One
Dee Dee and I always had a special connection. She was took over for the head nurse when I was born, claiming the nurse did not do her job well, and then served as my nursemaid and nanny; becoming my teacher when I grew older.
Dee Dee was by far the smartest person I'd ever met. She was schooled at home by one of the most gifted scholars of the time, and was excelling in each lesson, and in multiple languages. During the winter months, when she received an off season from school, never tiring, she proceeded to read our family's expansive and ancient library's entire collection that had been amassed over centuries by my ancestors and spanned at least 200 generations. It did not end there. Young Cordelia could not only recall every bit of information she memorized in the 1,362 books, she would pluck the volume off the shelf and find you the precise page she was reciting.
Whenever she told me the story, I could just imagine her sitting in the enormous library my family never used, arching her small body to crane her neck back, surveying every colorful, gilded cover before finding a volume that interested her each day. Stretching out an arm, muscular from riding and swimming, to snatch it and strolling along the vast sea of hand woven and embroidered rugs, imported from halfway across the world, covering the hard oak floor, to any of the ornately carved mahogany desks created by master craftsman and carpenter, Julius Remy, and inlaid with bone china floral designs. Her deep navy skirts swishing in a rustle of taffeta to sit and study at one of the comfortable chairs or a plush velvet settee in the middle of the room. I could envision her reclining there, brushing her hair, the color of deep red, like the tinge of spicy, crunchy autumn leaves, out of her almond shaped caramel eyes, while they speedily devoured each page at hand. As I knew from personal observation, Dee Dee silently mouthed each word as she read, her pale peach lips, often chapped from the cold drafts in the library, curving gracefully like dancers on a stage, forming the phrases as though reveling in each words' own significance and the way it added wonder to the volume. It was so real to me, this story she often told me, as it was my favorite and loved as fondly as any fairytale, and to me it held just as much impossibility and magic, that I could feel absolutely the cool breezes, trapped in the library, that circulated the walls, and turn my face up towards the white winter sunlight trickling in from the grandiose windows filling one cream colored wall entirely, frosted entirely to look as though it had snowed. It was as though I by some feat of science or sorcery had been gifted transportation through time and space back to those winter days before my birth, to sit unnoticed behind my Aunt Cordelia, still a graceful youth, and experience her adventures in reading along side her, the only sounds her hushed soft breath, and the delicate crinkle as her elegant hand turned a page, echoing off the tall walls and high ceiling, of the dark and solemn empty, empty room.
She continued her schooling at fifteen by enrolling in one of the most prestigious private girls academies on this side of the island. A favorite of all her teachers and peers, she left the academy the top of her class with all honors. She then was accepted joyously into one of the most famous universities, beating out students from all over the world to join it's small ranks of enlightened learners.
But Dee Dee's philosophy in life was such that not only knowledge acquired in books, but also life experience was the key to gaining seasoned wisdom, and so, the year after graduating from the University-not only yet again with the highest honors but a special mention from the Dean at the ceremony-my Aunt Cordelia traveled to the less populated side of our island to live abroad amongst the native inhabitants and embark on an adventurous expidition led by one of her former professors.
Though my heart ached for her terribly, she wrote to me everyday of how much fun she was having in the wonderful wild, while I was shut up in our dank and dark dreary manor during a sudden bout of summer rain. I much preferred her written descriptions of the tribe of fascinating dark skinned, and remarkably intelligent aborigines to my stuffy parents and ghostly house employees.
At eleven I already loathed my prospects for the future. In my near future i could meet with my mother and father to discuss my awkward, antisocial disposition and how it would not help me find a good pledge in my late future. I had no intrest being promised to a pledge, then set up for an arranged marriage. Just the thought of suitors was enough to cause me to fantasize about leaping out my eight story window into the rose bushes below.
Because Dee Dee was off galavanting in safari gear and swimming in the ocean, something I'd only dreamed of seeing in my lifetime, I had much time to myself, as she was my only companion, and was horribly lonely. It was then that my mother decided to invite over the daughter of an acquaintance of hers. The only thing I knew about Octavia was that she was two years my senior and our mother sometimes had tea together. As shy and unwilling to arrange friendships as I was, I was desperate for some human interaction besides my father belittling glares and my mother arduous complaints.
Octavia arrived half an hour later than the time we had agreed upon, and my excitement had depleted as I assumed she wasn't coming. So not only for her to knock on my door so late, but to be so intimidating was a tremendous surprise. An imposing, statuesque beauty of a grand and lithe stature, Octavia was curvaceous with a prodigious bust and crystalline bone structure. She was paled to perfection, almost at the brink of being albino, with deep curled umber locks that swayed down her back and caressed her shoulders. She was doe-eyed, with voluminous cerulean irises, veiled by thick, ample lashes. Her elegant and regal nose sloped down her profile so nicely you would have thought she was a member of our royal line. She certainly could pass as a princess. She seemed far too unearthly to be of flesh and blood, as she pursed her petite, yet full burgundy lips and declared,
"You're soo tiny and frail! Why you're practically dead!"
I had to believe in the pinch of reality I had given myself with my quick-bitten nails to the palm of my hand behind my back, and be satisfied with the answer that she was mortal and real, instead of some surreal moon goddess to transform my dull existence as I knew it.
Already insecure about my looks, I then escorted her to our upstairs parlor, stifling my vengeful giggles as I watched her struggle to climb our massive staircase in her seven petticoats and massive lace gown. The heel of one of her boots broke, and still she managed to look lovely and refreshed as she at last greeted my mother and sat down, gratefully accepting the coffee she was offered.
Later that evening, as I boosted her into her carriage and saw off her departure, she whispered to me,
"You little devil! I knew you made me climb all those stairs on purpose, and I know you have a separate staircase for non formal occasions!"
I was horrified and morbidly embarrassed that my guest had realized my non-discreet attempt at revenge! But to my astonishment, Octavia began to laugh and smiled down at me. She was only thirteen, but I recall her being so mature and sophisticated that I hardly noticed our close ages.
She said, "I have no doubt that you and I shall continue on as the best of friends, so I shall see you next week for dinner?"
I agreed and she sped away, leaving behind a fascination in people and a craving to be beautiful that before our meeting I had never known .
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