Chapter Three.doc
Chapter Three.doc
CHAPTER THREE.doc
The next two days of my life are filled with preparations for the ball. It is supposed to be the social event of the season, and everyone dashes [Maybe bustles would be more appropriate?] around busily, doing this and that, trying to please our mistress and her daughter.
We had in fact carefully taken her measurements before making it, but I have to confess, after catching a glimpse of her in the dress, that it is a touch too big around the waist and her arms are just a little short for the sleeves. The gown that we [s]had[/s] labored over for hours is inadequate, and I attempt to shove down the[s] frusteration the[/s] frustration that rises within me.
I am turning up a lamp in Miss Nathanial’s room to shed light so that I may see the surfaces that need to be dusted, and am just beginning to scrub the top of the dressing table, when Beatrice pokes her head [s]in[/s] through the door. “Rachel! No time to dawdle! We are to see the Nathanial’s off!” She approaches me, straightening her apron, and loops her arm through mine. She propels me through the door and down the stairs to the foyer, where the family awaits.
As they are stepping into the carriage I catch the elder Mr. Nathanial casting one longing glance back, as if he is wishing the evening to end quickly, so he can [s]get back[/s] return to his study. Oddly, I feel a stirring of pity for him, before John closes the door again and Jillian orders us back to our duties.
Neither moving nor blinking, I gaze at the door in envy, trying to imagine what the rest of the Nathanials [You need an apostrophe.] night will be like.
They will draw up in front of the General’s home in their elegant carriage… bright lights will shine everywhere… perhaps there will be a fountain in front, and the water will plunge in glowing waterfalls…. the ladies will get out of the carriage, one gloved hand taking hold of the footman’s, and hold up their skirts with the other… once descended the gentlemen escorting them will bow, and graciously offer their arms… [s]they[/s] the elegant couples will enter a large, dazzling ballroom… the staircase will be decorated with holly and figs, and their scents will headily fill the air... they’ll be announced…everyone’s eyes will look up towards them… Mr. Garret will gracefully ask Miss Nathanial to dance…they will waltz, and her gown will brush against the floor slightly, making a soothing sound…. swish…swish…swish…
I frown, disturbed. I do not hate the family so much that I want ill luck for them, as she seems to. I would not wish the same fate of mine onto someone else—however deserving two of the family members may be. Besides that, I would need to find a new [s]postion[/s] position [s]somewhere[/s] elsewhere, and for me that is not a goal easily undertaken.
“I suppose,” I murmur in answer. I will not voice my true thoughts, because I don’t want to get on Violet’s bad side. [This sounds too modern. Perhaps '...because I don't want to become estranged from Violet' or '...because I don't want to displease Violet'.] One more person detesting me would not make my life any simpler.
All around me there are festivities. The streets aren’t empty tonight; there are swarms of well-wishers and carolers scurrying every which way. The [s]venders[/s] vendors [Venders is a modern variation of vendors and as such doesn't fit a period novel.] are eager to sell the rest of their holiday products, and they call out tempting offers that any person with money would take—and any thief with enough desperation would dare to steal. The murders seem something imaginary and distant. Walking more quickly, I try to block out the merry sounds all around me.
I briefly consider visiting Amy, my only family in this world, and wishing her a merry Christmas, but I quickly forget the idea. The last time I visited she had [s]had[/s] some men over for tea, and it [s]had been[/s] was awkward and painful for me. Amy had felt it necessary to tell them that I was unmarried and that old age was fast approaching me, and they’d best snap me up before the age did.
A walk sounds invigorating. Perhaps it will lift my heavy spirits. I remember walking with Father. We always [s]had gone[/s] went for walks. Our favorite time was in the autumn, when the leaves were gently golden and the breeze refreshing and cool.
Though it is my one day off this week, countless other people are working. It is as busy today as it is every other day. The usual carriages clatter by, and the stands are open, willing anyone to come and buy what is being sold [s]in[/s] at them. I easily recognize the flower girls and the milk maids. The newspaper boys continue to shout their persisting headlines.
“I would no’ be so ’asty if I were you, miss.” [Comma rather than full stop and small letter for she.] She advises, and lets go again, squinting at me. I don’t like the odd smile that curves her lips.
“Pro’ably a ra’,” she answers flippantly. I [s]ground[/s] grind my teeth together to keep from shrieking in disgust. A moment later I must force myself not to shriek again, because when I peel my hand away from the wet brick wall, filth and a slime-like substance covers my palm and the tips of my fingers.
The old woman unexpectedly jerks, as if she’s seen something alarming. “’Urry!” she hisses with [s]arupt[/s] abrupt urgency, shuffling on without waiting for me. Distracted from my hand, I reluctantly follow the crone.
“Wel’ome to me ’umble ’ome,” the old woman announces. I narrow my eyes in the gloom, trying to see. We have wound through a maze of alleys to come to a… shack. It stands in a corner between the backs of two touching buildings. It all forms a protective square, and the only ways out[s] is[/s] are the alley we’ve just come through and another I see going in the opposite direction.
“Fine,” I [s]ground[/s] grind out, and lower myself gingerly to the dirt floor. I try to make a little as possible of me actually touch it. My skirt tucked in modestly around my knees, I watch while the old woman gathers more of the bottles. She is slow about it, and groans about her aching hip.
No one is expecting me back anytime soon. And she obviously knows it, by the way she rolls her eyes at me and the way she moves at a snail’s pace. While in the alley she almost rushed to get me off the street and to this shack, I now [s]rememeber[/s] remember.
“’Ave you e’er ’ad yo’ palm read ’fore?” she demands, finally looking up at my face. I would have had to stifle a laugh at the thought if I weren’t so frightened right now.
“Do I?” I ask her nervously. What if it says I’m going to die soon? What if it’s something horrible and gut-wrenching? What if—what if—why do I even believe that what she will tell me is true? When did I begin to think that fortunes or palm reading or things of such nonsense [s]has[/s] have validity to them?
“I will ’ell you, then,” she says slowly. The breath catches in my throat when I perceive her eyes. They are blazing, and focused intently on my palm in a way that is disquieting. What does she see? The crone cocks her head as if listening to the air itself, and her dirty long hair [s]swing[/s] swings slightly. Her face is close to my own, and I catch a drift of her breath once again. I force myself not to gag.
Free again, I recover, and pause in shock, wondering what has just taken place. Had he hypnotized me? It cannot have just been me being[s] flooish[/s] foolish—I’ve seen and met many beautiful men in my life. Why should this one be any different?
The sleeves are too long, the bodice is too big, do we thing she is a cow?
I admit I have a mean satisfaction when I see Miss Nathanial sob all over her pillows in agony. She constantly whines to everyone that she will be the laughingstock of the ball.
I hope so.
The day for the ball, Christmas day, dawns cold and foggy. It is truly fit weather for the sort of Christmas I am certain to have.
I am turning up a lamp in Miss Nathanial’s room to shed light so that I may see the surfaces that need to be dusted, and am just beginning to scrub the top of the dressing table, when Beatrice pokes her head in the door. “Rachel! No time to dawdle! We are to see the Nathanial’s off!"
“You also, Mr. Nathanial,” Jillian replies courteously. “And you too Mr., Mrs., and Miss Nathanial.”
The younger Mr. Nathanial nods disinterestedly.
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