Life had its way of beating humbleness into a man.
"It's a long story," he said, taking a sip of Mr. Braeburn's whiskey, "so I will tell only a
very condensed version of it.
"Mrs. Marsden and I grew up on adjacent properties in the Cotswold. But the Cotswold, as fair as it is, plays almost no part in this tale. Because it was not in the green, unpolluted
countryside that we fell in love, but in gray, sooty London. Love at first sight, of course, a hunger of the soul that could not be denied."
Bryony trembled somewhere inside. This was not their story, but her story, the determined spinster felled by the magnificence and charm of the gorgeous young thing.
He glanced at her. "You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of
my heart."
The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but
lies.
"I don't believe I had moods," she said severely.
"No, of course not. 'Thou art more lovely and more temperate,' and the tides of my heart
only rose ever higher to crash against the levee of my self-possession. For I loved you most
intemperately, my dear Mrs. Marsden."
Beside her Mrs. Braeburn blushed, her eyes bright. Bryony was furious at Leo, for his
facile words, and even more so at herself, for the painful pleasure that trickled into her drop by drop.
"Our wedding was the happiest hour of my life, that we would belong to each other always. The church was filled with hyacinths and camellias, and the crowd overflowed to the steps, for the whole world wanted to see who had at last captured your lofty heart.
"But alas, I had not truly captured your lofty heart, had I? I but held it for a moment. And
soon there was trouble in Paradise. One day, you said to me, 'My hair has turned white. It is a sign I must wander far and away. Find me then, if you can. Then and only then will I be yours again.'"
Her heart pounded again. How did he know that she had indeed taken her hair turning white as a sign that the time had come for her to leave? No, he did not know. He'd made it up out of whole cloth. But even Mr. Braeburn was spellbound by this ridiculous tale. She had forgotten how hypnotic Leo could be, when he wished to beguile a crowd.
"And so I have searched. From the poles to the tropics, from the shores of China to the
shores of Nova Scotia. Our wedding photograph in hand, I have asked crowds pale, red,
brown, and black, 'I seek an English lady doctor, my lost beloved. Have you seen her?'"
He looked into her eyes, and she could not look away, as mesmerized as the hapless
Braeburns.
"And now I have found you at last." He raised his glass. "To the beginning of the rest of
our lives. It doesn't matter where I am; I'm yours."
Sometimes limbs must be re-broken to set properly, her heart too needed to shatter anew before it could truly heal.
I had this daft idea to come and bury the past. Except the past is not quite dead.
Outwardly, other than her hair, she had not changed much. She was still more or less the same cool, aloof woman who garnered more respect than affection. On the inside, however, it had been impossible to return to the person she used to be.
Her Leo, so bright, so beautiful.
And in the end, so catastrophically flawed.
Even the boy who cried wolf as right about the wolf once.
The Castle. He'd seen this expression far too many times during their marriage. The Castle was Bryony drawing up the gates and retreating deep into the inner keep. And he'd always hated it. Marriage meant that you shared your goddamn castle. You didn't leave your poor knight of a husband circling the walls trying to find a way in.
Amazing what a man thought of, looking at a fully clothed woman who did nothing more provocative than sipping her tea while gazing thoughtfully into the distance.
For the thousandth time he wished he'd just met her. That they were but two strangers traveling together, that such lovely, filthy thoughts did not break him in two, but were only a pleasant pastime as he slowly fell under the spell of her aloof beauty and her hidden intensity.
There were so many stories he could tell her, so many ways to draw her out of her shell. He would have waited with bated breath for her first smile, for the sound of her first laughter. He would be endlessly curious about her, eager to undress her metaphorically as well as physically.
The first holding of hands. The first kiss. The first time he saw her unclothed. The first time they became one.
The first time they finished each other's sentences.
But no, they'd met long ago, in the furthest years of his childhood. Their chances had come and gone.
All they had ahead of them were a tedious road and a final good-bye.
Sometimes people change, said a voice inside him.
And sometimes they don't.
You don't know how to converse. Sometimes I think the spaces between the stars are filled with your silence.
If she hadn't been at peace, then at least she wasn't at war with herself.
He'd gone into their marriage determined that she would never be alone again. In the end, she'd made him as alone in the world as she.
Humans, herself included, held no interest for her except as living machines, mind-bogglingly intricate, beautiful systems that somehow housed individuals not quite worthy of the miracle of their physical bodies.
But sometimes the males of the species brought home shiny, beautiful things, with hope burning in their hearts.
How ironic that when they'd been married, she'd never thought of growing old with him.
