“It’s not too soon?” Cecilia whispered, “Is this too much?”

Her aunt Euphemia squeezed her shoulders, “My dear girl, it’s still a half-mourning dress. You will have to make your way into society sooner or later. I’ve told people all about you, and it’s about time you got out into the world. There is quite a bit of interest, but you’ve become rather a tragic figure by reputation, so you will need to make an effort not to appear sour-faced. If you must suffer visibly; try to look steadfast and brave about it. People respect a person who can suffer with dignity.”

She paused her advice to hold a few broaches against the silver-grey dress. Cecilia looked down at her chest and felt her eyes well-up again.

“Oh, darling, don’t. I’m trying to take a look at your complexion.” She looked up again, obediently, as her aunt held various hair ornaments against the side of her face and gave her opinion on whether or not they were doing anything for her pallor, bringing out the blue in her eyes or making her fair hair seem too yellow.

“The day you can get away with bright blues and pinks again I’m going to make such a fuss of you, you are too much a beauty to spend your youth in mourning, and black looks so dreadful with your colouring. Oh, darling, do you think a pink wedding dress? You’d look ever so sweet. Do you think we could get away with a pinkish violet one, as well as the silver? Maybe it would be too much, plain violet, I think. They might have something that would suit you, I’ll ask.”

“Aunt Euphemia, I don’t even know any men.”

She tutted, “Gentlemen. And, don’t you worry about that. You have your mother’s looks. Mourning or not, you’ll have trouble keeping them away. No. I only mentioned her, you don’t have to weep.”

Cecilia nodded and straightened her back. A rather stately and proper dressmaker came in. She was forced to maintain her posture while she was poked and prodded and her aunt grilled the dressmaker about embellishments, ruffles and precise shades of purple.

She wondered what her mother and father would have had to say about this. They had loved her, admittedly more attentively after the death of her elder brother who had been their real pride.

Her mother hadn’t outlived him by very much. She had made an effort to carry on, but Cecilia and her father had both understood that she had faded without him. Her father had done badly too, after her mother had passed away. Just at about the time she had started to wear colours again, her father also, departed.

Only a few months after he had discovered his illness, his health collapsed so severely that he could hardly walk and moved downstairs. Watching his terrible decline, after the others, had been so impossible to bear that she had needed a doctor herself, and her father had hired her a personal maid. The main part of her job was to make sure she did not neglect her self care.

Cecilia looked up and let out a long sigh. Her aunt jabbed her in the ribs with her fan and she returned to her appropriate pose at once.

***



The day that her aunt had long anticipated came the next week, not her first suitor, which was the secondary goal of the exercise, but a normal social occasion. This was to be a trip to the theatre to see a performance of, “The Willow Copse.” Not such a new play, but one of many in a revival.

“The play should attract a bit of interest but it shouldn’t be too taxing for you. Just stay near me and try to smile every now and then. If someone wants to speak to you then do try and be agreeable. I do not want to hear that you’ve been short with people again. You can’t grieve forever, even if it’s hard.” She was tapped with the fan again, for starting to look morose, “No. You will not go in with red eyes. Try a little smile, Cecilia, when we get out. Try for one of those ‘Virgin Mary’ smiles, how would you describe the ones I’m thinking of. Something that says, ‘I’m pleasant but long suffering.’ You know the- Yes, just like that.”

Cecilia couldn’t help but to smile genuinely, at least a little. She’d try her best for her aunt’s sake, but really, she was still struggling on the inside. Too much for lengthy or emotional conversations.

The theatre was busy, ornate and well-lit. She did her best to look demure and reasonably interested in proceedings. She watched as her aunt chatted with some of her friends, before they were seated in her private box.

She felt that she was being watched by everyone and had caught a few subtle glances. She wasn’t sure if she was attracting genuine interest, was doing something wrong, or perhaps looked a bit pretty. She supposed it could even be a combination of things, and did her best not to let herself get nervous.

She recoiled, when someone walked into her, and was compelled to make polite conversation with an elderly man. Apologising for no reason, even though he’d accidentally struck her elbow very hard with his cane.

Finally, her aunt was done talking and she followed her to their seats. She humoured the play but took in nothing of it. She knew that one of the actresses was wildly popular, but she’d never felt it was possible to know if an actor was good looking, under the overly dramatic stage make-up. She turned her attention to the other guests instead. She could identify a few of her aunt’s friends. Most looked like married couples. If she was supposed to be thinking about marriage prospects the pickings were rather slim.

“Aren’t you watching the play?” her aunt whispered.

“I can’t really follow it. I think I’m not concentrating properly. Are there even any young men here?” she asked, squinting a little at the other boxes.

