‘Well, now you know why.’ Fitz pressed her lips together and dabbed on a little more lipstick. ‘She’s a lot younger than my father. Closer to my age, actually.’
‘Maybe that’s why you find it difficult,’ said Marjorie. ‘Maybe she finds it difficult. Maybe she doesn’t know whether to be your friend or your mother.’
‘She’ll never be my mother,’ said Fitz, becoming a little irritated at the questioning from Marjorie.
‘Perhaps you should let her be your friend instead?’
Fitz turned to Marjorie. ‘I don’t want to be her friend, either. Now, can we stop talking about her? Otherwise it will put me in a bad mood.’
‘Right you are,’ said Marjorie, picking up Fitz’s jacket and tossing it to her. ‘Come on, they’ll be ringing for last orders if we don’t get a move on.’
As they made their way to the pub, Fitz’s conversation with Marjorie nagged at the back of her mind. In particular, the comment that either Fitz or Camilla had to write first. Was Camilla waiting for Fitz to send her a letter as an invitation to write back? Surely, Camilla should initiate the communication. The more Fitz thought about it, the less certain she became of what was protocol.
It was something of a surprise to Fitz when, a couple of weeks after her conversation with Marjorie, she received a letter from Camilla.
She opened it with a certain amount of trepidation, initially worried that it might be bad news but as she read the flowing cursive writing, she found herself stunned, rather than shocked.
Camilla Fitz-Herbert
Badcombe House
Little Badcombe
Cambridgeshire
2nd June, 1941
Dear Geraldine
I hope you don’t mind my writing to you but I’m not sure when we will see each other again and there’s been something playing on my mind, that really can’t wait.
The other day, when I was tidying Michael’s room, I happened to see the recent letter you sent him. I wasn’t prying but I said to Michael how nice it was you’d written to him. He eagerly showed me the letter. When I got to the final paragraph where you said Cook had probably been gossiping, I asked Michael what you meant. He must have forgotten about that part in the letter. He was very reluctant to tell me, but he did in the end.
I rather wished I hadn’t asked him but there I was, faced with questions that needed answers and I feel it’s only right that you know too.
What Cook said was true. I did indeed have a child before Michael, with your father. Tragically, I was unable to carry her to full term and she was stillborn at six months. A beautiful little girl who we named Isabelle.I was devastated, as was your father. Cook was very kind to me and I’m not sure without her strength and compassion I would have recovered so well.
You were only young at the time and I’d had a troublesome pregnancy. The baby was small, and I wasn’t really showing, so we hadn’t yet told you the news. Afterwards, we wanted to shield you from what we’d been through so never told you.
It is something we have never spoken about since. Despite that, the loss has weighed heavy on my heart since. We were overjoyed and felt blessed when Michael entered the world a healthy boy, but I have never forgotten Isabelle. And I never will.
Some people said I was lucky to have you, that you could be the daughter I’d lost but both you and I know, grief doesn’t work like that. And I would never bestow that burden on you. A person, a deeply loved person, can never be replaced.
I wish I could have spoken to you about this before, but you were too young at the time and as the years rolled by, it never felt the right time to tell you. I’m so very sorry you found out this way and I hope you willunderstand why I never told you. I didn’t want to burden you with more unhappiness.
Take care.
Fondest love
Camilla
P.S. I’d rather keep this just between us as I don’t want to upset your father, so maybe best if we don’t mention this again. I simply wanted you to know.
Fitz sat down on the edge of her bed as she took a moment to take in what she’d just read. Fortunately, she was alone that morning as it was her day off but both Marjorie and Elsie were working.
She had never expected Camilla to write to her, and never in a million years thought her stepmother would tell her about such a tragic time in her life. All Fitz could think was how terribly heartbreaking it must have been for her father and Camilla.
Fitz cast her gaze over the words again, carefully reading the paragraph where Camilla spoke about someone never being replaced. It was obvious she was not only referring to her own grief but to Fitz’s, too. And Fitz had never given her credit for that sentiment. Gosh, she felt terribly selfish.
