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Dear diary,
It was the McCoy family’s annual garden party today. I didn't expect father to come with me—he is still as busy as when I last wrote— but I must confess that it felt strange to go alone with no-one by my side.
(Mother wrote me a few days ago, asking me to come join her. She claims that the sea air will do wonders for me. I still have not replied.)
We had fine weather all afternoon, which was a relief after the fears of rain we'd had in the morning, and I wore my new gown which is fearfully and wonderfully made. FJ made a snide remark or two about me being over dressed—a bold statement considering his own haphazard appearance, by-the-by—but nobody seemed to mind and I felt too secure in myself to be daunted by any of FJ’s judgements; not that that stopped him.
It's strange, but ever since the breaking off of his and BC's engagement, or understanding, or whatever it is that they called it, FJ has managed to become more irritating then I ever thought possible. He simply cannot keep his thoughts to himself, but must instead seek me out and pour his musings into my unwilling ears.
I think it would do him good to go back to his bohemian friends in the city, they are more likely to find enjoyment in his cynicism then the crowd here ever would. Not that he isn't correct sometimes—CB and JB are rather unnaturally close, and everyone knows it, but it doesn't do to say it when they are within earshot! Honestly not sure it why it bothers me; he's definitely going to let his mouth get him into trouble someday...I just wish he that he won't involve me in it when it happens.
P.S. AA wrote from Rome today, told me that he met the Pope at a dinner and saw a reflection of the moon that reminded him of me. Silly boy, he didn't ask again but I know he wants to. Wish he would let it go and find some beautiful opera singer to break his heart— it would be better for everyone concerned, I think, except maybe the Pope who would very likely find the whole situation to be very irregular and immoral. Are Popes as fussy as their priests? Will write Hermosa and inquire, she always seems to know about things like that.
Dear Toni,
I know I just wrote you, and you haven't had the chance, or the time, or maybe even the inclination to write me in return, but I've just had to spend the day wasting away under the sweltering sun, trying (and failing,) to stir up an intelligent conversation with my neighbors. None was to be had, unfortunately.
Are laughing as you read this, Toni? I hope you are—it would be a relief to know that someone managed to scratch some joy out of today. I almost think that you would be the only one, except for Miss. Veronica Lodge, of course, she could be happy no matter what, I believe.
You remember me telling you about the earth-shattering Veronica last winter, don't you? She broke Archie's heart while I was away with you in the city, and I came back quite prepared to hate her. It didn't work of course—she simply isn't the sort of person one can truly work up a passive hatred for—and so between my promise to Archie, (who, by the way, has sent me his latest dispatch from Rome of all places—full of smudged ink and bad cliches that he’s picked up out of penny-novels,) and her own unnatural attitude towards my shocking observations, I find myself drawn towards her like an unmanned ship towards rocks.
Betty—thank the heavens—was not present, but her mother was; full of simpering politeness and explaining Betty's absence as being caused by a touch of a cold. Reginald Mantle is the cause, I'm certain, he arrived back home a week ago, but whether it was too many late night walks in the damp or the prospect of a sun filled day on the water that was culprit, I fear we shall never know.
I miss you, Toni, and pray that you are doing well, and I hope that my vague ramblings have amused you. I know I'm not worth much to society, but perhaps if I stumble into giving a smile to my fellow creatures my stock shall go up slightly. Write me soon.
Your affectionate pest,
Forsythe Jones
Dear diary,
Father has gone away to the city for business, and is planning on staying for a week or two. Asked if I wanted to join him and I almost agreed, but the heat will be worse there then it is here, and I couldn’t explain to mother me going there and not going to her.
Had another letter from her this morning—wants to know why I haven't replied to her last letter—so I shall have to respond post haste. Father said I might go if I wanted to, but since we are to remove to the city this winter, I would rather stay here in the comfortable, if slightly boring, country for the remainder of the warm months.
NSC’s weekly flowers arrived on schedule, and I sent them to the Muggs residence, anonymously, of course. E could use the flowers after her father’s passing, and the roses aren't to blame for who purchased them. They came with a card this time and that I delivered to the kitchen fire.
Went out in the afternoon for a walk and took pity on FJ, who was being seemingly hounded about the village by RM and BC with mother in tow. I didn't mean to stick my nose into other people's business, but he did look desperately uncomfortable, so I took him away with me on a quiet wandering through the woods. I got an approving nod or two when we went on our way, so I don't believe that I created a scandal—I do so hate people that rub their success in people's faces.
Was surprised to discover that FJ is actually rather interesting when he's not trying to act superior to everyone else. Makes me understand better why he and AA get on so well. He didn't bring up AA, which surprised me given how he normally is, but perhaps he was feeling generous. Apparently he is returning to the city as well this winter—must remind mother to add him to the invitation lists.
Dear Toni,
I honestly almost didn't plan on answering your latest. You insinuations regarding a certain Miss. Lodge were rather blatant, and I didn't feel like justifying them by regaling you with my latest news. However, I then realized that to deprive you of enjoyment was to rob myself of the same, and so I have decided to forgive you this once and write you an abridged version that shall be elaborated upon when I once again see you in person this winter when I return to the city.
