Page 21 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Eighteen

Mariah holed up in her room for three days.

For the first two, Veronica hung around in case she was needed, reading a worn paperback copy of Sarum she’d found on a bookshelf.

It was thicker than any book she’d ever picked up, but that was part of the pleasure.

She felt like a teenager again, reading in a chair, then draping herself over the couch, then propping herself up in the bedroom, her windows looking out to the hotel across the street and endless sheets of rain.

She also forced herself to do some research on her Bloomsbury thesis when she got bored.

It had been so long that her brain felt it was creaking with disuse, and she never lasted long.

Each day, she walked around Russell Square seven times to give herself some exercise and limited herself to an egg in the morning, a slice of toast at lunch, and one of the packaged meals from Waitrose for dinner.

It was depressing. This was not what she’d had in mind.

On the third morning, she couldn’t face being cooped up all day any longer. She checked with Mariah, who was still hidden under her covers, watching videos on her tablet. She made sure she had water, and some food, and her phone number.

Then, armed with a downloaded map and a list of places to visit in Bloomsbury and around the neighborhoods Elsie had lived, she set out.

It seemed like a gift that this hotel was so close to the places she wanted to see: Virginia Woolf’s house and some of the more notable spots in the history of the Bloomsbury circle.

And one of the places Elsie had lived was nearby, close to the British Museum. She had shared it with her husband, a man she’d never really wanted to marry, and one who’d caused her a great deal of hardship.

A hard life, Veronica thought as she set out, her phone map in hand. It was a cold, drizzling day, but she had a raincoat and an umbrella, a bottle of water and snacks in her bag, and her fully charged phone. Bloomsbury was only a short walk away.

The map took her exactly where she expected in just under fifteen minutes.

Walking the outside of the square, she located Woolf’s house and happened upon a tour group.

A guide in sensible shoes and a rain hat gave details of the place when Virginia and her husband had lived there.

The guide pointed out a building nearby and said an electrifying name, Elsie Turner.

Usually she would have been too shy to ask, but this might be the only chance she had to explore this territory. When the group pressed forward to look at the plaque, Veronica approached the tour leader. “Is it possible to join in?”

“Not for this one,” she said, “but I’d be happy to take you around another day.” She produced a card from her pocket.

“Thanks.” As the group moved on, Veronica went back to Elsie’s house.

It was the same as the others around it, a four-story town house Elsie’s husband bought for them upon their marriage.

He’d been pursuing her for years, before the Great War and after.

She’d resolutely ignored him and attended the Slade School of Art, one of the only schools that allowed women to study.

Her work was bright and detailed, heavily influenced by her childhood in the tropics.

She believed that marriage interfered with an artist’s pursuit of her work and resisted all attempts from suitors.

And then her father died, and although she’d held an expectation of inheritance, it turned out his gambling debts and speculative projects had entirely depleted the family fortune. Peter swooped in to rescue her, and seeing that she had no choice, she married him.

Why am I so drawn to this woman? Veronica stood in front of the house, imagining Elsie bustling behind the windows, painting on the top floor with a view of the treetops and the square, although from all accounts, she’d only painted India, the place to which she longed to return the entirety of her life.

Veronica felt the familiar ache. Elsie’s life had been hard, directed by others. And for all that Veronica had struggled to climb from her working-class world into a more privileged one, she had not struggled with people telling her when to get married or to whom.

Rain started to sprinkle down on her head, and pulling up her hood, she headed for her next stop, the British Museum. Because it was there. Because she could. First she texted Mariah. Anything you need?

I’m good, thanks

It started to rain harder, and Veronica pulled out her umbrella, determined not to be chased indoors by a little weather.

Following the map she’d taken a photo of, she turned away from the square, then left, then right.

A squall slammed down, and she laughed, ducking into a doorway to wait it out, feeling her feet get wet in her walking shoes.

It didn’t matter. After a moment, the squall subsided, and she set out again.

