I do not know how to begin a letter such as this, but I feel I must write or I will lose the very last scraps of my mind that are still left to me.
I cannot begin to express how sorry I am for the death of your mother.
There, it is said.
It is intolerable to think that you have been dragged into the same misery that has consumed me. What is there I can say that will be of any comfort? There is nothing, and there can be nothing. We must simply reel from the blow and let the weight of our pain act as some bittersweet anchor.
Do you blame me? I think you should. It was my fault she was there. I lie awake each night and think of every different thing I should have done that would not have led to the three of us on that station platform. I wish I had been sharper, faster. I wish I had done something, but no matter how I think on it, I cannot see anything that could have been done.
You do not need to hear this from me. I am sure my father has told you it all.
I wish they would let me home to see you.
They have plans for me. I am still at Herne House, but there is talk of a lady’s companion and a journey to the Continent. I think I am to be exiled for a time.
Please send me word. I wish I could be there with you but – well, I suppose it is better this way.
Your loving,
Odette
*
10thDecember 1898
My beloved Cecilia,
Of course you do not write to me. How can you write to me? You must be so angry.
I will sail from Harwich in a matter of days. It is better, I think, that I go. But please – if you want me with you, send me word – any word – and I will find a way to you.
I am possessed by thoughts that you need me, that you would rather I stay – and yet I know that cannot be true. I think about you every moment. You are all I can conceive of. What a fool I have been to let the world come between us. You have always been my true, dear, constant friend and the greatest love in my life, and I have used you most cruelly. I have – God, I cannot write the things I have done to you. See how my pen shakes? I am a monster.
Know that while you must rightly hate me, I love you, and you have all my heart.
I am yours, always,
Odette
*
11thDecember 1898
[The paper is scrunched, unblotted, smeared with ink and torn where the pen nib has punctured through. It has been thrown into the embers of the fire and already the words disappear into smoke.]
God, please, Cecilia, any word from you. I beg you.
I love you I love you I love you. Who can I ever be without you? Am I anything at all?
I told you the truth, but you would not hear it. That pained me so dreadfully I cannot begin to explain it – it was as thoughyou took the worst fear in my heart and played it out perfectly before you.
I am sick to ask it, but I must know: does your mother come to you, too?
Lydia is with me all the time now. She will not let me know peace, exactly as she would not in life.
I am so frightened that truly I have gone mad.
I think, I know, I am terribly selfish.