I had gone into the village to fetch your letter and stretch my legs—and escape my father's latest hobby, bird shooting in the backyard—when I was assaulted by the appearance of not only Betty, but also Mr. Mantle the younger, and Mrs. Cooper, and! Unless I am very much mistaken, I also heard the youthful cries of the young Blossom twins from a nearby shop.
Betty saw me, and she had the decency to look slightly ashamed, but her companions evidently did not see the matter in the same light, and would have made the journey across the road to accost me if the aforementioned Miss. Lodge had not seen what was taking place and hurried to my rescue. Polite society having bested them, my attackers saw fit to retreat, and Miss. Lodge—or, Veronica as she insisted I call her—carried me away to take a calming walk in nature.
She was so quick about it that I actually forgot that I had left the house for a purpose; your teasing missive was brought in the evening with the rest of the letters, and if Tate—our head footman—had not recognized that your handwriting was decidedly feminine and taken it away from the rest to give to me later in private—I should have been in queer street with my parents.
Averted scandal aside however, my walk ended up being a pleasant one on the whole. Miss. Veronica did her best to amuse me, and I returned the favor by not mentioning either of those who are always near my thoughts,(that is, Archie and you.) Don't be afraid, Toni, I don't spread your name far and wide, nor do I believe that Miss. Lodge is some sort of budding moralist. In fact, I think she might just be the only woman I could talk to about you, about how things are, or were, between us. Strange to say, and yet it's true; I truly do think she would understand.
Your endlessly confused,
Forsythe Jones
P.S. Re-reading this I find that I have seemingly predetermined that you shall be in the city this winter, and have made my own plans in accordance to what I assume are yours. However, if fate has dealt you a different hand and you are to be elsewhere, do let me know so I may follow you thence like a bird who hears the cry of his mate. NYC shall hold no interest for me if you are not there to grace it's stage; as much as I enjoy our lazy and artistic crowd.
Dear diary,
Had a busy day today—am acting as head of house as far as directing preparations for our removal are concerned, and it is exhausting. I would pass it on to Mrs. G, but it gives me an excuse to turn away callers, which is truly an unlooked for delight. BC called today with her cousin CB at her heels, both panting for information regarding AA’s sudden departure as usual, and I had great enjoyment in sending them the short but sweet, ‘No visitors for the foreseeable future, thank you.’
Had a note from FJ this afternoon, thanking me for getting him out of what he calls ‘his scrape,’ and asking what my favorite flowers were so he may send them to me when Father and I arrive in the city. I told him to guess, and we shall see if he even remembers. I doubt it—he is so changeable in mood—but if he does remember it will be amusing to see how he has analyzed me.
Mother has written—to Father this time—and says she will be joining us directly for her current residence rather then coming here first and making the journey with us. Father did not say anything, but I believe he is rather relieved, excepting the extra work for me in directing the packing of her winter things. I know that it must look odd that I did not join her this summer, but if I had gone who would’ve run things here, I ask?
Dear Toni,
Your reply to my last letter was rather vague, Toni, full of misty promises. I have your letter before me on the desk, it’s dried ink taunting me with each fresh perusal, and I cannot make it, or you, out.
You say that your plans regarding this winter have changed, but I can find no allusion to what they may now be! You could be flying to the moon for all I know!
My own plans have solidified as yours have crumbled, and I have convinced my father, (and my mother, which is more to the point,) to send me to the city before them to make preparations for their arrival. I am in the process of packing even as I write, so there shall not be time for you to answer this letter—by the time it would reach me I hope to be by your side, and you can tell me all you would’ve wished to write.
Genevieve is practicing piano downstairs, she playing the song you sang me that night after we saw that terrific bore Montweasel’s, poor excuse for a play. Do you remember that night as well as I do, Toni? Perhaps I will be lucky enough for you to sing for me again soon.
Desperately filled with anticipation of seeing you,
Forsythe Jones
Dear diary,
All preparations have been halted at Father’s personal request. Hermosa has written him from Paris, and says that she will be joining us here for a few weeks and then going on with us to spend the entire winter with us in the city! I am terribly excited, and have given orders that Hermosa’s rooms are to be scrubbed top to bottom and put in perfect order for her return.
I am sorry that we have been delayed—we shall be one of the last families to remove now—but I will give up a few weeks of pleasure for a sight of Father's real smile. Besides, cook baked a cake today, and I have never known a better cure for disappointment then a freshly baked and frosted cake.
P.S. Saw FJ from the window this morning, riding with the local milk delivery man on his cart, bag in hand, on his way to the station, presumably. Seems silly of him not to use his family's coach, doesn't it? Perhaps he has an objection to it just as he does with seemingly everything from our way of life.
Dear Archie,
I am glad to hear that Rome is still living up to your expectations, and look forward to hearing where you plan on going next. All is well with your mother, and she has ordered me to demand that you write her more regularly, which I do with as much zeal as I can possibly manage to convey with paper and ink.
As for news of Miss. Lodge, I fear that I cannot be of much use to you there. I arrived in NYC last night, and had no chance to see her before my removal; but I believe she is busy with preparations for this winter.
