Moonbeam - A Robin De Noir Story (The Secret of Moonacre)

CHAPTER 12

Constance woke up groggily as she rubbed her eyes whilst sitting up in an attempt to get rid of the sleep. She let out a loud yawn before falling back into her pillows. It was very late when she had got back last night and she was not fully rested.

She lazily reached for the plate of ginger biscuits that always sat on her bedside table alongside a glass of milk and immediately dived into the sweet treat. She was still laying down but that position soon became uncomfortable and she was forced to sit upright.

If anyone were to walk into her room, they would think that she was death itself. She had dark circles beneath her eyes. Not only did she get back late but after her adventure she struggled to get to sleep, she was far too awake to dream of silly things. She wanted to carry on exploring. Constance suddenly felt a pang of sadness come over her. Robin was right, if one of them had a different surname they could happily continue their friendship. However, it was not meant to be. Instead, they would be back to disliking each other yet again.

Whilst sitting and enjoying her biscuits she thought back on the previous night. Robin had mentioned the book her father had left as their inheritance. She wondered how he knew its contents. Perhaps his family had one too? How was she to understand and learn more when her Uncle had taken it away. She had no idea where he had taken it. Was it locked in a drawer in his office? Was it in one of the wings he had forbidden her entry to? Or perhaps he had thrown it out? All she knew was that it was gone.

With a huff, she pushed her cosy sheets away from her and the chill hit her skin straight away. Her fingers lazily wrapped around the handle and she opened the wardrobe door to reveal her vast clothing selection. Her eyes scanned the bottom where she had hidden a certain bandit's bowler hat last night and a smile tugged at her lips as she reminisced.

Her eyes trailed across the various fabrics and their patterns before deciding on one that she knew Miss Heliotrope would disapprove of. However, the eldest Merryweather girl had started to grow into her own self not caring what her governess might think as she used to in the city.

The gown itself consisted of a rich pink colour with intricate flowers embroidered carefully across the sleeves, bodice and skirt. Little pieces of lace hung delicately off of the three-quarter sleeves creating a graceful essence. Miss Heliotrope believed that Constance, as well as her younger sister Maria, should never wear pink. The reason simply being their hair colour. She did not agree with the contrast it created but Constance thought it suited her. Constance was different to the standard female walking about the country as well as acting extremely unconventional since arriving in the valley. So, at that moment, she could not have cared any less about other people's thoughts.

After last night where she discovered what the forest truly held within in it, as well as finally being able to set her own eyes upon the crashing waves and silvery sand of Merryweather Bay, she was sad. Not only that but the fact that she was now involved with this centuries-old feud prevented her from not only making a friend but also getting to experience the real Moonacre Valley as well as unveil its secrets. Needless to say, the pink dress was more of a statement than what it appeared. It was her own way of rebelling.

She was grateful that she had quietly washed out her hair when she had arrived home. Constance was certain that her usual luscious locks would have turned into an uncontrollable mess. It was still damp in the braid she had created and the girl sighed knowing what was about to happen when she untied the little blue ribbon, but she needed to comb it through.

She sat down at her dressing table with a sigh before starting. Her fingers unwound the auburn shaded hair and watched how it cascaded down her torso with a tight curl in each strand. Constance reached for the comb that lay in front of her and examined it. It was not large and had always been the perfect hair tool for her. It had belonged to Constance for as long as she could remember. Obviously as an infant, it had not been used but as soon as she was of an appropriate age and had her famous flowing hair the comb had been utilised.