On Friday evening, Grace stands appraisingly in front of the mirror in one of her new dresses, twisting this way and that. Her tawny hair falls around her shoulders in loose ringlets as she leans forward to apply a little lipstick. Neutral Rose. It was what our mother always wore when Father was still alive. Now there is barely anything left on the stick and Grace tries to scrape out a tiny amount with a brush and apply it to her lips.
‘Why don’t you use this?’ I say, withdrawing the pink lipstick from my pocket and handing it to her.
‘Oh, Clem, that is your special lipstick. I can’t take that.’
‘I insist,’ I reply, pressing it into her hands. ‘What good is it, having nice things, if you can’t share them with your loved ones?’
‘Well, that is a very nice way of looking at it,’ she says, plucking off the lid and unscrewing the stick. ‘How about I put some on you too?’ She brushes the colour across her lips, looking so lovely in her new dress. She deserves something nice, she spends all her own money on us.
Once she is done, she sits me down in the chair in front of the mirror. The only time I ever wear make-up is for the stage, and that is usually heavy greasepaint to make my features stand out to the audience from a distance. I watch now as Grace delicately brushes powders and smoothes ointments across my face, subtly enhancing my features.
‘You have such lovely eyes, Clem,’ she says, brushing an eyeshadow across my eyelids. ‘This shade will really bring out their pretty brown colour.’
‘How did you learn all this?’ I ask, turning my face this way and that to admire her handiwork. She has somehow managed to enhance my cheekbones so they look fuller, and she is right, my eyes are sparkling in a way I have never seen before. They look a dark tobacco colour, rather than dull hazel brown.
‘Oh, you pick these things up after a while.’ She shrugs. ‘I can teach you.’
‘I would like that,’ I say softly, clasping her hand, and she smiles down at me.
I can’t stop thinking about what she said in Archambeau’s earlier in the week … Is Mother really planning to marry her off to the first eligible bachelor she finds? At least no one has any plans for me to marry. I am perfectly happy to continue keeping a low profile until I can finally make my escape to the Vic-Wells Ballet Company. Once I am out from under my mother’s rule, I will never have to answer to anyone ever again. The only adoration that interests me is that of my audience. I tug at the hem of my slightly too short navy dress absently, and Grace furrows her brow.
‘I think we can do a bit better than that dress too, Clem,’ she says kindly, taking my hand and coaxing me over to her wardrobe. She rattles through the hangers, now dripping with new garments, freshly delivered from Archambeau’s.
She pulls out an old, dark green dress and holds it up for me to admire. It is quite simple, but always looks so elegant on Grace. It is the dress she wears when she knows important scholars are coming to the library and she wants to be taken seriously.
‘I can’t wear that,’ I dismiss. ‘It won’t fit me properly and I’ll just look like I’m playing dress-up.’
‘Nonsense!’ she says, holding the dress up against me. ‘Fashion is all about confidence, Clem. This dress has never failed me before and tonight I guarantee it will come through for you too.’
I try to object but she thrusts the dress towards me more vigorously.
‘Just start by trying it on,’ she urges, so I do, even if only to shut her up. I shrug out of the short navy dress and slip the green dress over my head. It instantly drowns me like a big-top tent and I huff exasperatedly.
‘I told you it wouldn’t fit,’ I cry. ‘I bet I look ridiculous.’
I try to make a move towards the mirror, but she grabs me, needle in hand. ‘Don’t look yet,’ she commands, as she cinches in the waist and begins sewing me into the dress.
‘Grace, you can’t, you’ll ruin it!’
‘Oh, it will be fine.’ She dismisses me brusquely and works in silence for a few minutes, methodically threading the needle through the fine material and tightening it here and there. She finally stands up and rolls her neck. ‘There, now you can look.’
I walk slowly towards the mirror with trepidation, not quite sure what I am expecting to find, and stop dead in front of my reflection. Somehow, she has weaved magic with her needle and the dress doesn’t look anywhere near as awful as I had expected. I turn to face her and she is smiling smugly.
‘You are wasted in that library,’ I say honestly, and she chuckles.
‘I like the library. Anyway, what do you think? Will it do?’
‘Will it do?’ I exclaim. ‘It’s perfect. I don’t know how you did it, but I actually look … quite nice.’ I paint my lips pink with my new lipstick, and before I know it, I am swaying in front of the mirror just as Grace had been.
‘You always look nice, Clem,’ she insists, coming to stand beside me. ‘Now, come on, we had better be going or we will be late.’