You must forgive me if I am not my usual, sparkling self. I've had rather a blow you see. Please don't worry, it isn't anything ruinous to the old family name or anything like that. I'm not trying to be mysterious, Archie, I swear, I'm just attempting to stem the flow of questions you undoubtably would have filled your next letter with if I had tried to ignore my strange stiffness.
I know that you won't press me for answers if I ask you not to, and I do ask, earnestly. Life is rather a dull thing, isn't it? Full of hard knocks, and when you at last find a soft blanket to cocoon yourself up in it turns to dust around you, sending you down to land on a patch of hard metal spikes...
Well I won't go on rambling. It wouldn't interest you to be forced to wade through my incoherent thoughts, and they are not worth the paper they'd be written on.
Your friend,
Forsythe Jones
Dear Toni,
How would you have me react, Toni? How would you have me feel? I do not mind being made a fool of, I do it myself often enough after all, but I must admit that I would have wished for a better explanation then this—this cowardly running away so as to not having to face me.
I would have understood, Toni, if I had been given the chance. You say this person makes you happy, I do not begrudge you that; there has been little enough happiness in your life I know. How cruel a beast would I be if attempted to keep you from happiness merely because I was not the provider of it?
Do not fear, this shall be the last letter I shall force upon you. I am sending it to your old rooms, to be forwarded by one of your friends as I do not have your new address. You may answer it or not; I have no expectations.
I have not burned your letters, as was my first instinct, but have instead locked them carefully in a back drawer of my desk. Perhaps one day I shall take them out and re-read them, one day when I am old and grey, creaking with rheumatism and preparing to die a lonely death. You may do what you like with mine, but I ask you to not send them back to me. I don't believe my sanity could take that blow—I shouldn’t like to become a ghastly headline: ‘Rich Young Man Kills Himself After Being Faced With His Own Foolishness.’
Don't be concerned, I'm far too much of a coward to play an active role in my own death, time may have her way with me; I will not preempt her.
Respectfully yours,
Forsythe Jones
To my dearest cousin,
We have finally resumed our preparations! I meant to write you, but between Hermosa's arrival
and father's fears about being sent to oversee business in London, I simply haven't had the time!
Hermosa has brought no end of French finery back with her including three new pairs of silk stockings for me and a pair of kid gloves for you! Only, they are meant to be a Christmas gift, so you mustn't let on that I've spoiled the surprise.
Mother is still enjoying herself at the seaside, and plans to join us next week when we arrive in the city. I cannot wait to see her and you.
With much love,
Veronica Lodge
Dear Genevieve,
Everything in readiness for your arrival, complete with spotless carpet and flower petals. Tell mother and father that the the leak in the bath has been seen to as requested, and that the couple who have taken the house next to us seem to be quiet, respectable people, with absolutely no thoughts of their own.
Do write to tell me what day you plan on arriving so I can wheedle the cook into giving you a good supper.
Your brother,
Forsythe Jones
P.S. Do you happen to know whereabouts in this ghastly hole one could purchase a nosegay of blue roses? Red will simply not do for my purpose.
Dear diary,
Well, it is official—the Lodges have finally transferred to NYC for the winter. Everything seems to be perfect, from the improvements to father’s study, right down to the watercolor Hermosa had sent here from Paris. Mother looks bright and cheerful, thank the heavens, and made no allusion to my sporadic correspondence this summer.
Katy visited this morning, blowing in like a breath of fresh—if slightly exhausting—air, and what do you think arrived while she was here?
A nosegay of blue roses; no note, no explanation. At first I was at a completely lose, but then I remembered FJ’s promise. I couldn’t understand the reason for the blue at first, but luckily Hermosa still had all her old books about flowers and their meanings so I wasn’t left in the dark for long.
He’s a very strange man, and if that truly is what he thinks of me I shan’t bother with giving him a reply—but shall instead wait till I see him. Wonder if he will be at the opera next week.
Dear Archie,
Spain sounds like an absolute dream from your description. Have you determined to give us up entirely yet? I should have if I were you.
My mother and sister came at last—father is staying in the country till first snow, or until it grows to be too cold to shoot. Mother is unimpressed with the city life, as always, and has practically locked herself away, but Genevieve is determined to squeeze as much life out of the city as she can and is dragging me from pillar to post as her escort. She begs to be remembered to you and promises that you would not know her if you were to be here.
(I rather doubt this, but as she is still in the room I shall keep my thoughts between me and you.)
I don’t really mind acting as her watchdog—you should see the looks on the faces of the unfortunate youths who mistake me as a fellow skirt hunter and say less then polite things about Genevieve only to be forcibly informed by their cleverer friends that they are talking to an interested party. Lord, how their eyes bulge and their ears glow while they are dragged away!
I have not mentioned Miss. Lodge thus far, hoping to take my cue from your silence on the subject in your last letter, but fearing that that was an oversight on your part I will tell you that she and her family have made their debut, and on all accounts she is in perfect health. Yours truly has not seen her personally—but if you wish it I will take care to observe her at the next opportunity.
As always, your eyes and ears,
Forsythe Jones
My darling Pepper,
(...) I am so pleased to hear that you are settling in well in London and that the house and servants are to you liking! England sounds like a darling place and I know would heartlessly abandon everything here should you invite me to visit!
