Those of you who know my work, you'll recognize this as a shortened version of Needles and Roses (already posted in Advanced Critiques). Yes, I changed the title - I like this one better, and I think it goes with the story more. I posted it here, because I'm hoping for more reviews...

Enjoy reading. Sorry if it's still too long. But I did cut the chapter in half...

CHAPTER ONE

December 22, 1895

London, England

The sound of refined, male laughter draws me to the window. The curtains are open, and I stand in front of the clear pane, pressing my palms against the glass to peer down. I spot Mr. Garret and the younger Mr. Nathanial in their fine clothes and top hats standing on the street beside a carriage. Watching them with an ache in my bones, I attempt to ignore my already-cold fingers. The two men talk idly. Envy curls in my stomach when I study their relaxed demeanors. The gentlemen represent everything I do not have, everything that was stolen away from me. Everything I want, once enjoyed, and took advantage of, such as beauty and love, negligence and wealth. Not so long ago I’d had a future beyond the next room I have to clean. Is there such a future for me anymore?

Mr. Nathanial says something, undoubtedly witty, and Mr. Garret laughs. The elegant carriage next to them gleams in the morning light. I sigh audibly. I would so much rather be down there, laughing with them, than up here cleaning. My hands are already dirty from the morning’s dusting, and my hair is coming out of its cap and falling into my eyes.

Beatrice sets her full bucket of water down with a clatter. “Get away from that window, Rachel. You’ll only torture yourself.” She wipes her wet hands against her smudged apron, and picks up her bucket and washrag again.

I don’t move. “Where are they going?” I ask, trying to hide my wistfulness.

“I don’t know. Perhaps the horse races.”

“They don’t have horse races in the winter,” I remind her, taking my numb fingers away from the glass. Beatrice makes an impatient sound in her throat and walks swiftly to the open door.

She pauses in the doorway. “You’d better hurry. Jillian said there’s a lot to be done today. Those sheets need to be taken down, and we have to make that bed, so fetch some clean ones from the linen closet. When I’m done refilling this bucket, I’ll come back and help you.”

I nod without looking at her. She sighs, and switches the bucket to her left hand. “Rachel, please. He is not within the grasp of the likes of us.”

I don’t know which man she means, and I don’t have a romantic interest in either of them, but I don’t correct her; I’ve no wish to explain the true meaning of my languor.

“I know,” I say, finally looking at my short and dark-haired friend. She nods encouragingly and leaves. “Oh…” She pops her head back in. “Don’t touch that material if you value your life. Miss Nathanial has the sense of a vulture about it, and if she thinks you did, she’ll undoubtedly tell her mother. You know how that could turn out.”

I glance at the silk laid out on the bed and nod again. Beatrice disappears once more. After another moment, I tear myself away from the window and the bittersweet sight of Mr. Garret and Mr. Nathanial, picking up the sheets that I am to bring down to the washroom. As I always do before leaving a room, I quickly look around, enviously soaking in the rich furniture and ornate rugs. I covet the elaborate, warm crackling fire that adorns every room in the house, and the large intricate mirror that hangs above it, with its golden and gleaming edges. I bite my lip and shake my head to clear it completely of such longing thoughts.

I am carefully moving toward the door when I hear footsteps. Thinking it’s the mistress or Jillian, I hurriedly straighten my cap and rumpled dress with one hand, balancing the sheets against my chest with the other. The pile is so large that it obscures my view of anything in front of me.

“You look like an idiot.”

The sound of Amy’s voice makes me stiffen, and my chest tightens in both surprise and reluctance. “Why are you here?” I ask in a muffled voice; the sheets have fallen against my face.

“What, no greeting for your beloved sister?” she asks with a note of false hurt in her voice. I grip the sheets tighter.

“Hello, Amy,” I mumble.

She groans and leans against the doorjamb dramatically. “You haven’t changed a bit since last week. I was hoping you had become more bearable to be around,” she whines.

Does anyone ever change in a week? I swallow the bile in my throat and turn slightly to the side so I can see her. I force a smile.

“What brings you here today? You know Mistress doesn’t allow the staff to have family visiting at her house. If you keep coming here I’ll eventually be discovered—”

“You don’t want me here, do you?” She straightens and pulls on her kid gloves smartly, clearly not caring about what I want.

“Please, Amy, if someone were to come in here and see you I could be in really—”

“It is pathetic how low you’ve stooped,” she sneers, but somehow the action doesn’t mar her pretty face. By all rights, it should.

I bite my lip, not knowing how to respond to such a comment.

Amy looks past me to Miss Nathanial’s room. “How beautiful!” she gushes, running over to the bed, where the bolt of silk fabric is laid out. She touches it with reverence.

