The Education of Harriet Hatfield Read Free Page A

really all that was left of my life with Vicky now. Patapouf licked my face and licked off the tears.
    When we had settled down with a drink, Angelica looked across at me and raised her glass, “To the vita nuova, ” she said, “and a brave woman.”
    “Not brave, just driven,” I said, taking a good gulp of scotch.
    “I see that, and I sometimes wonder what it is that drives you. You have chosen not to mourn. You have given yourself no time for that.”
    This surprised me. Had I not mourned? I had to admit to myself that there was some truth in her remark. “I don’t know. I guess I have been fighting for a life of my own. I know it sounds odd, but really for years I have been living Vicky’s life.”
    “You seemed an exemplary couple, you know. I often envied you.” Angelica had not married, was involved in innumerable charities and good works, and took off on long travels until very recently. She was now over seventy, and although she often said she did not feel her age, I had noticed and so had Vicky that she was no longer embarking on journeys to Tibet or Timbuktu.
    “I loved Vicky, you know, and when one loves someone living their life does not feel limiting. I enjoyed Vicky’s powerful life and all that it drew into the house. But when she died, Angelica—this will shock you—I did not feel extreme grief.”
    “Weren’t you lonely? Didn’t you feel cut in two?”
    “Don’t laugh at me, but I think I felt very much as I did when I graduated from Smith, lots of woe at the loss of all that those four years had held and which was gone forever, but also a wild excitement. Now I can begin to live!”
    “It is rather odd,” Angelica granted. Her large pale gray eyes opened wide. She had never been a beauty but her unwavering eyes made her rather plain face arresting. “I miss Vicky. She was such a life-giver. When she walked into a room the atmosphere became electric at once.”
    “She took over.”
    “Yes, I suppose she did.” And she got up. “I must see what Alice is up to in the kitchen. Excuse me for a moment.”
    For the rest of the evening we talked about the bookstore. Angelica was looking around for someone who could help me with the business side.
    “An efficient mouse is what I need.”
    “One who will not take you over?”
    “Exactly. One who does not displace very much atmosphere.”
    “Joan Hampstead might do …”
    “And who is that?”
    “Oh, someone I have been on a committee with, the committee for the library, actually. She is a divorcée, needs a job, I think, and most important you would feel at ease with her. A very intelligent mouse.”
    And that is exactly what she turned out to be.
    But after dinner I was suddenly exhausted and got a taxi to take me to the hotel where I was stowed until I could move into the new place. There I lay in bed, unable to sleep for hours. I missed Patapouf’s warmth beside me though she had become awfully heavy to lift onto the bed. And I wondered in a kind of anguish how I was going to manage this new life, what a lot I still had to prove to myself and the skeptical Mr. Fremont.

3
    After all the frustrations and exhilarations of getting ready I sent out invitations to the opening of Hatfield House in early September for September tenth from three to six. Of course my list had had to be chiefly mutual friends of mine and Victoria’s, for whom else did I know? But I had posters stuck up at the Coop and a few other bookstores or shops that would accept one. Joan Hampstead was invaluable in helping do this as I was too shy to ask for myself.
    By now we had established an easygoing working relationship and had some good laughs as we unpacked boxes and boxes and filled and arranged the shelves.
    “Should I shelve M. F. K. Fisher with cooking, women, or lit.?” Joan asked, and we pondered and agreed that she really included too much else to be placed with Julia Child, the queen of the cooking shelf. I did succeed in my idea of a table filled