My Darling Love

Chapter 29 – Silently Speaking

"Silence is a true friend that never betrays."

-Confucius

The summer was an eternity. The children wrote to their father and Grandpa Joe often, but not one letter arrived to either from Mary. The children never mentioned her in their correspondence, only describing the adventures they had in the city called New York. They went to the theatre and played in parks. Wendy got a trunk full of new clothes and even met a handsome gentleman who wanted to visit with her once she returned to London. John wrote of a place called Wall Street that was the financial hub of the city. Michael found mischief even on the island of Manhattan, but nothing more serious than getting lost in a museum. The memory the children would hold most dear in their heart was seeing a new statue that was erected in the waters off the City shores. "They call her Liberty Enlightening the World, and she is lovely," Wendy wrote. John said she was the tallest woman he had ever seen in his life and seemed rather angry, "not a face I would want to be welcomed with," which made Grandpa Joe and George laugh, the only time that sound was heard in the Darling house all summer long.

Michael wrote nothing of Lady Liberty because, that day, he volunteered to stay and look after his mother who had caught a nasty cold while on board the ship that only grew worse on land. The boys and Aunt Millicent returned the first week in September, leaving Wendy and Mary behind in America. "She was simply too weak to travel, George, and since Wendy is finished with school and is quite in love with a wealthy young gentleman she will not be parted from, they thought it best to stay there until Mary gets well." This Millicent related to George, who was looking for the additional carriage carrying the two ladies of the house.

Grandpa Joe carried in the bags into the house with the help of John and Michael, and questioned further, "How bad was your mother?"

John and Michael looked at one another and then back to their grandfather, not wanting to worry him, but seeing no other way around it at the same time they replied, "Worse than you would believe."

Wendy sent a telegram home a week later telling her father that she was forced to take her mother into a hospital for treatment. The doctor there diagnosed Mary with a "female illness of unknown origin." He felt it might have had something to do with the operation she had undergone after Michael was born. George knew the origin, as well as Grandpa Joe and Aunt Millicent. The attending physician wrote George his own letter that arrived the day after Wendy's. He feared Mary might never recover enough to return to England, and advised George to institutionalize his wife at a convalescent home for the wealthy in upstate New York.

"Now you will finally have what you want -- Mary out of the way so your little affair with that French whore can continue." Aunt Millicent raised her nose so high; there was snow on the peak. "'A female illness of unknown origin,' indeed! It's a shame with modern medicine physicians are still unable to diagnose a heart that has been broken beyond repair by a scoundrel who still feels himself worthy to be called a gentleman."

Grandpa Joe, as he had with Mary, asked his son-in-law, "Is there anything you want to tell me?" seeing the same troubled mind as his daughter had.

George answered, as his wife had, "No."

In church on Sunday, the Darling family prayed for Mary's health to return.

Mary was found well enough to travel, but only after George took leave from bank and went to New York to bring her home himself.

Here's how it came about: A month before Christmas, Wendy had sent word that, by the time her family read her letter, she, her mother and her father would be on a ship homebound. Mary had been admitted to the convalescent home as the physician recommended, and was now confined to a bed. She was beyond pale and her illness was now suspected to be of a mental nature, as she was classified as a hazard to herself and needed to be restrained.

Mary stared off into oblivion and her eyes, although focused on something in front of her, seemed vacant from her face. "They have her medicated endlessly, Father," Wendy told George, who was furious at his wife's treatment.

"Look at her arms, they are bruised and covered in sores from being bounded to the bed! What kind of medication is she on that she doesn't even recognize her own child?" George ranted to the head nurse on duty. George tore off the restraints, and with nothing more than a nightgown and blanket wrapped around her, George carried Mary from the hospital to the cab waiting outside.

Mary had no idea who he was, and called Wendy "Mother," which alarmed the young lady of eighteen all the more. "She has not been right since we left London, Father. Something came over her on the ship and she took to bed. Once we arrived in the city, she locked herself in her room. I told her before she went to the hospital that I was going to send for you, but she told me not to bother you with her woes," Wendy told him on the long ride back to New York City. George held Mary cradled in his arms as she slept. "She will get better now that you are here, Father, I know she will."

George hadn't needed to be told by anyone to go to America and retrieve his wife and daughter. He had taken the carriage his sons and aunt had arrived in, and proceeded directly to the port to purchase his fare on the first ship available to New York. "The only way to get there faster is to fly, and since men don't have wings yet, you're ship bound, Mr. Darling," the ticket attendant informed him when he purchased his passage. He arrived in America a week later, and saw the Lady standing in the harbor holding a torch of fire made from steel, just like John had described in his letter. He found Wendy at the hotel with her gentleman escort innocently eating ice cream in the café. They wasted no time in securing transportation to where Mary was staying, and within the day, they were at her side.