My cousin Veronica has at last arrived, and I couldn’t be more pleased to see her! Her letters had worried me, I must admit; I know she was uncomfortable with how she has been forced to end things with that Andrews man, and Nick St. Clair has been acting like a total bore—which his millions of dollars cannot make anyone overlook—but seeing her in person it seemed that things were better then I’d feared! At least now I have a reason for her uplifted spirits!
We had gone to the shopping district and were buzzing about as happily as bees collecting honey, when I suddenly heard Veronica make a sort of gasping noise, and looking up I saw an absolutely beautiful young man! He was walking with another young lady across the street—a youngish young lady, if the height of her skirts were anything to go by, but very lovely all the same!
Well the long and short of it was that Veronica and I hurried out, (not to chase the man, but because a very loud woman had decided to take up residence at the counter and voice her complaints to one and all.) I am positive that the man saw us—the girl did at least, she nodded and smiled—but he made no sign of having done so, and positively snubbed us! Veronica didn’t let on that it had bothered her, but she colored up very prettily and marched us off in the opposite direction.
I couldn’t make her tell me his name, but I am certain that if he is not already in love with my dear cousin, he will be before the winter is up! (...)
Sincerely,
Katherine Keene
Dear diary,
I have decided that men are insufferable, and FJ is the most insufferable of all! A cool nod would have been uncomfortable enough, but to completely ignored is infuriating! GJ seemed pleased enough to see me—what makes him so much better then the rest of us?
All I can pray is that he will not be present at the opera tomorrow night; I don’t wish my evening to be ruined by his sour appearance.
Dearest Richard,
Last night we went to the opera; Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo, To describe it as a masterpiece would be an understatement, so I shall only say that it’s one flaw was the fact that you were not there by my side to enjoy it with me.
Father is still in the country, and mother has no interest in the opera—thanks to her having never learned more then the basics of Italian—so Forsythe and I went on our own, acting as guests of Mr. Montweasel’s party. Mr. Montweasel is a rather dull man, and Forsythe has a strong distaste for him, but the rest of the party was perfectly delightful and we got on well together for the most part.
Forsythe left me during the intermission; it took me ages to catch up to him again, and when I had done so I found him attached to the side of Miss. Lodge—an acquaintance of ours from the country. I thought it was rather odd, considering how he had seemed to deliberately cut her when we saw her across the street a few days ago. He seems very temperamental and changeable lately, and I cannot understand what could have upset him so.
Miss. Lodge was very polite and charming, as she always is, and settled me next to her elder sister—a very fashionable and forward woman, who told me all about her time in Paris this summer—while Forsythe continued to stay by her (meaning Miss. Veronica Lodge,) side in the front row throughout the second half of the performance.
He was quiet the whole drive home, but he seems to be to more himself this morning; or at least as much himself as he ever is lately. Miss. Lodge’s cousin hinted that she had thoughts on the matter of Miss. Lodge’s changing moods when we were waiting for our cloaks, but we were interrupted before I could understand what she meant.
Alas, mother has just sent for me, which means I must end the letter here. I miss you dreadfully, and some nights my only solace is sneaking a glimpse at you portrait before falling asleep. I pray that you are in good health, and shall count the days till your next letter arrives.
Your loving,
Genevieve Jones
Dear diary,
I really do not know how I shall even begin to write about last night—indeed, I have let an entire day pass before sitting downtown write, to compose my mind.
The opera performance was beautiful, and Hermosa and myself were the best dressed ladies there—with the exception of the group of Dutch aristocracy who were sitting in the box next to us—and at first I believed it was going to be the perfect evening. Part-way through the fifth song however, I began to feel as if I were under observation and, looking up, I found myself staring directly into the face of FJ.
Needless to say I turned from him directly, but the curious feeling of his stare did not cease and by intermission I was practically boiling with rage. I kept it in however, only revealing a hint of my displeasure when Hermosa began to prod at me; asking for my opinions on the contralto. I fear I was rather short with her, and apologized on the journey home.
At any rate, once intermission came I glanced towards the opposite box, only to find that FJ had disappeared, and for a moment I breathed a sigh of relief. It did not last long however, as a moment or two later he had actually appeared in our box, making his way directly to me!
I was as rude as I possibly could be without it being obvious, but he didn’t seem to mind—sitting down next to me and pointing out a heavy looking man in the box he had been occupying, who he said was the stupidest man in all of NYC. I kept my answers as noncommittal as possible, and tried to shut him out when his sister entered the box by focusing all of my attention on her, but he merely waited in silence till I had found a seat for her, and then resumed his observations, only halting when the intermission had ended and the second act had recommenced.
Later when it was all over and he was helping me with my cloak, he asked if I had received his gift, (meaning the roses.) I told him I had, and informed him that to call a woman ‘mysterious,’ was not a compliment. I expected him to be angry, or at least laugh, but he just looked down at me and said,
“I wasn’t complimenting a woman, I was complimenting you.”
It left me speechless, I must confess, and without another word he turned and left me. I do not understand him, and I have not informed anyone of the conversation. For some strange reason, I think they would laugh and think it was terribly funny...only, it wasn’t funny. Not at all.
