A Cup of Tea - Amy Ephron [10]
That was all anyone did anymore was listen to news of Europe and speak about the war. “Will you think I’m terrible,” asked Rosemary petulantly, “if I tell you that I’m sick of Archduke Ferdinand?”
Her father chided her softly. “Are you going to tell me that you’re sick of the Archduchess Sophia, too?” he asked. He was teasing but trying to elicit a more human response, for although history would forget this, the Archduchess was killed alongside her husband and whatever Rosemary’s mood, she had always been a defender of women.
“No,” she answered soberly, “but their legacy lives after them. I don’t want to hear about Bismarck or how they feel in France.” Her father switched off the radio and looked at her carefully. She looked back at him. Her voice softened. “I would just like one day,” she said, “where I didn’t feel as though the world, my world, was in, was about to be in, a state of siege…”
Mr. Fell stared at his daughter and wondered whether he’d raised her at all adequately for any of the things she had to deal with now. But do we ever raise our children, particularly those as pampered and protected as Rose has been, to deal with whatever unexpected occurrences life throws at them? “What,” Mr. Fell wondered, “defined character and backbone?” What lessons had he passed on about morality and perseverance? He looked at his daughter’s unlined face, his child who had known little of tragedy except her mother’s death and she was so young when that occurred.
“No,” he said, “I don’t think you’re terrible. I just think you want the war to end.”
Rosemary stood by the fireplace, an almost wistful expression on her face, framed like a cameo by the flickering light of the fire behind her. She looked for a moment like what she was, a society girl who had lost the society she was raised in.
When Jane Howard came over for her practically regular afternoon visit, she found Rosemary up in her bedroom, the canopied bed scattered with pieces of lace, samples, for her veil and wedding dress and train. Rosemary looked displeased. Jane set aside a pile of lace, cleared a spot for herself, and sat on the edge of the bed. Rosemary sorted through a number of the pieces and held up a square of pure-white netted lace with curlicues of butterflies and daisies, clearly hand-made as the pattern was irregular. “I think it’s a little fussy, don’t you?” she said and put it down again without waiting for Jane to answer her.
She picked up a darker piece with a simpler pattern almost like a spider’s web and a slightly brownish hue. She stared at it for a moment and shook her head. “Antique white?!” she said with some disdain. “This is beige. Antique white should just be old not brown, slightly yellow as though it’s been passed down.”
“This should be your biggest problem in your marriage…” said Jane who thought the enterprise of picking lace a fairly ridiculous one, anyway.
Rosemary sat down next to her and took her hand. “Just today, let’s make it my biggest problem.” She dropped her hand as suddenly as she’d taken it, jumped up, and started to walk around the room. “Or what we’re going to have for lunch. Do you think you would want fish? It’s almost hot today. Or should we just have salad? Or could my biggest problem be what I’m going to wear tonight?”
She walked over and picked up a dress that was draped across a chair. It was a silk dress cut low in the bodice with tiny sleeves that went right off the shoulder. Collar lines were plunging that spring and dresses were becoming more revealing. Rosemary held it up against her. “What do you think of this?” she asked. “Is it too bare? I’m not sure I have a corset small enough to fit under it.” Her voice dropped. “He’s enlisted.”
“What?!”
“Philip. He’s told me that he’s going off to war.”
Did they really think that none of this was going to touch them?
“When—?”
“They’ve said they’ll hold his orders until two days after the wedding. Of course, we’ll have to move