The Jeweller's Skin by Ruth Valentine

it made no difference, she knew already; his mother planned things for them all to do, and wherever they went, his mother and Edwin talked, and Narcisa was left with Eleanor, the sister, who spoke little French and didn’t know what to say.
    Who was saying now, ‘You’ll see, it’s beautiful.  It’s right by the river.  There’s…’ but Eleanor didn’t know the word.  She looked hopefully, sweetly, at Narcisa, wanting help.  But it was too much, to turn towards Eleanor with her large grey eyes and her girlish, giggling manner; to work out what Eleanor wanted to say to her, and find the word in French and say it twice, three times till Eleanor had grasped it.
    She said nothing.
    ‘Enfin,’ said Eleanor in her English accent.  Eleanor was to be married in the autumn.  Her fiancé, Gerald, looked very like Edwin, but with red hair instead of fair, and even whiter skin.  Then Eleanor too would stay alone in her house – they were to live in Streatham, close to the mother – and have to work out how to make the servants respect her, and wait for Gerard to come home from the office.  Perhaps then Eleanor would understand. 
    Edwin’s mother and Edwin had stopped at the street corner.  His mother was looking at Narcisa and saying something; perhaps that they were too slow, keeping her waiting.  Increasingly it seemed to Narcisa that they, the three Humphreys, talked about her, openly, knowing she wouldn’t understand them.  It was true that she understood less than she had a year, even six months ago.  It was too much effort.
    The park was a big one, with strange tall trees, and an old house on the edge, and greenhouses.  They walked till they came to a shaded place with lots of blue flowers.  ‘Voilà!’  Eleanor said.  It was clear that Narcisa was meant to be impressed.  She managed to say, ‘Very pretty.’
    There was more walking.  Now something seemed to have been agreed.  Edwin and Eleanor went on ahead, and Edwin’s mother came and took her arm.  The old hand on her sleeve looked like a piece of wood stripped of bark by the river.  She stared down at it.
    Her mother-in-law spoke stiffly, slowly, in English.  ‘Narcisa, I wish to speak to you.’
    Something surfaced in her and chose to know the words.
    ‘You are a married woman.  You understand me?’
    She looked down in assent.
    ‘You have a responsibility.  You are responsible.  For Edwin.  For…’ but the next word was strange to her.  ‘You must make an effort.’
    Something hot glowed through the thick layer of wood-ash that was her feelings.  She looked up at the bony, pitiless face.
    ‘I effort.  Now.  I effort.’  It was unjust; but her mother-in-law would not listen.
    ‘You are letting things go.’  What did that mean, letting go?  What was going?  I should go, she thought.  I should go back to Prizren.  For a year she had not heard from Alma or her father.  Perhaps Edwin was keeping their letters from her.
    She made herself concentrate on the strong cold words.
    ‘The servants.  They must…’
    Respect me.  Yes yes, that was what Edwin said.  How can I make them respect me, she wanted to cry, when they don’t understand what I say?
    They came to a gate.  Edwin turned and called something to his mother, who nodded, and the four of them went out onto a footpath.  A river, the Thames, was it? lay greyish and full beside them.  A boat with two men passed, their oars entering the water like kitchen knives.
    ‘Look, said Edwin.  ‘That is Sion House.  Do you see the statue of the lion on the roof?’
    A dull stone English lion.  She nodded.
    ‘When we were children we would walk along here all the way to Richmond.’ He smiled at her anxiously.  He gives me his childhood, she thought, to make me love him.  But I do love him, only…
    His mother said something.  Edwin turned awkwardly back to Eleanor.
    There was a call behind them.  A heavy brown horse was plodding along the bank, head