Her aunt chuckled to herself, pleased that her niece was showing an interest in the right things. “Not many, I admit. Do you see anyone you think is handsome? Maybe I know them. A few of my friends have brought their sons and nephews.” Cecilia turned to her, not surprised, but visibly unimpressed. “Well. I have that miniature of you. Don’t you think I show it to people? I’m very proud of my beautiful niece.”

Cecilia sighed, “Well, alright. Who is that?” she asked, pointing at a strapping young man with walnut coloured hair. He was smiling, in a way that suggested he was habitually happy and such an expression had become his default.

“My friend Beatrice’s son. He’s called Hugo. From what I’ve heard he is very sweet, but as thick as two short posts. Not a bad option though, in fairness, he’s athletic and well connected.”

She frowned, “And him?” she pointed to an older man, on his own. He had a rather ornamental moustache. Quite dashing and distinguished, though he appeared a little aimless.

“A bit more of a match for me, I’d have thought, if I were not married, of course. He’s an art dealer, a bit of a character. I think he’s quite well established but not married. I believe I heard…Well, if you must know, there’s a rumour he had an illegitimate child with his housekeeper, then took the child in as his ward. I don’t know if it’s true, but he certainly didn’t marry her.”

“Oh, goodness.” Cecilia gasped. It hadn’t occurred to her from his look that he might have been so scandalous. She looked around, with more care, then pointed to another brown haired young man, this one lighter, dignified, with slightly wavy hair and bright eyes. “He’s really quite beautiful, is he married? I thought so but-”

“He keeps looking at you. Yes, I noticed. No, he’s not married. The woman next to him is his aunt, Elizabeth, but, there are rumours about the two of them. They aren’t always together but, when they are, he seems awfully devoted to all of her whims. To a highly unusual degree, even if she is absurdly wealthy. She is not so much older than he. If I had to guess, that would be the other reason for the rumours. They say, and she says too, that he’s a bit of a rake. I’m afraid his reputation is rather poor, yet, he’s managed to stay out of serious trouble.

I don’t know his aunt well, except that we have the same dressmaker and we have met a few times, there, and at functions like this. She has only been in the country for a couple of years. I believe she’s Polish or Romanian, or something, but you can’t tell at all from her accent. She’s impressively autocratic. The young man is very pleasant by comparison, and alarmingly popular, but I’d suggest you avoid him. Anyone with sense would.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her wrist and was told to stop fidgeting by her aunt. She had a second look at the young man. He was close to perfect, face, body, dress and bearing. He saw her looking and winked. She blushed and looked away.

His aunt leant over to him and whispered something from behind a dark fan, while her eyes flitted over Cecilia. It was a beautiful motion. He smiled and said something which caused her to laugh. Her gestures were compelling, dramatic and perfectly controlled. She put her fan on her lap and put her hand on his arm. He smiled at her, his face lighting up.

She shuddered. No, something wasn’t right about them. They didn’t even resemble one another. Her aunt confirmed that they were not related by blood. “What’s the appeal supposed to be?”

“Oh, of John? He has something about him. A vulnerable, mysterious charm, a little cold at times. Lady Unity said she’d do just about anything to warm him up, and, knowing her, she really would have.”

“Aunt!” she gasped, “Wait, isn’t auntie Unity getting on for fifty? He can’t be thirty yet?” Unity was not her real aunt, but close enough to Euphemia, and formerly her mother, that they considered themselves sisters.

She chuckled, “That’s not even the most scandalous thing.”

Cecilia turned to her, wide eyed, “What was?”

She covered her mouth with her fan, “He let her try.”

All of a sudden Cecilia had a sense that she was out of her depth. At the first opportunity she slipped behind the curtain, wanting to at least feel alone. She paced the quiet hallway, ignoring the ushers who seemed to sense that they did not have to speak to her.

She walked all along that side of the theatre and paused when she heard a conversation from another box. It was a woman talking. Someone she could not see from her seat but who would probably be able to see her from theirs. “And, they say her whole family is dead. She’s inherited everything and may well stand to inherit more, as that aunt of hers is childless and exceptionally wealthy. That’s not confirmed, naturally, but, I doubt even her uncle couldn’t feel for the girl. Such a beauty, and so desperately alone.”

“Mhm? What’s she like.” A listless male voice responded.

“Nobody knows. That’s the exciting part.” the woman tittered, “But, I think she must be awful. Nobody could have that much good fortune, beauty like that, and not be a miserable person.”

“So vicious. As usual.” he said, lazily.

“Oh, hush. I know you’ll take an interest.” The woman laughed and she had an idea from the sounds that they may have been kissing.

Cecilia walked back to their box, just as her aunt came out. “It’s the intermission, Cecilia. Let’s get you some ice-cream. People should see that you do, in fact, eat.”

She eyed her nieces overly slender build. Her mother had been delicate at her age, but this had little to do with Cecilia’s neglect of food. She’d seen her try to eat, and she did try, she just found no joy in the activity and grew bored. She’d taken to having the chef add extra butter and sugar to her food when she came to visit, it had helped a little.