Mother is waiting for us in the sitting room. It is still so strange to see her out of her bedroom after so many years, and despite her frail physique, the sight of her momentarily cows me. I bow my head but I am not quick enough. She pulls herself up with her cane, her face creasing in discomfort, and stomps towards me. She may have been confined to her room for many years, but she is still surprisingly fast. I know she didn’t spend all her time in bed; I would often hear her pacing around her room late at night when she thought everyone was asleep. Her hand is at my chin in seconds, her bony fingers digging into my flesh.
‘What is that you have on your face?’ she sneers, her eyes scanning every inch of me as I wilt beneath her touch.
‘Nothing, it is just a bit of lipstick!’ I protest, finding my voice at last and resolving to meet her steely gaze.
‘Where did it come from? Did you steal it?’ she demands.
‘No, of course not!’ I cry, trying to wriggle free from her grasp. ‘It was a gift. Please, Mother, you’re hurting me.’
‘Go and wipe it off immediately,’ she sneers. ‘You look like a common strumpet.’
I dash from the sitting room to the bathroom, tears threatening to overspill from my eyes. I manage to hold it together until I reach the bathroom and turn the tap, the water gushing and sputtering from the faucet loud enough to drown the small cry that escapes my throat. I look at my reflection in the mirror: my eyes are red and puffy, my cheeks blotchy, making the pink lipstick clash horribly with my skin. I can’t believe I actually thought I looked pretty. How foolishly vain I was to think one of Grace’s dresses and a bit of make-up could transform me into something else. I snatch a wad of tissue from the roll and begin furiously trying to wipe it off. I splash my face with cold water and take a few deep breaths, waiting for my skin tone to even out a little, then make my way back down the hall with what I hope is a calm composure. As I draw closer to the sitting room, I catch the tail end of a conversation between Grace and Mother.
‘That dress was a good choice, Grace, darling. Perhaps tonight’s little soirée may introduce you to some eligible bachelors. Men of stature.’
Once again, my stomach drops at the thought of losing Grace and having to live alone in this rotten old house, just Mother and I.
‘You can’t marry her off!’ I cry before I can stop myself, and Grace’s eyes widen as she looks back at me, but Mother’s narrow as she takes me in for the first time.
‘Oh, can’t I?’ she scoffs. ‘And why is that?’
‘Well, she is just … twenty-one is still so young, that’s all. What’s the hurry?’ I mumble, my gaze dropping to the floor.
‘Look around you, child!’ she says angrily, stomping her cane on the cracked tile floor. ‘This house is falling apart, we need money and we need it now. Your father’s measly pension is as good as gone. The only savings we have left, your father tied up to serve as dowries!’ She turns her attention back to Grace, her expression softening as she rests a bony hand upon her cheek. ‘Darling, you were blessed with good looks. Let us not squander them. We shall find you a good Christian husband who has no need for a dowry.’
‘Christian?’ Grace echoes, speaking up for the first time, and I wonder why that is the part of Mother’s statement that has her the most flustered.
‘Yes, of course,’ Mother says, looking nonplussed.
Grace nods, trying to contort her expression into a smile, but it ends up looking more like a grimace. ‘We should go,’ she says at last. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
There is a cool chill to the evening that marks the start of autumn. The air has that smell of bonfire and decaying leaves as we cross the street and make our way towards the Draper house. The curtains are drawn, but there is a flicker of warming light coming through the cracks, and as we approach the front door, the sound of rising laughter and bubbling voices can be heard from inside the house. I take a deep breath, trying to still the unsteady beating of my heart as Mother rings the doorbell.
August Draper swings open the door with a pleasant smile. He is dressed in a tailored three-piece suit with fine pinstripes, his dark-blonde hair swept off his face with a neat side parting, and his vivid green eyes seem to sparkle as they meet mine.
‘Welcome!’ he says warmly over the sound of the voices from further inside the house. ‘Mrs Harrington, I presume?’ He reaches for Mother’s hand and gently places his lips upon her bony knuckles. For a moment I could swear I notice her visibly thaw. ‘I am so glad you could join us this evening.’ He then turns his attention towards Grace and me. ‘And these must be your lovely daughters. Of course, I have met your younger daughter already, but it is a pleasure to have you all in my home. Come in and let me take your coats.’
He helps Mother first, his manners impeccable as he slides her out of her moth-eaten fur, then moves on to Grace. ‘I don’t believe I have made your acquaintance yet, Miss Harrington,’ he says, taking Grace’s cape.
‘For that, I must apologise, Mr Draper,’ Grace says demurely, almost curtseying in her nervousness. ‘My name is Grace.’
