bribery ruffled net curtains in our staid village below for months. Now, finally complete, the sight of the Wedding Cake still incites equal measures of outrage and excitement. I secretly adore it.
Thoroughly tangled in Grace’s careful threads of intrigue, I jam my spectacles back onto the bridge of my nose and gape. Her smile indicates my reaction is at last satisfactory. With her motor practically purring to have caught an attentive audience, I feel her warm to her theme.
“And, heavens above, by all accounts, an American .”
She makes the word sound like a tropical disease. I lean forward in spite of myself.
America . A brave new world that has sung to me since childhood of unattainable glamour, daring music, and exciting technology. In disappointing contrast, our coastal English village might well be the sleepiest spot in the British Isles. I’ve certainly never met someone from the great, mysterious continent across the Atlantic, and the prospect is tantalising, even if she is an old maid.
“I overheard James on the telephone. Old Chicago money, apparently, and—well, we all know nothing’s old in the United States, so she’s bound to be brash.” Grace sniffs delicately, touching a hand to meticulously-set flaxen hair. “Calls herself an artist. Of course, if I were an heiress, perhaps I might have dabbled in painting, and never married.” Her airiness only just fails to cover the envy it aims to conceal. Her eyes slide along the room and settle briefly on the blond head of her husband, James. Perhaps she feels my gaze: she jerks suddenly, throwing me a sideways glance so defiant, it seems a dare to challenge her.
But I am good, reliable Rose. When I stay silent, she gives a thin smile and reverts to her constant chatter about the tall farm-hand she’s currently fixating on, while I go back to wishing myself at home in bed.
I sleep entirely too much, that much is certain. It has become my pastime. I go to bed far too early at every given opportunity, which in turn has become another source of cold tension between Charles and me. My mother-in-law delights in telling me such behaviour is neither “natural or seemly conduct” for a young woman like myself. It has come to me, lately, that perhaps sleep is an escape of sorts. This quietly hideous rigmarole—nights like this one—sums up my life. There is really nothing else, nor will there ever be. I dreamed of children once. Since being married to Charles, though, those dreams shifted in tone. I cried when Dr Cross pronounced me barren, selfish tears for the baby I would never hold—but also, perhaps, relieved ones on behalf of whichever poor soul would be spared.
A foamy tidemark rings my empty glass. I normally only ever have one drink, preferring to keep my wits about me. If I risk another, then say something careless... Charles will be liable to fly into a rage on the way home. Like I said, I’m a good girl. With a mother as poor as she was ambitious, I could hardly have been much else. I lived my life with my widowed mother as I’ve conducted my marriage; never doing anything that might land me in trouble. Yet the terrible temper I always suspected beneath Charles’s taut exterior has proven worse than I’d ever thought, on the few occasions I’ve inadvertently roused it.
At those times, he has endeavoured to teach me a lesson. And I have endeavoured to learn.
Braying laughter travels through the blue haze of smoke and music, bouncing off the moulded plaster and light fittings. I don’t know what quiet madness makes me stand, but I’m on my feet, pushing out my chair.
“Do you want another?” My words match my pulse—giddy.
Her pretty face is blank. “Another what?”
“Heavens, Grace. Another drink.”
I’ve never been to the bar myself, much less ordered drinks at one. Neither has Grace, for all I am aware. A momentary spark of surprise behind the jade cools almost instantly into speculation.
“If you do, I will. I’ll
Thoroughly tangled in Grace’s careful threads of intrigue, I jam my spectacles back onto the bridge of my nose and gape. Her smile indicates my reaction is at last satisfactory. With her motor practically purring to have caught an attentive audience, I feel her warm to her theme.
“And, heavens above, by all accounts, an American .”
She makes the word sound like a tropical disease. I lean forward in spite of myself.
America . A brave new world that has sung to me since childhood of unattainable glamour, daring music, and exciting technology. In disappointing contrast, our coastal English village might well be the sleepiest spot in the British Isles. I’ve certainly never met someone from the great, mysterious continent across the Atlantic, and the prospect is tantalising, even if she is an old maid.
“I overheard James on the telephone. Old Chicago money, apparently, and—well, we all know nothing’s old in the United States, so she’s bound to be brash.” Grace sniffs delicately, touching a hand to meticulously-set flaxen hair. “Calls herself an artist. Of course, if I were an heiress, perhaps I might have dabbled in painting, and never married.” Her airiness only just fails to cover the envy it aims to conceal. Her eyes slide along the room and settle briefly on the blond head of her husband, James. Perhaps she feels my gaze: she jerks suddenly, throwing me a sideways glance so defiant, it seems a dare to challenge her.
But I am good, reliable Rose. When I stay silent, she gives a thin smile and reverts to her constant chatter about the tall farm-hand she’s currently fixating on, while I go back to wishing myself at home in bed.
I sleep entirely too much, that much is certain. It has become my pastime. I go to bed far too early at every given opportunity, which in turn has become another source of cold tension between Charles and me. My mother-in-law delights in telling me such behaviour is neither “natural or seemly conduct” for a young woman like myself. It has come to me, lately, that perhaps sleep is an escape of sorts. This quietly hideous rigmarole—nights like this one—sums up my life. There is really nothing else, nor will there ever be. I dreamed of children once. Since being married to Charles, though, those dreams shifted in tone. I cried when Dr Cross pronounced me barren, selfish tears for the baby I would never hold—but also, perhaps, relieved ones on behalf of whichever poor soul would be spared.
A foamy tidemark rings my empty glass. I normally only ever have one drink, preferring to keep my wits about me. If I risk another, then say something careless... Charles will be liable to fly into a rage on the way home. Like I said, I’m a good girl. With a mother as poor as she was ambitious, I could hardly have been much else. I lived my life with my widowed mother as I’ve conducted my marriage; never doing anything that might land me in trouble. Yet the terrible temper I always suspected beneath Charles’s taut exterior has proven worse than I’d ever thought, on the few occasions I’ve inadvertently roused it.
At those times, he has endeavoured to teach me a lesson. And I have endeavoured to learn.
Braying laughter travels through the blue haze of smoke and music, bouncing off the moulded plaster and light fittings. I don’t know what quiet madness makes me stand, but I’m on my feet, pushing out my chair.
“Do you want another?” My words match my pulse—giddy.
Her pretty face is blank. “Another what?”
“Heavens, Grace. Another drink.”
I’ve never been to the bar myself, much less ordered drinks at one. Neither has Grace, for all I am aware. A momentary spark of surprise behind the jade cools almost instantly into speculation.
“If you do, I will. I’ll
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