“Yes, Aunt.” she said, distracted, still thinking about the conversation in the box. Was she very awful? She imagined she might seem so. Her aunt tutted and Cecilia made her face more whimsically tragic, affecting a steadfast commitment to joy within continuous suffering.

“That’s the spirit.” Euphemia said, patting her arm.

She was eating some orange-scented, white ice-cream in the corner. A short distance away from her aunt, in an effort to avoid her unending conversations with the other women. When there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see the beautiful man she’d been admiring, at her side. He was, to her annoyance, even more lovely up close. He smiled, as her cheeks flushed, and that made it worse, until she was certain that even her forehead must be pink. She was also finding it rather difficult to meet his eye.

“You must be Cecilia Everett.” he said, and his voice was gentle, soft, stable and reassuring, with a slight warmth. “I thought I had better introduce myself and offer my condolences. I’m John Oliver. I knew your mother and your brother, but he not quite so well.”

“Thank you.” she said, and he watched the blush drain from her face, leaving her a little pallid. It was only good luck, that a mildly consumptive look was somewhat in fashion.

“May I ask you, and I’m sorry, this is so terribly personal but, I was never certain, and I did like her, from what cause did she leave us?”

She bit her lip, then stopped and straightened up, “She, well. They were never entirely certain. They say her heart failed in the end, she just weakened. Over a few months she faded and was gone, but I think, truly, she did not want to be here any longer.”

“Such a shame, and so young. She wasn’t quite forty, was she?”

Cecilia shook her head, tried not to cry and then straightened up, looking firmly across the room. He apologised, lightly touching her arm. “Say, you wouldn’t be interested in attending a party, would you? Don’t worry, I doubt anyone else from your circle would be there, and I won’t mind at all if you spend it crying in one of the rooms. I’m not suggesting that you would. I’m only saying, it would be perfectly alright with my crowd.”

She looked up at him, puzzled, “Why would you ask me?”

“Because, you’re so wonderfully pretty and my aunt wishes to meet you.”

She was stunned. “Well, if she’s here now, I could just speak to her and get it out of the way.”

He smiled, and there was a very slight coldness to his expression, “Alright. Come on.”

He took her hand and led her over to Lady Elizabeth. The woman had been speaking to Euphemia, but looked up at his approach. “John, darling?”

He smiled, “Miss. Cecilia pointed out that she could simply meet you now. It seems she is of a rather sensible disposition.” His manner had again become kind, but she could almost sense that under his calm demeanour, was a vicious sort of delight.

Lady Elizabeth was not happy, she frowned and lifted Cecilia’s chin, rather flamboyantly, with the soft lace edge of her dark fan. Lady Elizabeth gazed into her eyes and, for just a moment, Cecilia was mesmerised. She could only see her face. Not as tall as her own, so that she was compelled to look down her nose at the woman.

Her eyes were so dark that they were almost black, and her features were small, not unpleasant, but somehow, not pleasing. Her painted narrow lips consumed her full attention. She found herself captivated by their slightest twinge or press. She felt a desperate sort of desire, something unfamiliar, yet so terrifying that she felt she was descending into a dark pit.

“Such a pretty girl.” she said. Cecilia’s heart leapt, even as it struggled in her chest, as if to escape, flooding her body with enough adrenaline that she could no longer feel her fingers. Her skin felt ice-cold, a sharp chill, but disturbingly exciting. “Why don’t you come to my place, just for a small get-together? Or, even, I’m always looking for more company. Are you very accomplished? I could teach you almost anything you could wish, particularly painting, language and music.”

She could hardly focus, and the soft edges of the fan seemed so warm and reassuring. “Why always?”

“Pardon?” Lady Elizabeth asked, and in her shock, seemed to revert again to a woman of unremarkable appearance.

“Well, why would you always be looking? Can’t you keep friends?” Her aunt gasped and struck her arm, smarting her. She could see John, at her side, struggling to suppress his amusement, before growing serious under her glare. “I’m awfully sorry, that must have sounded terribly rude.” Cecilia lied, “I only meant that you seem so enchanting that you must have so much company. I’m afraid, however, that I don’t feel I could handle a party, not quite yet.”

Lady Elizabeth turned away and called her nephew to her side. She was clearly offended, and he, at once, became so sweet and attentive to her, that, Cecilia had the idea, he could no longer imagine another woman. In spite of this, as they climbed the carpeted stairs to their box, he turned back to her and winked. She smiled, and patiently listened to her aunt’s retribution, before she too was dragged back to their seats.

In spite of herself, she felt quite daring and imagined what it would feel like to kiss John’s pretty lips, before realising, as each were the subjects of their aunts, such a romance would be doomed.