Now they were back in the hotel and Mary's new "mother," Wendy, bathed Mary like a child. Even after a week of being off the medication, Mary was still frail and incoherent. She sat in a chair on the patio and gazed off into to sky. Her eyes were now responsive, for they moved about and followed objects. Soon she began blinking normally, and responded when called by her name. As she had on Christmas morning, so long ago, when she surprised her family by rising all by herself, dressing and giving the ruse of being back to her old self, one morning in New York she did the same thing. She rose from her bed and bathed alone, she dressed in her clothes without aid and fixed her hair. It took over an hour to comb out all the knots, and while Wendy watched over her, she set it in the perfect twist and began to apply her makeup. When she had finished she needed a rest, but only a short while later, she ate a hearty breakfast and informed her daughter she was ready to return home.

Mary refused to return to any doctor in the city to have her health assured, and wanted to be on a ship on her way back to London no later than the next day. "I will feel much better in my own bed, Wendy. The passage home is always quicker than the journey there."

George bought the tickets to two cabins, hoping he and Mary could talk things through on the trip home. But just as in the hotel, George had his own room and Mary shared hers with Wendy, on the ship it was the same arrangement. In fact, Mary would not speak to George, and all their communications needed to be executed through Wendy.

George carried Mary from the carriage to the ship and told Mary, "I will carry you onboard my love, and to your room as well."

"Tell your father Wendy, that I can walk to the ship, that I don't need him to carry me." Mary would not even address him by his name. Mary's tone was irritated at his presence, "I told you not to send for him."

George's reply was accommodating and kind, "Please, Mary, had she not sent for me, you would have never seen the inside of your home again, let alone the faces of those you love."

Wendy was saddened to leave her gentleman friend behind, but he promised he would come to London just to see her, and she swore she would accept calls from no other, and would be counting the days.

Mary felt better and better everyday, and by the time they docked in England, the only things still missing were the smile on her face and the color in her checks. "Easily corrected with the proper amount of rouge, my dear," Aunt Millicent told her when they arrived home. Mary took a long look around in the foyer before walking straight through the house, which had been decorated for Christmas especially for her by John and Michael, and out to the back yard where snow covered the ground. It was cold, but not freezing, and there she sat on an outdoor chair with her coat, hat and gloves on, and gazed off into nothingness. This had now become her normal behavior.

"She did that the whole way home on the ship. She would sit on a deck chair and just watch the waves of the ocean pass," Wendy told Grandpa Joe, who looked upon his daughter through the back window.

"Have you talked to her about, well, you know?" Grandpa Joe asked George.

He shook his head in response. "I don't think she wants to talk to me anymore."

"Maybe it's because she doesn't know what to say or where to begin, and that's why she's silent. Maybe she has so much to think about." They both peeked through the back window at her, as now it had begun to snow again, and Mary resting on a chair made no move to rise and come inside.

"Maybe you drove her insane, George," Aunt Millicent derided from behind them. "Someone tell her to come in before she catches her death. Or is that what you want, George?" Before he could answer, she turned on her heel and stalked back into the house.

George had had just about enough of Aunt Millicent, and he strode after her. "Why don't you just say it, Millicent," George barked, "Call me a perverted adulterer whose foul and vile missteps in marriage have killed my lovely wife."

Millicent scoffed, "Huh, why should I say it to you? Frankly, George, you know it's true."

George turned from her and stormed back into the kitchen. Millicent was not through with him yet gave voice as she blew in behind.

"You know, what really breaks my heart is that after all that has happened all these years with Mary and you, for you to betray her and take up with another woman was the last thing I ever expected would happen, George Darling. Of course, lose your job, lose the house, not have enough money to feed and clothe the children, falling destitute out on the streets begging for money, even selling every single item in this house that is not nailed down or doesn't already have a debt owed on it, yes. Yes, George, I could think that possible. But you, you giving another women what you never gave Mary...I always said she should have married the bigger fish, and I swear I still do.

"My only solace all these years has been that I always, always believed that you at the very least made her happy by your unwavering faithfulness to her alone. I would have bet my bloomers the bigger fish would have cheated on her while on their honeymoon. He would have showered her with priceless treasures, but no, she wanted to be married to a cheap miser who wouldn't buy her a goddamn thing if they were giving it away for free. But that French whore, oh goodness me; isn't she a fine thing to look at wearing your money all over London! Look at Mary Elizabeth, George, LOOK AT YOUR WIFE!" She yanked George by his collar to the window and pointed to Mary covered in snow. "DOES SHE LOOK HAPPY TO YOU? WHERE ARE HER FINE JEWELS AND ELEGANT DRESSES? I GUESS MY ONLY NEICE IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU! Pity you didn't enlighten someone with that information sooner."

