Well, we talked a lot. My father is in Lundein for business and Joshua is only coming back on Sunday, thus it was just us girls and so a lot of talking is expected. Anyway, it went late and covered everything from Evan and Cyril to Violet, but not my waitressing job. My mother didn’t tell Clarice about it, I suppose. I guess it should be obvious Clarice doesn’t know as otherwise she would have come to tease me.
That was yesterday, now being my first morning back. It’s strange not waking up as early as at school. Breakfast served from seven there, I would go to eat while dawn hadn’t quite yet dawned for the last month or so. Today, it’s (somewhat) light outside, my room warm, clothes laid out for me while I stretch and yawn. There’s a cup of tea on my bedside table and a flowery scent from fresh pot-pourri (a strong lemon and orange peel smell, accompanied by the heat of allspice).
Ah, I’m spoiled.
Although Georgie is around to help me dress and such, I’m accustomed to doing it myself. Once I’m finished and have drank my morning tea and brushed my teeth and all that, I let her lead me through to the sitting room. (I know the way, I promise, but I don’t know if my mother and Clarice like to use the sitting room or some other room these days.)
I’m mildly surprised to only find my mother there. With how late it feels, I expected to be the last to rise. Well, Clarice has always been more of a proper aristocrat….
“Good morning, mother,” I say, lightly curtseying.
She smiles. “Morning, my little snowdrop.”
I didn’t pay much attention yesterday, but she’s wearing a wonderful dress today. It’s… humbling. An off-white adorned in intricate lace that sparkles in the dim light, small ruffles and bunching to add shape and texture, the layering of different fabrics, a complex neckline and sleeves—not to say anything of the quality of the fabrics, the base a fine velvet and the outer-most a glossy satin, surely silk. Every bit a work of art. Maybe even that is selling it short, being something that’s both beautiful and practical. (My mother would hardly wear a ballgown when just sitting around the house.)
“Are you finally at the age to take an interest in fashion?” my mother asks.
I giggle, lightly shaking my head. “Not exactly. For embroidery club, Ms Berks has suggested we make an exhibit of dresses. I really appreciate how much work goes into a dress like yours now I have a bit of an understanding.”
My mother sips at her cup of tea, and then waits a long moment before asking, “A green and a pink dress, is it?”
I can’t help but wince, those words hardly promising for what’s coming. “Yes,” I say, knowing better than to feign ignorance.
She smiles, so very amused. “Lottie was rather praising of them both. You must have put in a lot of effort,” she says.
“I did,” I say softly, a little off-balance from hearing that Lottie really did think they were good. I mean, there was a thought in the back of my head that said she was being polite, that everyone was, an unspoken caveat of, “It’s good—for something an amateur made.”
“Then I shall be looking forward to the exhibit. It will be open to family, will it not?”
Remembering how Ms Berks phrased it all, I giggle. “I am not exactly sure if the exhibit has been arranged yet, so I’ll let you know when I do,” I say.
My mother doesn’t say anything to that, going back to her tea, and the humour slowly fades from me, leaving me back in that unsettled feeling, anxious of what’s to come. Her promise long ago of, “We’ll talk about this later,” finally being fulfilled. Deep breaths, preparing myself for—
“And your… job, how is that coming along?” my mother asks, not waiting for me to steel my heart.
It hits me harder than I thought it would, a burst of childish anger behind my calm voice as I reply, “I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s somewhat difficult, but I’m happy.”
And she says, “Is that so?”
My conscience isn’t guilty, yet those three little words cut deep, belittling me. What does this look like to her? I’m just a child playing pretend, aren’t I?
Can she understand me if I reach out to her? I don’t know, and that hurts.
Nails digging into my palm, I try to control myself, not someone who overreacts. “It’s rewarding for me to work hard and be praised for it. And being able to talk freely with girls my age, to be accepted for my personality, means so much to me. They’ve become important to me, friends I look forward to seeing every week.”
I can’t bear to look at her. I can’t bear to know what face she’s making, what her eyes show. For all these years she’s cared for me, it feels as if she’s betraying my trust, none of my mental preparations readying me for this.