In other news, we have received invitations to a private dance that is being hosted by the St. Clairs. It is Nick’s doing, I am certain, but if he believes this will move me he is very much mistaken.
From the desk of Forsythe Jones:
Red velvet, flickering gas, golden trappings entangled with wooden beams.
Lashes hide her eyes from me, lips pressed together to halt her words.
Black curls clinging to her neck, drawing me in. Flushed cheeks and my nails in my palm...
Lord forgive me, I have been tempted again.
Dear Archie,
Is the weather still to your taste in Spain? It is cold here, cold and gloomy. Father has still not seen fit to grace us with his presence, and mother has allowed herself collapse into her usual state of disquietude—a whole two months earlier then expected.
Saw Miss. Lodge at the opera a week or two ago, along with her sister, cousin, and sundry acquaintances. She appears to be well.
Tonight Genevieve and I have been invited to a private dance at the home of the St. Clairs, and she is practicing her steps in the room above me. One two three, one two three...I think I may be going mad.
Don’t trouble yourself to write back soon, I would submit to any delay if I knew it meant you were enjoying yourself.
Cheers,
Forsythe Jones
Dear dairy,
Hermosa, mother and I have just arrived home after the dance. It is late, and I should be in bed but the very thought of sleep seems repulsive to me. I had not known it possible that blood could dance within one’s skin—mine is thudding most alarmingly.
He was there tonight, escorting his sister. He watched me as we came in and as soon as we had been announced and greeted our hosts he led me away to dance. He is not the most graceful dancer, and yet I was loath to let him go when the time came.
I could not tell you what happened between our first dance and our second—I feel as if I must have laughed and danced and smiled—but the only time I truly existed was in the moments he held me in his arms...
I cannot help but feel that something has happened—mother didn’t seem to notice but Hermosa stared at me oddly the whole way home and would have tried to speak to me if I had not lied about being fatigued. The rushing feeling inside me has not stoped—I do not know that I wish for it to.
Toni,
I know I promised you no more letters, so long ago it seems to have been, but I have nowhere else to turn! Traitor to my friends, defiler of innocents—what am I to do?
My soul calls for hers like a flame to dry kindling. She has ignited me, Toni, and I fear that my tarnished palms have burned into her skin...never before have I yearned so for a woman—never been so desperate for a single glance, a hushed word. Every hour is plagued with thoughts of her, every decision tainted with thoughts of her opinion. At night I lie awake, tangling myself inside my sheets, holding myself from going to her.
Tonight I held her in my arms for the very first time. Lord forgive me, I could have taken her then, Toni, claimed her as my own with a single burning kiss before all those people, and I believe she would have let me.
She owns me, Toni, controls my every breath! And yet what have I to offer her besides my tainted body and nonsensical words? Nothing, nothing that any other man could not give her better or more...
I am not worthy of her, Toni.
Forsythe Jones
Dear Father,
You must come at once. Forsythe has disappeared during the night, only leaving word of his leaving with the housekeeper for her to tell us this morning, and a note directing which of his things are to be sent on to Spain.
Judging from his recent letters from Mr. Andrews, mother and I believe that he must have gone to meet him—but we can find nothing that suggests that Mr. Andrews sent for Forsythe, indeed, it does not appear that Forsythe has received any correspondence from Mr. Andrews for the past week or two.
Tate says that Forsythe gave him a letter to deliver late last night—an hour or two after we had returned from the St. Clair’s party, but either Tate truly does not know who the letter was addressed to, or he is too deeply attached to Forsythe to reveal the recipient. In either case, the letter was sent off post haste and shall therefore be of no use to use when it comes to reading my brother’s secretive mind. I did try to read the blotting paper, but it is much used and I could only decipher a word or two.
Dear Father, I pray for your speedy arrival, and trust that Forsythe is safe and merely en route to Spain—his attitude has been so very unnatural of late...
Much love,
Genevieve Jones
Dear Archie,
I have decided to follow in your footsteps, amicus meus, and have fled from the sewers of NYC to partake in the beauty of the Italian countryside. I have not told my family where I am gone, but have disappeared like a may-fly to partake in sweet freedom.
That being said, I have a great favor to ask of you regarding my luggage. Not wanting the dear family to know my destination for fear of pursuit, I took the very great liberty of sending my things to your address to be sent on—but of course if it is too much trouble I can come to Spain myself. I don’t wish to bring you to any inconvenience.
Don’t question my rashness, I beg, for you would have been rash too had you felt the steady sickness of the city creeping up on you. I have never pretended to be a good man, or even a decent one; I cannot stand tricking those around me into thinking that I have been tamed by polite society.
‘And to ‘scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.’ Well, I’ve had my stormy days, and so Italy shall be my night—black and bleak and cold and unending; unending till the day news of a certain nature reaches my ears, and then a few months more to ensure that the luna di miele has commenced and I am condemned to this living hell well and truly.
Let me know about my things as soon as you can, and mums the word on the home front—excepting your mother of course; no secret whispered in that ear has ever gone uttered from the accompanying lips.
