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The Meridian Gamble

Page 17

by Garcia, Daniel


  My stories are pure foolishness. I am not even sure where they come from, but somehow, writing them down gives my heart some speck of hope. However, I must hide my scribblings, because I know Mother would destroy the pages if she found them. I disguise them as a diary, and tuck the book away in the lining of a hat box I store far back on an upper shelf of my closet, a hiding place that even the Twins will hopefully never find if they rifle through my room on one of their never-ending quests for mischief.

  But I can think about outlandish stories later. I have more pressing concerns. As I finish my bowl of gruel, I look to Father again, and am filled with worry once more.

  It occurs to me that I might ask Marjorie, to see if she has any insight or knowledge about the company which Mother might have shared. Later in the morning, when I have the chance, I vow to myself that I will approach her. But for now, she is passing her love letter to Madeline once more. It must be of particular interest, and I wonder if Gregory Lawlor has promised to marry her.

  Mother again looks up from her breakfast plate, and glares at her daughters.

  “Young ladies, if you do not put away that letter right now, I am afraid I will be unable to take you shopping today. And all the other young women of value in London will have an extra week to scour the dress shops to prepare for the Admiral’s Ball. Or perhaps you can wear your dress from last season. Is that what you would like, Marjorie?”

  Marjorie gasps in shock

  “No, Mother. I am quite sorry for my rudeness,” she says, solemnly.

  And she quickly tucks the letter into the waist of her dress.

  I look to Marjorie, raising an eyebrow, but she only sticks out her tongue at me, quickly. And she forces a spoonful of the glop that our cook has served into her mouth, and tries to swallow it with a sour look. And in this moment, I am quite certain she is pointedly aware of the mistake of allowing it to cool, and I struggle to suppress a laugh.

  After breakfast, we all walk upstairs to prepare for our day of shopping with Mother. The master bedroom, where our parents sleep, rests at the top of the stairs, behind two majestic double doors that seem to loom over the second floor. The Twins’ room is next to theirs, so that Mother and Father might hear them if they cry out in the night. There are guest rooms, and when you turn a corner on the second floor landing, a railing leads you to Madeline’s room, Marjorie’s room and finally mine, which is tucked away in a corner.

  I walk slowly, waiting for the others to close their doors behind them. And for a moment, before she can enter her own room, Marjorie and I are alone. She walks along lazily, still reading her silly note, and I look around carefully to make sure no servants are about before I approach her.

  “Marjorie, may I ask you something?”

  She turns and looks at me in a patronizing way, with an exaggerated smile. I almost feel as if Marjorie is practicing trying to seem beatific and gracious, for when she must play the role of Gregory Lawlor’s wife. But somehow, the effect is less than convincing.

  “Sister, can we not chat in the carriage on our way to the shops? I wish to hurry, to get ready for our outing. I would hate to find Coleen Fairview squeezing into a beautiful gown meant for a more moderate frame, such as my own.”

  “I’m afraid the matter I wish to speak of cannot wait. And it is delicate in nature.”

  Marjorie laughs.

  “What can we possibly have to discuss that we cannot share in front of Mother? You are being quite cryptic, Sister. Let us talk in the carriage on our way to the stores.”

  Marjorie turns away from me, but I press on.

  “Is there a problem with the family business?”

  She stares at me in utter confusion for a moment, and a brief look of shock flitters across her face. But Marjorie quickly recovers, and she laughs.

  “Are you mad? Why would you even think such a thing?”

  “It’s just that … Father seems so worried. At breakfast he …”

  She interrupts me, marring her beatific features for a moment with a touch of anger.

  “Is it not enough that Mother and Father provide you with a spacious house to live in and everything you could possibly want? Dresses and parties and dances, food to eat? Yet still, you concern yourself with matters that are not yours to worry over.”

  Not mine to worry over, and yet, I still do. I’m sure the look on my face tells her I am less than dissuaded. And she sighs in frustration.

