***
Afterwards we all sat in the morning room. It was so different from our dark, suffocating rooms at home; with its walls papered with a design of pale leaves on a light blue background, it was light and airy. In front of the white marble fireplace stood a screen decorated with irises. Aunt Phyllis's handiwork. She'd even painted violets on the globed shades of the oil lamps.
Grace and my aunt were checking off acceptances against the list of invitations—and a very long list it was. I had a book in my hand, but I wasn't concentrating. I couldn't stop looking at Grace: her small white hands opening and refolding letters, her animated face, her gold-flecked eyes.
It was peculiar but I felt as if I was seeing her properly for the first time ... and she was lovely. It gave me a strange, fizzing sensation around my heart; it wasn't unpleasant, but at the same time I felt unaccountably frightened.
Suddenly Maud, who was idling in the window seat, shrieked, "Grace, Charles is here."
Grace coloured. "Oh no. He mustn't see me like this." She looked perfect to me, but she said, "Run down, Maud, and tell him I'll be down in a minute." They both left the room.
Putting down my book, I hastened to the window. Charles was dismounting. All I could see from this angle was the top of a hat and smart riding clothes. Not enough evidence to prove Grace's claim that he was "wonderfully handsome." The next minute Maud had joined him, talking energetically, and waving her arm at the house. Charles looked up and I shrank back.
Grace had said, "You're sure to like him, Lou." But I felt shy of meeting him. Apart from Tom and my cousin, William, whom I rarely saw, I didn't know any men.
Occasionally, in the holidays, Tom would bring his friends to the house, but I kept out of their way. I once met one in the hallway and afterwards I heard him say, "Was that your sister, Cosgrove? Didn't you say she was something of a bluestocking?" Tom had made some reply I didn't hear and they both laughed.
I hadn't heard the term "bluestocking" before, but I guessed it was an uncomplimentary reference to my interest in learning.
Now I watched as Grace ran to meet Charles and he bent to embrace her. From my angle it looked as though she were being smothered in his arms. Then her face emerged as she raised it for a kiss. My stomach lurched and involuntarily I clenched my hands.
Whatever was the matter with me?
I watched them walk off round to the back of the house, Grace's head at his shoulder, her face turned up to his.
Recently, often when I was supposed to be studying, I'd catch myself thinking about Grace. At night, she visited me in my dreams, a smiling mysterious presence, and I woke up and felt strangely bereft when I realised she wasn't with me.
Now it was coming home to me what her marriage meant. Although we only met now and then, in future it just wouldn't be the same. It was as if she was travelling away from me—I was losing her.
I jumped as my aunt put her arm round me. "Don't fret, Lou. Your turn will come."
Pulling away, I blurted abruptly, "I'm not fretting, Aunt. I don't want to be married." I blushed. What on earth had made me say that?
But as I thought about it, I realised it was true. In my plans for the future I'd never included a husband.
My aunt smiled indulgently. "You used to say that when you were a little girl. You're still young, but one day—"
I cut in. "I'm sixteen. I'm not a child any more. I know what I want and it's not marriage."
I was sorry immediately. I hadn't meant to be so sharp. My aunt stepped back, obviously disconcerted. She smiled tentatively and said, "But—how would you be happy without a husband or children to care for?"
I thought about this. I had a sudden vision of Mamma, with a furrowed brow, discussing mutton with Mary; the slow ticking of the clock in the airless parlour as she dusted the heavy dark furniture; endless afternoons spent visiting...
I said, "I should think it would be boring, spending your day fretting about tradesmen and laundry and meals, looking after small children and waiting for your husband to come home."
My aunt laughed and relaxed. "That does sound boring. But if you're lucky in your husband, as I'm sure you will be, you'll have servants to do that for you, and you may please yourself."
I didn't want to hurt her feelings—it was her own life she was describing—but I knew I wouldn't be satisfied. I wanted more than to fill my house with pretty, useless things, like the ones around us: pictures made from seaweed, boxes covered in shells, flowers made from feathers.
I chose my words carefully. "I want to be useful."
Aunt Phyllis nodded. "There are many opportunities for charity work."
I blurted out, "I don't want to do charity work. I want to be a doctor!" I stopped. I hadn't meant to tell any one yet.
"A doctor?" She half-laughed but I saw that I'd shocked her again.