I had forgotten that my family was not immortal; I’d pictured us together at Shibden forever, but in truth we only had a few years together, the five of us. Then Father and Aunt were lost, and now Marian is gone from us. We have few friends left to visit, no new acquaintances. Mariana seems a distant memory; so few letters pass between us now. Didn’t I tell her everything, once? I wish she were with me now.

I care for Ann, love her, but she no longer completes me. I am no longer whole. Was I ever?

Here I stand on the peak of a mountain no person has ever climbed before, and I am alive and happy, yes, but the experience will fade as soon as I take the first step back down. It will become just another memory, another experience recorded in my diary. I will publish this account. This could be a travel article. But pessimism creeps in and I wonder who would read it. Others have made ascents, after all; it is not new. Would they even believe a woman capable?

Perhaps I am no longer permitted to enjoy life. Perhaps I have already had my allocation of happiness, and now I am given just contentment, no more. As I look out over the clouds which are now beneath us, hiding the world from our sight, I have a memory of my aunt and I in Paris, laughing, and a wave of grief washes over me as I realise that I cannot tell her of this. She will never know. I trudge back down three thousand feet and every single step feels like I am walking closer to nothing.

When we are reunited, I hold her close to me, my little Ann. I do love her, but we are cast from the world and a distance now stands between us that feels insurmountable. Ascending the mountain seemed easier than conquering her again.

Miss Walker

Travels completed, like a chore I must endure and feign happiness for. How awful that I cannot find the joy I once felt. I see it in her, and because I love her and do not want to lose her, I accompany her. I am weary to my bones when we return home and I sleep for days with the weight of it finally lifted.

Would it be easier to live a lie? To pretend otherwise? To find an old widower and beg him to take my hand? Or for each of us just to be alone? Yet in each other’s arms we hold each other as if we will never let go. As if we are the only two people in the world. Many days I wish we were. Who is there truly that cares for me but Anne?