Authors: William Lashner
June 5, 1912
This is so like her. Father has spoiled her terribly and now she has taken to ruining everything. They had a terrible row, Father and Charity, their voices spilled out of his library with a venom that I had never heretofore heard in this house. Father’s voice was deep and angry, like a furious owl, hooting with indignation, and Charity was crying out her false pain, punctuated by her crocodile tears. The thunder outside was monstrous, as was the force of the rain, and still we heard their angry voices, sharp as the bolts of light that crashed their way through our shuttered windows. I am to be married in less than a week and I have barely seen my love for all the preparations. I need not Charity’s histrionics to distract me from my plans
.
We are having the ceremony before the statue of Aphrodite, where Christian and I shared our first, glorious kiss. At least some arrangements are proceeding well. Just yesterday we decided to add, in front of the statue for the ceremony, an oval of the richest, brightest flowers to help celebrate the day. The gardeners have dug and prepared the oval plot before this evening’s rain and we will plant the flowers shortly before the wedding so their blooms will be freshest when we take our vows and their color contrast most vividly with my white silk gown. And, gratefully, the Pooles will soon be leaving the property for a two-week sojourn to Atlantic City, financed by my father. I insisted he send them away and, finally, he agreed, so we won’t have their anger to poison our reception. My wedding stands to be the most glorious affair of the season if we can keep our sister from falling apart or eating a swath through the buffet with her newly revitalized appetite
June 6, 1912
Charity is missing, she has fled. Her satchel is gone and so are some of her favorite clothes. After her argument with Father she packed her satchel and left the house for we know not where. Mother is distraught, Father is brooding silently but has determined not to summon the police to find her, though I know not why. With her missing it is as if the family is in mourning. How could she do this to me just five days before the most important day of my life? Whatever joy I was to feel about that day has been destroyed by her hateful behavior and poisonous attitude toward my future. I will go through the motions and smile at the guests and take my vows with my husband to be, but it can never be the same. Never shall I forgive her this complete disregard for my happiness. If only Christian were here to comfort me, but I have not seen him since she disappeared, as if he is avoiding to tread on our tender emotions while the wound of her disappearance is still fresh. Even in the most trying times his warmth and generosity cannot be overstated
June 9, 1912
The pall of Charity’s disappearance remains with our family. The wedding rehearsal was a dispiriting affair which Christian, wisely, failed to attend. I have not seen him since the stormy night of Charity’s disappearance from the household with her satchel and her problems and I wonder how our family’s current instability is affecting him. At the rehearsal, the minister joked about whether the groom would make it on the grand day itself and there was an uncomfortable silence, but I have no doubt that Christian understands that despite my sister’s disappearance there is too much at stake for the two of us, and for his family’s fortunes, to allow her absence to affect in any way our future. Our marriage must go forward as a necessity of our undying love. Everything would have come apart except for Father’s strength. He has insisted that the wedding proceed as planned and he refuses to let our sorrows get in the way. I believe until now I never understood the truly glorious power of his will, his single-minded devotion to whatever cause he has made his own, damn the costs. It is a lesson I have well learned from him and one I shall never forget. I understand him now as I never did before and I forgive him everything
.
The gardeners have finished planting the flowers in the oval plot before the statue and they are magnificent, whites and pinks and violets in ordered rows like a tiny guard of honor. No matter how morose our family may be over Charity’s selfishness, the wedding itself will be a triumphant reminder that the more responsible members of this family will carry on
June 10, 1912
My nerves have gotten the best of me. I can’t stop crying. Even as I write this my tears blot the ink. So much joy, so much worry. Still no word from Christian, not for days and days. It is bad luck of course to see the bride too soon before the wedding so his absence is absolutely excusable, but still with Charity and Christian both absent from the house there is an abject loneliness that infects my joy with a strange sorrow. Hope has been a rock, staying with me at all hours, sleeping in my bed with me as I shake with worry. She is so good and pure and I think she is the best of us. Should anything happen to her I will be lost. I can only imagine what impossible difficulties will come my way tomorrow
June 11, 1912
The most glorious day of my life has passed like a dream. Christian Shaw and I were married in the eyes of the Lord and the world at precisely 1:30 p.m. in the afternoon, under an unceasing sun, before my father’s statue of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. That it was a more somber affair than could be wished for was only to be expected, as my sister Charity remains among the missing
.