Yet now, years after the annulment, she should think of it with the yearning of an exile, for the homeland that had long ago evicted her.
Despite all her strengths, there was a certain brittleness to her. Sometimes she retreated into her keep. Sometimes she ran away. But she did not forgive and she did not forget.
Dear Bryony,
There are many things I wish I had time to tell you, so I will say just this: These past few
days have been some of the best days of my life. Because of you.
My fervent hope is that you are safe and well as you read this letter. That you will have all
the happiness I wish I could have shared with you. And that you will remember me not as a failed husband, but one who was still trying, til the very end.
Yours always,
Leo
All your emotions were so intense - your anger like daggers, your unhappiness a poisoned well. Even your love had such sharp corners and dark alleys.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is that you used to shatter easily. But now you've become less brittle.
Once the exhilaration of their reunion wore off, once the newness of their lovemaking was no longer so new, how would she see him? No matter how careful he was, invariably someday he would do something to make her angry. What then? Would all the old unhappiness rush to the fore?
Would she remember that he had once betrayed her and regret that she'd ever given him a second chance? Or would she protect herself from the beginning by keeping a certain distance from him, so that their closeness would always fall short of true communion, always denying him that final forgiveness so that he could never hurt her again?
Trust ran both ways. How could he ask her to trust him when he hardly trusted her?
He would trust her, in her love, in her strength, in her decency and fortitude. And when the time came, he would find the strength in himself.
"Did the two of you marry again? Please tell me yes. If he is my brother-in-law again, he is less likely to kill me for what I did."
Bryony looked at her a moment, then leaned in and whispered in her ear. "He won't kill
you. He just wants you committed to an asylum."
"Now what I want to know is what happened when you found Bryony, Leo," said Will.
"Did you just say your sister sent me, pack up everything and come with me this moment?"
"More or less."
"And she came away with you?"
"More or less." Leo tossed Bryony a mischievous look. "Although there might have been
laudanum, drugging, and a midnight abduction involved."
"Now that's a much better story," said Matthew. "I would pay to read that one."
"And for his knavery, Leo lost one of his more important parts," said Bryony.
"No!" Matthew and Will shouted in unison.
"Bryony!" Callista squeaked.
"Kidney," Leo cried. "It was just a kidney. A man can live a perfectly vigorous life with
one kidney."
"You can call it a kidney if you want," said Bryony.
"When will you ask for your post back?" he whispered in her ear. "I miss the smell of
industrial-strength solvents."
She laughed softly. "Soon. And when will you have papers read at the mathematical society again? I rather like having my husband called a genius for reasons that are not clear to me."
"My husband." The words rolled off her tongue, easy and beautiful. He kissed her fervently.
"Soon. My brilliance quite overflowed on the way home. I have four notebooks to show for it."
"Good. We don't want people to think I love you for your looks alone."
"In that case we should also put you in some rather revealing gowns once in a while, so that people don't think I married you for your accomplishments alone."
"Mr. Robbins let slip that he had not been sleeping well. He'd given up his room at the lodging house to a lady traveling by herself, who'd come into Nowshera too tired to stand, when Nowshera was overrun and beds impossible to find. When the lady left, the landlord had given the room to someone else, leaving Mr. Robbins to sleep in rather atrocious places."
"Dear me," said Lady Vera.
"He didn't know it, but that lady was Mrs. Marsden. And I, for one, will always be grateful that he helped her when there was absolutely nothing in it for him."
Lady Vera set down her tea. She reached forward and took Leo's hands. "Thank you, Mr.
Marsden. Sometimes I forget that beneath Michael's ambition, there is not a void, but much kindness. Thank you for reminding me."
How do you find the grace to face the shadows?
"I despaired for a while during the rail journey-how did one deal with such ingrained cowardice? Then I realized that there is no such thing as courage in the absence of cowardice.
"Courage is also a choice: It's what happens when one refuses to give in to fear."
She rested her head against the bedpost and gazed at him. "Your trust gives me courage."
He understood her perfectly. "And your courage gives me faith."
She smiled a little. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," he answered without any hesitation.
"Then trust me when I say that we will be all right."
He trusted her. And he knew then that they would be all right, the two of them. Together.
A reflection of their story: imperfect, but to him the most beautiful of stories.
During terms, Professor Marsden lives in Cambridge with his wife, chess player extraordinaire and distinguished physician and surgeon Bryony Asquith Marsden. His favorite time of day is half past six in the evening, when he meets Mrs. Marsden's train at the station, as the latter returns from her day in London. On Sunday afternoons, rain or shine, Professor and Mrs. Marsden take a walk along The Backs, and treasure growing old
together.