Aunt Millicent turned on her brother next, but for him, her wrath was only a jeer of disgust, "Seems you rubbed off on your son-in-law, you dirty old scamp. Bet George has your blessing now to marry your only daughter. At least you both have something in common that you can chat about over dinner." She moved forward and pointed her finger in Grandpa Joe's face, "You know when Elizabeth told me you were laying down with those tramps you had working at the counter in the bakery, I told her it was simply not possible. Then I saw it with my own eyes, and I had to lie to her. I never forgave you for that, Joseph, and I never will. Your wife was a saint to stay with you after all the awful things you did to her. You were always working and you never had to see that woman suffer. I'm glad God listened to my prayers, and you will now live long enough so that you will see Mary suffer. And she will suffer, Joseph. Mary Elizabeth will suffer. It is not us who are punished for our sins, it is our children, remember that." Aunt Millicent turned to George and repeated the sentiment, "Remember that. It is your children who will suffer..."

Mary came inside after John asked her to, and at his request, she made muffins for their afternoon tea, unaware of anything that had transpired. None of the children witnessed the harsh words exchanged in the kitchen; for they were all out of the house visiting their friends. John arrived home first, and found his mother covered in snow and all alone. "Mother, please come inside, you'll catch your death." But that was just what she was hoping for.

George went to his room, as did Grandpa Joe, after Aunt Millicent departed for her own home. They all cried, every one of them, for their own sins committed against their loved ones. Grandpa Joe cried for Elizabeth, who turned into a silent statue of a woman, terrified her entire life that her husband would leave her for a woman he kept on his staff, until the day he sold the business. Mary was to suffer the same fate, worrying after a French whore whom George could easily hide in business meetings and early morning trysts.

Aunt Millicent cried for Mr. Davis, who was dead and buried, a victim of a heart attack after he found his wife in the throes of passion with his business partner. "Why?" was all that poor man could muster, and Aunt Millicent ridiculed him into his coffin with, "What did you suppose was going to happen? You are twice my age, and really, my dear, I only married you for your money." True, she had no children of her own, but the one she adopted was now lost to her in more ways than one. Being dead is one thing; never knowing where that part of her heart that a mother gives to her child remains in the world is another. George cried for Mary, and only for her.

The family went Christmas shopping later in the week, and left Mary behind with George's mirror image, his son of sixteen. Once alone, they sat in the parlor together. "Are you sure you truly want to know, Mother?"

Mary nodded, and her valiant knight began, "Her name was Vivian and she was the niece of Uncle Peter. Father met her in Paris and then again in London. Uncle Peter wrote father at his office and asked him to dinner. He knew you wouldn't want to go, so Father went by himself. He began seeing her in January after Christmas and New Year holidays, and he ended sometime in April and hasn't seen her since. Well, only one time over the summer, but nothing like it was before. In fact, she said that was the reason she was returning to Paris with Uncle Peter and his wife and never coming back. The things she gave me that Father had given her, I put in your vanity table like you told me to. She wrote you a letter saying she was sorry about it all and a few other things, but she said you probably wouldn't want to read it but you should." When Mary asked John if he had read the letter, he presented it to her out of his back pocket with the seal on the envelope still intact.

"Will you ever forgive, Father?" John asked her, his heart breaking.

"There are wounds inflicted, John, that heal by themselves for no other reason that you cannot survive unless they do, like a scrape on your knee which is not that serious. Soon it scabs over and then it is forgotten. But there are wounds that will never heal for any other reason than they are too deep, like being stabbed through the heart with a dagger. It's a fatal injury that no one can save you from. Do you think your father's unfaithfulness to me would be considered a scrape on my knee that will heal itself? Or a dagger in heart that bleeds endlessly? And really, John, it is not only his affair, but also his betrayal on matters of other importance. He lied to me, repeatedly. Not only about the affair, but all the circumstances surrounding it, the late nights, the early mornings, and the missing money. He looked me straight in the eye and he lied. He made promises that he never had any intention of keeping. One broken promise I can over look and shake my finger at and say 'shame on you', but how many broken promises must come and go before I should raise my finger to myself and say 'shame on me' for being so stupid and trusting."

John was speechless, and hung his head. He knew her heart bled endlessly, and if what she said was true, she was already dead. "Read her letter, Mother, maybe that can save you." He looked up hopeful; then his eyes fell hopeless at her response.

