The Meridian Gamble (22 page)

It saddens me just a bit, that I am
not Marjorie’s confidant, even though I am closer to her in age than is our
younger sister. And I wonder why it is that our bond is not as strong. But that
is how it has always been, since a very early age. There seems to be an almost
competition between us, though I am not quite certain what it is we are
competing for, or why.

My sisters giggle once more, and
finally Mother looks up at them with an icy gaze. And instantly, Marjorie puts
her note away, without saying another word.

I look around at this pleasant room
in our spacious London home, at the sisters who are obsessed with parties, and
my father, who is so influential in the world of business, and I am struck by a
strange thought. Strange, but not new, as I cannot pretend this idea has not
circled my mind before, more than I would like to admit. Even though I have
spent my whole life in this manor, I cannot help but to feel that these people
are strangers to me. That I don’t belong here, that they are not my real
family.

The idea feels wicked and wrong,
and I usually push it out of my head, but on this day, for some reason, I let
it linger. It seems evil almost, and I wonder how it is that I can think such
things. Of course, they are my family. They have raised me and given me an
existence filled with privilege, the kind that those starving on the streets of
London would envy. And yet, this odd doubt still gnaws at the corner of my
mind, and I can no longer pretend it doesn’t exist.

I never say it to my parents, they
would become enraged if I did, but I secretly long for something more than to
simply play the role of the dutiful daughter, waiting patiently with the hope
that they will find me a husband I can tolerate, or perhaps even love. I look to
poor Father, who seems so filled with burden, and wish I could help him at the
family company, to work at his side as a son would be allowed to do. But I am
no son, and this daydream will never happen. Even Mother, who rules our lives
and our home, knows little of the inner workings of Father’s world.

And it is because they are not my
real family, I think, that they do not know what I am capable of.

I secretly long for a life of
adventure and excitement, one that I most certainly will never have. But to
give my mind some escape, I write stories in a journal I keep hidden away. And
my most gripping tale revolves around Saga, a young slave girl in ancient
Egypt, who is sent as a spy to infiltrate the temple of Pharaoh, to assassinate
him and bring about his downfall. Yet, once inside, she falls sway to the
seductions of the royal family, and is caught between the two sides of the
struggle.

My stories are pure foolishness. I
am not even sure where they come from, but somehow, writing them down gives my
heart some speck of hope. However, I must hide my scribblings, because I know
Mother would destroy the pages if she found them. I disguise them as a diary,
and tuck the book away in the lining of a hat box I store far back on an upper
shelf of my closet, a hiding place that even the Twins will hopefully never
find if they rifle through my room on one of their never-ending quests for
mischief.

But I can think about outlandish
stories later. I have more pressing concerns. As I finish my bowl of gruel, I
look to Father again, and am filled with worry once more.

It occurs to me that I might ask
Marjorie, to see if she has any insight or knowledge about the company which
Mother might have shared. Later in the morning, when I have the chance, I vow
to myself that I will approach her. But for now, she is passing her love letter
to Madeline once more. It must be of particular interest, and I wonder if
Gregory Lawlor has promised to marry her.

Mother again looks up from her
breakfast plate, and glares at her daughters.

“Young ladies, if you do not put
away that letter right now, I am afraid I will be unable to take you shopping
today. And all the other young women of value in London will have an extra week
to scour the dress shops to prepare for the Admiral’s Ball. Or perhaps you can
wear your dress from last season. Is that what you would like, Marjorie?”

Marjorie gasps in shock

“No, Mother. I am quite sorry for
my rudeness,” she says, solemnly.

And she quickly tucks the letter
into the waist of her dress.

I look to Marjorie,
raising an eyebrow, but she only sticks out her tongue at me, quickly. And she
forces a spoonful of the glop that our cook has served into her mouth, and
tries to swallow it with a sour look. And in this moment, I am quite certain
she is pointedly aware of the mistake of allowing it to cool, and I struggle to
suppress a laugh.

