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*edited again*
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One
Spring of 1882
With each swift stroke of my ink-laden pen, the poem flourished, each new word added making it more alive. I took slow, steady movements, my handwriting snaking across the page like an artist’s most prized signature. I blew softly in hopes that the ink would dry faster, but with great care in fear of smearing and erasing all my delicate work. I shifted restlessly in my chair when I lost my train of thought, chewing deliberately on the end of my pen in hopes of some inspiration.
The door was suddenly thrown open, and I jolted in surprise. “Christine!” my mother’s shrill voice penetrated my ears, and I cringed openly. She was dressed in an ivory slip with a slender skirt, her train short and reticent. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, pulled away from her face to better accent her handsome features. However, her planes were now bent in odd angles in provocation, her lips quivering with outrage at the sight of me hunched over a piece of paper instead of embroidering or singing in the orchard as I should be. “Again I catch you neglecting your duties to do what?” She flounced over and snatched the paper away from me before I could react. Shame made my cheeks flood with color as she read the poem out loud:
Blue Jay’s song
So rare to hear
Though very long
It caresses thy ear
Out in the meadow
So free and so proud
In the tall grass so low
But it sings oh so loud.
Oh, Blue Jay
Why ought though sing a song
Just for me
“What rubbish is this? I forbid you to spend your time lazing around writing nonsense such as this!” At this statement, mother cruelly ripped the poem cleanly in half. Eyes wide, I stared at her like I was just seeing her for the first time. “Now, up with you! We only have a few more days to prepare!” She exited the same way she entered, her lilac perfume lingering in the room like a stinking odor.
The tears come swiftly and silently, bubbling over until they spill out down my cheeks in salty rivers. Covering my face in my hands, I wept, shoulders hunched. I had worked mercifully over that poem, and now it is lying in ruin because of my mother’s vain attempts to corral me into being a lady of stature. My thoughts started to wander to dangerous waters, thinking that maybe she was right. Maybe I was wasting my time, trying to be as powerful with words as the fellow authors around me.
Picking up the remnants of my poem, I fitted the two halves together and read the poem in a trembling voice. It didn’t sound as ghastly now that mother had left. But I knew I had no choice but to follow mother’s instructions. So, with a heavy sigh, I allowed the two halves to drift onto the tabletop, face down.
Fighting against the mounting despair inside of me, I straightened and wiped the tears from my face, erasing all trace of my sorrow. I had to be strong. It was my duty to hold an example for my younger sister.
“Christine?” a voice called meekly from the doorway. Rotating my head towards the door, I saw the startled appearance of my sister, Arabella. She was barely the age of eleven, with rosy cheeks and a fair complexion. The sight of her innocence calmed my nerves for a moment, and my eyes dried. “Christine, why do you weep?” she asked, her voice pure of sound.
“Nothing to worry you, sweet Bella. Come, child.” I opened my arms wide to welcome her, and she happily obliged, wrapping her thin arms around my middle.
“I heard your poem,” she whispered softly into my bodice, and I froze. “I thought it was beautiful.”
“Oh, well…” I stutter, warmth erupting in my middle at her words. Arabella was a kind spirit, one of hope and reverence. I know that she will leave this house and make the world a better place just by the timid smile across her lips and her sweet nature emitting from her at all angles. “Thank you, Arabella.”
“You’re welcome,” she said contentedly, bouncing out of my arms. “Are you happy now?” She tilted her head to the side, examining me closely. I giggled in spite.
“Yes,” I sniffed, tugging on my skirt to straighten it.
“Good.” She smiled widely, gray eyes sparkling with wholesome joy. “Now come, mother didn’t sound too happy with you. We better get you downstairs for your fitting!”
Arabella led me from my study, through my room, and out into the brightly lit hall. The stairs were elegantly curved, polished oak railings glistening in the sunlight from the large bay windows. From inside, the thick warm sunlight filtered through the panes of glass like molten gold, leaking onto the furniture and making it glisten in the afternoon sunshine.
“M’lady.” My personal maid, Betsy, curtsied at the sight of me. “Would you like me to turn out your bed?”
“Yes, Betsy,” I murmured, instantly distracted by the commotion behind her. Mother was approaching and she didn’t look thrilled. Her brows were pulled together in a severe frown and her cheeks were ruddy with color, hands folded into fists at her hips.
“Ah, Christine, finally down from your study.” She forced a smile for Betsy’s sake, though one look from her flashing eyes told me that I had not yet been forgiven. “Follow me. Madam Louche is here to measure you.”
My stomach gave a shudder at this news. Today was the day! Rearranging my face into an expression of calm, I nodded politely. “Yes, mother.” Bowing my head, I followed behind her, Arabella at my side.
However, inside, my heart started to pound to an erratic beat at the news of this. How could I have forgotten about this? It has been the only talk around the house since last month! I felt close to panic and gripped onto Arabella’s wrist for dear life. Skeptically she looked up, raising one of her pale brows, but did not comment on my condition as my brain struggled to grasp this concept.
Since I was old enough to walk, mother never bothered to rein me like I had seen my fellow friend’s mothers do. I was free to roam like any other tamed lad, following behind my brother, Andrew, like his shadow. What ever he did, I did as well. No matter if it was climbing a tree to jumping in mud puddles. I did it.
