Flames of Revenge

A Leisurely Stroll

“Alright, you're finished now Mistress,” said Rose as she finished tying the delicate lacings on the back of my dress. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. “You look beautiful, Mistress.”

“Doesn't she just,” cooed my mother. She turned to Rose. “You are dismissed,” she said in a cold tone. Rose curtseyed and left the room quietly, and then it was just my mother and me. She ushered me out the door after that, coaching me on what to say and who to greet first once her guests arrived as we made our way to the parlour.

“His name is Arnold Preswell,” said my mother, explaining to me about the man I was going to meet. “He is twenty-two years old, but very mature. His father was killed in a carriage accident shortly after he was born, tragic, very tragic indeed. I wouldn't mention it, especially not to his mother. She'll be there also, did I mention?”

Only about a thousand times.

“I think his middle name is Matthew,” she went on, as if any of this mattered. “But I'm not sure. It could be Michael. Something starting with an M, anyway.”

We began to ascend the stairwell, and halfway up I was already beginning to feel breathless. The corset dug into my ribs and made it impossible just to breathe normally, let alone catch my breath. At the top of the stairs, I clung to the bannister and tried to get a decent breath.

“Are you quite alright, Genevieve?” asked a voice.

I looked up to see a concerned face, belonging to my uncle, Frankie. His messy, brown hair was flopping in his eyes and his shirt and waistcoat were dishevelled. How I envied men sometimes and their comfortable clothing.

“I'm fine, thank you,” I said, trying my best to appear dignified.

He smiled, a kind smile. “Of course. Just checking.”

My mother looked at him with disdain. “Mr Devereaux,” she chastened rudely. “You will address my daughter as Mistress Genevieve, understood? I do not want you polluting her with your skewed sense of propriety. You and your family are not honoured guests in this household, do I make myself clear?”

Frankie nodded solemnly. “Crystal clear, Madam Chapworth.” He tipped his hat to her and wished us both a good day.

We entered the parlour, which was by now already brimming with people. I was forced to greet everyone with a polite curtsy and a 'How do you do?'. It was agonising. My mother steered me in the direction of the refreshments table, where servants in crisp white suits and black waistcoats served champagne to haughty guests who didn't so much as offer them a nod of thanks. In the corner of the room stood a tall young man, who looked like the boy mother had described to me. He was standing with his mother, whom I knew as Lady Preswell.

He had very light blonde hair, in close cropped curls, which contrasted with his black waistcoat and jacket. The eyes I saw were a dull grey-brown, and the man who owned them was probably every bit as dull as his eyes. He was gazing around the room in a condescending manner, as if he thought that he was better than everyone else.

Admittedly, I thought the same thing about myself, but that was beside the point.

My mother steered me towards him and introduced me. “Oh, Genevieve, this is Lady Preswell's son. You two haven't met, have you?”

She knew full well that we had never met before. If this was her attempt at trying to casually introduce us, then she failed. It was obvious to anyone that she had this planned out.

He smiled at me, but it didn't quite meet his eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Genevieve Chapworth. I've heard great things about you.”

Sure you have. I smiled an equally fake smile in return. “The pleasure's mine.”

“Why don't you two take a stroll through the gardens?” my mother suggested, not at all subtly. “They're looking lovely this time of year.” Lady Preswell agreed eagerly, and Arnold offered me his arm.

“Shall we then?” he asked.

I sighed inwardly. “Sounds like a great idea.” I took his arm, and he led me out of the parlour and into the gardens. There was a slight cool breeze on my face, which felt incredibly soothing. Many of the flowers were in bloom, and the gardens smelt amazing.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath of the sweet smell. “Beautiful, isn't it?” I asked, opening my eyes.

Arnold looked at the gardens and shrugged. “I suppose so. I've never much cared for flowers,” he replied. “They are rather superfluous in today's industrial age.”

He'd barely said a few words and he was getting on my nerves already. I knew his type, he was the kind of man who thought that he alone had the answers to all of life's big questions, and there was simply no one else on his level.

I sighed inwardly once more. I seemed to be doing a lot of that nowadays.

“Then what do you care for?” I asked, in what I hoped what a sweet and pleasant enough tone.

He laughed, a condescending life. “What an interesting question,” he said. I could tell by his voice that he'd said interesting as a more polite way of sayingodd. “I'm not quite sure how to answer that, Miss Genevieve. Do you mind if I call you Genevieve?”

I detested the sound of my name coming out of his mouth, but I let it slide. “No, of course not. Go right ahead.” I glanced around at the gardens again, at the gardeners trimming the topiary bushes and tending the hedges. It was one thing that I actually liked about this place, the gardens.

“The gardens do look particularly nice at the moment, I must say,” I commented. “The gardeners work day and night to keep it this way.”

Arnold looked at the gardeners as if noticing them for the first time. He sniffed, as if sending the gardeners his contempt. “As they should.”

I began to ask a question. “So, Mr Preswell, do you mind if I ask- ”

“Oh no, please,” he cut me off. “If I am to call you Genevieve, you must call me Arnold also. I insist,” he smiled again, the same smile that seemed neither humourous nor warm. It was like a shark's smile.

“Okay then, Arnold,” I continued. “Do you mind if I ask what you do for a living?”

“Oh, I work in the company that my late father established,” he replied airily. “I manage the company's finances and investments,” he smiled. “Not that you ever need be concerned about all of that. It's not a woman's business.”

I bit back smart retorts. “It must have been hard growing up without your father,” I said instead.

He sighed. “Yes, I must admit it was hard, growing up without a strong male figure to look up to,” he replied self-pityingly. “But I still prospered and grew up to be successful, did I not?” He asked boastfully. That success was handed to you on a silver platter, I thought.

“I tell you, Genevieve my dear,” he went on. “I think that we would make a fine couple,wouldn't you say?” I was about to reply but he didn't give me a chance to. “You really have a chance to make a life for yourself and do good by your family, with someone like me. I'm successful, rich and come from a very good family.”

“But Arnold, I--”

“Not like your father's sister,” he continued. “She married a pauper and then came crawling back, did she not?”

“Yes, but--”

“Answer me this, Genevieve,” he asked, “What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”