"It's a long story," he said, taking a sip of Mr. Braeburn's whiskey, "so I will tell only a
very condensed version of it.
"Mrs. Marsden and I grew up on adjacent properties in the Cotswold. But the Cotswold, as fair as it is, plays almost no part in this tale. Because it was not in the green, unpolluted
countryside that we fell in love, but in gray, sooty London. Love at first sight, of course, a hunger of the soul that could not be denied."
Bryony trembled somewhere inside. This was not their story, but her story, the determined spinster felled by the magnificence and charm of the gorgeous young thing.
He glanced at her. "You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of
my heart."
The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but
lies.
"I don't believe I had moods," she said severely.
"No, of course not. 'Thou art more lovely and more temperate,' and the tides of my heart
only rose ever higher to crash against the levee of my self-possession. For I loved you most
intemperately, my dear Mrs. Marsden."
Beside her Mrs. Braeburn blushed, her eyes bright. Bryony was furious at Leo, for his
facile words, and even more so at herself, for the painful pleasure that trickled into her drop by drop.
"Our wedding was the happiest hour of my life, that we would belong to each other always. The church was filled with hyacinths and camellias, and the crowd overflowed to the steps, for the whole world wanted to see who had at last captured your lofty heart.
"But alas, I had not truly captured your lofty heart, had I? I but held it for a moment. And
soon there was trouble in Paradise. One day, you said to me, 'My hair has turned white. It is a sign I must wander far and away. Find me then, if you can. Then and only then will I be yours again.'"
Her heart pounded again. How did he know that she had indeed taken her hair turning white as a sign that the time had come for her to leave? No, he did not know. He'd made it up out of whole cloth. But even Mr. Braeburn was spellbound by this ridiculous tale. She had forgotten how hypnotic Leo could be, when he wished to beguile a crowd.
"And so I have searched. From the poles to the tropics, from the shores of China to the
shores of Nova Scotia. Our wedding photograph in hand, I have asked crowds pale, red,
brown, and black, 'I seek an English lady doctor, my lost beloved. Have you seen her?'"
He looked into her eyes, and she could not look away, as mesmerized as the hapless
Braeburns.
"And now I have found you at last." He raised his glass. "To the beginning of the rest of
our lives. It doesn't matter where I am; I'm yours."
Sometimes limbs must be re-broken to set properly, her heart too needed to shatter anew before it could truly heal.
I had this daft idea to come and bury the past. Except the past is not quite dead.
Outwardly, other than her hair, she had not changed much. She was still more or less the same cool, aloof woman who garnered more respect than affection. On the inside, however, it had been impossible to return to the person she used to be.
Her Leo, so bright, so beautiful.
And in the end, so catastrophically flawed.
Even the boy who cried wolf as right about the wolf once.
The Castle. He'd seen this expression far too many times during their marriage. The Castle was Bryony drawing up the gates and retreating deep into the inner keep. And he'd always hated it. Marriage meant that you shared your goddamn castle. You didn't leave your poor knight of a husband circling the walls trying to find a way in.
Amazing what a man thought of, looking at a fully clothed woman who did nothing more provocative than sipping her tea while gazing thoughtfully into the distance.
For the thousandth time he wished he'd just met her. That they were but two strangers traveling together, that such lovely, filthy thoughts did not break him in two, but were only a pleasant pastime as he slowly fell under the spell of her aloof beauty and her hidden intensity.
There were so many stories he could tell her, so many ways to draw her out of her shell. He would have waited with bated breath for her first smile, for the sound of her first laughter. He would be endlessly curious about her, eager to undress her metaphorically as well as physically.
The first holding of hands. The first kiss. The first time he saw her unclothed. The first time they became one.
The first time they finished each other's sentences.
But no, they'd met long ago, in the furthest years of his childhood. Their chances had come and gone.
All they had ahead of them were a tedious road and a final good-bye.
Sometimes people change, said a voice inside him.
And sometimes they don't.
You don't know how to converse. Sometimes I think the spaces between the stars are filled with your silence.
If she hadn't been at peace, then at least she wasn't at war with herself.
He'd gone into their marriage determined that she would never be alone again. In the end, she'd made him as alone in the world as she.
Humans, herself included, held no interest for her except as living machines, mind-bogglingly intricate, beautiful systems that somehow housed individuals not quite worthy of the miracle of their physical bodies.
But sometimes the males of the species brought home shiny, beautiful things, with hope burning in their hearts.
How ironic that when they'd been married, she'd never thought of growing old with him.
Yet now, years after the annulment, she should think of it with the yearning of an exile, for the homeland that had long ago evicted her.