I’ll always remember my dear Christian as he awaited my walk down the aisle. He was the most endearing sight, hesitant, uncertain as a boy, tottering from nerves. I can barely describe in words how much I adore him. He was late of course, what groom isn’t, and due to the difficulties we had faced in the previous week it is no wonder that he fortified himself with brandy before the ceremony, and continued on through the reception, so much so that he was later struck with sickness, the same sickness that has him lying in bed asleep as I write this in our New York hotel
.
We took our vows before the excited throng on the back lawn. The minister’s service was short and full of love. Between us and the audience was that plot of flowers whose colors seemed brighter than life. I said “I do” as firmly as a banker but Christian acknowledged his love for me with a squeak that brought welcome twitters from the guests. In front of everyone he was becomingly shy when it was time to kiss but I put my hand on his neck and brought his face to mine and his lips to mine and we kissed again as sweetly and as powerfully as when we kissed that first time
.
The revelry was subdued, of course, with my sister absent, but it was celebratory nonetheless and there was much to celebrate. Christian and I will surely have the finest of lives together, and the restructured Shaw Brothers Company, which my father has saved from the terrible jaws of bankruptcy, will be signed into existence within a very few days. All has come together as I planned the summer last upon first hearing of the Shaw family’s distress
.
So I am now Mrs. Christian Shaw, a name I will cherish into eternity. Christian is snoring loudly on the bed, the result, of course, of the brandy. Our first night of passion will have to be delayed but that could not be helped, what with the way Charity’s disappearance has affected all of our nerves. But enough of her. We are embarking on a long voyage to Europe, leaving on the boat tomorrow, traveling all the way from London to Istanbul in the grandest of styles, and for the whole of that time I don’t want once to discuss my ungrateful sister. The future belongs only to me and my dear dear husband
III
March 4, 1914
My Dearest Charity,
It has come again like a flood of red death to curse me in my sorrows. Need I be reminded of all that has gone wrong in the past years of my life? Must my agony continue indefinitely? Must I never be forgiven? It is no surprise that it came, of course, as my husband prefers the leather chairs and narrow bunks of his club to our marriage bed, and when he does touch me it is only from the twin spurs of anger and drink, but still I prayed this month, as I pray every month, for the Lord to grant me some surcease from my lonely misery, and so it is with profound bitterness that I see my prayers fall uselessly upon the ground like empty seed
.
The questioning has stopped, thank goodness, but that doesn’t make the hole any less deep. Ever since Mother passed away Father has stopped asking about grandchildren. Instead, he stares at me sullenly over dinner, as if I were the cause of his heartbreak. His glower is little different than the brooding darkness of my husband’s countenance and I wonder if they are not conspiring against me for some devilish purpose. I think it may have been a mistake, dear sister, to insist that my husband and I should reside at Veritas, but I couldn’t bear to be away from it and all it carries, including my memories of you. Christian, by the time we returned from Europe, had ceased to care about anything but his brandy and so he went along with the decision, but I fear our being here has not helped our marriage. My only remaining comfort is my family
.
I couldn’t survive without Hope and I spend hours each day by her bedside, reading to her, feeding her the broth I’ve prepared. Christian too, when he is at home, spends much of his time with her, confiding, I fear. I think only Hope is able to ease the secret burden that seems to so weigh down his heart. I would be jealous of her evident closeness to my husband except that Hope is the nearest thing I shall meet to a saint in this world. I am sure she is my champion and won’t tolerate even the smallest hint against me. She is grace incarnate and always full of patience for my woes. I gain strength from her, and strength from my thoughts of you, wherever you are, making your way in this world. You are my inspiration, dear sister, and every day I await the mail for some word of you. It will come, I know it will
.