Now look at me! If only Andrew could see me now… I turned my head to gaze despondently out the bay windows. Andrew was away at finishing school, and I had yet to see him. Every visit for the holidays was spent at one of his fellow lad’s homes. Mother and Father weren’t particularly proud of this fact, and I knew that he was bound to come home for the summer holidays in a few days’ time.
Letting a small sigh escape my lips, I crossed the foyer and into a small room where Madam Louche awaited. Arabella paused at the door and I with her. “What pesters you, dear sister?” she asked me, gray eyes probing my own.
I let the corners of my mouth lift at my sister’s innate nature. “It is my presentation to society this Saturday. I am no longer a girl. I’m a lady,” I explained, hoping that she will somehow understand. I gave her a peck on the check before facing the doorway, arching my back as Mother had taught me, and stepping over the threshold, a confident smile pasted across my face.
“Ah, Miss Christine! Look at you, my darling! The picture of your mother in her youth.” I allowed the robust Madame Louche to extravagantly kiss my cheeks in welcome while I only politely pecked her own. Mother lifted her stature taller at the compliment, nodding at the sight of me. As Madame Louche stepped away from me, I was able to observe her from a distance.
A taller woman with graying hair and painted face, she was only a few years past my mother. Her style of dress was directly out of the shows from Paris, her train long, her bustle large. I was now allowed the chance to create my own masterpiece for my Coming-out Ball, and I was exceedingly pleased at the prospect, though the outlook of it appeared grim.
“Madam Louche, Christine needs the finest that you can give her for her introduction to society,” Mother announced, eyeing me with sudden dissatisfaction. I looked self-consciously at my dress and discovered several stains littering the skirt and a small hole in the sleeve.
Madam Louche eyebrows lifted as well when she caught sight of my disgraceful appearance before turning back to my mother. “Of course. Anything for a Richmond’s daughter.” She winked and spun to face me, eyeing my clothing again.
“Now, Miss Christine, we have a lot of work to do.”
= = =
Hours later, I felt my legs prickle with the need to move, my toes completely numb. “Hold still up there,” Madame Louche barked, poking my fabric of choice with a multitude of pins and needles. Her ladies around her measured the sleeves and bodice, and my mother sat in the chair in the corner, observing their progress with hawk-like determination.
To distract me from the agony of my legs, I stared intently at the fabric swathed over my figure. It was velvet green with small yellow blossoms decorating the hem. I also was using a golden material for the under the skirt, and for the train and bustle. I found it exceptionally elegant, and even Madame Louche remarked that it was becoming on me.
“We will need to make some curves on this one,” Madame Louche abruptly pointed out through her mouthful of pins. My cheeks flowered in surprise, and I looked to my mother for guidance. However, she wouldn’t meet my gaze, and only agreed with the dressmaker’s advice with a quick dip of her head.
Frowning, I tentatively touched my hips. But before I could assess myself, a voice of familiar character and timber erupted from the doorway: “Hello, Mother.”
I watched my mother’s expression as she suddenly stood, face splitting into a look of unhidden warmth and affection. I was unable to hide my alarm at such a raw statement of affection. My mother would never have shown such devotion unless it was her oldest son who was standing in the doorway.
“Andrew!” she cried, and crossed the room, lifting up her skirts to faster reach him. I spun, ignoring the calls of protest from the ladies around me, and faced my brother, home for the holidays.
When mother stepped back, I was able to view him clearly. Dressed in the latest fashion of a navy waistcoat and long white trousers with a bowler perched precariously on his head, he beamed at the sight of me. His face was tanned by too much exposure to the sun, his black hair lightened by the days spent outside. His build was leaner, stronger, his hips trim. He appeared to haven grown in height as well, now well beyond our mother.
All I could do was smile, all the previous nerves having vanished without a trace at the sight of him. Everything would go back to normal now that Andrew home. He would be here for my ball; he would settle our parents’ frazzled nerves; he would again return balance to the Rickmond household.
Since I was young, Andrew was like the center of the Rickmond home. He was the comedy relief in times of despair; he was the provider of warmth when the nights turned cold. It was clear that he was favored above Arabella and I by our parents. It never seemed to bother me though, because Andrew doted on my sister and I.
And that was all that mattered.
He raised a coy eyebrow when I didn’t move to welcome him, and he spread his arms to urge me on. Without further persuasion, I vaulted from the podium I had been standing on and launched myself at him, burying my face into his coat. He smelled of the sea and the fresh air outside.
“Christine, lovely sister,” he murmured into my hair.
“Andrew, I am overcome with joy to see you home safe.” I leaned away from him for modesty’s sake and curtsied to him as custom ruled. He bowed to me as well and leaned down to my level. “It is good to see my sister well and lively as before. And dressed in such finery.” His eyes sparkled with mischief at the sight of my frock of uneven cloth layering me. I smiled demurely at him, but made no move to defend myself in front of Mother, who spoke up at that moment. “Andrew, I think your father would enjoy seeing you as well. Come, son.” Andrew nodded, though I saw the familiar glint of rebellious nature still hidden underneath his now gentlemen demeanor.
“We will speak later, Christine,” Andrew declared to me before he departed.
Mother then led him from the room, and I was left alone with the enraged dressmaker and her workers.
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