Bernadette Azizi - Undying

“Victoria! Please, your father has been kept waiting long enough, and by no means will I excuse you if we are the last to arrive at the Campbell’s,” my mother cried from the hallway.

“Coming.”

Of Mr and Mrs Campbell’s five daughters, four are bothersome and unsightly. Hence, I dreaded the thought of a whole day spent in their company, knowing that this entire charade was purely to observe the new occupants of Hayworth house, Mr and Mrs Barton. Their arrival had caused quite an unnecessary enthusiasm due solely to the fact that Mr and Mrs Barton has brought with them their eligible son, Charles Barton.

The Campbell girls need not have worried about me attempting to seek Charles Barton’s interest; I have no desire to marry.

I would never demean myself to compete for any man’s attention; my thoughts on marriage are quite grim: a man-made institution, of a life sentence in thrall to another person’s needs and wants. I have seen all too well the repercussions of a tedious match and would be content to squander my days unaccompanied than to bear that existence.

Against my better judgement and aware of my mother’s fragile state, I decided to leave my room.

To my mother’s distress we were the last to arrive.

“Victoria, I do not know why you wish for me to constantly endure this humiliation,” she whispered her disappointment as she smiled and nodded to the other guests.

“Humiliation mother? We are simply late, not unclothed,” I replied.

“Ahh!” she exclaimed in horror.

I kissed my father on his cheek and set off to find refuge with Charlotte, the youngest of the Campbell girls.

My journey would be short for I knew where Charlotte would surely be … in her room.

“Charlotte! There you are, as predicted.”

“Victoria, I am so pleased you came,” she declared in relief.

“What friend would I be if I permitted you to bear this all on your own?”

Charlotte immediately came and embraced me. She was 16 years old, two years younger than I. She was plain in appearance, but what she lacked in beauty she made up for in character. Charlotte spent most of her time hidden away in her room, avoiding her domineering sisters; it is incredible how different she is to them. Her soft timid voice was rarely heard upon leaving her bedroom.

“What is your impression of Charles Barton?” she eagerly enquiry.

“We have not yet been introduced,” I replied.

“You cannot be serious; everyone has assembled today solely to steal a glimpse of him. Surely, our town’s most desired daughter, ‘Victoria’, is not somewhat curious to know what all the excitement is about?”

“Charlotte, I assure you that Charles Barton will be conceited and unintelligent. It would do him the world of good if we did not provide him with any additional attention.”

“What about his companion, Jonathon Bates, or will you harshly judge him also without any evidence to support your claims?” she said as she played with the hem of her cream lace sleeve, a clear indication that she was uncomfortable with her tone towards me.

“Charlotte, forgive me if I have displeased you. Come, introduce me to Charles Barton and his companion and I pledge to set aside my opinion until I have met them,” I joked, placing my hand out for her to take.

Unlike her older sisters, Charlotte could in no way be upset with any person for more than a moment; it was not in her nature and neither was considering ill of anyone. On the other hand, I would judge and would judge hastily. Sometimes I feel unworthy of her friendship, but she is all I have. With no brothers or sisters and a mother that is unapproachable, I needed Charlotte and I know she also needed me.

As we started to make our way to the garden, we found our path blocked by Charlotte’s eldest sister, Emma. She was too tall, too skinny and unpleasing to the eye. At 23, with no prospect of a proposal in sight, she was struggling to conceal her extreme anxiety.

“Good morning, Victoria.”

“Good morning, Emma.”

“It’s dreadfully chilly outside, Charlotte; I fear you may catch a cold. Maybe you should stay inside with Victoria,” she announced in her dull tone.

“No … Victoria has not yet been introduced to Charles Barton and Jonathon Bates,” Charlotte mumbled, slightly uncertain.

“Oh Emma, you agonise over too many things. Charlotte and I will be perfectly fine. However, if you believe the temperature is too cold, maybe you ought to settle indoors for awhile,” I smiled naively, holding on to Charlotte’s arm as we continued our way to the garden.

As we enjoyed our drinks in the cool breeze, I noticed Charlotte scouting for the new additions to our town. I was curious to see what she planned to do when she found them; surely she couldn’t possibly do the introductions herself.

“I am going to go ahead and see if I can find Charles Barton and his companion,” Charlotte excitedly announced.

“Charlotte, please. Can it not wait?” I protested. But to no avail; she had set off in her search. That was out of character for Charlotte.

While I continued to leisurely stroll through the garden, admiring the beautifully coloured spring flowers, my eyes accidently caught my mother’s, who was still clearly quite wounded about my causing her to arrive late and, I am certain, was still struggling to settle in with the crowd. So, in my cowardly attempt to avoid her unwanted attention, I turned away swiftly. Swiftly was a dreadful idea, as my glass of red punch, which I might add had been immensely enjoyable, was now travelling out of the glass in my hand. I closed my eyes like a child, not wanting to know the outcome of my poor actions.

“Will you not open your eyes to see where your drink has found itself?” A gentleman’s voice whispered close to my ear; so close that an unexpected shiver moved through my body.

His voice was foreign to me. Intrigued I slowly opened my eyes in an attempt to reclaim my dignity. Discomfited by my poor actions I did what any fine English woman would do, I shifted the blame.

“Oh my! What have you done?” I asked.

He did not react instantly. He quietly looked into my eyes for a few moments, then, ever so slowly, his lips curved up with a culpable smile. He was not familiar to me, so I assumed he was either Charles Barton or Jonathon Bates. Either way, I felt that I may have to retract my words. He stood tall like my father, with dark wavy hair, brown eyes and his nose was sharp and perfect.

“My apologies, please forgive me,” he replied with a grin.

“Of course,” I replied in a childlike manner.

“There you are,” Charlotte interrupted, looking strangely awkward and uncomfortable.

A strange looking man came up beside her. For him my initial judgement still stood, he was ill at ease, unpleasing to the eye and seemed to be suffering from some kind of illness. He stood, holding his handkerchief, constantly sneezing and blowing his reddened nose, with a rough cough that could be heard some distance away. His eyes were dark and disturbing.