I look to the door nervously. “Please don’t touch that. Mistress gave us strict orders to let it alone. She can tell when someone has breathed on it, much less touched it,” I say, gazing at my feet timidly, and glance again at the door. I pray no one comes sweeping through it and sees my sister here, when she is supposed to be at Madame Bouclé’s.

My sister doesn’t answer, but waves away my words with a flick of her wrist. She reaches out with a white-gloved finger to stroke the silk defiantly, a challenging smile curving her lips.

I open my mouth to start to say something, to chide or plead with her to listen, but then think better of it, even if it does put my position here in danger. Amy’s nature has always been one that does not take orders or advice. It is best left alone.

I clamp my mouth shut again.

“Is it for her dress? For the General’s Christmas ball?” she asks me, still caressing the fabric. I nod in answer, still keeping one eye on the door.

“Why doesn’t she order a dress?” Amy demands, a glint in her eye. “Or have one made in a shop? Madame Bouclé would love the challenge, and the money she would earn making such material into a gown.”

I sigh. “Amy, you know as well as I that the Nathanial’s are one step away from financial ruin. They got that fabric from some relatives. Why are you asking me what you already know?”

“Just testing you, dear sister, to see if you would tell me the truth,” she says nonchalantly.

I frown in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I tell you the truth?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer me. “Someday I will wear material such as this,” Amy purrs instead, growing bolder and lifting the silk to press her face to it. She’s taunting me, and we both know I will do or say nothing to defend myself.

If I were a bold and glib girl like her, I would demand that she leave and go back to the shop where she belongs. But I am not, and Amy does not care about my feelings or the possibility of my getting into trouble. Instead of confronting her, I peer intently at the silk and pretend I am not bothered by her.

It will be my job, and several other girls’, to create a gown for the Christmas ball out of it for the mistress’s daughter, Miss Nathanial. It is a hard material to work with, so I’m told, and I do not look forward to the work or the time it will take.

Just another way I am unlike Amy. She thrives under a challenge, and goes above and beyond what anyone would expect. When Mother used to ask Amy to sit straighter, my sister would keep her posture sharp and correct for the rest of the day. When Amy was asked to embroider a hem, she would complete a beautiful skirt. That is why this year I have become a mere maid in a London town-house, while Amy remains in the heart of London to apprentice with Madame Bouclé in her dress shop. Madame Bouclé had tried to take me under her wing, also, when I first arrived in London, but my clumsy fingers only created disasters, and I would only poke myself and bleed all over the valuable materials.

Amy is most likely one of the most promising seamstresses in London. She can make a masterpiece out of a stained old blanket. Her fingers are nimble and clever. Once she grew older, it became evident that she was the one who should be the apprentice. I do not blame Madame Bouclé for choosing her over me.

I work up my courage to speak again. “Please, Amy, will you leave? I need to finish cleaning this room.”

“And why haven’t you? Too busy staring out the window at the gentlemen?” My sister raises an eyebrow. She means to look sly, but has only managed to look prettier. No wonder the men are beating down Madame Bouclé’s door to order dresses for their sisters.

A telling tint of red crawls up my neck at her words, and Amy smiles cattily, knowing she’s hit the mark. “I wasn’t—” I begin to say, but she laughs.

“Oh, don’t be silly. I was standing by the door when that other maid left. You were drooling!” She covers her mouth daintily and giggles. “You probably haven’t even begun to clean this room like you’re supposed to.”

“I-I haven’t had time to do much. But I was halfway done when you came,” I mumble in my defense. I realize that I sound like I’m making up excuses for an authority, such as Jillian or my mother, so I say nothing more. But Amy’s not paying any attention to me; she has taken my place beside the window to look out and observe the gentlemen herself.

“Which one was it that took your fancy?”

I don’t answer, and she scoffs. “You’ve no need to answer. I see that the one is much more handsome than the other. Mr. Garret, isn’t it? I’ve seen him only once before, at a distance. My, my….”

“Appearance doesn’t necessarily matter in everything, Amy,” I say quietly. My cheeks bloom once more when she glances at me with a mocking half-smile. But I wish it were true. Outward does not always have to matter as much as inward, does it?

“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Amy reaches up to twirl a wayward curl round her finger one more. “I’ve heard much about him from my friends. I see that they have good reason for their swooning.” Again, I don’t respond, because I know she doesn’t expect an answer. Amy often talks to herself. I think that she likes the sound of her own sophisticated voice.

A slight beam of light is shining down inside the house, and I see that Amy is wearing yet another new gown. It is an effervescent yellow, and heightens her angelic appearance. She looks very much like our mother at this moment, and part of me hates her for it. Amy is achingly striking, with her large blue eyes and that mane of pale shimmering hair, while I favor our father with my large green eyes and brown hair. She wears a fine wool material cut into the latest fashion.

