CHAPTER ONE
When I was little, I owned a tiny book, given to me by my father. The Legend of Briar Rose told the story of a princess who fell asleep for a hundred years, while all around her, the room grew twined with thorns. I would lie in bed at night with my arms laid by my sides, sheet arranged just so, and imagine I was my royal namesake, dreaming patiently of her new beginning. That was back when I still held on to the secret hope I could be anything.
Sometimes I fancy I will try to seek out that edition, with its painting of the girl with long golden hair. It was by the Brothers Grimm, I believe. But I never have. In truth, I know I never will. I was a good girl back then, and I am now—although I no longer believe in fairy tales. I put those and many other things aside when I married Charles.
And this is why Charles married me. Dependable, dutiful me. I’m under no illusions that our pairing was entirely circumstantial: any other in a situation desperate enough would have done just as well. My mother-in-law often reminds me how, given my background —this word always uttered with added emphasis, underlined with a meaningful glance—my marriage to Charles was the height of good fortune. And it was. In the early days, I dared to dream it was my own new start. A life of service would have normally been the only option for a girl like me; I was offered this other opportunity. A chance to marry up, and become a middle-class housewife.
I took it. I never allow myself to evaluate that choice.
Dusty light filters through chandeliers set high above the small-town hotel ballroom, casting hazy patterns on peach-coloured walls. I hate it here, uncomfortable not only in the surroundings but the very clothes I have to wear. The constant rustle of my taffeta gown, chosen and made for me by my mother-in-law, makes me long for the soft flannel of my housecoat.
Something cold sinks in my stomach as I guess it will be a while. From the rosy shine already blooming at the tip of Charles’s nose to the raucous laughter that skittles from the gentlemen’s table, all signs point to a long night.
The glance at my husband makes me straighten a little in my seat and tug unsuccessfully at the neckline of the hateful dress. Waves of incessant chatter wash over me, barely breaking against my inner thoughts. I smile absently at the source of the tide of gossip and begin to polish my spectacles.
This, then, is the general course of these meandering evenings, but tonight, something is different. As the fabric of my dress scratches over the first lens, small, unusual hooks set into Grace’s normally predictable monologue snare my attention.
“Straight from the horse’s mouth. Foreign money... artist... frightfully wealthy in her own right.”
I blink, shooting Grace an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. Miles away. Say that again?”
She pauses. My glasses lie abandoned in my lap, but I see perfectly well through the silence: lips pursed, feline green eyes cast at the ceiling. Still, after an indignant huff she picks up her tale readily enough.
“I was saying she’s supposed to be insanely rich in her own right—which is why she gets away with it.”
She sits back triumphantly in her seat. I take a careful last sip of my near-empty drink, wondering how to ask exactly to what and to whom she’s referring. I needn’t have worried.
“So imagine; it’s not for a family named Perkins, after all. That great monstrosity of a house is for her alone—a spinster ! Did you ever? Just fancy!”
I set the glass down hard, no longer in any doubt about her subject. The gleaming white house, perched up on nearby cliffs overlooking the sea, dubbed the “Wedding Cake” by my father-in-law and promptly parroted by everyone for miles around. All find his description of the brand new house, with its clean, geometric lines, the height of hilarity. When its controversial plans were approved by the Parish Council, scandalised whispers of
When I was little, I owned a tiny book, given to me by my father. The Legend of Briar Rose told the story of a princess who fell asleep for a hundred years, while all around her, the room grew twined with thorns. I would lie in bed at night with my arms laid by my sides, sheet arranged just so, and imagine I was my royal namesake, dreaming patiently of her new beginning. That was back when I still held on to the secret hope I could be anything.
Sometimes I fancy I will try to seek out that edition, with its painting of the girl with long golden hair. It was by the Brothers Grimm, I believe. But I never have. In truth, I know I never will. I was a good girl back then, and I am now—although I no longer believe in fairy tales. I put those and many other things aside when I married Charles.
And this is why Charles married me. Dependable, dutiful me. I’m under no illusions that our pairing was entirely circumstantial: any other in a situation desperate enough would have done just as well. My mother-in-law often reminds me how, given my background —this word always uttered with added emphasis, underlined with a meaningful glance—my marriage to Charles was the height of good fortune. And it was. In the early days, I dared to dream it was my own new start. A life of service would have normally been the only option for a girl like me; I was offered this other opportunity. A chance to marry up, and become a middle-class housewife.
I took it. I never allow myself to evaluate that choice.
Dusty light filters through chandeliers set high above the small-town hotel ballroom, casting hazy patterns on peach-coloured walls. I hate it here, uncomfortable not only in the surroundings but the very clothes I have to wear. The constant rustle of my taffeta gown, chosen and made for me by my mother-in-law, makes me long for the soft flannel of my housecoat.
Something cold sinks in my stomach as I guess it will be a while. From the rosy shine already blooming at the tip of Charles’s nose to the raucous laughter that skittles from the gentlemen’s table, all signs point to a long night.
The glance at my husband makes me straighten a little in my seat and tug unsuccessfully at the neckline of the hateful dress. Waves of incessant chatter wash over me, barely breaking against my inner thoughts. I smile absently at the source of the tide of gossip and begin to polish my spectacles.
This, then, is the general course of these meandering evenings, but tonight, something is different. As the fabric of my dress scratches over the first lens, small, unusual hooks set into Grace’s normally predictable monologue snare my attention.
“Straight from the horse’s mouth. Foreign money... artist... frightfully wealthy in her own right.”
I blink, shooting Grace an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. Miles away. Say that again?”
She pauses. My glasses lie abandoned in my lap, but I see perfectly well through the silence: lips pursed, feline green eyes cast at the ceiling. Still, after an indignant huff she picks up her tale readily enough.
“I was saying she’s supposed to be insanely rich in her own right—which is why she gets away with it.”
She sits back triumphantly in her seat. I take a careful last sip of my near-empty drink, wondering how to ask exactly to what and to whom she’s referring. I needn’t have worried.
“So imagine; it’s not for a family named Perkins, after all. That great monstrosity of a house is for her alone—a spinster ! Did you ever? Just fancy!”
I set the glass down hard, no longer in any doubt about her subject. The gleaming white house, perched up on nearby cliffs overlooking the sea, dubbed the “Wedding Cake” by my father-in-law and promptly parroted by everyone for miles around. All find his description of the brand new house, with its clean, geometric lines, the height of hilarity. When its controversial plans were approved by the Parish Council, scandalised whispers of
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