Chapter 4 #4
The house itself was immense, even bigger than the city house, with extensive land around it, a forest, a small lake, and some peaceful meadows where horses grazed.
The property was exquisitely maintained, like everything her father owned.
He was a stickler for keeping everything in good repair.
The gardens were beautifully manicured, the flower beds, the hedges.
There was a maze deeper in the garden that dated back two hundred years that she had loved as a child.
There was so much about the Hampshire estate that she loved and she was grateful she didn’t have to sell it and could afford to keep it.
Her father’s attorney had already informed her in New York that her father had provided so well for her that nothing in her life had to change.
There was enormous comfort in that. The emotional changes were hard enough.
When the gardener came to the house at her request, she showed him the exact spot in the garden where she wanted to place the urn containing her father’s ashes, and he promised to do it immediately.
Victoria was going to plan a memorial service for Alfred in the city, but she hadn’t done it yet. She wanted time to settle in first.
The London Season was in full swing, but she didn’t intend to participate.
She would pick up the threads of her social life in the fall.
She didn’t feel ready to see anyone yet.
She wanted time to adjust to her father’s absence.
She was thinking of spending July and August in Hampshire.
The country seemed like a good place to heal.
She had as many memories of him there as she did in the city.
Her father had been her whole life, her entire family and closest friend.
She had dinner on a tray in the little study off her bedroom. The room was decorated in flowered silks in palest pink, and she always found it peaceful being there.
She had had trouble sleeping since she’d gotten home, and ever since the sinking.
She woke up often and the nights were long, but her loneliness always struck her at mealtimes.
She hated eating alone, and she ate less and less.
She hated sitting in the dining room by herself, and getting through a whole meal was challenging.
Most of the time, she left much of the food on her plate, and got up before she finished, or skipped dinner entirely.
She was looking very thin by the end of May, when she went back to the city to check on things there.
The house seemed to be running smoothly.
She’d had one letter from Bert, but he didn’t want to pressure her, so he left her alone.
She had called a few friends by then, and invited them to tea, but all they wanted to talk about was the sinking of the Titanic and to ask about the details, which depressed her.
She spent her time checking the house in the city for anything that needed attention or repair.
She was finding that all of her activities were centered around her homes.
She felt like an extension of Mrs. Babbitt in the city and Mrs. Pierce in Hampshire.
She realized more than ever how much of her life had revolved around her father.
Without him, she had nothing to do, and nothing to distract her in the evening.
She felt useless, as the days slipped by into June.
Every day in London seemed the same. She read as much as she could, but she was tired of that too.
Her life seemed to serve no purpose. She was immensely relieved when she got a telegram from Bert telling her that he was coming to London, and inviting her to dinner.
She felt a ripple of excitement at the thought of seeing him.
She went through her closet to find a suitably elegant black evening dress, and found a few.
She hadn’t seen him in a month since they docked in Liverpool, and she felt as though she had accomplished nothing since she’d last seen him.
He was staying at his club, and called her as soon as he got to his room. She felt a thrill when she heard his voice on the phone, when Mrs. Babbitt came to tell her she had a call, and he sounded equally pleased to hear her.
“Is tonight too soon?” he asked about their dinner.
“Not at all.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty, if you agree.”
“It’s perfect.”
“I’ve missed you,” he said, enjoying the sound of her voice.
“I’ve missed you too,” she admitted.
“You can tell me all the news tonight,” he said, and she realized as she hung up that she had no news to tell him.
She had never felt so useless in her life as she had in the last month.
She hadn’t seen any friends for dinner, hadn’t gone anywhere, or done anything of interest. The life of a spinster wasn’t nearly as appealing as it had been before.
She missed having someone to talk to. She could hardly wait to see Bert, as she ran up the stairs to make sure that her black evening dress was in good order for their dinner that night.