Despite all her strengths, there was a certain brittleness to her. Sometimes she retreated into her keep. Sometimes she ran away. But she did not forgive and she did not forget.
Dear Bryony,
There are many things I wish I had time to tell you, so I will say just this: These past few
days have been some of the best days of my life. Because of you.
My fervent hope is that you are safe and well as you read this letter. That you will have all
the happiness I wish I could have shared with you. And that you will remember me not as a failed husband, but one who was still trying, til the very end.
Yours always,
Leo
All your emotions were so intense - your anger like daggers, your unhappiness a poisoned well. Even your love had such sharp corners and dark alleys.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is that you used to shatter easily. But now you've become less brittle.
Once the exhilaration of their reunion wore off, once the newness of their lovemaking was no longer so new, how would she see him? No matter how careful he was, invariably someday he would do something to make her angry. What then? Would all the old unhappiness rush to the fore?
Would she remember that he had once betrayed her and regret that she'd ever given him a second chance? Or would she protect herself from the beginning by keeping a certain distance from him, so that their closeness would always fall short of true communion, always denying him that final forgiveness so that he could never hurt her again?
Trust ran both ways. How could he ask her to trust him when he hardly trusted her?
He would trust her, in her love, in her strength, in her decency and fortitude. And when the time came, he would find the strength in himself.
"Did the two of you marry again? Please tell me yes. If he is my brother-in-law again, he is less likely to kill me for what I did."
Bryony looked at her a moment, then leaned in and whispered in her ear. "He won't kill
you. He just wants you committed to an asylum."
"Now what I want to know is what happened when you found Bryony, Leo," said Will.
"Did you just say your sister sent me, pack up everything and come with me this moment?"
"More or less."
"And she came away with you?"
"More or less." Leo tossed Bryony a mischievous look. "Although there might have been
laudanum, drugging, and a midnight abduction involved."
"Now that's a much better story," said Matthew. "I would pay to read that one."
"And for his knavery, Leo lost one of his more important parts," said Bryony.
"No!" Matthew and Will shouted in unison.
"Bryony!" Callista squeaked.
"Kidney," Leo cried. "It was just a kidney. A man can live a perfectly vigorous life with
one kidney."
"You can call it a kidney if you want," said Bryony.
"When will you ask for your post back?" he whispered in her ear. "I miss the smell of
industrial-strength solvents."
She laughed softly. "Soon. And when will you have papers read at the mathematical society again? I rather like having my husband called a genius for reasons that are not clear to me."
"My husband." The words rolled off her tongue, easy and beautiful. He kissed her fervently.
"Soon. My brilliance quite overflowed on the way home. I have four notebooks to show for it."
"Good. We don't want people to think I love you for your looks alone."
"In that case we should also put you in some rather revealing gowns once in a while, so that people don't think I married you for your accomplishments alone."
"Mr. Robbins let slip that he had not been sleeping well. He'd given up his room at the lodging house to a lady traveling by herself, who'd come into Nowshera too tired to stand, when Nowshera was overrun and beds impossible to find. When the lady left, the landlord had given the room to someone else, leaving Mr. Robbins to sleep in rather atrocious places."
"Dear me," said Lady Vera.
"He didn't know it, but that lady was Mrs. Marsden. And I, for one, will always be grateful that he helped her when there was absolutely nothing in it for him."
Lady Vera set down her tea. She reached forward and took Leo's hands. "Thank you, Mr.
Marsden. Sometimes I forget that beneath Michael's ambition, there is not a void, but much kindness. Thank you for reminding me."
How do you find the grace to face the shadows?
"I despaired for a while during the rail journey-how did one deal with such ingrained cowardice? Then I realized that there is no such thing as courage in the absence of cowardice.
"Courage is also a choice: It's what happens when one refuses to give in to fear."
She rested her head against the bedpost and gazed at him. "Your trust gives me courage."
He understood her perfectly. "And your courage gives me faith."
She smiled a little. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," he answered without any hesitation.
"Then trust me when I say that we will be all right."
He trusted her. And he knew then that they would be all right, the two of them. Together.
A reflection of their story: imperfect, but to him the most beautiful of stories.
During terms, Professor Marsden lives in Cambridge with his wife, chess player extraordinaire and distinguished physician and surgeon Bryony Asquith Marsden. His favorite time of day is half past six in the evening, when he meets Mrs. Marsden's train at the station, as the latter returns from her day in London. On Sunday afternoons, rain or shine, Professor and Mrs. Marsden take a walk along The Backs, and treasure growing old
together.
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