Posted on 2012-10-15
They sit across from each other, like two statues of maidens framing the great fireplace. The firelight plays across her: across her shining curls, so simply dressed; across her warm honey skin; across her pretty, vivid face and flashing eyes. Its glow seems to emphasize her every expression, every arch glance and curving lip; every turn of her head and gesture with her speaking hands. That dress--that dress whose fabric her mother would scorn to purchase--drapes her girlish curves, somehow makes them seem more than they are, with her straight young back and slim, strong waist and gently curving breasts.
As she sits she speaks, quickly, witty words tumbling out in a confident, musical cadence, then laughs a rich laugh, tilting her head back just slightly. The man beside her is laughing too, and engrossed. And then there is the other. He stands leaning on the mantle, her promised husband, tall and handsome and perfect, the cool, brilliant man she has waited for all her life, and he too watches the other woman--the girl, poor, obscure and unsuitable as she is, blooming with her charm and vivacity, her perfect health, intelligence, beauty. She is nothing and she is everything; and later, as the men gather round her to hear her imperfect playing and listen to her clever, musical voice, and watch her clever, imperfect face, all she is left with, sitting alone before the great fireplace now, is the emptiness of Rosings.
The End