"No one can save me now, John. It is already too late." Mary rose from the sofa and kissed her favorite on his head. Of all her children, from the moment of birth, he gave her the least amount of pain. He was by far the most courageous, and she left him with the advice to learn from his father's mistakes. "I don't know why your father did what he did John, and I may never know. You just know what the result is, how much being selfish and self-centered in your life -- a life that belongs to another -- hurts the innocent. Don't hate your father, John, take the best lessons from his own mistakes in love."

Up in the privacy of her room, she read the letter.

Dear Mrs. Darling,

It is with great regret that I write you this letter. I was told of your sickly condition by your son John, a charming young man as handsome as his father. I must admit that I have never been so utterly ashamed and full of sorrow in my entire life. I had no idea of your commitment to your husband, or he to you, when we engaged in our relations. Had I known then what I know now, I assure you I would have not made myself so readily available to him. I am not sure what your son will tell you of me, but I feel you are deserving of the truth, so I will write it down for you as best I can.

I met your husband on your holiday in Paris and I swear on my life that we did nothing inappropriate while you visited with my Aunt and Uncle. I had the pleasure of his company again only last year after the New Year was tolled in. My Uncle introduced us at a dinner, and after many bottles of wine and much merriment we spent a few stolen minutes together in a private manner. Your husband was quite intoxicated and continually called me by your name, to my dismay. Our affair continued from there, and he continued to refer to me as "Mary" even though I constantly corrected his error. I believe the gifts he purchased for me were meant for you, so I return them to their rightful owner with my deepest apologizes.

We met every Tuesday for dinner, and held an appointment on Friday mornings and his lunch hours twice a week. It is important for you to know that we rarely were intimate, although it was known to happen on occasion. I was more of a pretty decoration on his arm at private parties held by my uncle and his friends. He never would meet me on weekends, nor would he ever agree to spend the night with me, although I got down on my hands and knees and begged him. He only told me he loved me once, but I too believe in my heart of hearts that was also meant for you because it had a "Mary" on the end of it.

He ended our meetings in the middle of April by telling me he wanted to go home and be a grown up again. He said if you ever found out you never forgive him and the shock of his betrayal to your delicate nature would kill you, and by the look on his face the last time I saw in him the street, I must say he was not lying. I happened upon in the park in July and he treated me as if a rabid dog and nearly kicked me away from him. He had been crying and praying to God I believe when I interrupted him, asking for your safe return to him. I pray to God for the same on his behalf.

The conversation I had with your son John on our first meeting were words of the truth. I must confess you need not worry of the scandal that would have been for it was no more pleasant for me than it would have been for you, and I am thankful it was resolved by decision, and not by other means more invasive and too horrid to imagine. I guarantee you those would have been the avenues I would have pursued, and I fear now I would be one near death and not you.

I extend to you my sincerest apologies and deepest remorse, guilt and shame for the anguish I have caused in your life. I have not only played a part in destroying a loving marriage, I have taken a father away from his children and a saint out of heaven. I pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive George and look past his mistakes and on to all the good times I am sure you still can share as husband and wife. I am returning to Paris, and I give you my word I will never return to London or attempt in anyway to contact you, George or any members of your family again.

Thank you for reading this letter, and again I am truly sorry.

Vivian...

She signed her last name, but her last name wasn't important, so Mary did not read it. She also did not notice the errors in grammar, correcting them in her mind as she went. She looked through the gifts George gave Vivian, gifts the girl claimed were rightfully Mary's, just like George's "I love you," because it ended with "Mary" instead of "Vivian." There was a necklace of gold and emerald, earrings of emerald and a cocktail ring to match the set. Emerald was Mary's birthstone, and as she laid them out on her bed she wondered what Vivian's birthstone was. "Sapphire, she was born in September, I asked her. She hates emeralds. She said it was a much simpler set from father that she improved on from her own funds. She said you can keep it, for she only wore the emeralds for your husband." John spoke from the doorway of his mother's room.

"So you have the ability to read minds. What am I thinking right now?" Mary asked quite seriously.

"Why her and not you? Why did father do all those things with her and not you? Am I right?"

Mary nodded, frowning.

The front door opened and the sound of the family bustling in with arms full of packages could be heard. "What are the other gifts?" John asked. Mary opened the velvet bag Vivian returned them in and found a bottle of perfume, from an English manufacturer, a fragrance Mary would wear when dressed for a formal occasion. "She told me she only wears French perfume and wanted to try something different." At the very bottom of the satchel was a beautiful silk shawl; "She said she begged him for it." Mary held it up, admiring it, and, of all the items returned to their rightful owner, this was the only one she considered keeping. "He also purchased a dress, shoes and accessories. I told her to keep those, for you would never wear something of hers like that."