Because there’s no way a duke’s daughter can play waitress, can she? My mother has already been more than kind to let it go on this long. But, you know, my mother’s perfect, isn’t she? She’d never hurt me, she only wants best for me. So, if I make her understand, then she has to let me keep working, doesn’t she?
If only life was that simple.
“I do appreciate that there are certain merits to it,” she says, her words careful. “However—”
“Don’t drag it out,” I say, hiding my face in my hands. “Just, just tell me I can’t. I’ll be a good girl and sit in my room, alone like I always was before. Maybe Violet will come now and then to keep me company.”
I hear her sigh. “You aren’t making this any easier.”
“Good. I want you to know how much you are hurting me,” I say.
That was petty, I know, but… I don’t want to give up my precious friends. I know she’s my mother and I should be respectful and believe she has my best interests at heart, but… she doesn’t know, does she? She’s watched over me, but she doesn’t know how I feel.
I’m not a princess in her high tower, waiting for a prince: I’m a lonely girl, desperate for friends.
Speaking more softly, she says, “I have always believed in giving you your freedoms, and I have always been so proud of what you do with them. The kindness you show, the humility, never greedy nor cruel. However, it is my duty as your mother not to hide behind that freedom as an excuse to not guide you. When you make a mistake and do not know how to address it, or you do not realise you have made a mistake in the first place, then it is my duty to intervene.”
Such nice words (as expected of my mother), and yet so bittersweet. I know she loves me, but she sees this as a mistake, right? I’m wrong, I just don’t realise it because I’m such a good person.
But I’m not. I’m selfish. I don’t care what happens to our reputation if people find out about it. It might hurt Joshua and Clarice, my mother and father, and I don’t care. I’ve already made up my mind that the risk is worth it.
Stubborn for the sake of it, petulant out of spite. Cowardly driven by the fear that this is my only chance to make friends with girls my age. I’m sorry, mummy, but I’m greedy, I want to hold on to these friends no matter what.
Speaking softly but clearly, I say, “I haven’t made a mistake, I made happy memories, and I won’t ever regret them.” A kind of relief floods me with those words spoken, settling my roiling emotions.
With that bit of clarity, I stand up, only to be asked, “Where are you going?”
I gather my determination and look my mother in the eye. “I’m sorry, mummy, but I’ve said everything I want to say, and if I have to stay any longer then I will say something I regret, so I’m going to my room.”
What does her expression say? Is she angry, upset, disappointed? I don’t know. She holds herself behind a blank look.
After a curtsey, I leave—the spoiled brat I am, making a mess and running off to sulk. She doesn’t call me back. As high as I held my head before, it drops once I’m outside the room, rubbing my eyes while I shuffle back to my room.
“Right, miss.”
I stop, turn, carry on. In my defence, I’m a little busy trying to keep myself together.
Georgie doesn’t have to correct me again for the rest of the walk, and she waits outside my room. I go sob pathetically into my pillows. Oh I might be nearly as tall as Clarice, but I’m still a child.
All this time, I knew that it would come to an end sooner rather than later. Those weren’t so much Yule presents as parting gifts. Making a fuss over something I knew was coming, that’s just childish, right? Worse than childish.
But what hurts the most is that I don’t regret acting like that. I sure talked big to Gerald, huh? How low my standards have fallen. I’m just… all over the place. A hypocrite. What’s it when you hold contradicting opinions… cognitive dissonance? I’m so dissonant right now. Hating myself, yet not hating myself.
And my mother… I just can’t. I can’t bring myself to think for a moment she hates me, but I’m certainly testing her, aren’t I? That’s all I can say, really. I know she doesn’t understand me, so I can’t understand her either, can I? Maybe I’m just making that up so I don’t have to think about her.
I’m stupid, so very stupid.
Without the pressure to keep me together, I fall apart into a mush of emotions I can’t even describe. Wallowing in pity.
Who knows how long it has been when a knock on my door rings out. I clear my throat, and then ask, “Who is it?”
“The Queen.”
Smiling to myself, I say, “Then you will have to wait for me to fetch a guest first.”
Clarice’s laughter flutters through the closed door, a different laugh to my mother’s. If my mother is elegance, then my sister is grace, someone who could charm water to let her walk on it. Her laughter has that sweetness to it, the sort that makes you want to join in.
