Margot felt a sudden chill, there and then gone again. Could it possibly be envy? Paul had not shown her off. He had wanted to be alone with her, to talk about what they would do together when peace came. He had thought it would not be long. He was right about that. It came soon, very soon. But he did not live to see it.
“Of course,” she answered in response to Winifred’s remark.
Cecily looked up, her eyes full of pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you were here, where I am, once and…and had only a week. I shouldn’t be going on.”
Margot reached across and put her hand over Cecily’s. “Yes, you should. No one knows what the future holds, and you can’t carry the pain of someone else’s loss. And I can be happy for you, without a shadow crossing it. I promise you, this is your time, and I am here to enjoy it with you. In the future, we will both be able to look back on it, and I can say…I was there. So tell me more. Has he brothers and sisters? What kind of music does he like? What makes him laugh? What is your dress like? No, I’ll wait to see it. It’s not what your dress is like that matters, it’s you, and what you look like when you’re wearing it. You will look beautiful because you are beautiful. But sophisticated or innocent? Simple or ravishing?”
Again, Cecily started to answer and then changed her mind. “Traditional,” she said instead. “He comes from a very prominent family, you know. His mother is quite a fashion icon.”
“Is she beautiful?” Margot asked. “Be honest, not polite.”
Cecily smiled. “Not really. She’s…flawless, but there’s nobody in there.”
“Cecily!” Winifred said quickly. “That’s…”
“What is she like?” Cecily said directly to Margot. “Enamel. Perfect. Not a mark or a chip in it. But slightly out of proportion; there’s something wrong with the balance of it.”
Margot was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Was it fear speaking, or was it the flash of perception she recalled in Cecily: the artist’s eye. Cecily liked to draw. She never needed to rely on color: the art, the inner truth, was all in the line.
This felt suddenly too close to their current situation. “Then you will have to be everything in contrast,” Margot said. “Vibrant, warm, imperfect, as true beauty always is.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Winifred said with a frown. “How can imperfection make beauty?”
Both Winifred and Cecily were looking at Margot, waiting. She had to say something. “I’m not sure. Maybe it gives it character, reality, a life instead of just art. A cry for you to meet it. I’m not sure what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Cecily said quickly. “A place where you can touch it, where your worlds meet.”
Winifred still looked puzzled.
In her mind’s eye, Margot caught a glimpse of two separate orbs, touching and then parting again.
Before she could think of it further, there was a noise in the hall outside, footsteps, and the door opened. Roger Cordell came in, saw Margot, and walked to her immediately. She stood up and, without thinking, gave him a hug. It seemed so natural, but it was only when she stepped back that she realized she had not greeted Winifred with such an enthusiastic embrace, and she felt self-conscious.
“Did you have a good journey?” Roger asked. “How is your family? Your father?”
They spent a good amount of time exchanging friendly and polite inquiries, and all the news. It was easy, comfortable, and needed no thought. They remembered old jokes, happy times, perhaps happier in the remembrance than they were at the time. It was the experience shared that mattered.
Dusk settled over the garden. Roger rose and pulled the curtains closed. They put more coal on the fire.
It was only after dinner and well into the evening that Margot excused herself, saying she wished to be fresh for all the events that were to come.
“Of course,” Winifred agreed. “You must be tired from traveling.” She rose also, accompanying Margot to the door. She hesitated when they were outside in the hall, as if she wanted to say something but could not find the words.
Margot did not know how to help her. Winifred was smiling, but there was uncertainty in it, even fear.
“Thank you for coming,” she said awkwardly. “We’ve been friends for a long time. Your parents were the closest we had to family.”
Margot nearly made some appropriate remark, but she realized Winifred had something for which she was trying to find words, something that mattered to her intensely.
“You may find Hans’s parents a little…I don’t know the word I’m looking for…harsh? A little too forward in their opinions?” She blinked several times. “Perhaps it comes from having lost the war. It scalds the pride. They can’t bring themselves to admit that they were in any way wrong. Their history books omit all of their invasions, their occupation of other people’s lands and towns and villages. It seems to be difficult sometimes…”
“I understand,” Margot cut into the awkwardness. “I don’t like to admit some of the things that England has done, particularly when speaking to one of our victims.”
Winifred looked puzzled. “Our…victims?”
Margot realized her mistake. Winifred could see only this war; nothing else was material now. “I was thinking of the past,” she explained. “European wars, that kind of thing. I’m sorry, I’ll be courteous, I promise you. If they make Cecily happy, that’s all I care about.”
Winifred’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, my dear. It’s all I care about, too. Happy and safe. Roger and I, we can’t do that for her, not now. She loves Hans, and I’m sure he loves her. She’s so…”