  “Of course there is nothing wrong with our family’s business,” Marjorie says. “In fact, everyone in London knows our company is one of the most powerful in the nation.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Now come. Let us get ready, so you can help me find a pretty dress that will stun all of the handsome young men at the ball into a state of complacency, so they will do anything I say. And just think, the sooner I am married, the sooner it will be your chance to shine. Or at least, to try in vain to look as dazzlingly as I undoubtedly will at the Admiral’s Ball.”

  Marjorie laughs, and goes into her room and shuts the door behind her, dismissing me. And I stand in the hallway, still unsure of what to think.

  In my room, I comb out my hair and pin it up beneath a bonnet. Our new maid Cecily comes in to check on me, to see if I need any help. She is French, and chirps in an accent that annoys me, but luckily, I do not require her presence for long. I am not so vain as my sisters, and can easily dress myself. Soon, we are all in fresh outfits, and Mother calls us downstairs, where we enter the carriage in front of our home.

  My sisters and I all wear white, except for Marjorie. It is one of Mother’s rules, that our wardrobe must always be pristine and devoid of color, save for perhaps the slightest tint of beige. Rarely does she allow us the occasional splash of pink or blue in a ribbon for our hair or a belt around our waist, or perhaps a dark jacket that might have a jade trim. It seems that Mother is making a statement through our dress, that we are young and pure. I find her thinking archaic, but there is nothing I can do about it. Again, I must be careful of the manner in which I speak my feelings aloud, and the degree to which I voice my opinions. Which rarely occurs. But occasionally, when the Twins get into mischief and dirty their dresses, I can tell even Mother considers changing her ways.

  But Marjorie is of an age where she has blossomed, and her clothes announce it to the gentlemen of the world. She wears a dress of light green, it is her signature color, one that matches her eyes. And I cannot deny that she looks resplendent, like something from a forest landscape that has been washed with dew.

  When our conveyance finally reaches a favored store, Mother forces our driver to park as closely as possible to the entrance. She considers it unseemly for us to walk along the sidewalk, as it is a place where the lower classes dwell. But we cannot help but to touch its surface, at least for a few moments. And as we exit the carriage, I can see men turn their heads to stare at Marjorie. They seem to analyze her in a way that makes me think they are trying to absorb her beauty through their eyes. And on occasion, one or two will whisper to one another as they gaze her way. I find it the height of rudeness, but Marjorie seems to smile just a bit, and I suspect she enjoys their attention.

  But something seems out of place on this day. For a moment, through the corner of my eye, I witness an unfamiliar sight. A man seems to be watching not Marjorie, but me. His gaze makes me nervous, and I dare not stare at him directly, though in the few brief glances I take his way, I can tell he is dark-haired and handsome, quite handsome. And somehow I can see that he has eyes of the deepest emerald green. His look haunts me, because it almost has a hint of the familiar. I feel that I know him, which cannot be the case, as I am not acquainted with boys his age. And I feel uncomfortable under his inspection.

  I rush ahead of my sisters to open the door for Mother, so we can enter the shop, but more importantly, so that I can scurry away from his view.

  A simple sign hangs over the door that reads “Henriette” in curled, cursive writing, though I have yet to
meet a woman of that name when we visit. We often wonder if the lady who runs the shop, Madame LaForge, is Henriette, but she has never told us her first name, and even the gossips of London have yet to discover this hidden secret. Even still, it is one of the most popular dress shops in the city, though it has only been with us for a short time. Mother insists they import the finest Parisienne fashions, and indeed, whenever I mention visiting “Henriette” to my friends they twitter with excitement.

  Inside, we sit in comfortable chairs with little end tables between us, on which pots of tea are set for our refreshment, as style after style is brought out for Mother and Marjorie to inspect. And I find it all tedious, as the fashions seem to blur into one another. But after several rounds of couture, as we drink a second glass of tea, Madame LaForge brings out something special; a stunning dress with ruffles of emerald silk, and even I am quite impressed. Marjorie’s eyes light up when she sees it. In an instant, it is clear that she has found the dress she will be wearing to the Admiral’s Ball. The young shop girls who assist Madame LaForge hold it up to my sister as she stands in front of a mirror, and Marjorie’s eyes sparkle with delight.