Someone who has never lacked friends and acquaintances.
“May I enter?” she asks.
“Yes.”
The door opens with a mild creak, heavy on its hinges like all the doors here. I have often wondered if it’s intentional or just a side-effect of the heavy oak that the doors are made of. My thoughts are cut short by her appearance, for the second time reminded of my lack of skill, her dress exquisite. A simple dress of thick velvet that’s then been detailed, red flowers on black oh so eye-catching.
If she notices where my attention is, she doesn’t mention it, coming over to sit beside me on the bed. Without saying anything, she hugs me—just the one arm looped around my shoulders, pulling me tight against her side.
It’s… funny? She knows exactly what to say except when it comes to comforting me. Or maybe it’s that she knows to say nothing, that simply being here is what I need. I don’t really know. It’s not like I’m an expert, struggling to comfort Evan over his grades, and she might not know what she’s even comforting me over.
Rather than bring up what happened, I enjoy the silence.
“Do you remember, let’s see, you must have been four when our nanny left,” she quietly says after a while.
“No?” I say, my oldest memories from around six, I think.
She leans her head over, resting it against mine. “You cried so much, and you told off father for it, and you promised you would never forgive him.”
Well, today of all days, that certainly sounds like me. “Did I really?”
She makes a sound of agreement, and then gives me an extra tight squeeze. “I thought it was so silly back then; however, as I’ve matured, I find myself envious of that little girl who loved others so easily.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Did you… hear?” I ask.
“No,” she says, “but I know you well, and mother, and I can only imagine what could get the both of you in such a state. Well, unless you’re… with child.”
Snorting, I double over, desperately covering my mouth. “I’m not, I swear.”
“Ah, I was actually hoping it was that—nothing better to distract everyone from my debut.”
“You’re terrible,” I say, smiling.
Yes, she’s much better at comforting people than me. So much better.
Clarice doesn’t say anything else to me before she leaves, a simple goodbye and then I’m once more alone with my thoughts. I’m not sulking now, though, merely brooding. Is that any different? Who knows.
What I mean is that I’m not running away. I am slowly trying to make sense of my feelings. It might sound silly, but I don’t know how I should feel. I don’t know. As much as I want to be someone reasonable, emotions are hard to reason with, aren’t they? But the first step is finding out how I feel, then why I feel that way, and then telling myself I’m stupid until everything fixes itself.
Okay, that last bit is a bit tongue-in-cheek, but the first part is right, right?
How I feel…. Not hungry, I can say that much. The morning passes without so much as toast, stomach in knots.
When I spoke with my mother, I said it was about my friends, but were my feelings that straightforward? I like Iris, Millie, Len and Annie, I do, but… I did only see them a little bit every week. I chatted with one or two of them a little before work, a little at lunch break, and then a little with all of them after work. Can I really call them precious?
I know so little about them, yet I do care for them. I’m reminded of the tiff Len had with her fiancé. It did trouble me, I did think over it plenty, and I did feel relief to hear they’d made up. Would I feel that way hearing the same story from someone else? Would I feel so strongly?
If I put that aside for now, why else would I have taken my mother’s words as poorly as I did?
It did hurt me how insistent she seemed that I made a mistake by working there. Put however nicely, she all but told me I’m wrong. Am I someone who gets upset from being told I’m wrong? I don’t think so, but this is something more personal.
With Gerald, I got so upset because it was about Violet. This time, I can’t say I got upset on someone else’s behalf, can I? As much as they mean to me, I don’t think I’m all that important to Iris and the other waitresses. If I resign, it might make work a bit more difficult for them, especially if Millie has to cover some of the ladies from King Rupert’s, but I’m sure they can cope and that Neville can find another waitress to replace me. Since Len is “retiring” soon, he probably has someone lined up who can just start earlier.
What about it makes me upset to be told I’m wrong? I mean, I already know that I am in the wrong, that a Lady (capital L) shouldn’t involve herself with such work. If it were to get out, such a rumour would follow me for the rest of my life and might well impact my marriage opportunities.
Ah, that’s it, isn’t it?
I’m being told to conform to the very society that rejects me. I have to follow the rules even if I’m losing. This is the sort of argument we could have had any time in the past, whether about me climbing trees or speaking familiarly with maids or, well, most of what I did when I was a child. I was given “freedoms”, but only so long as I grew out of them.
