Dear Mr. Dilwyn,
Juliet Dryhurst Ashton is a very nice lady—sober, clean, and responsible. You should let Kit McKenna have her for a mother.
Yours sincerely,
James Dominic Strachan
I didn’t tell you, did I, about Mr. Dilwyn’s plans for Kit’s heritage on Guernsey? He has engaged Dawsey, and a crew Dawsey is to select, to restore the Big House: banisters replaced; graffiti removed from the walls and paintings; torn-out plumbing replaced with new; windows replaced; chimneys and flues cleaned; wiring checked and terrace paving stones repointed—or whatever it is you do to old stones. Mr. Dilwyn is not yet certain what can be done with the wooden paneling in the library—it had a beautiful carved frieze of fruit and ribbons, which the Germans used for target practice.
Since no one will want to go on holiday to Europe itself for the next few years, Mr. Dilwyn is hoping the Channel Islands might become a tourist haven again—and Kit’s house could make a wonderful holiday house for families to rent.
But on to stranger events: the Benoit sisters asked me and Kit for tea this afternoon. I had never met them, and it was quite an odd invitation; they asked if Kit had “a steady eye and good aim? Does she like rituals?”
Bewildered, I asked Eben if he knew of the Benoit sisters. Were they sane? Was it safe to take Kit there? Eben roared with laughter and said yes, the sisters were safe and sane. He said Jane and Elizabeth had visited them every summer for five years; the girls always wore starched pinafores, polished court shoes, and little lace gloves. We would have a fine time, he said, and he was glad to see the old traditions were coming back. We would have a lavish tea, with entertainment afterwards, and we should go.
None of which told me what to expect. They are identical twins, in their eighties. So very prim and ladylike, dressed in ankle-length gowns of black georgette, larded with jet beads at bosom and hem, their white hair piled like swirls of whipped cream atop their heads. So charming, Sophie. We did have a sinful tea, and I’d barely put my cup down when Yvonne (older by ten minutes) said, “Sister, I do believe Elizabeth’s child is too small yet.” Yvette said, “I believe you’re right, Sister. Perhaps Miss Ashton would favor us?”
I think it was very brave of me to say, “I’d be delighted,” when I had no idea what they were proposing.
“So kind if you would, Miss Ashton. We denied ourselves during the war—so disloyal to the Crown, somehow. Our arthritis has grown very much worse: we cannot even join you in the rites. It will be our pleasure to watch!”
Yvette went to a drawer in the sideboard, while Yvonne slid out one side of the pocket doors between their drawing room and dining room. Taped to the previously hidden panel was a fullpage, full-length newspaper rotogravure portrait in sepia of the Duchess of Windsor,
Yvette handed me four silver-tipped, finely balanced, evillooking darts.
“Go for the eyes, dear,” she said. So I did.
“Splendid! Three-for-four, Sister. Almost as good as dear Jane! Elizabeth always fumbled at the last moment! Shall you want to try again next year?”
It’s a simple story, but sad. Yvette and Yvonne adored the Prince of Wales. “So darling in his little plus fours.” “How the man could waltz!” “How debonair in evening dress!” So fine, so royal—until that hussy got hold of him. “Snatched him from the throne! His crown—gone!” It broke their hearts. Kit was enthralled with it all—as well she might be. I am going to practice my aim—four-for-four being my new goal in life.
Don’t you wish we had known the Benoit sisters while we were growing up?
Love and XXX,
Juliet
From Juliet to Sidney
2nd September, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Something happened this afternoon; while it ended well, it was disturbing, and I am having trouble going to sleep. I am writing to you, instead of Sophie, because she’s pregnant and you’re not. You don’t have a delicate condition to be upset in, and Sophie does—I am losing my grip on grammar.
Kit was with Isola, making gingerbread men. Remy and I needed some ink and Dawsey needed some kind of putty for the Big House, so we all walked together into St. Peter Port.
We took the cliff walk by Fermain Bay. It’s a beautiful walk, with a rugged path that wanders up and around the headlands. I was a little ahead of Remy and Dawsey because the path had narrowed.
A tall red-headed woman walked around the large boulder at the path’s turning and came toward us. She had a dog with her, an Alsatian, and a big one. He was not on a leash and he was overjoyed to see me. I was laughing at his antics and the woman called out, “Don’t worry. He never bites.” His paws came up on my shoulders, attempting a big, slobbering kiss.
Then, behind me, I heard a noise—an awful gulping gasp: a deep gagging that went on and on. I can’t describe it. I turned and saw that it was Remy; she was bent over almost double and vomiting. Dawsey had caught her and was holding her as she kept on vomiting, deep spasms of it, over both of them. It was terrible to see and hear.
Dawsey yelled, “Get that dog away, Juliet! Now!”
I frantically pushed the dog away. The woman was crying and apologizing, almost hysterical herself. I held on to the dog’s collar and kept saying, “It’s all right! It’s all right! It’s not your fault. Please go. Go!” She finally did, hauling her poor, confused pet along by his collar.
Remy was quiet then, only gasping for breath. Dawsey looked over her head and said, “Let’s get her to your house, Juliet. It’s closest.” He picked her up and carried her—me trailing behind, helpless and scared.
Remy was cold and shaking, so I drew a bath for her, and after she was warm again, put her into bed. She was already half-asleep, so I gathered her clothes into a bundle, and went downstairs.