But within a few more blocks, it was plain she’d taken a wrong turn. Where the museum should have been was yet another street filled with shops on the lower level, hotels or apartments above. Damn. Where had she gone wrong?

A bubble of anxiety swelled in her chest. What if she couldn’t find her way back?

So what? a little voice said. You know the name of the hotel, and you have your boss’s phone number. Can’t get that far offtrack.

Right. Take a breath, open the Maps app, and reorient.

Nothing lost. The pin for the hotel was on the other side of where she thought she was, but she could walk there in no time.

The British Museum was in the other direction.

Maybe she’d save that for another day. The rain had settled into a steady, relentless presence.

Even with her umbrella and raincoat, she was getting chilled and damp.

She headed for home.

Fewer people were out, likely because of the weather. Everyone hurried along, hunched into their coats. Veronica resolutely ignored the Christmas merchandise in the window, the tinsel and ornaments and flashing lights. She wouldn’t have to celebrate this year at all if she didn’t want to.

A pang caught her unexpectedly over that. No roasting turkey, no early coffee made before everyone else got up. No gathering around the Christmas tree in pj’s to see what they’d all given each other.

She was deep in her thoughts, striding hard, when her heel slipped on something oily on the sidewalk.

It felt like it happened in slow motion, her feet flying up, her umbrella flung to one side, and her butt and left elbow landing hard on the sidewalk.

For a moment, she sat there, stunned, her tailbone bursting with light, her elbow a competing set of fireworks, the rain soaking her jeans and hair.

A pair of young women hurried over and crouched beside her, one on each side. “Are you all right? Can you stand up? Do we need to call an ambulance?”

She wanted to shake them off, but their expressions were earnest, and she could see Jenna doing this, helping an “old” woman to her feet, but she was appalled. Her ears burned with embarrassment. “Thank you.”

It was hard to get her balance with one girl on each side, hauling her up, and that increased her humiliation approximately one hundredfold. They probably saw her as really old, when she wasn’t, not at all, and still fit. Anyone could fall.

Finally, she was righted and brushed her coat off, and her butt. “Thank you,” she managed. “I’m good.”

The first girl, wearing a miniskirt and dark tights, kept her fingers lightly on Veronica’s arm. “Sure?”

Veronica nodded. “Thank you for your kindness.”

They waved and let her be. Veronica picked up the umbrella, but it was wet on the inside now, and she’d broken one of the stretchers. She shook it out as well as she could and folded it, tucking it under her arm, then limped toward home.

Everything stung. Her tailbone, the jarring impact to her head, her elbow, which really hurt quite a lot. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her hair, wet from the rain, started to drip onto her shirt.

What the hell was she doing? Why was she even in England, when she could be at home with her kids?

Even if they were doing something on Christmas that didn’t include her, she could have come up with a celebration of some kind, to maybe start making new memories or start to heal the family wounds. Something.

Instead, she’d deserted all of them.

This was such a bad idea. She thought of her kids, swarming into the apartment to talk her out of the trip. Why hadn’t she listened?

She was too old to start over, start a new life.

She wanted the old one back. Her beautiful home and flowers, the reliable cadence of the year, holidays and birthdays and family traditions.

The granite solidity of Spence’s family, which had been such a lure.

They took family seriously, with traditions and a culture all their own, and seemingly eternal, bits and pieces dating back to great-grandparents who’d escaped the stuffy society of the east to build a new life in Colorado.

Where they’d promptly re-created their family legacies in a Western font.

She had loved that family grounding so much. It felt like magic, like a net that could hold you no matter what.

Now all of it was gone. Running away to Europe with a highly unstable young woman, and trying to resurrect her old thesis wasn’t going to get it back.

The recognition pierced her. Under cover of the rain, she let tears flow, holding her arm close to her body so she didn’t have to move her elbow.

Two blocks on, she realized she was passing the welcoming windows of a bookstore. She didn’t even think about it—she was inside before she knew it, greeted by the heady scent of coffee, and books, and the low murmur of voices layered with classical music. Everything in her body let go.