It was her father I saw first, standing upright near the door. He looked serious and silly at the same time, and I couldn’t decide whether I liked him or not. He welcomed us, but we could see that we had surprised him: he hadn’t meant to meet us at the door himself, like some sort of eager nouveau-riche. His face had turned red – with embarrassment or anger? Maybe both. I lost interest then. Sir Roderick Glossop was just like the rest.
The house, however, was lovely. We walked inside, father leading the way, my brother Dwight dragging his feet and yawing. But even the novelty of the ornate chandeliers and delicate tapestries wore off in mere minutes; I was used to luxury. We entered the living-room and I sighed at the sight of more pretty things. More pretty things that I was used to, that left me entirely indifferent.
Until I saw her.
She was leaning against the piano, dressed in earthy shades, her hair held up in a bun. Plain, simple, unremarkable. But a muscle in her arm twitched, and my eyes were drawn to it immediately, to the way it stood out in this ordinary setting, that muscle in her arm that spoke of resolve and willpower and adventure. Strength of character.
I would have stared longer, but our fathers had finished exchanging pleasantries standing up and were ready to exchange some more sitting down.
“This is my daughter Honoria,” her father said. I heard the pride in his voice. She looked at him and smiled, and I wished I could smile at my father the same way.
But when he introduced me, I nodded and looked away. We all sat down. I could feel her eyes on me, searching for mine, waiting to say “nice to meet you, Pauline”. I didn’t want her to see the confusion on my face, so I kept it hidden under my hat, under my hair, under a mask of timidity. In truth, I wasn’t shy at all. I spoke my mind. And for the first time, that scared me.
I saw that Dwight was bored and growing restless. He slid out of his armchair. “Sit down,” I told him, although I never told him to do anything. This was for her, entirely for her – this pitiful show of strength. I wanted to impress her; I wanted her to look at me the same way I had looked at the muscle in her arm. I wanted to be just as fierce, intimidating, astonishing.
But even Dwight wasn’t fooled. “Come and make me,” he said, sticking his tongue out.
I made a face. It didn’t matter anyway. Who was she, but the daughter of another stuck-up English aristocrat? Why should I hide? I shook my head at my own foolishness and looked up at her.
She was staring at me. Our fathers were saying things I could no longer hear or understand. Honoria was staring at me, dark eyebrows raised with curiosity, her eyes travelling my face. She wore brown, held her hair up in a bun, and spoke little, but by Golly, she was not plain. How I ever thought her plain, I don’t know.
The wildness I had perceived in that single bulging muscle in her arm was only a hint of Honoria Glossop. For where brown fabric might have seemed simple on another, on her it looked natural; and where a bun might have looked austere, on her it looked pure.
Suddenly I saw it everywhere: in the curve of her neck, in the roundness of her jaw, in the sharpness of her gaze. An untamable spirit.
After dinner our fathers disappeared into the study, and we were left alone with Dwight. Honoria offered him chocolates and a book: the first he swallowed greedily, the second he discarded the moment she gave it to him.
“Honoria,” I said, “will you walk with me?”
She turned to look at me, and I was pleased to notice her surprise. Walk with me, I had said – like a man would. She noted the difference and tilted her head to the side, only slightly, as if to say, I know what you’re up to.
“I will, Pauline,” she said, raising her chin playfully.
We walked onto the balcony, and then around the house, and then down into the gardens. We spoke of literature, of philosophy, of theater and music – she was smarter than I was, and a hundred times more passionate. She knew everything I knew and more: but it didn’t intimidate me at all. In fact, walking with her, I forgot all about myself: it was her, always her, only her, and I didn’t care if I looked stupid, because that only meant that she looked clever.
And not once did she make me feel inferior. She taught me many things, explained them to me in detail, but even then, she would do it with benevolence and modesty. I had thought her plain and brash; but she was simply natural. She knew herself. She was herself.
It was late and we were walking back to the house when she asked me if I enjoyed tennis. My heart fluttered – this was how I would impress her. “Yes, I love tennis!”
“Wonderful,” she said, her British accent making the word roll in her mouth, shaping it a slightly different way, and I wished she would say it again, and again. “We can play tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t hide my enthusiasm. When we said goodnight, there was a moment of silence: we both stood lingering, as if out of breath; as if walking a tightrope. She leaned in. I looked down at her lips. Her mouth wasn’t painted like mine, and right then I longed to see my rouge on it, how it would bloom on her skin like a flower. I wanted to know her softness; I wanted to see my hair brush her cheeks. She was so close, and yet not close enough.
