interpersonal relations), Upper Class Women
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the necklace around her friend’s neck. “Where did you get that?” asked Josie.
“I gave myself a present.”
Josie wasn’t buying any of it. “Some present.” She took a bite of the apple. “You don’t have to lie to me,” she said. “He has good taste.”
“I should give it back to him,” she said. It was all she could do to hold back tears.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Josie said. “It’s always a good idea to have something around you can hock in case things get tough.”
Eleanor’s hand flew protectively to the necklace atthis remark and it was clear, that no matter what were to occur in the future, she would never part with it.
Did she expect to hear from him, expect him to show up on her doorstep? Did she harbor any illusions that he would change his mind about the course his life was going to take? Perhaps. But she was practical enough to know that he wouldn’t. And impractical enough to ever give up the notion that he would.
M ilitary feet marching with their own rhythm and syncopation, in contrast to the provincial French countryside they were marching through, rough, chaotic, as though it were a portent of what was to come. They received a warm reception, cheered on, fed, embraced, as if the Americans were the saviours they’d been waiting for.
As Philip wrote to Rosemary, “It’s odd. I feel as though we’re on a trip. Or on a roller coaster that has started up and down is just around the corner. We stop and eat at inns along the way. Except that everyone looks frightened, awfully glad to see us though .
“We’ve stopped at a small country inn for lunch. Provincial.You would like the menu. It feels so normal here as though I have a foot in my old life. The officers will sleep in beds tonight and then, I think, there will be no more inns. We are supposed to camp in Normandy .
“I want to tell you to light a candle in the window but pour a glass of wine instead. Its feeling will be more immediate.”
He was sitting in the dining room of a provincial country inn as he wrote to her looking out the window at a vast expanse of rolling meadow that months later would be decimated by war. He signed his name and sealed the letter. Timothy Whitfield, a British Officer who would die two months later in a trench outside Vevey, walked over carrying a small chess set which he placed between them on the table. Philip drew white and Whitfield set the board up.
“Pawn to pawn four,” said Philip. “I’m not very good at this,” he mused. “I never had a head for schematics.” He started to draw on the tablecloth. “It’s like chess,” he went on as he moved a knight out. “You have to have a head for it.” He finished the sketch, perplexed. “If they come from the north and we’re here…” He drew an arrow. He realized that he didn’t know the answer.
“May the best man win…” said Whitfield, answering for him.
“Something like that,” said Philip as he looked outthe window again at the pristine meadowland and the rows of stone houses that edged it. “But aren’t I supposed to feel angry? I am angry—that you could take a history like this and trample on it.”
“But, Philip,” said Whitfield as he captured his knight with his pawn, “we are history.”
R osemary did as he asked, pouring herself a glass of burgundy because she thought it was appropriate and sat alone by the fire in the sheltered and sequestered silence of her New York parlor. The last four weeks seemed almost a blur, the chaos of the wedding where everyone around her had seemed to almost lose their minds.
Her father had turned into a child, on the morning of her wedding, forgetting how to tie his tie, presenting himself to Gertrude. “Oh, Gertrude. Are you any good at this? I’ve been doing it all my life and suddenly today, I can’t even remember…”
Gertrude stifled a smile and grabbed both ends of his tie around his neck a little more forcefully than necessary. “Stand
“I gave myself a present.”
Josie wasn’t buying any of it. “Some present.” She took a bite of the apple. “You don’t have to lie to me,” she said. “He has good taste.”
“I should give it back to him,” she said. It was all she could do to hold back tears.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Josie said. “It’s always a good idea to have something around you can hock in case things get tough.”
Eleanor’s hand flew protectively to the necklace atthis remark and it was clear, that no matter what were to occur in the future, she would never part with it.
Did she expect to hear from him, expect him to show up on her doorstep? Did she harbor any illusions that he would change his mind about the course his life was going to take? Perhaps. But she was practical enough to know that he wouldn’t. And impractical enough to ever give up the notion that he would.
M ilitary feet marching with their own rhythm and syncopation, in contrast to the provincial French countryside they were marching through, rough, chaotic, as though it were a portent of what was to come. They received a warm reception, cheered on, fed, embraced, as if the Americans were the saviours they’d been waiting for.
As Philip wrote to Rosemary, “It’s odd. I feel as though we’re on a trip. Or on a roller coaster that has started up and down is just around the corner. We stop and eat at inns along the way. Except that everyone looks frightened, awfully glad to see us though .
“We’ve stopped at a small country inn for lunch. Provincial.You would like the menu. It feels so normal here as though I have a foot in my old life. The officers will sleep in beds tonight and then, I think, there will be no more inns. We are supposed to camp in Normandy .
“I want to tell you to light a candle in the window but pour a glass of wine instead. Its feeling will be more immediate.”
He was sitting in the dining room of a provincial country inn as he wrote to her looking out the window at a vast expanse of rolling meadow that months later would be decimated by war. He signed his name and sealed the letter. Timothy Whitfield, a British Officer who would die two months later in a trench outside Vevey, walked over carrying a small chess set which he placed between them on the table. Philip drew white and Whitfield set the board up.
“Pawn to pawn four,” said Philip. “I’m not very good at this,” he mused. “I never had a head for schematics.” He started to draw on the tablecloth. “It’s like chess,” he went on as he moved a knight out. “You have to have a head for it.” He finished the sketch, perplexed. “If they come from the north and we’re here…” He drew an arrow. He realized that he didn’t know the answer.
“May the best man win…” said Whitfield, answering for him.
“Something like that,” said Philip as he looked outthe window again at the pristine meadowland and the rows of stone houses that edged it. “But aren’t I supposed to feel angry? I am angry—that you could take a history like this and trample on it.”
“But, Philip,” said Whitfield as he captured his knight with his pawn, “we are history.”
R osemary did as he asked, pouring herself a glass of burgundy because she thought it was appropriate and sat alone by the fire in the sheltered and sequestered silence of her New York parlor. The last four weeks seemed almost a blur, the chaos of the wedding where everyone around her had seemed to almost lose their minds.
Her father had turned into a child, on the morning of her wedding, forgetting how to tie his tie, presenting himself to Gertrude. “Oh, Gertrude. Are you any good at this? I’ve been doing it all my life and suddenly today, I can’t even remember…”
Gertrude stifled a smile and grabbed both ends of his tie around his neck a little more forcefully than necessary. “Stand
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