I look down at my own attire. I am wearing the customary drab uniform, required to be worn by the household maids. My chest is blandly flat and my stature small.

I am not ugly, but neither am I the beauty that Amy is. I am like a piece of fruit that does not look rotten, or appealing. People always have and always will reach for the tempting piece, just as Eve did in the Garden of Eden. It is in the same way that the men naturally gravitate towards my sister.

The only asset I can really boast of is my hair. Granted, it is not as pretty as Amy’s, but it could be called beautiful. I unconsciously reach a hand up to touch my pinned-up hair, and sigh as quietly as I can.

I gradually realize that I am still holding the sheets when my arms begin to ache, so I set them down on the floor. My sister does not appear to have any intention of leaving soon. For the first time, I notice that outside, the sky is dark in a luminous grey warning. It is not a day to be in the streets or out calling. Rain is obviously quickly approaching. If the two gentlemen outside are intending to enjoy the fresh air on their outing, they will soon be disappointed.

“Mr. Garret carries himself more nobly than those other boys,” Amy decides. I do not take my eyes from the sky.

“Yes, I suppose he does,” I murmur.

“I’ve heard that he has his own town-house somewhere close by. Does he come here often?”

“Almost every day. He’s best friends with Miss Nathanial’s brother, James Nathanial. But Mr. Garret and Miss Nathanial are also good… friends.” I hesitate on the last word. The way Miss Nathanial looks at Mr. Garrets indicates far more feelings than just those of friendship. And he does not shy from her, what with her seemingly sweet demeanor and syrupy conversation.

Amy giggles again. “Do you think he would speak to me?” There is a glow in her eyes as she says this, and I know Amy is considering a new hunt, despite her possession of scores of suitors already. I lower my eyes in hopelessness. Of course he would speak to her. She is young, beautiful, and not without promise of a bright, potential future.

I purse my lips. The high lace collar of my dress seems to be tighter, choking me. “He is known for his… his lack of fortune,” I say lamely, trying to find a flaw in him so she will turn away. I do not want the man for myself—I’ve had more than enough with the sex. But I do not want Amy to get her claws into him. He is a good and kind gentleman from what I’ve seen of him, and he deserves far better than my devious sister. I would even rather he be with Miss Nathanial. At least her head is empty, and doesn’t have the ability to scheme.

Amy throws me yet another cruelly amused glance. “You are probably known for your lack of fortune as well, dear sister.” There’s a faint bite in her dulcet voice.

I withdraw into myself, as I always do when she treats me like this. Even though she comes to visit me occasionally, she seems to only desire the opportunity to exert her ability to hurt me. Amy knows her words are reminders to me of what once was. They are salt in my raw wounds. She has less pain in remembering; she has done well for herself and has very small reasons for grieving.

“Anyway,” she goes on frivolously, “while Mr. Garret has no money now, he is to inherit his aunt and uncle’s fortune if a son is not provided before their deaths. I hear the uncle is bedridden, and the aunt has a cough, if the gossips can be trusted. He soon will be known for quite the opposite of lacking a fortune.” The interest heightens in her eyes as she says this and she turns back to the window.

I fight resentment and move beside her. Down on the front step, Mr. Garret is still talking to Mr. Nathanial. His face is animated, and a lopsided grin makes his face all the more hard to look away from. Sometimes my soul is torn between the desires to lift just looking at his easy life, or become heavier in want of the same simplicity of his days. The two gentlemen have not moved from their place beside the carriage. Waiting, probably, for the only daughter of the mistress and master, Miss Laura Nathanial.

“What do you suppose he is saying?” Amy asks curiously. A shaft of sun is escaping through a crack in the gloomy clouds, and slips into the room. It shines down on Amy and her gown, and makes her bright hair stand out all the more.

A mixture of wretchedness and resignation washes over me and pulls me back from the window. I clench some of my skirt in my small fist to force down the overwhelming feelings. I’ve never in my life felt so mousy and irrelevant.

Amy sees my movement, and smirks in understanding. “You know you can’t have a man like either of them. You couldn’t have someone like Mr. Garret, or Mr. Nathanial, even if things were the way they used to be. He doesn’t know you exist. Honestly, Rachel, you need to be more realistic.” She pauses, as if pondering. “But you might have a chance with the butcher’s son,” she adds, and snickers at her own wit. The mocking laughter gives an additional viciousness to the words.

“I need to continue my duties,” I say haltingly, hopeful that she will go now. I stoop and pick up the sheets again to accent my words.

Amy rolls her eyes, sweeping to the door. But instead of going through it, she glances up and down the hall.

