Something is terribly wrong with Charity and she refuses to tell us what loss has befallen her. I pray that the wedding is not the cause of her difficulties, though it is not rare for sisters to fall into a melancholia when another sister marries. We have never been a competitive family but I’d be less than honest if I wrote that the natural rivalries have not existed among us. Hope has been marvelous, considering her age and my out-of-turn nuptials, and I would have expected Charity to feel none of the pressures, being still so young, but one never knows how youth will react. Charity has been testy, her wicked sense of humor gone. When she is home she sits and pouts and her eyes are often red. I am loath to admit it but I fear that whatever it is that is troubling her has driven her to overindulge and her waist is gaining girth by the day. I don’t believe she’ll be able to fit into the dress we bought her only last month.

June 5, 1912

This is so like her. Father has spoiled her terribly and now she has taken to ruining everything. They had a terrible row, Father and Charity, their voices spilled out of his library with a venom that I had never heretofore heard in this house. Father’s voice was deep and angry, like a furious owl, hooting with indignation, and Charity was crying out her false pain, punctuated by her crocodile tears. The thunder outside was monstrous, as was the force of the rain, and still we heard their angry voices, sharp as the bolts of light that crashed their way through our shuttered windows. I am to be married in less than a week and I have barely seen my love for all the preparations. I need not Charity’s histrionics to distract me from my plans.

We are having the ceremony before the statue of Aphrodite, where Christian and I shared our first, glorious kiss. At least some arrangements are proceeding well. Just yesterday we decided to add, in front of the statue for the ceremony, an oval of the richest, brightest flowers to help celebrate the day. The gardeners have dug and prepared the oval plot before this evening’s rain and we will plant the flowers shortly before the wedding so their blooms will be freshest when we take our vows and their color contrast most vividly with my white silk gown. And, gratefully, the Pooles will soon be leaving the property for a two-week sojourn to Atlantic City, financed by my father. I insisted he send them away and, finally, he agreed, so we won’t have their anger to poison our reception. My wedding stands to be the most glorious affair of the season if we can keep our sister from falling apart or eating a swath through the buffet with her newly revitalized appetite

June 6, 1912

Charity is missing, she has fled. Her satchel is gone and so are some of her favorite clothes. After her argument with Father she packed her satchel and left the house for we know not where. Mother is distraught, Father is brooding silently but has determined not to summon the police to find her, though I know not why. With her missing it is as if the family is in mourning. How could she do this to me just five days before the most important day of my life? Whatever joy I was to feel about that day has been destroyed by her hateful behavior and poisonous attitude toward my future. I will go through the motions and smile at the guests and take my vows with my husband to be, but it can never be the same. Never shall I forgive her this complete disregard for my happiness. If only Christian were here to comfort me, but I have not seen him since she disappeared, as if he is avoiding to tread on our tender emotions while the wound of her disappearance is still fresh. Even in the most trying times his warmth and generosity cannot be overstated

June 9, 1912

The pall of Charity’s disappearance remains with our family. The wedding rehearsal was a dispiriting affair which Christian, wisely, failed to attend. I have not seen him since the stormy night of Charity’s disappearance from the household with her satchel and her problems and I wonder how our family’s current instability is affecting him. At the rehearsal, the minister joked about whether the groom would make it on the grand day itself and there was an uncomfortable silence, but I have no doubt that Christian understands that despite my sister’s disappearance there is too much at stake for the two of us, and for his family’s fortunes, to allow her absence to affect in any way our future. Our marriage must go forward as a necessity of our undying love. Everything would have come apart except for Father’s strength. He has insisted that the wedding proceed as planned and he refuses to let our sorrows get in the way. I believe until now I never understood the truly glorious power of his will, his single-minded devotion to whatever cause he has made his own, damn the costs. It is a lesson I have well learned from him and one I shall never forget. I understand him now as I never did before and I forgive him everything.

The gardeners have finished planting the flowers in the oval plot before the statue and they are magnificent, whites and pinks and violets in ordered rows like a tiny guard of honor. No matter how morose our family may be over Charity’s selfishness, the wedding itself will be a triumphant reminder that the more responsible members of this family will carry on

June 10, 1912

My nerves have gotten the best of me. I can’t stop crying. Even as I write this my tears blot the ink. So much joy, so much worry. Still no word from Christian, not for days and days. It is bad luck of course to see the bride too soon before the wedding so his absence is absolutely excusable, but still with Charity and Christian both absent from the house there is an abject loneliness that infects my joy with a strange sorrow. Hope has been a rock, staying with me at all hours, sleeping in my bed with me as I shake with worry. She is so good and pure and I think she is the best of us. Should anything happen to her I will be lost. I can only imagine what impossible difficulties will come my way tomorrow

June 11, 1912

The most glorious day of my life has passed like a dream. Christian Shaw and I were married in the eyes of the Lord and the world at precisely 1:30 p.m. in the afternoon, under an unceasing sun, before my father’s statue of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. That it was a more somber affair than could be wished for was only to be expected, as my sister Charity remains among the missing.

I’ll always remember my dear Christian as he awaited my walk down the aisle. He was the most endearing sight, hesitant, uncertain as a boy, tottering from nerves. I can barely describe in words how much I adore him. He was late of course, what groom isn’t, and due to the difficulties we had faced in the previous week it is no wonder that he fortified himself with brandy before the ceremony, and continued on through the reception, so much so that he was later struck with sickness, the same sickness that has him lying in bed asleep as I write this in our New York hotel.

We took our vows before the excited throng on the back lawn. The minister’s service was short and full of love. Between us and the audience was that plot of flowers whose colors seemed brighter than life. I said “I do” as firmly as a banker but Christian acknowledged his love for me with a squeak that brought welcome twitters from the guests. In front of everyone he was becomingly shy when it was time to kiss but I put my hand on his neck and brought his face to mine and his lips to mine and we kissed again as sweetly and as powerfully as when we kissed that first time.