Rebellious years, huh? Yes, I guess that fits, right? I’m testing boundaries and oh so sure of myself and all that.
How very teenaged of me.
And so we come to the part where I tell myself I’m stupid, having lunch and supper in my room rather than face my mother. I still don’t know if I should apologise. By what I told Gerald, I don’t think I should, but the other side of apologies is realising that your difference in opinion isn’t more important than the relationship. In that regard, I should. I do love my mother and, while this decision hurts, I do understand she is doing what’s best for me.
Weighing up whether the loneliness I feel now is worse than the damage of such rumours, I can’t blame her for thinking the latter is worse for me. It’s almost cliché, right? Me, all young and impulsive, caring more for the present; her, older and wiser, caring more for the future.
Despite thinking that, it’s… hard to apologise when you don’t mean it. I’ve had lots of practise apologising, yet those were always warranted. It’s a lot harder coaching myself than Gerald. For starters, I talk back more and make more sense when I do.
I know it only gets harder with time, but I settle into a troubled sleep for now, no point thinking myself into a tizzy when it’s already this late.
In and out of dreams I fall, far from refreshed by morning. I can’t tell if it’s any earlier or later than yesterday, but there’s soon tea for me and clothes laid out. With something of a headache, I push through my routine, quietly curling up on my bed afterwards, curtains drawn. In the mild darkness I dwell, slowly blinking away my sleepiness until the headache passes.
Just as I’m readying to look for my sewing things (desperate for something to keep me distracted for now), there’s a knock on my door.
I hesitate, almost afraid it’s my mother even as I hope it is her, wanting nothing more than to be done with my tantrum. “Who is it?” I ask.
“Papa.”
My mouth actually drops open, so surprised to hear his voice. It takes me all of a second to recover my wits and then rush over, lifting the hem of my dress to run quicker, opening the door with a broad smile. “Papa,” I say, tears in my eyes.
He’s a tall man, or at least he was when I was young. Though I still think of him as a giant, he’s not that much taller than Gerald and Cyril, but he has a build more like Evan’s—not someone you’d call lanky, but not fat or muscly either.
And as always, he gets down on one knee so I can hug him. I can just about get my arms around him these days, but it must have been hilarious to see me try back when I was a kid.
Cold to the touch, an earthy smell around him, yet his embrace warms me.
“Welcome home, Nora,” he says, gently squeezing me.
I can’t help but feel a child at times like this, still six years old and causing mischief and running off to papa when I’m worried mummy won’t ever forgive me for breaking her vase in the garden.
So much changes, so much stays the same.
Moment’s fragile, I only have a few seconds before the words I expect come. “Your mother is in quite the state, you know,” he softly says.
He’s not papa now but father. The head of the family. He stands up, taller than me, a neutral expression on his face.
“Let’s sit,” he says and leads me over to my bed. He takes the chair from my desk for himself.
Late, I whisper, “I know.”
He lets out a long breath that sounds every bit as heavy as my feelings. “When I really met your mother,” he says, putting me off-balance with this tangent, “we were both at King Rupert’s. In the same class, even. I came to pick up something I forgot at the end of the day and found her writing. Curious, I walked over unnoticed—not that I was sneaking. Looking over her shoulder, I caught her in the middle of writing a… rather heated scene.”
My face quickly feels hot too as the euphemism sinks in.
He lightly chuckles. “Of course, she caught herself in such a fright when I made myself known. And she was terrified of what would happen. From what she later told me, she had for long felt a keen shame for what thoughts entered her head, shame for what she wrote.”
I’m a little stunned, never hearing of this before. Well, it’s obviously the sort of thing I wouldn’t hear about, right? Yet that makes me curious why now, but I dare not ask.
With a light smile, nostalgic, he carries on. “She deeply worried what it would mean if her hobby got out, to the point where she refused my company for the longest time. My first proposal also fell victim to her worry. However, she slowly came to understand that my love for her wasn’t a fragile thing, not something that would break from what scandal she envisioned coming to pass.”
Pausing there for a moment, he looks over to me.