  “Oh, Mother! This one is spectacular! May I have it?”

  Mother looks the dress over, seemingly analyzing its every stitch. She says nothing at first, yet she also does not frown or dismiss it, which is a sign in and of itself of her possible approval. And through her stony demeanor, I can tell she is pleased.

  “It would look nice with the emerald choker,” she finally says.

  “The emerald choker? Mother, are you serious? Would you really let me wear it?”

  “I would consider it,” Mother replies, with a smile.

  The emerald choker is Mother’s most prized piece of jewelry, one she rarely wears, though its existence is legendary amongst her circle of friends. Father bought it for her on a trip to France they took before I was born. It is extremely valuable and almost excessive, even by the standards of London’s upper crust. She wears it only on special occasions, when she wishes to strike fear into the hearts of the other ladies. Its very existence seems to increase the value of the rest of her jewelry, raising her other beautiful pieces to its level, and she only switches them out on a whim. But I suspect few things on Earth sparkle with its same beauty.

  The necklace consists of a giant emerald encrusted in diamonds, held by two strings of pearls and one of diamonds, intertwined. I try to convince Mother that we should take another trip to Paris, to find her a matching piece, but she mostly ignores me, or says I can go when I find a husband of my own. But my only real interest is in visiting the City of Lights, as I long to see its streets for myself. It is exactly the kind of adventure I crave.

  Marjorie looks over at me, when she finally tires of staring at herself. And she curls the corners of her mouth downward in an exaggerated pout.

  “Don’t worry, little sister. You’ll be making your debut soon enough. You’ll have your chance to wear the emerald choker. And perhaps by then they’ll have forgotten how stunning it looks on me.”

  Marjorie laughs, but I refuse to let her bait me.

  “You are the one who is meant to wear the necklace, not I. It matches the color of your eyes.”

  “Yes, you are quite right! Your wisdom fills my heart with joy.”

  And she laughs in delight once again, though I only roll my eyes.

  The door to the shop opens, and Mrs. Edmington and her daughter Celeste walk in. Mrs. Edmington is an older woman, seemingly too old to have a daughter Celeste’s age. She could be her grandmother, and dresses in too many layers of dark velvet, like an old dowager. And though her clothes are poorly draped, they are very expensive. Celeste is a sallow girl, and a bit on the plain side, but it doesn’t matter. The Edmington family is extremely rich, and probably for this reason, she is one of Marjorie’s favorite friends to gossip with.

  My sister looks up with a smile as they enter.

  “Hello Celeste! You’re just in time to see my new dress for the Admiral’s Ball. But you must not whisper a word about it to anyone. I intend for it to be a great surprise, and I’ll not have Coleen Fairview trying to match its color.”

  “It’s very nice,” Celeste says, almost coldly.

  The girl smiles and looks away shyly, going to sit with her Mother, as more tea is brought in for them to drink.

  And it seems odd. Usually Celeste would have run up to Marjorie to coo over her new fashion, to giggle with delight over which boy might like it the best. And Marjorie looks to me, not Madeline, with one eyebrow raised, ever so slightly. She knows I have a talent for noticing the subtleties in the world around me, even if it is a self-proclaimed one. And something is very wrong with the world around us today.

  Mother finally says something to break the awkward silence, and perhaps fish around for a reason why the Edmingtons are acting so strangely.

  “It’s so nice to see you, Lydia. Are you shopping for your dress for the Admiral’s Ball?”

  “Yes. And I do hope we find something soon. It’s going to be such a busy day, what with the tea we are to attend at the Lawlor’s.”

  She smiles, seemingly pleased with herself.

  “Oh, are you and Celeste having tea with Mrs. Lawlor?”

