Read Online The Sealed Letter by Emma Donoghue - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Donoghue
Tags: Biographical, Fiction, Literary, General, Historical, Historical - General, Fiction - Historical, Family Life, Domestic Fiction, divorce, Great Britain, Lesbian, Triangles (Interpersonal relations), Irish Novel And Short Story, Faithfull, Emily, 1836?-1895
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. . But now I have you back, and I mean to mend. To be "true to myself," as you put it. If I can always have you near, for the rest of my life, I believe I'll grow a little better every day.
May I come to you this afternoon?
Your
Helen
***
Fido's eyes rest on the framed photographs of her sisters and brothers and their infinite progeny, and they remind her of something; she jumps up to look in her writing desk. "Oh, I must give you my latest picture," she tells Helen, "in return for your lovely carte de visite."
Helen scrutinizes it. "It captures your majestic forehead, but it makes you look older than you are."
"Do you think?"
"Next time, some side lighting, perhaps."
A pause. Fido can't think of any subject of conversation except one.
"It must make such a difference," Helen remarks suddenly, "having an establishment of one's own."
Following Helen's gaze, Fido surveys the narrow drawing-room. Establishment seems a grand word for her skinny house on Taviton Street. The decor strikes her as shabbily old-fashioned, compared with Eccleston Square; how bare the little tables, how few bibelots for her visitor's eyes to rest on. "Such a difference?" she repeats, confused.
"To how one feels. You've such an independent spirit."
"If I do, you think I owe it to these four walls?" asks Fido, amused.
A graceful shrug. "Don't discount bricks and mortar. You can't imagine what it's like to live out one's days encompassed by a gloomy, ageing husband, my dear. I live between his four walls, wearing clothes he must pay for, obeying his minutest orders..."
"From what I recall, you ignore quite a few of Harry's orders," Fido can't resist saying.
Helen purses her coral lips. "Whether or no—they have a suffocating effect. I signed myself away at twenty-one," she adds, "as carelessly as a girl fills in her dance card at a ball!"
"Your letter—" Fido feels it's time to address the subject on both their minds, "it moved me very much."
Helen's smile irradiates her cheekbones, like a candle in a lantern. "Is Anderson—" His name comes out rather gruff.
"He took the train to Scotland for a couple of nights; he's only just come back," Helen tells her.
"It's really not fair to leave any doubt in his mind—"
"That was my thought exactly; that's why I've invited him here."
Fido stares at her. "Here?"
But in comes Johnson, her narrow shoulders hunched over the tray that bears the steaming urn, pot, caddies and all. (More than once, over the years, Fido has had a quiet word with her maid about posture and health, but it does no good.) It takes several minutes for Johnson to unload everything.
When they're alone, Fido brews the tea. "You might have asked me before making free with my house," she says under her breath.
"But I knew you'd say yes." Helen grins at her, rather wanly. "I can hardly speak to him at Eccleston Square, can I?"
Something occurs to Fido. "I thought you told me your husband didn't mind Anderson's squiring you all over town."
"I don't think I said that."
Fido tries to remember; perhaps she'd just assumed that the admiral, toiling away in his study, had no objections. "Don't tell me he ... suspects the colonel of having feelings for you?"
"Feelings? I doubt it. Since Harry hasn't found me desirable in years, he can't imagine anyone else would," Helen says acidly. "But you see, I'd rather he didn't know that Anderson's back. It may seem rather coincidence, I mean," she says, rising to look out the window, "that the colonel's home leave should happen to overlap with the very month of our return."
Fido finds herself breathless. "Oh Helen! You mean to say that Anderson took leave in order to pursue you to London, and Harry believes him still in
Malta, all this time?"
"I knew nothing of it myself till the man's letter turned up on my tray," mutters Helen, eyes on the glaring street.
"But—"
"Don't fuss and fret," she says mildly, "I'm going to set it all to rights. But now you see that I can't invite him
May I come to you this afternoon?
Your
Helen
***
Fido's eyes rest on the framed photographs of her sisters and brothers and their infinite progeny, and they remind her of something; she jumps up to look in her writing desk. "Oh, I must give you my latest picture," she tells Helen, "in return for your lovely carte de visite."
Helen scrutinizes it. "It captures your majestic forehead, but it makes you look older than you are."
"Do you think?"
"Next time, some side lighting, perhaps."
A pause. Fido can't think of any subject of conversation except one.
"It must make such a difference," Helen remarks suddenly, "having an establishment of one's own."
Following Helen's gaze, Fido surveys the narrow drawing-room. Establishment seems a grand word for her skinny house on Taviton Street. The decor strikes her as shabbily old-fashioned, compared with Eccleston Square; how bare the little tables, how few bibelots for her visitor's eyes to rest on. "Such a difference?" she repeats, confused.
"To how one feels. You've such an independent spirit."
"If I do, you think I owe it to these four walls?" asks Fido, amused.
A graceful shrug. "Don't discount bricks and mortar. You can't imagine what it's like to live out one's days encompassed by a gloomy, ageing husband, my dear. I live between his four walls, wearing clothes he must pay for, obeying his minutest orders..."
"From what I recall, you ignore quite a few of Harry's orders," Fido can't resist saying.
Helen purses her coral lips. "Whether or no—they have a suffocating effect. I signed myself away at twenty-one," she adds, "as carelessly as a girl fills in her dance card at a ball!"
"Your letter—" Fido feels it's time to address the subject on both their minds, "it moved me very much."
Helen's smile irradiates her cheekbones, like a candle in a lantern. "Is Anderson—" His name comes out rather gruff.
"He took the train to Scotland for a couple of nights; he's only just come back," Helen tells her.
"It's really not fair to leave any doubt in his mind—"
"That was my thought exactly; that's why I've invited him here."
Fido stares at her. "Here?"
But in comes Johnson, her narrow shoulders hunched over the tray that bears the steaming urn, pot, caddies and all. (More than once, over the years, Fido has had a quiet word with her maid about posture and health, but it does no good.) It takes several minutes for Johnson to unload everything.
When they're alone, Fido brews the tea. "You might have asked me before making free with my house," she says under her breath.
"But I knew you'd say yes." Helen grins at her, rather wanly. "I can hardly speak to him at Eccleston Square, can I?"
Something occurs to Fido. "I thought you told me your husband didn't mind Anderson's squiring you all over town."
"I don't think I said that."
Fido tries to remember; perhaps she'd just assumed that the admiral, toiling away in his study, had no objections. "Don't tell me he ... suspects the colonel of having feelings for you?"
"Feelings? I doubt it. Since Harry hasn't found me desirable in years, he can't imagine anyone else would," Helen says acidly. "But you see, I'd rather he didn't know that Anderson's back. It may seem rather coincidence, I mean," she says, rising to look out the window, "that the colonel's home leave should happen to overlap with the very month of our return."
Fido finds herself breathless. "Oh Helen! You mean to say that Anderson took leave in order to pursue you to London, and Harry believes him still in
Malta, all this time?"
"I knew nothing of it myself till the man's letter turned up on my tray," mutters Helen, eyes on the glaring street.
"But—"
"Don't fuss and fret," she says mildly, "I'm going to set it all to rights. But now you see that I can't invite him
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