“When we married, I included one promise in particular in my vows: I wouldn’t tell her what she can and cannot do. That is, I wouldn’t stop her from writing.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. That’s so sweet, isn’t it? I mean, not really by Ellie’s standards, but for a man in this age—for a duke—it really is. And yet, because I know Ellie’s standards, I’m aware that, well, that sort of thing should be the norm. I shouldn’t be sitting here hoping that whoever I marry treats me as his equal out of generosity.
“When it came to you, Clara, and Josh, I saw no reason to not afford you all the same freedom. However, freedom comes with responsibilities, and the most important responsibility is….”
I bow my head, the answer coming to me. “To listen,” I whisper.
He pats my shoulder; his hand warm now, I realise just how quickly he came to see me after arriving.
“One thing I found when I became a parent was that, by trying to avoid the mistakes my own parents made, I made mistakes of my own. Because of that, you and your mother couldn’t be more different.”
So he just told me my mother was ashamed of her writing…. Okay, I know Violet has called me shameless at least, like, five times, but it’s a lot harsher coming from my own father.
Joking aside, I think I understand what he means. She wants me to always be proud of who I am. And I am. But she hasn’t forgotten, has she? When she thinks about what would happen if my waitressing became known, she remembers how scared she was, doesn’t she?
As if he knows his lecture has successfully lectured me, he gives me a bit longer to think before asking me the usual sort of questions I get when I come home from boarding school. (It’s hard not to notice how he avoids asking me about the princes, some parts of the male-dominated culture not so easily changed by a promise in vows.)
Somehow, it’s lunchtime when a maid interrupts us. I can only imagine I slept in really late, which only makes how tired I still feel more annoying.
He doesn’t ask me if I’m coming to lunch. But… I follow behind him, as if trying to hide in his shadow. The dining room is quiet when we enter, and I think for a moment we arrived first, only to meet my mother’s gaze when he steps out the way.
Maybe it’s just my imagination, but her makeup seems quite heavy today.
We eat mostly in silence, my every bite a struggle. Towards the end of the meal, Clarice and our father chat a bit about what he went off to do. He’s always quick to downplay his work as simply signing contracts the managers put on his desk and this time is no different, authorising payments and confirming staffing changes. I don’t know much about his companies; they’ll be left to Joshua, so it’s never been any of my business.
Though neither says anything, those two leave promptly at the end of the meal while still talking on that topic. Just me and my mother, I feel the words physically stuck in the back of my throat, unable to push them out.
What am I, a child making excuses? No.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, my voice carrying across the silent room.
A second’s pause, and then she asks, “What precisely are you apologising for?”
That may sound spiteful to some, but I know it as what she always asks me when I apologise. If you’re apologising, you have to do it right, right?
“I’m sorry I made myself too upset to listen to everything you had to say. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I’ll try not to drag it out so long next time, and I’ll listen patiently if you have anything you wish to say now.”
“Apology accepted,” she says.
I let out a sigh, all my dark feelings draining out and leaving me refreshed. Maybe it wasn’t the sleep’s fault, huh?
“And I am sorry too.”
Wait, what?
I’m sure my eyes are wide as I stare at her, unsure I heard correctly. Are mothers allowed to apologise?
She has a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, a distance to her gaze that makes it seem like she’s looking at something far behind me. “When I visited, I saw how happy you looked—far happier than I have seen you in many years—and I selfishly wanted to take that away because of my own insecurities.”
And I stumble on one part of what she said. “Wanted to?” I ask, quoting her.
Someone who’s careful with her words, she catches what I mean and gently nods. “You may continue working there—given you meet certain conditions your father and I decide on.”
“Thank you,” I say, practically croaking.
Just… I’m so happy I could cry. I didn’t think….
I spend quite the while listening to my mother, feeling quite the fool once the burst of happiness wears off. If I’d kept my mouth shut, she would have told me yesterday that she wanted to speak to me first before talking to my father; I had one-sidedly decided she was going to tell me to quit, but that wasn’t the case at all.
No, she just wanted to make sure I wasn’t overlooking the risks. I’m such an idiot…. It’s all so very humbling, a reminder of how much more I still have to grow. Even if she doesn’t understand me, she’ll listen to me, and I should always try to do the same.