“There’s no one here, you ninny. Why do you worry so much? It makes you so dreary to be around.” She walks to stand in front of the mirror, patting her already perfect hair. She smiles at herself.

Though her words sting, I do not defend myself, knowing it is useless. Amy sighs loudly, turning her back to the glass. She plants her hands on her slims hips and regards me with disgust. Her lips are pursed and she glares at me with impatience. Now she will lecture me, or at the very least insult me. It has always been her way. She’s developed this certain routine with me.

“Why our holy God would give me such a boring sister I will never be able to guess!” She sniffs, brow furrowed as if she’s genuinely distressed.

“I need to finish my duties,” I repeat dully, staring down at her shoes. Her new shoes.

“Fine, finish your duties. Do whatever you want. You don’t deserve any fun.”

“Fun?” I glance up.

Amy smiles in satisfaction. “Yes, fun. I was going to invite you to a private ball that I myself was invited to. The invitations are very hard to get, I’ve heard. Only for the special people. But now I don’t think I want you there. You’ll stand around and mope the whole time, no doubt.”

“Whose ball?” I ask in interest, despite myself. I had once adored dancing.

Amy makes a move to go. “It doesn’t matter. You’re too busy.” She blows me a kiss and finally flounces away. I start after her for a reason unknown to me, but then I stop. I should know better than to participate in her cruel, silly little games. I free one of my hands from holding the sheets and swipe at my eyes. The movement draws my attention to the mirror beside me. The reflection beckons to me mockingly. I stand in the exact spot Amy had just vacated, and stare at myself. One mirror, two sisters, and two entirely different reflections. One lovely and the picture of life, the other drained and insignificant. I simper at my reflection, hoping for some sort of improvement. It does not help my appearance, so I halt my efforts. It is no use. I will always have the same stubborn chin, the same boyish body.

“Put them in the washroom!” someone shouts to another down the wide and long hall. I remember what I am supposed to be doing, and also head for the hall. On my way out the door, I stumble. Small steadying hands help me.

“Thank you.” I force a deep calming breath, again trying to shove down all the feelings that bubble up within me.

“That was your sister?” Beatrice asks, coming around the bundle of sheets in my arms to stand before me. “I think I remember her coming here once before.”

“You—you won’t tell, will you?” I ask apprehensively. “That Amy came here? I didn’t know she was coming, I—”

Beatrice shakes her head. “You’ve never told on me when Johnny comes to call. It’s the least I can do to return the favor.”

I reward her with a tiny smile. “Thank you. Where is the water bucket?”

“Danielle needed it. What did she come for? I have trouble believing someone such as her would come for a friendly chat.” Beatrice wrinkles her nose as she speaks of Amy.

I try to smile again but fail. “I don’t really know. She mentioned a ball…”

“She came to invite you to a ball?” my friend asks, as we begin walking again.

My shoulders slump. “Most likely not. She enjoys waving things under my nose and snatching them away. She will be going to the ball, I’m sure, but she never intended for me to actually go. It’s just the way she is.”

“You don’t deserve such treatment!” Beatrice fumes abruptly. “She acts as if she’s royalty!”

“Perhaps she is,” I say jadedly. The longing that emerged when I saw the fine gentlemen from the window is gone, and numbness is firmly in its place.

Beatrice regards me carefully. I get the impression that she knows what goes on behind my mask. “How is it you two came to be so different?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I hide my face behind the sheets; fearing tears will emerge from my eyes. “It is what it is.”

I walk faster down the brightly-lit hall, and Beatrice saunters beside me, looking thoughtful. “I suppose,” she says considerately, and lets the matter drop.

We both walk together to the washroom, where the sound of Jillian shouting orders and bustling about reaches our ears. I set down the sheets wearily, tucking stray hair behind my ears.

“We are finished, aren’t we?” I ask Beatrice. A thick, damp fume air fills the room from the heat of the water. Several girls dart about, trying to stay busy and avoid Jillian’s nasty temper.

Beatrice gives me a sympathetic look. She knows I am not yet accustomed to a long work day.

I bristle at the pity in her eyes. “I’m more tired than usual today,” I tell her. The underlining tone in the sapped words makes the lie obvious to all who care to hear it. Beatrice raises her brows at the defensive note in my voice.

“No, we are not done. Not by far.” She turns away to assist a fellow maid, Heather, fold a large sheet.

“Rachel!” our housekeeper, Jillian, shouts. I snap to attention. “Help these girls with the rest of the laundry! When you’re all done I need help with the dining room! There will be guests coming at six o’clock!” Jillian does not still for an instant, constantly flapping around like a chicken, and then she leaves the room with a purposeful frown.

I help to fold the sheets while shutting down my mind with resolve. I snap the sheet smartly to get the wrinkles out.

I count the seconds until I may leave this house.