Muchas gracias,
Forsythe Jones
Dear diary,
I slept very poorly last night, and NSC has sent word that he should like to visit me this afternoon. I know what it he wants, and he shall be disappointed once again—but perhaps I can convince Hermosa to stay with me and thwart his plans once more.
Nevertheless, I have chosen to wear my green gown today; it is very becoming, and NSC may not be our only caller—at least I hope he is not. It should be a great disappointment if...
Katy has just been here, bursting with the most shocking news. Through some of her mysterious channels, (her lady’s maid, I suspect,) she was informed that he—that there has been an upheaval at the Jones’ household. Evidently...
I must apologize for the breaking off of my earlier entry. My cousin informed me that Mr. Forsythe Jones the younger departed from the family’s home early this morning—or perhaps late last night—and left no forwarding address, or indeed any note of any kind except a notice that his things were to be sent on to Spain. According to my cousin, Spain is the current residence of AA, so it must be presumed that that is Mr. Forsythe Jones’ destination.
P.S. NSC has been and gone. He made a show of being disappointed, but I could not find it in me to be very sympathetic.
Darling Richard,
In the months that have passed since I wrote to inform you of Forsythe’s disappearance, we have had no news of him. Father has been in contact with my brother’s friend, Archibald Andrews, who we believed my brother was going to meet, but he denies having seen, or indeed heard from, Forsythe since his last letter which he sent on for us to read. His, (Mr. Andrews’) determined optimism about Forsythe’s safety makes me believe that he knows more then he is saying, but father refuses to write and disturb him any longer, an attitude I cannot bring myself to understand having read Forsythe’s letter.
It was such a strange letter, Richard dearest, so forcefully cheerful up until the end. Father says his illusion to going mad was only in jest, but father was not here during the beginning of the winter—he did not see Forsythe as I saw him! I do not believe my brother to be insane, of course, but it did feel as if he had become entrapped in a kind of madness...
Oh, how I miss you could be here with me instead of stuck away at collage! How comforting it would be to talk to you face to face! I hate England for taking you, and I hate my parents sneering ways when they said I was too young to truly know love! Write me back soon, my darling, and press a kiss to the page for me.
Yours, always and forever,
Genevieve Jones
Dear diary,
Soon the winter season shall come to it’s close and we shall be allowed to return home to the country. I am glad of it—I’m sick of dancing and plays and fat old woman looking me up and down approvingly! Hermosa plans to return to France this spring, and I have half a mind to join her. I need a change from the usual sights and sounds, and returning to the country would only be returning to a different prison.
Mother says that I have had a poor attitude towards our acquaintances this winter. I say that if they had half the brains and manners they claim to posses they wouldn’t care how I treated them. The whole of our circle seems to be very dull this year, the same occurrences repeating themselves—a scandal there, an engagement here...
Speaking of engagements, NSC has finally made his choice. I am glad of it. She does not seem to be very well know, but by all accounts she is very wealthy—she will cling to his name and he will cling to her money. I hope that they shall be very happy together, and no doubt they will be in a shallow, undemonstrative sort of way.
Dear Pepper,
And so the curtains drop and the players retreat, what with the St. Clair engagement and my cousin Veronica and her family retuning to the country—I have asked her to write me, but with the planning for her trip abroad I fear that she may lapse in her correspondence! However, I am very pleased for her, and I ask for your congratulations, if only for her to finally be leaving the country.
Speaking of correspondence, I intend to make you promise to keep up on yours even when you have gone to Italy. I do not wish to be forgotten, even if it is so beautiful!
Sincerely,
Kathrine Keene
Dear Archie,
Over the past few months I have often sat at my desk, staring down at a blank page, building up thoughts to send to you. However, each time all words have evaded me and I took myself off to drown in art and literature, or liquor—if the former remedies did not do their work.
The news I mentioned waiting for in my last—or second to last—letter has reached me. I confess I had not...well let us just say that I had expected it to take longer.
Life is life however, and nothing you or I can do will change it. Facts are not softened by tears or pleading—the only thing one can do is grin and bear it. I've never been over fond of facts, did you know that, Archie? I would even go so far as to say that I hate them, only it seems to be a mutual relationship of complete and utter loathing on both sides—if I have hated facts, it is only because they have seen fit to be cruel to me.
You asked in your last letter what exactly was wrong. The question was, I believe, an appeal to my better nature on behalf of my family, Genevieve in particular. I confess it made me feel a bit of a cad, but I keep hold of my silence with a very good reason, Archie. There is only one other being on this earth who knows my secret, and they I know shall be as silent on the matter as the grave. Not that I'm belittling your skills at secrecy, I just couldn't stand to hurt you.
Is your curiosity roused to a fever pitch now? I expect it is, and yet I cannot reveal my heart to you. Your speculation was that I had gotten in trouble with a woman. That is, I would say, an over simplification of matters, but if you must have some clue that is, I fear, as close a guess as any.
P.S. I was roped into meeting an acquaintance of an acquaintance today—a Miss. Penelope Smith, intimate friend of Miss. Veronica Lodge's cousin. She didn't know me, and I took particular pains not to inform her—not that my name would have clung to the surface of her mind for longer then five minutes I fancy; she seems to me to be a very absentminded woman. Lack of mental capacity aside however, she did provide me with a small piece of interesting information that I...