  “We are. Along with a few other friends,” Mrs. Edmington says. She has a slight lisp, and extends her “s” just a bit, making “friends” sound like a hiss.

  And even if she does not intend to sound malicious, I suddenly know for certain that I am not imagining things. There is something amiss. It is no longer just a vague notion that troubles me at the breakfast table. The act of excluding us from a social event is practically an affront on Mrs. Lawlor’s part, and I look to Mother, who manages to keep a straight face, despite her confusion.

  “Gregory’s mother is having tea today? And she did not include us?” Marjorie whines.

  “Perhaps she was distracted,” Mrs. Edmington says. “Mrs. Lawlor has been spending a great deal of time with her new friend, Mrs. Price-Pearce. In fact, they just recently visited the Price-Pearce estate in the country this past weekend. And it would seem that Gregory is quite taken with her daughter, Philippa.”

  Marjorie’s face falls, and she looks a bit green, not unlike her emerald dress.

  “Yes, well, I will have to send a card to Mrs. Lawlor, to let her know that we quite miss the pleasure of her company. I do hope she does not come to forget her other friends entirely. It would be such an unfortunate thing.”

  There is almost a subtle threat to Mother’s words, but Mrs. Edmington barely reacts. In fact, she smiles, smugly, which seems to confuse Mother even more.

  And Mother turns away, to address the shopkeeper.

  “Have the dress sent to our home. And we will need your seamstress to call on us, to make sure it fits properly.”

  Mrs. Edmington turns to look at us one last time, as the dress is taken away.

  “You will look quite lovely in the frock at the Admiral’s Ball,” she says to Marjorie. “At least there’s still that.”

  Mother inhales just once, deeply, and gathers her things. And she leads us out of the shop.

  Marjorie is absolutely frantic on the ride home, and I cannot help but to feel sorry for her. Her love for Gregory Lawlor means everything to her, and suddenly, the relationship seems in peril. I’m sure it must be upsetting, to have your world change so drastically, in a moment.

  “Mother, who is this Philippa Price-Pearce? I haven’t even heard of the girl.”

  “You know very well that you have met her several times. Their family owns factories, dear. Textile mills. Which have apparently become highly profitable, of late.”

  “This is wrong!” Marjorie continues. ”Clearly they are using the Lawlors to claw their way into pleasant society. Surely Mrs. Lawlor realizes she risks her social standing by associating with these people, does she not?”

  “Mrs. Lawlor risks nothing. If the Price-Pearces are as rich as people say, they will not only find
their place in pleasant society, they may quite well wind up at its very center.”

  “Well, perhaps we should have Father buy us a textile mill, if they are in fashion of late. Or does his company not make enough on its own?”

  “Of course it does, dear.”

  But the words catch in Mother’s throat as she says them. And again, I worry.

  “I cannot believe that Gregory is lowering himself to fraternizing with this Philippa Price-Pearce creature. In fact, I do not believe it. And I shall be quite cross with him the next time I see him if he has mistakenly given her the impression that she is anything more than just a passing acquaintance.”

  Mother looks to Marjorie sadly, seemingly frustrated that she does not understand.

  “I suggest you forget about Gregory Lawlor, dear. There are many other eligible young men in London. And you should be concentrating your efforts on them.”

  “But I don’t want other eligible young men. I want Gregory.”

  “Sadly, what we want and what we get in life are sometimes two very different things.”

  And a look of pain writes itself across Marjorie’s face. But slowly, she looks to me, and her expression turns to one of anger. I cannot help but to think that Marjorie believes I have somehow brought this misfortune into existence by voicing my fears. But, perhaps it is for the best. Despite her affection for him, Gregory Lawlor is less than a good match for my sister. He is a callous young man who would have thought of her as little more than a bauble to carry on his arm were they to actually marry.

  My real concern is for Father, and the troubles he may be facing. Because certainly, something is out of balance if our social position has suddenly dropped to such a degree that we are no longer welcome at the Lawlor’s.

 

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