I take a step forward, but August’s eyes are still fixed on Grace. ‘Please, call me August, if you will, Miss Harrington. I can’t bear to be called Mr Draper.’
Grace’s eyes flit to Mother’s for approval and she gives a curt nod.
‘Very well … August. Thank you for inviting us to dinner this evening.’ She turns her attention to me. ‘Clementine, why don’t you give August your coat?’
August’s eyes dart to mine and he gives me a small, secret smile that almost takes my breath away, then sweeps into a low bow, winking at me as he rises and reaches for my coat. ‘My apologies, Miss Harrington, I almost forgot you were there.’
I can’t deny the rush of disappointment I feel to have been forgotten so easily in the presence of Grace, but when he looks at me the feeling dissipates. I gaze into his verdant green eyes and I feel myself relax, safe in the knowledge I am in the company of an ally, joined together by our shared secrets. He alone knows about the night I snuck into this very house, and in return he entrusted me with his true name. Augustus … I breathe the word as he takes the coat from my outstretched hand. Mother is looking at August too, but with a different look, one of hunger and opportunity, before her face quickly slips into a more neutral expression as August whips around and offers to escort her through to the sitting room.
‘Oh, I am quite alright with my stick,’ she insists. ‘But Grace has hurt her ankle, poor dear. Would you be so kind as to lend her your arm.’
‘Of course!’ August exclaims, turning his attention to Grace and offering her his arm.
Grace and I share a split-second look. This is the first I have heard about her ankle, and by the look on Grace’s face, it is the first she is hearing of it too. I open my mouth, not entirely sure what I am going to say, but before I can find the words, Mother subtly raps me on the shin with her stick and the instant throbbing pain that it sends up my leg stops the words dead in my mouth.
‘Stand back and let them go ahead,’ she mutters under her breath, and the two of us watch as August leads Grace away before we follow after them.
The sitting room looks rather different from the last time I was here. The mass of blankets has been extricated from the velvet sofa and the piles of books have been painstakingly alphabetised and placed on the shelves. A lively jazz tune is playing on low from the turntable and the room is full of dancing light from a newly installed crystal chandelier. Mrs Arbuthnot is seated in a squashy velvet armchair with a glass of sherry in her hand, talking the ear off our elderly neighbours Mr and Mrs Duval. Mr Duval was once a famous pianist, and he travelled the world with his wife, performing in some of the biggest concert halls and rubbing shoulders with high society, but now he is snoozing on the sofa, no doubt as a result of Mrs Arbuthnot’s latest tale of her son Archie.
I spy Grace and August over by the turntable, making polite conversation, and I take a step towards them when Mrs Arbuthnot cries out.
‘Good gracious, Helena!’
Mother’s back stiffens a little as Mrs Arbuthnot shuffles towards us. She looks genuinely pleased to see our mother up and about, but the shine in her wide eyes is due to nothing other than voyeurism. ‘How long has it been?’ she exclaims as she comes to a stop and places a kiss on Mother’s hollow cheek. ‘Gosh, you do look well.’
‘Regina, what a pleasure to see you,’ Mother replies, as if it had only been a few weeks rather than ten years.
The two of them begin exchanging pleasantries and I find my eyes wandering across the room to the turntable where August is laughing at something Grace said, his brilliant white teeth a stark contrast against his golden tanned face. Grace catches my eye and gestures for me to join her. I almost do, just as I catch the tail end of Mother’s conversation with Mrs Arbuthnot.
‘Well, while I appreciate I haven’t been able to worship in church myself, I have always ensured that my girls still attend mass,’ Mother says haughtily, and I feel all the colour drain from my face as Mrs Arbuthnot casts a suspicious gaze my way. For the first few years after our father’s passing, Grace and I certainly kept up appearances at church, but after a while, other responsibilities got in the way … From the age of fourteen, once I was finished with school, I began helping Madame Lebedev teach ballet classes, one of which is on a Sunday. And Grace has been working at the library to keep the roof over our heads.
‘Is that so?’ Mrs Arbuthnot says slowly. ‘Every Sunday?’
‘Gosh, I’m awfully thirsty!’ I interrupt loudly, desperate to change the subject and avoid a conflict.
August must have overheard me, because he finally looks up from his conversation with Grace and waltzes over. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ he says, ‘where are my manners? Far too much time spent in the jungle and not enough spent in polite company. Can I offer you some wine?’ He grins sheepishly and Mrs Arbuthnot visibly fawns over him. Even Mother cracks a seldom seen smile.