Had you heard of Miss. Lodge's engagement? I trust you must of, or at least suspected, and that is why you had not mentioned her in your letters recently. I was very foolish and thought—hoped, I must confess—that you had merely begun to move on from your fascination. I should have known better.
P.P.S. I was just about to send this missive off to you but decided at the last minute to inform you that I am off to France in the morning. I have had the idea floating about in my mind for a week or two, and only fully decided to go a moment ago. I feel sick of Italy, beautiful as it is, and want a change. Don't you feel pleased by being the first one I've told? I'm not certain where I will be staying, so you will forgive me not giving you my future address. I promise to write you once I've settled down.
Your pathetic and mooning friend,
Forsythe Jones
Dear diary,
It has been decided, and in a few short weeks Hermosa and I shall be on our way to France, Paris in particular. Hermosa says that one cannot spend the summer in France without a truly Parisian wardrobe.
Father came to my room after it had all been decided last night, worried into it by Hermosa and mother. He was very grave and solemn and asked if this was what I truly wanted. Teased him about his sudden outburst of 'fatherly worry' at first but soon saw that he was serious and grew solemn likewise. I told him that this trip is everything I need, and that when I return I shall be back to the careless, happy girl that I was last summer. That seemed to please him and he went on his way, leaving me feeling rather guilty.
The truth of the matter is that I do not truly know how I shall be upon my return. It was very foolish of me to promise such a thing, and therefore I shall have to work very hard to keep my word.
The Jones family returned yesterday. I had GJ over to tea today; tried my very best to cheer her up. Her mother and father appear much the same as they ever did, but Genevieve looks pale and drawn, tired from worrying over...her brother. Stuffed her with hot tea and sugary cakes and I do believe that I saw the hint of a smile when she left.
It turns out that she has a fiancé in London, who's going somewhere in Oxford. It is not an approved of match I gather and she has not seen the young man since his departure a year ago. I pity her, and shall endeavorer to keep up her spirits till Hermosa and I's removal.
My very dear Genevieve,
I have been a cad, and a unmitigated ass. I do not expect you to forgive me within the next ten years at least, but with the foolish innocence of the young man in the fable I am writing you to apologize anyway.
I could not explain to you my reasoning the night I slipped away—only that I moved like a man possessed and never thought of writing a note of explanation until I was actually on the boat, hat in hand, watching the shore disappear into the darkness of the morning. That, of course, does not excuse my lack of correspondence since—all I can say is that I was selfish, and too busy burying myself in the pleasure of being completely anonymous, and in my own self-inflicted pain, to think of anyone else. Perhaps mother and father have been unfazed by my disappearing act, but you, Genevieve, deserved better, and I beg for your generous forgiveness.
At the moment I am in France—Paris, if you want to be particular—but I have no doubt that you will have already discovered that after the perusal of the envelope this letter is contained in. I have picked up a fairly ridiculous mountain of apology gifts for you, and I can only pray that they will please you when I return this autumn.
I will not be surprised if you ignore this letter and leave it unanswered. If you do so I will understand, and shall merely wait for you to write me in your own time.
Please do not blame Archie for his part in the deception, he felt very guilty about the whole thing and tried to shame me into better behavior in every letter he sent me. And those letters, as you can see, did their work.
Your very loving and very apologetic brother,
Forsythe Jones
Dear Father,
We have at last arrived in Paris, and are both perfectly safe and secure. We are currently situated in adjoining rooms at Hotel Du Louvre and are settling in nicely.
Veronica’s spirits began to rise almost as soon as the deck was beneath our feet, and per your request I have made repeated attempts to uncover the cause for her change in temperament this winter. Thus far she has managed to avoid them all, but I am determined to discover the truth of the matter.
Today has been a day of shopping and decadence, and tonight we continue with a journey to the Palais Garnier to see Trilby by Paul M. Potter. I have seen it before, as you know, but Veronica has not, and therefore it must take on a new freshness to me through her eyes.
I will write you next week, and will try my best to encourage Veronica to do the same.
Sincerely,
Hermosa Lodge
Dear diary,
Paris is turning out to be even lovelier then I had imagined, which is saying a great deal. The sights, the smells, the absolute, undeniable, realness of it all! I feel quite giddy sometimes.
Hermosa, of course, is more controlled, but I can see that she is glad to be back in France. She is more at ease here then she ever could be in America! Therefore, I don’t even try to hold my excitement in, for though she may scoff at me, I can see her begin to smile once she thinks that I am not looking.
Tonight we are going to see a play; Hermosa saw it last year, but she wants me to get the full effect of Paris before we head off to the coast for month or so.
P.S. I thought I had closed the page on this entry, but tonight something happened that I simply must record. While waiting for Hermosa’s friend’s brother to get our things from the cloak room I was staring about while the other ladies chatted about the play and in the crowd I saw a face that I truly never thought I would see again. Has it really been so short a time since I have last seen him? Was it really him at all, or was my mind playing tricks on me; littering my imagination with silhouettes of him? I suppose that I will never know now, for the figure disappeared almost instantly after. Am I still so foolish of heart that it must beat so erratically from the mere possibility of having seen him? Have I not grown stronger with absence?