As footsteps, recognizably George's, came up the stairs, she stuffed the shawl back into the bag with the other items and gave it John. "I wouldn't wear any of these things either. Get rid of it, throw it away, burn it, sell the jewelry -- I don't care, I just don't want it in this house."

John took the satchel and turned toward the door, where his father now waited. Mary turned her head to the window and went back to that place where she hid in her mind when George was around. He knocked on the door to the bedroom, as it was now only Mary's room.

Since their return, George spent all his restless nights on the floor in Grandpa Joe's room. "Oh, the many nights I spent in this room alone when married to Mary's mother." He consoled his son-in-law as he tossed and turned in search of the peaceful slumber that never came. Now a new routine was followed each day. George would knock at the doorway and ask Mary if he could enter. She would either stand by the window without answering, or sit at her vanity in the same quietude. He would wait and wait and wait, and finally defeated by her silence, as strong as war, he would turn and hide in the parlor.

Tonight was no different, and George took his leave of the doorway after Michael brought Mary's dinner upstairs to her. The children all knew of their father's infidelity as George himself told them. He sat them down in the nursery they all once shared and recounted the details painfully of who, when and why he did it. It made sense to them, they remembered what it was like to refuse to grow up, and what happened when they ran away and then returned. Instead of the open doors and open windows and smiling faces Mary offered to her returning children, George, who should have known better, would not receive the same. "I believe now Mother would not care if he came home at all, just like Peter Pan told us, if you stay away for more than seven days you are forgotten, and now Mother forgot Father forever," Michael tried to explain to his siblings, once alone.

"Michael, who is Peter Pan?" Wendy and John asked in unison, both baffled.

Another man forgot a woman, and she now suffered like her mother. The handsome young gentleman from New York had not responded to Wendy's letters, and she too thought him a lost cause. So, after Michael gave his mother her supper, she sneaked up the stairs and knocked on the door. Mary answered in her robe and soothed Wendy's worries with the best advice a woman of her age and experience could offer a young lady feeling the first pangs of a troubled heart. "If it is meant to be Wendy, it will be. You will have many loves in your life, and if you pray and believe that finding that one true love is possible, then it will happen."

Wendy sat with her head resting on her mother's chest. She smiled, blessed with her mother's mocking mouth, and made the request on everyone's mind. "Mother, please talk to Father. Even if you discuss the weather and nothing more they are still words you both need to hear from the other. You took vows that said until death parts you. It's a pretty long time to live your life without talking to your one true love."

"I know, Wendy, I will eventually have to talk to your father. I'm just not ready yet."

Mary gazed out the window and Wendy's eyes followed her mother's. "Why do you gaze out the window so?"

Mary turned her eyes on Wendy and smiled, "I'm not sure. Maybe I expect a knight in shining armor will ride up at any moment and rescue me from this. But alas, I am only the queen stuck in the tower." Wendy giggled and embraced her mother tightly. "If you are sad Wendy, why not read over some of your stories? You have not even opened your journal since you've been home. I'm sure you have many adventures hidden within it, long forgotten. That will certainly cheer you."

Wendy suddenly sat up and then got up, "Peter Pan, Michael said Peter Pan! How silly of me to forget! Yes, mother. My adventures. Would you like to come along tonight?"

Mary gazed at Wendy intently, she had an odd expression as if she was hiding behind her pleasantly surprised smile. "No Wendy, not tonight. Some other time."

Wendy bent down and placed a kiss upon her mother's cheek. "Alright, Mother, I'm off."

Mary leaned to see Wendy dart out of the room and into her attic room. Mary got up from the bed and followed after her. "Wendy! Wendy!" she shouted up the stairs to her daughter's room with no response. As she put her foot on the bottom stairs, a cold breeze from the window left wide open in Wendy's bedroom blasted down the stairs.

"Mary, I'm going into your room to gather my work suit for tomorrow. Do you mind?" George said from behind her. Mary held her eyes up the stairs, all at once the calm warm breeze that smelled of the sea blew down the stairs, and then again turned cold, the air in the house falling still. George watched Mary lowering his head, "I'll just be a moment Mary, in and out."

Mary turned and looked George, then moved into her room before he could reach the door and slammed it in his face. The door creaked open and she handed him his things. A short time later, she told John who came up to collect her dinner dishes that, "Your father is not allowed in this room. Tell him I will move his things to the linen closet in the morning."