‘Just a soda water for me,’ she says. ‘My daughter will have the same.’
‘Couldn’t I perhaps have a small glass?’ I ask almost pleadingly but she shoots me down.
‘Wine is not for children.’
I feel my cheeks flood deep crimson and the top of my ears burn hot as I bow my head.
‘Oh, Mother, she is almost eighteen,’ Grace says imploringly, coming to stand beside me. ‘Perhaps a small glass with dinner wouldn’t hurt.’
Mother looks set to crumble under the pressure of an audience, so I take my moment to look up at her beseechingly. She purses her lips in distaste.
‘Very well,’ she admits defeat. ‘But at the first sign of silliness, you will be sent straight home.’
‘Speaking of dinner, it must nearly be ready,’ August says, extricating himself from the group. ‘I’d best go check in with my housekeeper and I’ll be right back with your drinks.’
Mother’s eyes light up at the mention of professional help, then I watch as her eyes survey the sitting room properly and she takes in all its splendour. I can almost see her totting up the value of our lavish surroundings. A gong sounds in the hallway, causing me to jolt, and Mr Duval to awake suddenly from his slumber. August Draper appears moments later with the mallet in his hand.
‘A thousand apologies,’ he says to the startled pianist, in his warm American accent. ‘It’s an old relic I picked up on my travels and I do rather like an excuse to use it. Now, ladies and gentleman, if you will follow me to the dining room, dinner is ready.’
The dining room is panelled in a dark mahogany and hung with paintings of exotic fruits. The wide window is draped with velvet curtains in a shade of deep-plum, tied with golden tassels, and an ornate glass-cut lampshade hangs from the ceiling, creating a spotlight on the table. Everything in August’s house is new, from the fine crockery, painted with a border of intricate vines, to the crystal-cut glasses and decanters, to the glimmering brass cutlery. The long table is festooned with vases of freshly cut flowers and dotted with candlesticks, their flickering orange light casting dancing shadows across the room. We all sit down in a hum of anticipation: this is by far the most extravagant event that has taken place on our street in a good many years. August travels around the table and begins to pour wine from a decanter into each of our glasses. I catch a waft of his cologne as he leans over me, the floral, heady scent of bergamot, and I close my eyes for a moment, feeling a little light-headed. He lingers a little longer over Grace’s glass, his eyes fixed firmly upon her as she stares resolutely down at her plate, coy as always. Something like jealousy spasms in my chest and it takes all my willpower to keep it from surging forth until he moves on. I lift my glass to my lips, but no sooner have I taken a sip when Mother flashes another warning my way.
‘I mean it, Clementine,’ she says sharply. ‘Any silliness and that glass shall be taken off you.’
I blush as deep a red as the wine in my glass and set it down again just as August takes his place at the head of the table and his housekeeper comes in with a trolley.
‘Thank you, Mrs Darnton.’ August beams, leaping to his feet once again to help her. ‘Mrs Darnton has been a lifesaver for me,’ he tells us all as he helps her hand out bowls of pea soup. ‘I cannot cook to save my life, and I have never been much of a housekeeper either. I am very lucky to have her in charge.’
Mrs Darnton smiles beatifically, clearly as susceptible to August Draper’s charms as the rest of us.
‘So, tell us, Mr Draper, how goes things at the Royal Botanic Gardens?’ Mr Duval asks as we all tuck into our soup. ‘I hear you are the new Assistant Director. Is that correct?’
‘Indeed, it is.’ August smiles modestly. ‘It is certainly a new experience for me to be based in one place after so many years of travelling the world, but they assure me that I will still get plenty of chances to explore.’
‘But are you not interested in settling down and finding a wife?’ Mrs Duval pipes up, and I notice my mother’s spoon hovering mid-way to her mouth as she awaits his answer.
August sighs, a deep exhale and looks down at his bowl. ‘I would very much like to settle down, Mrs Duval, but I have been rather unlucky in love so far.’
‘Must be those American girls,’ Mrs Arbuthnot assures him, patting his hand as if he were her precious Archie. ‘I am sure we can help find you a nice, sensible English wife.’
‘Well, as it happens, that is one of the reasons I have chosen to settle in one place,’ he replies, taking a sip of wine. ‘I am hoping to find a companion.’
My eyes shoot up towards August, but his gaze is fixed on Grace. I can feel what is going to happen. He is already enamoured with her, and if she feels the same way, it will be the end of our happy twosome. I glance at Grace. She doesn’t seem remotely interested in him as she sips daintily at her soup, her head down. I breathe a happy sigh of relief. As far as I can tell, Grace has always been far more interested in fictional men than real ones, and unless Mr Darcy himself leaps from the pages of Pride and Prejudice, I am fairly confident she will keep her head. Perhaps I should have told her about my first meeting with August, that night when we collided in this very house.
