In those days, my mother, my sister Emily, and I still lived together in our small cottage. Mother was a petite and most of the time silent woman, either due to a lack of ideas or a reluctance to share them. Emily, in stark contrast, was boisterous and passionate. Only four years younger than me, our respective personalities made the age difference seem much greater. I couldn't help but feel old when I was by her side, especially when she started talking. Her endless vitality was exhausting.
I suppose we weren't too unhappy during that time. Father had managed to provide us with a roof over our heads and enough money to cover our most pressing needs before leaving us. This was sufficient for Mother and me, as we both understood that our situation could have been much worse. But it wasn't enough for Emily—nothing in this world was enough for my poor, reckless sister.
In the past, my father's business had prospered briefly, creating an illusion of wealth and abundance that we foolishly believed to be permanent. However, the mirage didn't last long. Father was a calm and kind man, perhaps too much so for his own good given his profession as a merchant. A few years after we had considered ourselves almost rich, he had battled exhaustion in the months leading up to his death to ensure that his dear family wouldn't become dependent on the charity of strangers. We lost everything except the old house where Emily and I were born, which had once been deemed beneath us due to our newfound social status. Ironically, it become our sole possession.
Following Father's passing, Mother and I eased back into the rhythm of ordinary life, as if our brief period of opulence had been but a vivid dream. But Emily... Emily grappled with her loss in a manner Mother and I couldn't fully grasp. Believing herself a favored child of fortune, she couldn't accept the harsh reality of possessing nearly nothing. Her determination to reclaim what she perceived as unjustly taken from our family evolved into a perilous fixation. I always knew Emily would go to any lengths to achieve her goals—her determination rivaled the nonchalance of happier days.
She commenced frequent visits to London, attempting to revive connections with the respectable families we had once mingled with during our more prosperous days. It was a dangerous scheme, and I confided my unease to Mother, though I harbored little hope of altering Emily's course.
The individuals upon whom my sister was obstinately imposing her presence were no longer part of our social circle, or rather, we were no longer part of theirs. Persisting in these interactions risked inviting mockery, or perhaps even worse outcomes.
However, Mother proved more obtuse than I had anticipated. Instead of cautioning my sister about the perils of her precarious situation, she chose to immerse herself in the same hopeful delusion. If Emily's acquaintances continued to welcome her even when she had nothing to offer, only a true sense of friendship could explain such a selfless act, she had reasoned. My poor mother must have believed that, given our circumstances, it was unwise to reject any helping hand extended in our direction. In that distant cottage, our future, forgotten by the world, had become a subject of constant concern for her.
While Mother could remain blind, I couldn't afford that luxury. No one could deny Emily's talents. Her vivacity, coupled with good manners, keen listening skills, and a gentle nature, made her socially adept—a stark contrast to my deficiencies.Although neither of us could be called conventionally beautiful, she possessed enough superficial charm to attract passing admiration when desired. My greatest fear was that one misguided romantic dalliance, rooted in shallow attraction, might bring her ruin.
Thus, when Emily returned from the city one day donning a new dress and hat beyond her means, I knew I had to intervene. Yet, something in her eyes and smile—a malicious glint—instilled in me the fear that my words might be too late.
"Emily, there's something I must discuss with you," I began, intercepting her at the door.
"What a delightful coincidence!" she interjected, her smile unwavering. "I have news to share as well."
But I was in no mood to tolerate her arrogance.
"You'll have to wait; what I have to say is most important. Emily," I said, casting a hostile glance at her attire, "What do you think you're doing dressed like that? Have you forgotten our position? If you continue behaving like someone we are not, you'll become a laughingstock instead of..."
"A laughingstock? You're quite mistaken, Jane. They laugh at you and Mother, or they would if they could see your dirty hands after chopping wood, or those old dresses modified a thousand times to hide your misery."
The revelation that she no longer considered herself sharing our circumstances, left me stunned.
"These hands, dirtied from toil, kept you warm through winter, and this head on my shoulders ensured there was food on the table for you," I managed to retort."
Emily responded with a feigned air of amusement, rolling her eyes.
"And in return, what am I expected to offer? Unwavering admiration?"
"No, just your respect and an end to these unattainable ambitions that bring shame upon our family."
Emily burst into laughter, and in that moment, I struggled to recognize her. The sound carried bitterness, cynicism, and a hurtful edge that seemed alien to the laughter of my younger sister.
"Perhaps those ambitions are unattainable for you. They always were, even before your prime had waned."
I'm ashamed to admit that, in that moment, I slapped her.
Emily entered the cottage without acknowledging me, and my pride prevented me from extending an apology. Just five days later, she was gone.
A fierce fever consumed her, yet somehow she found the strength to share the name of her fiancé, someone she wished to see before her end. She kept repeating the same words, "one more of the family," until her voice grew too weak to continue.
Though her request couldn't have been more surprising, I acceded, if only to offer solace to her frayed nerves. But within a few hours, my sister, my dear Emily, had passed away. She was twenty-two years old.
I have never been able to forgive myself for not saving her. At the time, I believed her untimely demise to be a consequence of her frequent escapades without proper supervision. Her frivolous friends likely wouldn't have provided adequate care in times of sickness or discomfort, and I blamed myself for reluctantly endorsing those improper schemes, despite knowing better.But how could I have stopped Emily from being Emily? We both understood that if had I accompanied her, her visits would have been stifled by my presence, offering her no enjoyment.
For a few days following the funeral, I grappled with the choice of leaving Mother to mourn alone in her profound, silent grief or fulfilling my promise. Emily's penchant for fantasy and storytelling was well-known within the family; Father, in particular, had relished it. How could I be certain that my sister's fevered mind hadn't blurred reality with another of her tales during her final moments? Would it be a final affront to her memory to reach out to that stranger, only to discover her promise had been a figment of her imagination?
To my astonishment, Mother, who had stood by Emily's bedside during her final hours and had witnessed the peculiar revelations alongside me, finally spoke up.
"It's what your poor sister would have wished for..."
In the face of that combined plea, I could no longer muster the courage or the heart to refuse. Yes, I would travel to London, and if Emily's enigmatic fiancé truly existed, I would personally convey the news of her passing. Perhaps then my sister's lifeless face would cease to haunt me.