When we finish talking about this, silence settles. I’m too drained for another conversation. Maybe she feels the same, or she knows how I’m feeling, because we have a quick hug and then she sort of lets me leave, a quiet, “Good day,” dismissing me.
The afternoon still young, I head back to my room and flop onto my bed. Not exactly sleeping, I rest my eyes, the time ticking by while my mind sorts itself out.
Evening creeps up, a maid coming in to turn on the lamps and light the fireplace (probably Georgie, but I don’t look and can’t tell just by the footsteps). Ah, Georgie is probably going to leave soon. Three years working here, no four, so I guess she’s twenty years old now (or will be soon). Two to three is the usual. My father’s status means we only hire the “best”, and they’re the sort who have no problems marrying.
A little after sunset, I’m once again brought to the attention of a knocking on my door. “Come in,” I say as I sit up, not particularly choosy now I’m no longer in the midst of a tantrum.
To my surprise, it’s Clarice. Well, there’s only three people who it could have been (or a maid, but there isn’t a reason for a maid to come at this time).
“Good evening,” she says, giving me a most splendid curtsey.
I giggle, bowing my head for her. “And to you.”
She flutters across the floor in graceful strides, certainly a soon-to-be debutante. Only, she practically throws herself next to me, mattress sinking in to the point I nearly topple over—it’s more soft than springy.
As everything settles, I keep lightly laughing. “And what is that practice for?” I ask, a teasing note to my voice.
“The wedding night, I suppose,” she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows, still lying down. “A man who would throw me onto the bed, impatient with my timid shuffling, and then begin to strip me down—”
I clear my throat, desperately trying to stop her.
She luckily does pause, but her laugh does little to stop the uncomfortable heat to my cheeks, nor does her poke in my side. “You are at the age for such fantasies, you know. Oh how you loved the books I used to lend you, yet now you spurn them,” she says, almost wistful.
Of course, the reason I don’t read the books she recommends to me these days is that they’re, well, very much in the same genre as Snowdrop and the Seven Princes. I’m not entirely sure what that genre is (unless “smut” by itself is a genre).
But this does all remind me of, well, Eleanor. Over the years, I have become more sympathetic to her and this is one of the reasons why. Clarice is… certainly an influence. I can easily imagine poor Eleanor listening to Clarice and reading the recommended books and thus having her values “misaligned”.
I mean, I’ve never exactly thought poorly of Eleanor for her promiscuity. It was more that she wasn’t honest with the princes about what was happening and that I doubted their reactions to it were authentic. In this world, if I kiss a man (in a fit of mutual passion), then I would expect him to propose and he would expect me to accept. What Eleanor did was quite a bit more than kissing, so I can’t imagine any of the princes would have been happy for her to turn around and say, “Oops, never mind.”
It’s just a story, I know, but it’s called suspension of disbelief, not expulsion of disbelief. Did the story really need seven princes? Did it need her to actually seduce them? Did it need to be in a Victorian-like setting? Now that I think about it, did it even need magic?
“Say, since it’s just us now, how are things really between you and Evan?” Clarice asks, jerking me out of my thoughts.
When I catch up with what she said, I don’t blame her. Because Evan and I have club together and sit next to each other, I do mention him at least once in every letter, and at this age…. “Do you think men and women can be just friends?” I ask her back.
It’s a question I don’t know the answer to. Obviously, they can, but can they really? The closer I get to Evan, the greater the pressure to conform. It wasn’t all that noticeable when I was by myself, but Lottie asks, Violet asks, Clarice asks. In a couple of years when my parents start properly preparing for my debut and all that, they’ll ask. If I become interested in someone, he’ll ask.
So far, it hasn’t bothered me since I understand, but what about Evan? Can he put up with it? Do I mean enough to him? And if I do mean something to him, does he truly only see me as a friend? Old questions I can never quite escape. The only answer I have for them is trust, a trust that has so far been well-placed.
I don’t really expect Clarice to give me much of an answer, but a part of me hopes she has some magic bit of wisdom that makes everything simple.
She doesn’t.
