07-22-2023, 11:04 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-24-2023, 12:01 PM by Anne Carrington.)
The woman didn’t seem impressed. No shock. No surprise. No fear. Anne had carefully planned out and staged this dramatic entrance and… nothing? Her smug face soured.
Mary asked her about the jewellery, a subject that already irritated her – she had been seething with rage when she had found her suspicions confirmed in writing – but didn’t give her a chance to reply before she continued.
Oh didn’t this just take her right back to the days when this woman – girl, then – had lived with them? Anne had despised her, first for how her children had seemed more attached to this servant girl than to herself, and then for every other reason she could find, and especially this: her inability to hold her tongue. So often Anne had scolded and criticized the girl to the point of crying, threatened her with turning her out, belittled her in front of the children, for her inability to stop talking.
Pearl had the same aggravating habit. Anne had often thought it came from her father. Magnus would never shut up, especially after a few drinks. But now she remembered it was probably yet another vice passed down via her mother’s blood. Anne observed the woman. How she did resemble Pearl, even now that she was a woman fully grown. And Anne hated her.
She hated her for advising her on how to deal with the money and Magnus, as if she was the expert on living the every day hell with him. She hated her for approaching uninvited, apparently without the trepidation Anne had been able to inspire in her as a child. Anne hated her for telling her what Magnus had been up to as if Anne did not know what was going on in her own house. As if the further humiliation of other people knowing and telling her was a kindness. Anne hated her even more for the way the woman told her she hadn’t deserved Magnus. As if Anne needed to be told that she was too good for him. As if coming from this nobody, this whore, that was anything other than a condescension! Anne hated her because she was younger and more beautiful, even more so now that nearly twenty years had aged them both. All those feelings of jealousy, apprehension and resentment returned as the younger woman spoke and approached.
Perhaps it showed in her eyes, but Anne managed to get it under control and forced a smile, not a kind one, but a civil one at least. She lifted her chin so as to create some kind of illusion of looking down at the younger woman. “My dear, I don’t need you to tell me what goes on in my own home. You did always underestimate me. I knew then and I know now. But I assure you I have no interest in hearing the details of my husband’s debauchery so I’ll thank you to keep them to yourself. Now…” She walked over to a low window sill and after looking for a relatively clean spot, she sat down and gestured at the space next to her. If Mary insisted on crossing the distance between them, Anne rather made sure she invited her to do so first. “Why are you here?”
Mary asked her about the jewellery, a subject that already irritated her – she had been seething with rage when she had found her suspicions confirmed in writing – but didn’t give her a chance to reply before she continued.
Oh didn’t this just take her right back to the days when this woman – girl, then – had lived with them? Anne had despised her, first for how her children had seemed more attached to this servant girl than to herself, and then for every other reason she could find, and especially this: her inability to hold her tongue. So often Anne had scolded and criticized the girl to the point of crying, threatened her with turning her out, belittled her in front of the children, for her inability to stop talking.
Pearl had the same aggravating habit. Anne had often thought it came from her father. Magnus would never shut up, especially after a few drinks. But now she remembered it was probably yet another vice passed down via her mother’s blood. Anne observed the woman. How she did resemble Pearl, even now that she was a woman fully grown. And Anne hated her.
She hated her for advising her on how to deal with the money and Magnus, as if she was the expert on living the every day hell with him. She hated her for approaching uninvited, apparently without the trepidation Anne had been able to inspire in her as a child. Anne hated her for telling her what Magnus had been up to as if Anne did not know what was going on in her own house. As if the further humiliation of other people knowing and telling her was a kindness. Anne hated her even more for the way the woman told her she hadn’t deserved Magnus. As if Anne needed to be told that she was too good for him. As if coming from this nobody, this whore, that was anything other than a condescension! Anne hated her because she was younger and more beautiful, even more so now that nearly twenty years had aged them both. All those feelings of jealousy, apprehension and resentment returned as the younger woman spoke and approached.
Perhaps it showed in her eyes, but Anne managed to get it under control and forced a smile, not a kind one, but a civil one at least. She lifted her chin so as to create some kind of illusion of looking down at the younger woman. “My dear, I don’t need you to tell me what goes on in my own home. You did always underestimate me. I knew then and I know now. But I assure you I have no interest in hearing the details of my husband’s debauchery so I’ll thank you to keep them to yourself. Now…” She walked over to a low window sill and after looking for a relatively clean spot, she sat down and gestured at the space next to her. If Mary insisted on crossing the distance between them, Anne rather made sure she invited her to do so first. “Why are you here?”
