Interlude
My Dearest Quentin,
I can hardly write for the tears. I’ve just had the most dreadful row with my family. I received your letter Thursday last, and as usual I pored over every line. Oh, my darling, though you are a man, and have that sex’s infuriating tendency to be irritatingly sparse and understated in detail, I must tell you how your latest account was most thrilling to read. Such derring-do, like something out of a story! I even decided to read it to Papa, since I know that he appreciates courage and strength, and you have that in spades, my darling. You always have.
I do not know what happened. Your father must have said something or done something to infuriate mine, and through the worst of luck, I chose the same day to share your story. All I know is that Papa’s face got darker and darker, until I faltered in my reading. I asked him what was wrong, but he merely shook his head and grumbled. I pressed him—what a fool I am! But you know how much I love my Papa, and how I have always been close to him. I thought surely, I could break him out of whatever terrible dark cloud he’d wrapped himself in. I was wrong.
He got so angry with me that he ordered me to leave off and never speak your name to him again. When I replied—rather tartly, it must be said—that it would be difficult to obey since we were to be married, he snarled at me and ripped your letter from my hand!
I’ve never seen him in such a rage!
I am so sorry, my darling, but he crumpled the letter and threw it into the fire, and then he said the most unforgivable thing. He thundered that it would be better for the whole country if the German fighters had killed you! He said that perhaps then your father would go into mourning and stop mucking around the country.
At that point, I realized what must have happened. We always knew that my father hated your father’s politics . . . I suppose it was only a matter of time before it turned personal between them.
I tried to withdraw quietly, but the damage had been done. Papa had gotten his blood up, and he demanded that I end our engagement or be disinherited. Entirely.
“I will not see one penny of Whitney or Vanderbilt money pass into the hands of a son of that uncouth, conniving, jumped-up, nouveau riche excuse for a politician!”
Can you imagine?!
I wouldn’t do it, my darling. I wouldn’t give in, not for anything . . . but then he insisted that I would never speak to Mama or my brother and sister again and I . . . oh, I’m heartbroken.
I agreed.
And he announced it the next day. Mama was only just able to keep it out of the papers, but everyone knows.
My love, oh, my brave love, please forgive me. For I fear that I shall never forgive myself.
Yours in agony,
Flora.