Chapter 3
Hetty
When Hetty came downstairs at 9 in the morning the next day, Philippa was already seated in the dining room with a cup of tea and a letter that absorbed all of her attention. She wore a riding attire stained with the red dust of some of the roads here. The floor creaked underneath Hetty’s feet, heralding her arrival and Phil’s head swivelled to the door. She smiled warmly and put the letter aside to give Hetty her full attention. “Good morning, Hetty! I’ve already ridden into town for the post this morning. There’s a letter from Thomas for you.”
As Hetty took a seat opposite Phil, her friend slid a sealed letter over the table. Hetty wondered if anyone else would write. Certainly - and luckily - not her husband. Perhaps some of her friends would, though she doubted it. Phil’s pile of correspondence was plenty in comparison. She made friendly acquaintances everywhere she went and kept into close contact with many. Her husband had forwarded her some correspondence from New York and others who had been warned of her absence had written to the house directly. Two of those in particular seemed of interest to Phil for she had set them apart from the rest. One was from Aurora Fane, with whom Hetty shared an acquaintance also - that is how she recognised the handwriting. The other Phil was currently reading.
When she was done, Phil put the letter down. “My dear, would you mind terribly if I invited my dear friend Florence Alexander to join us here? She has returned to the Island for the first time since the loss of her husband and she could use some distraction.” Philippa slid the letter over the table for Hetty to read. Hetty took it hesitantly even as Phil gestured at her to read it.
My dear Phil,
How glad I am to hear of your happy return to the Island. I find myself there too, miles away though from you and your beacon of welcome. My own home lacks that same hospitality now that it is bereft of my husband. I had thought that two years of mourning would have made homecoming easier. God knows how much I had begun to long for our little nest while in England. I realise now that it was yet another manifestation of my longing for Ned. Without my husband our beautiful marital home is but a house; a house haunted by our two spectres. Yes, mine too. I haunt that house as much as he does, for I have died and come alive again a different person. The late mrs Wilson now haunts this house. The Mrs Wilson I was when I last was here and the one I dreamt up with my head pillowed by my husband’s warm and living shoulder. I buried her alongside my dear Edward and now she is gone, replaced again by dear old Lady Florence Alexander.
My mother is delighted, of course, by this development. She insists I think now on a sensible marriage. I am surprised she thinks it is possible still after my elopement with a farmer’s son - doctor though he was. How I smile to think of my foolish romanticism then. I have not regretted it a second, dear Phil. On the contrary, I regret not wedding Ned sooner, for I might have been hislonger. Nevertheless, I understand that I shall have to marry again, someday, and I’ve had enough romantic follies to last myself a lifetime. I have resolved to myself that the next match I make will be a mere business transaction. I will leave the dangerous act of bravery that is loving to the heroines in my novels. Once has been enough for me. After all, I do not think I could bear this amount of heartbreak again. As I close this chapter of romance in my very own life by closing up my dear home, cutting off the future I had planned with Ned, I vow now to be sensible always. I know you do not believe me Phil, but it is true.
Yours always,
For the last time I sign this, Florence Wilson
Ps: Hurry and write me better tidings of the Island so I may colour mine own last memories with yours and remember it fondly.
Hetty’s eyes lingered pensively on the letter a while after finishing it. It was not the flowery language that drew her emotions but the topic of it - the closing of a foolishly romantic chapter. Hetty thought once again of her painter. After all these years she could no longer evoke his face, nor his voice or laughter and she often refused to think of his name, but she remembered his eyes, his kind, soft and loving. No one had looked at her like that since. Florence’s story could have been hers if she had married him. Would the years of love be worth the lack of money and eventual loss to her the way it evidently was to Florence? Hetty drew her eyes away from the letter, away from the might have beens. “Of course you may invite her, Philippa,” Hetty said, “I believe she may benefit from this as much as I can.” She folded the letter neatly and handed it back to Philippa.
Phil clasped her hands together, a delighted smile on her face. “Perfect. I will write to her at once.”