“Goodnight, Pauline,” she said. I would have whispered – it was late and everyone was asleep – but Honoria never whispered. She was too bold to whisper what she could say out loud.
FILL: My room - and so much more | Part One
The house, however, was lovely. We walked inside, father leading the way, my brother Dwight dragging his feet and yawing. But even the novelty of the ornate chandeliers and delicate tapestries wore off in mere minutes; I was used to luxury. We entered the living-room and I sighed at the sight of more pretty things. More pretty things that I was used to, that left me entirely indifferent.
Until I saw her.
She was leaning against the piano, dressed in earthy shades, her hair held up in a bun. Plain, simple, unremarkable. But a muscle in her arm twitched, and my eyes were drawn to it immediately, to the way it stood out in this ordinary setting, that muscle in her arm that spoke of resolve and willpower and adventure. Strength of character.
I would have stared longer, but our fathers had finished exchanging pleasantries standing up and were ready to exchange some more sitting down.
“This is my daughter Honoria,” her father said. I heard the pride in his voice. She looked at him and smiled, and I wished I could smile at my father the same way.
But when he introduced me, I nodded and looked away. We all sat down. I could feel her eyes on me, searching for mine, waiting to say “nice to meet you, Pauline”. I didn’t want her to see the confusion on my face, so I kept it hidden under my hat, under my hair, under a mask of timidity. In truth, I wasn’t shy at all. I spoke my mind. And for the first time, that scared me.
I saw that Dwight was bored and growing restless. He slid out of his armchair. “Sit down,” I told him, although I never told him to do anything. This was for her, entirely for her – this pitiful show of strength. I wanted to impress her; I wanted her to look at me the same way I had looked at the muscle in her arm. I wanted to be just as fierce, intimidating, astonishing.
But even Dwight wasn’t fooled. “Come and make me,” he said, sticking his tongue out.
I made a face. It didn’t matter anyway. Who was she, but the daughter of another stuck-up English aristocrat? Why should I hide? I shook my head at my own foolishness and looked up at her.
She was staring at me. Our fathers were saying things I could no longer hear or understand. Honoria was staring at me, dark eyebrows raised with curiosity, her eyes travelling my face. She wore brown, held her hair up in a bun, and spoke little, but by Golly, she was not plain. How I ever thought her plain, I don’t know.
The wildness I had perceived in that single bulging muscle in her arm was only a hint of Honoria Glossop. For where brown fabric might have seemed simple on another, on her it looked natural; and where a bun might have looked austere, on her it looked pure.
Suddenly I saw it everywhere: in the curve of her neck, in the roundness of her jaw, in the sharpness of her gaze. An untamable spirit.
After dinner our fathers disappeared into the study, and we were left alone with Dwight. Honoria offered him chocolates and a book: the first he swallowed greedily, the second he discarded the moment she gave it to him.
“Honoria,” I said, “will you walk with me?”
She turned to look at me, and I was pleased to notice her surprise. Walk with me, I had said – like a man would. She noted the difference and tilted her head to the side, only slightly, as if to say, I know what you’re up to.
“I will, Pauline,” she said, raising her chin playfully.
We walked onto the balcony, and then around the house, and then down into the gardens. We spoke of literature, of philosophy, of theater and music – she was smarter than I was, and a hundred times more passionate. She knew everything I knew and more: but it didn’t intimidate me at all. In fact, walking with her, I forgot all about myself: it was her, always her, only her, and I didn’t care if I looked stupid, because that only meant that she looked clever.
And not once did she make me feel inferior. She taught me many things, explained them to me in detail, but even then, she would do it with benevolence and modesty. I had thought her plain and brash; but she was simply natural. She knew herself. She was herself.
It was late and we were walking back to the house when she asked me if I enjoyed tennis. My heart fluttered – this was how I would impress her. “Yes, I love tennis!”
“Wonderful,” she said, her British accent making the word roll in her mouth, shaping it a slightly different way, and I wished she would say it again, and again. “We can play tomorrow morning.”
I didn’t hide my enthusiasm. When we said goodnight, there was a moment of silence: we both stood lingering, as if out of breath; as if walking a tightrope. She leaned in. I looked down at her lips. Her mouth wasn’t painted like mine, and right then I longed to see my rouge on it, how it would bloom on her skin like a flower. I wanted to know her softness; I wanted to see my hair brush her cheeks. She was so close, and yet not close enough.
“Goodnight, Pauline,” she said. I would have whispered – it was late and everyone was asleep – but Honoria never whispered. She was too bold to whisper what she could say out loud.
*******