After breakfast, we all walk
upstairs to prepare for our day of shopping with Mother. The master bedroom,
where our parents sleep, rests at the top of the stairs, behind two majestic
double doors that seem to loom over the second floor. The Twins’ room is next
to theirs, so that Mother and Father might hear them if they cry out in the
night. There are guest rooms, and when you turn a corner on the second floor
landing, a railing leads you to Madeline’s room, Marjorie’s room and finally
mine, which is tucked away in a corner.

I walk slowly, waiting for the
others to close their doors behind them. And for a moment, before she can enter
her own room, Marjorie and I are alone. She walks along lazily, still reading
her silly note, and I look around carefully to make sure no servants are about
before I approach her.

“Marjorie, may I ask you
something?”

She turns and looks at me in a
patronizing way, with an exaggerated smile. I almost feel as if Marjorie is
practicing trying to seem beatific and gracious, for when she must play the
role of Gregory Lawlor’s wife. But somehow, the effect is less than convincing.

“Sister, can we not chat in the
carriage on our way to the shops? I wish to hurry, to get ready for our outing.
I would hate to find Coleen Fairview squeezing into a beautiful gown meant for
a more moderate frame, such as my own.”

“I’m afraid the matter I wish to
speak of cannot wait. And it is delicate in nature.”

Marjorie laughs.

“What can we possibly have to
discuss that we cannot share in front of Mother? You are being quite cryptic,
Sister. Let us talk in the carriage on our way to the stores.”

Marjorie turns away from me, but I
press on.

“Is there a problem with the family
business?”

She stares at me in utter confusion
for a moment, and a brief look of shock flitters across her face. But Marjorie
quickly recovers, and she laughs.

“Are you mad? Why would you even
think such a thing?”

“It’s just that … Father seems so
worried. At breakfast he …”

She interrupts me, marring her
beatific features for a moment with a touch of anger.

“Is it not enough that Mother and
Father provide you with a spacious house to live in and everything you could
possibly want? Dresses and parties and dances, food to eat? Yet still, you
concern yourself with matters that are not yours to worry over.”

Not mine to worry over, and yet, I
still do. I’m sure the look on my face tells her I am less than dissuaded. And
she sighs in frustration.

“Of course there is nothing wrong
with our family’s business,” Marjorie says. “In fact, everyone in London knows
our company is one of the most powerful in the nation.”

“Yes, but …”

“Now come. Let us get ready, so you
can help me find a pretty dress that will stun all of the handsome young men at
the ball into a state of complacency, so they will do anything I say. And just
think, the sooner I am married, the sooner it will be your chance to shine. Or
at least, to try in vain to look as dazzlingly as I undoubtedly will at the
Admiral’s Ball.”

Marjorie
laughs, and goes into her room and shuts the door behind her, dismissing me.
And I stand in the hallway, still unsure of what to think.

In my room, I comb out my hair and
pin it up beneath a bonnet. Our new maid Cecily comes in to check on me, to see
if I need any help. She is French, and chirps in an accent that annoys me, but
luckily, I do not require her presence for long. I am not so vain as my
sisters, and can easily dress myself. Soon, we are all in fresh outfits, and
Mother calls us downstairs, where we enter the carriage in front of our home.

My sisters and I all wear white,
except for Marjorie. It is one of Mother’s rules, that our wardrobe must always
be pristine and devoid of color, save for perhaps the slightest tint of beige.
Rarely does she allow us the occasional splash of pink or blue in a ribbon for
our hair or a belt around our waist, or perhaps a dark jacket that might have a
jade trim. It seems that Mother is making a statement through our dress, that
we are young and pure. I find her thinking archaic, but there is nothing I can
do about it. Again, I must be careful of the manner in which I speak my
feelings aloud, and the degree to which I voice my opinions. Which rarely
occurs. But occasionally, when the Twins get into mischief and dirty their
dresses, I can tell even Mother considers changing her ways.

