The next day, Angela started to paint—and she would continue to do so, daily, for the rest of her life, often for hours at a time. The day after that, John decided that she would one day be his wife. She was, he said, the only girl for him. It was mostly true.
What he wrote:
My darling,
I set out today, prepared to be cross. Deeply cross, if you must know. When the post arrived, I tore through the stack of envelopes looking for the clean, sure stroke of your most beloved hand and found it was nowhere to be seen. Is this, I asked, what a devoted husband should expect from his wayward wife?
In the meantime, Mrs. Wooten at the tea shop scolded me this morning for not sending my beautiful wife away from this unholy den of lusty soldiers.
“They pant after her like dogs, the poor little lamb,” she said, smacking her wooden spoon upon the counter with a deafening crack.
“My dear lady,” said I, “I sent her to my mother’s house not two days ago.” She did not believe me, of course, and insisted on calling me everything from a horse’s ass to a fiend-of-a-man, unworthy of the angel who is my Angela. She insisted that she had seen you just that morning, sitting in your chair by the sea, painting a landscape of wind. She said that your hair was undone and you had a carpetbag at your feet.
And just as I was about to speak ill of you, my dear, I placed my hand in my pocket and withdrew your letter. How it came to be there, I’m sure I don’t know, but I assume I must have slipped it in without even thinking. Oh, to see your lettering, my love! Oh, to hold the paper once held by your dear fingers. Perhaps this is what happens when we force the artist into the office instead of the studio—a weakened mind, my dear. I do hope you’ll forgive me for it.
Mrs. Wooten, I’m glad to say, was pacified, my darling. And so am I.
Ever yours,
John
What he did not:
Although he had received offers of company the previous night, he opted to sleep alone. The wind continued to hiss at the windowpane and insinuate itself into the cracks. The brass bed beneath him creaked and whined each time he shivered. Eight times he attempted to sleep. Eight times he slept, though briefly and not well. Eight times he woke to a dream of Angela. Angela, seated by the sea, her hair undone and sailing like notes in an insistent breeze. Angela, whose long fingers were brought to her mouth as she puzzled over her paints. Angela, whose head was cocked curiously to the side, listening to a faraway sound of twisting metal and dying engines—the percussive slap of compressed explosives hurtling themselves into the sky. She listened as though hearing music. A smile played upon her pale pink lips. John woke in tears. He did not know why.
What she wrote:
Dearest John,
It is official. Your mother is not speaking to me. I do not know what I have done to offend her, but whatever it is, will you please inform her that it is your fault, and I, as usual, am blameless. I arrived last night in the dark and though I rang endlessly, the house was silent. So like a thief, I entered your mother’s home unawares and settled into your old room. The next morning, at breakfast, I greeted your mother and sat down across from her. She ate her egg and sipped her tea—she hoards it you know, and buys it from the blackest of black markets from possibly German spies—and said nothing. I was dying for tea. Dying for it, darling. Yet no place was set, no breakfast called for. I was glad to see that dear old Charles was still in her employ, though he did not speak to me either—doubtless on his mistress’s orders. Once I tilted my head in an utterly charming way and fluttered my fingers toward him. He looked at me then, managed to raise his eyebrows in hello before turning quite white and staring at the ground.
—Everything all right, Charles? your mother said with toast in her mouth.
—Fine, madam, Charles whispered. I wondered if he was trying not to laugh. And your mother said
—Would you be so kind as to ring my son, I’d like to speak to him.
—Speak to him, indeed, I shouted (yes, dear, I shouted. But honestly what would you have done?) but your mother ignored me.
—It is not possible, madam, Charles said. There was some amount of trouble last night and the lines are down.
Your mother asked what sort of trouble, and of course, Charles did not know. No one knows anything anymore, we just soldier on like good little Britons. You might know, of course.
Do you?
Ever yours,
Angela
What she did not:
The only room with decent light was the music room, so she carried her sketchbook and carpetbag to the third floor, stopping at the dumbwaiter to place a note which read, Tea and sustenance to the music room at ten o’clock, if you please, and send it on its way.
A large rectangle of sunlight brightened half the room and fell, like silk, to the ground. When Angela had visited as a child, she would sometimes position her body just so within the rectangle and listen to the parents play, while enjoying the press and weight of light. She wondered if the light could somehow penetrate her small body, or perhaps radiate through it, if the outline of her hands and torso and spindly legs would somehow dissolve, leaving only heat and faded color behind.
The music room was quiet and dusty. She could sketch the room, of course. Perhaps she would. She stood upon the lit rectangle and tilted her face toward the window. Normally, she would squint, but now she found that she had