In a rather roundabout bit of talking, all she adds to my existing puddle of thoughts on the matter is that it is the sort of thing that usually happens after marriage. It makes a certain amount of sense. Sure, there’s muttered rumours of affairs and divorces due to adultery, but I guess there’s also a very real shift in how people see you when you’re married compared to when single. Not every conversation with a man is flirting when you already have a husband.
Easy, all I have to do is quickly get hitched and then no one will bother me about Evan. Where’s Gerald?
While I am joking, that too-clever-for-his-own-good prince sticks around in my head. Sort of feeling a glimmer of guilt, I awkwardly tell Clarice of what happened between him and Violet and then what I did, filling in the gaps I skipped over on Friday night. (I don’t tell her it’s actually the Prince, though, not quite ready for that news to make it to my mother and father.) And I try to be impartial, sticking to facts and such.
By the end, I do think I’ve given a proper account of things, eager to hear what Clarice thinks. While a bit eccentric in her own ways, I do respect her opinion and I do think she has good people skills; this is very much her strong point and my weakness.
And this time she doesn’t disappoint.
“All in all, it sounds like you’re probably being too harsh on him,” she says.
I pout, but otherwise keep my petulance to myself. “In what way?”
With a push, she rolls onto her back. “Well, you have to remember that recognising you’ve made a mistake isn’t the end but the beginning,” she says, her hands gesturing along. “Especially for the sorts who go to Rupert’s, getting them to admit they’re wrong is pretty miraculous.”
She’s not wrong.
“Oh, are you sweet on him?” she asks, eagerly sitting up.
I turn to look at her, finding a rather too-sweet smile there. “No?” I say, maybe a little hesitant.
With a sigh, she deflates. “Really? It’s just, now I think about it, aren’t you thinking too highly of him? That he did apologise to Violet, he is surely a good man, but the standard you’re holding him to is quite extreme. I mean, isn’t it more likely he doesn’t realise that the rumours are actually hurtful? He knows that Violet knows they aren’t true, so he might think it doesn’t bother her—in the same way that he wouldn’t be bothered by a rumour he knows to be false. After all, the easiest mistake to make is to think that others are the same as ourselves.”
I’m not entirely sure if that last line is directed at me or Gerald. Well, either way it sits heavily on my shoulders, weighing me down.
“Anyway, what is important is that he is willing to better himself, right? Change isn’t something that happens overnight, so it should all work out if you give him time. Or you can ignore him. There’s no sense in putting up with people you don’t get on with if you can help it,” she says.
Quiet in my thoughts, she doesn’t hang around for long after saying that, leaving with a goodbye that I do at least return.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her more, but I’m mildly overwhelmed by what she said. So ready to be upset with him, I don’t think I ever put myself in his shoes—not properly. She only saw him through the glimpses I shared and yet she seems to have a better understanding of him than I do. Too busy thinking he’s perfect, huh?
Still, this is why I want… close friends. I want people I can talk with to better understand myself and those around me, more views than my own, someone to tell me when I’m being silly or I’m wrong. I love Violet and Lottie, but neither of them could have told me this. Other things, sure, but not this. I think I influenced Evan too much on this matter, but maybe if I’d spoken with Cyril or Julian.
I don’t know. It’s not straightforward, not at all. However, I guess the first step is trusting them more. It’s not too late to ask them what they think, to listen, and I should try to keep them in mind when I (inevitably) run into other problems.
Cyril’s coming tomorrow.
A knock on my door is followed by Georgie saying, “Supper is ready.”
“I’m coming,” I say, but I’m really not, struggling to shuffle off the edge of my bed. So busy thinking, the rest of my body fell asleep. Although the first steps are shaky, my stride settles into the usual rhythm, life returning to me as my heart gets pumping.
To the end of the hall, go right (not left), down the stairs, go left (not right), dining room second on the right (not left), and—
“Surprise!”
I don’t jump, but only because I’m too shocked to do anything, frozen to the spot. Slowly, the people in front of me filters through my brain: Clarice, Joshua, my mother and father, and Cyril. There’s a cake at the centre of the table, along with the dinner itself, and there’s some decorations in the form of coloured placemats and flowers—baby blue, my favourite colour.
“Happy birthday,” they all say in (a near) unison.
It truly is.
Submitted November 11, 2019 at 02:19AM by mialbowy https://ift.tt/2CHUTyt
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