I don’t know if I can bear another spell like this one. I must do something to fill the yawning chasm within me, I must be strong, as strong as you, sweet sister, because you chose your path as only I can choose mine
March 12, 1914
My Dearest Charity,
Our sister Hope climbed out of bed today, put on a frock, and walked unassisted down the stairs. Dr. Cohn says if she watches herself and avoids drafts and too much exertion she can live a normal life, which is what we all have prayed for the many years since she became ill. Father was in tears as she made her way down the staircase, I was clapping, and your spirit, dear sister, was hovering over us all. She sat at the piano and let her fingers drift across the ivory. The smile on her face was painful in its gratitude to the Lord for giving her this recovery. It was an unseasonably warm spring day and the sun was bright and I insisted Hope come out to the yard, to my garden by the statue of Aphrodite. The barberry hedge is now almost waist-high and the daffodils and tulips are bursting forth as if summoned by the warm kiss of the spring. The intricate design I planned is now fully evident and in the center of everything is that glorious oval of good black earth from which the perennial stalks have begun to rise. When she saw it, Hope’s eyes glowed with a joy that told me the hours I have lavished on the garden have not been wasted
March 18, 1914
My Dearest Charity,
I have sent word to Christian’s club that our sister is failing and he should come home at once. In truth, a comforting color has risen to her soft cheeks and Dr. Cohn says that as long as her spirit remains steadfast her chances for improvement are real and our prayers for her recovery might yet be heard. Still, this was not a time of the month for Christian to absent himself from his adopted family and his loving wife. If am being reckless then the Lord will forgive me for my purpose is noble and in furtherance of His ends. I would be surer of my path if my husband didn’t frighten me so. Father is in Pittsburgh for the week, meeting with the Heinzes and the Carnegies, and so there is no protection for me here should things take a turn that I cannot now gauge, but desperate needs breed desperate means
.
I know how he will behave when he comes home; I can imagine the scene as clearly as if it were in one of Mr. Belasco’s theatrical productions. The automobile will let him off in front of the house and he will charge in, his rain cape splaying blackness in his wake, and he will leap up the steps, two at a time, to get to sister Hope’s room. I will be in the center hall, hands clasped before me, but he will ignore me as he climbs to the one person in this family who still has some claim to his affection. And in that room, with all the melodrama he has sucked this night from his bottle, he will fall to his knees and clasp dear Hope’s cold tiny hands in his own and place his head on her stomach and allow his tears to drip upon her blanket, only to be startled by Hope’s irreverent laughter
.
He will spend a few moments more with her, grateful for her condition, and he will be forced to hear the kind words from our sister’s lips about me that this very afternoon I implored her to speak to my husband at her first opportunity. In her faltering voice she will tell him of her fervent hopes that Christian and I can reconcile our difference and be husband and wife in more than name and create for ourselves an heir. He will keep his smile through the speech, and try to show only love for the saintly convalescent, but his face will redden and his eyes darken and when he takes his leave there will be only anger, anger at my scheming and the deceptive note that cut his precious evening short so that he could be forced to hear a lecture. My dear husband Christian hates to be lectured to and hates most of all to be lectured to about his manly duties. I have noticed that it is after lectures of that sort by my father or Christian’s Uncle Sullivan that my husband’s anger is most aroused
.
I only pray he had enough time to guzzle his stomach’s worth at the club before the note came, that his mind is suitably enraged and his sensibilities suitably dulled
.
I hear his car rattling with desperation up the rain-slick hill of our drive as he rushes to our sister’s bedside. I must leave my room now, must take my place on the stage as the curtain rises and the drama is about to be unleashed