But Marjorie is of an age where she
has blossomed, and her clothes announce it to the gentlemen of the world. She
wears a dress of light green, it is her signature color, one that matches her
eyes. And I cannot deny that she looks resplendent, like something from a
forest landscape that has been washed with dew.

When our conveyance finally reaches
a favored store, Mother forces our driver to park as closely as possible to the
entrance. She considers it unseemly for us to walk along the sidewalk, as it is
a place where the lower classes dwell. But we cannot help but to touch its
surface, at least for a few moments. And as we exit the carriage, I can see men
turn their heads to stare at Marjorie. They seem to analyze her in a way that
makes me think they are trying to absorb her beauty through their eyes. And on
occasion, one or two will whisper to one another as they gaze her way. I find
it the height of rudeness, but Marjorie seems to smile just a bit, and I
suspect she enjoys their attention.

But something seems out of place on
this day. For a moment, through the corner of my eye, I witness an unfamiliar
sight. A man seems to be watching not Marjorie, but me. His gaze makes me
nervous, and I dare not stare at him directly, though in the few brief glances
I take his way, I can tell he is dark-haired and handsome, quite handsome. And
somehow I can see that he has eyes of the deepest emerald green. His look
haunts me, because it almost has a hint of the familiar. I feel that I know
him, which cannot be the case, as I am not acquainted with boys his age. And I
feel uncomfortable under his inspection.

I rush ahead of my sisters to open
the door for Mother, so we can enter the shop, but more importantly, so that I
can scurry away from his view.

A simple sign hangs over the door
that reads “Henriette” in curled, cursive writing, though I have yet to meet a
woman of that name when we visit. We often wonder if the lady who runs the
shop, Madame LaForge, is Henriette, but she has never told us her first name,
and even the gossips of London have yet to discover this hidden secret. Even
still, it is one of the most popular dress shops in the city, though it has
only been with us for a short time. Mother insists they import the finest
Parisienne fashions, and indeed, whenever I mention visiting “Henriette” to my
friends they twitter with excitement.

Inside, we sit in comfortable
chairs with little end tables between us, on which pots of tea are set for our
refreshment, as style after style is brought out for Mother and Marjorie to
inspect. And I find it all tedious, as the fashions seem to blur into one
another. But after several rounds of couture, as we drink a second glass of tea,
Madame LaForge brings out something special; a stunning dress with ruffles of
emerald silk, and even I am quite impressed. Marjorie’s eyes light up when she
sees it. In an instant, it is clear that she has found the dress she will be
wearing to the Admiral’s Ball. The young shop girls who assist Madame LaForge
hold it up to my sister as she stands in front of a mirror, and Marjorie’s eyes
sparkle with delight.

“Oh, Mother! This one is
spectacular! May I have it?”

Mother looks the dress over,
seemingly analyzing its every stitch. She says nothing at first, yet she also
does not frown or dismiss it, which is a sign in and of itself of her possible
approval. And through her stony demeanor, I can tell she is pleased.

“It would look nice with the
emerald choker,” she finally says.

“The emerald choker? Mother, are
you serious? Would you really let me wear it?”

“I would consider it,” Mother
replies, with a smile.

The emerald choker is Mother’s most
prized piece of jewelry, one she rarely wears, though its existence is
legendary amongst her circle of friends. Father bought it for her on a trip to
France they took before I was born. It is extremely valuable and almost
excessive, even by the standards of London’s upper crust. She wears it only on
special occasions, when she wishes to strike fear into the hearts of the other
ladies. Its very existence seems to increase the value of the rest of her
jewelry, raising her other beautiful pieces to its level, and she only switches
them out on a whim. But I suspect few things on Earth sparkle with its same
beauty.

The necklace consists of a giant
emerald encrusted in diamonds, held by two strings of pearls and one of
diamonds, intertwined. I try to convince Mother that we should take another
trip to Paris, to find her a matching piece, but she mostly ignores me, or says
I can go when I find a husband of my own. But my only real interest is in
visiting the City of Lights, as I long to see its streets for myself. It is
exactly the kind of adventure I crave.