The moon and the stars are shining down on the balcony—I have the curious sensation that if I were to walk out onto it I should see him standing in the street below, pacing back and forth across the cobblestones, waiting for me. Mere fancy of course—so I shall extinguish my candle and go to bed instead.
Dear Archie,
Do you ever feel as if your life is not your own, and you are instead being tugged along by a thick twisted string of fate which cares not for any determinations of it’s burden?
I felt that way tonight when I was panting beneath a streetlight—chest heaving, heart thumping—having just run as fast as possible from the Palais Garnier. You might ask why I was running from such a reputable establishment, and I might tell such a question to go to the devil for it’s impertinence.
I have become such a coward, Archie. Running like a frightened child, afraid to look up—and yet afraid to let go at the same time.
Yours,
Forsythe Jones
Dear Genevieve,
I have a question that you must answer, else I shall go mad with wondering and hope.
This spring I was informed that Miss. Veronica Lodge was engaged to be married to Mr. St. Clair, who is, as I was given to understand, a close friend of the family. I did not doubt this information as it came from someone I believed to be intimately connected with the Lodge family.
This being said, imagine my surprise when, tonight, in the grande entrance of the Palais Garnier, I came face to face with the aforementioned Miss. Lodge accompanied not by a slavishly devoted husband or fiancé, but instead her elder sister.
I do not believe she saw me, and I must admit that I ran from the place with a speed a hunted animal would admire. I could not go to her without knowing the truth of the matter. I trust I will not have to embarrass myself further by confiding the reason of my foolishness to you. Between the lines must be how this story is told I fear.
Eagerly awaiting your response,
Forsythe Jones
Dear diary,
A week has passed since my last entry, and I feel in my bones that many more shall pass before I have the time to write my next. So many things have conspired against me the past year—many of them unknown to me—but I would take all the trials again with a smile if I were always to be gifted such a precious reward.
He came to the hotel this morning just after breakfast. I was startled to say the least and almost turned him away till Hermosa had joined us, but if a woman could be so heartless as to turn her lover out into the streets in the middle of his passionate declaration of love, direct me to her so I may shake her hand for her strength of mind. I could not possibly write all the things he said to me, I am a jealous creature by nature, and therefore his words shall remain only in our shared hearts and the eyes of God.
Now I must go, for Forsythe has just arrived, and I know he shall tease me would he see my scribbles, or worse, ask to read them!
Dear Archie,
I expect you have heard the news of my and Veronica’s engagement. I hope are not too angry with me. A better man then I would have told you earlier, but I am not a better man.
I shall understand if you do not answer this letter, but I hope you know that you shall remain in my prayers and thoughts.
You friend,
Forsythe Jones
Dear Father,
Veronica and I embark on our journey home tomorrow, per your wishes. She is not pleased to be leaving Forsythe behind—but he has a few things of business to wrap up here in Paris, so she must wait and be resigned.
We really were fools not to see what had upset her last winter—intuition must not be our family’s strong suit—but now she is back to her normal self and more. Happiness pours from both of our young lovers, and I had no doubts as to their happiness together.
You loving daughter,
Hermosa Lodge
My dear heart,
‘And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it...you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives,
How much it means that I say this to you—
Without these friendship—life, what cauchemar!’
I have been pouring over my memories of Shakespeare's sonnets and Donne's poems to find something suitable to send to you. However, old Bill stuck too much humor in his prose and Donne's category of work is something that I dare not send for fear of your father asking to read this letter at the breakfast table. Don't fear, my darling, I will whisper the passages into your ear as soon as I am home, but for now Eliot will have to do.
I long to be near you once more, blessed by your presence, refreshed as a man in the desert upon finding a well.
My things are practically finished here, and I have arranged to leave in the morning. I wrote to the family as promised—my parents care no more and no less then you might expect—but Genevieve is as pleased as punch and if she hasn't come to see you already I expect that she will in a very short while. I hope you two enjoy abusing my character in my absence, just as much as I hope that you will be very good friends. She's a terrific girl, rather headstrong, but I love her all the more for that; only don't tell her I said so.
I dreamed of you last night. Of your hands, of your lips. I held you in the dream, and when I awoke I was unreasonably angry that you were not there beside me, with you hair falling in a thick, black tangle across the pillow. I cannot become your husband soon enough, my darling, and I intend to make you the happiest woman in the world. As for my happiness, it shall be gained by forming yours.
Unfortunately, I am running out of ink and therefore must cut this letter short. My only consolation in this fact is that I will be with you very soon and can speak with you, and sit at your feet in awe as you talk as much as I like.
Utterly besotted, and hopelessly devoted to you,
Forsythe Jones
From the pages of the New York Post:
Mr. and Mrs. Lodge are pleased to announce the marriage of their daughter, Miss. Veronica Lodge, to Mr. Forsythe Jones III on this, the twenty-third of August, 1847. The happy couple were married with a small ceremony at the Lodge’s country home, surrounded by their families and friends, and have now left to an undisclosed location for their honeymoon.