‘It is a rather peculiar name,’ I hear Mrs Duval remark to Mother, and it stirs me from my thoughts. I know without being told that they are talking about me. ‘What made you choose it, Helena?’
‘I played no part in it,’ Mother responds curtly, placing her soup spoon down with some force and gaining everyone’s attention. ‘If I had had my way, she would have been named Verity. I believe girls should be named after virtues in order to instil them, just like Grace.’
‘There is no denying you are very graceful,’ August says quietly, leaning towards my sister with a lopsided smile. ‘I have never seen someone move with such ease on an injured ankle.’
Grace blushes, knowing she has been caught out in Mother’s lie. ‘And you are clearly very astute, Mr Draper.’
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ he murmurs and I feel a stab of jealousy run right through my chest. Did he not say the very same thing to me?
‘So, why was she called Clementine in that case?’ Mrs Arbuthnot asks Mother, and I turn my head back to the conversation at hand, taking a larger gulp of wine as I watch them discuss me as if I were not there.
‘It was her father’s doing,’ Mother sniffs. ‘He simply came back with her birth certificate and declared he had looked into her eyes and had a change of heart.’
‘He always was a romantic soul,’ Mrs Arbuthnot sighs. ‘Well, I am sure he had his reasons, whatever they may have been.’
‘Oh, he had his reasons alright,’ Mother mutters, her voice laced with malice now. ‘And though romance certainly played a part in it, I would not say it was down to the nature of his soul.’
I look up at her, my spoon mid-air. I had no idea that she knew the reason why Father chose to change my name at the last moment. I catch Grace’s eye and she is looking back at me, as perplexed as I feel.
‘What were they?’ I ask, unable to contain my curiosity. ‘His reasons?’
Everyone around the table is looking at Mother now, the pea soup growing gelatinous and long forgotten. Only Mother is still eating, swirling the spoon round her bowl before popping it into her mouth, swallowing thoughtfully.
‘I discovered the truth shortly after my husband’s passing when I was sorting through his belongings,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘I found a series of letters in his study. It would appear he took a liking to the name while he was stationed in France during the war.’
Everyone waits in anticipation for her to divulge more information, especially me. My heart is in my throat. I know that she is relishing the attention, but I can’t look away, I am desperate to know.
‘The letters were quite damning … Shall we say he was less than faithful to the sanctity of our marriage while he was away.’ She finally looks at me, her eyes cold but her expression victorious. ‘Clementine was the name of your father’s French mistress.’
‘Mother, really!’ Grace gasps in horror as the table falls silent, but Mother is not looking at Grace.
Her eyes are still firmly set on mine. She doesn’t seem to care that she may have ruined Grace’s chances with August; she doesn’t even care what our neighbours might think. What this could do for our social standing, our reputation. She will take any opportunity to tear me down. She is daring me to create a scene. I can sense her waiting for me to finally grow a backbone and stand up for myself, but I can’t do it … I feel sick and the room is spinning. Father would never have had a mistress, never! He doted on our whole family. He used to tell me nothing was more important to him than his three special ladies: Mother, Grace and me.
But now that I think about it, did he ever specify that he meant Mother? It was always very clear how much he loved Grace and me, but I can’t remember a single moment of intimacy between my parents … The borders of my vision are growing fuzzy and it has nothing to do with the wine. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, their pitying glances. I drop my napkin and excuse myself from the table, rushing from the dining room as quickly as I can without running.
Out in the hall, I take a deep, gasping breath. I can feel my chest rising and falling but I don’t feel any better. I lean against the wall, listening to the muffled conversation in the dining room.
‘Should someone see if Clementine is alright?’ Mrs Arbuthnot asks, and for the first time in my life I feel a grateful surge of warmth for her.
‘She’ll be fine, she is simply being dramatic. I did say she was too young for wine,’ Mother scoffs. ‘Grace, sit down. Please do not be as rude towards our host as your sister.’
I hear the scuffing of chair legs against the wooden floor as Grace tucks her chair back in. I flush with embarrassment and anger. How has Mother managed to paint me as the one who has been inappropriate? How many years has she sat on this piece of information, and she chose now to reveal it. What must August have thought? And what am I to think?
Even in my daze I know I can’t go back in there and sit down to the rest of the meal. I resign myself to the fact that I must go home. I tiptoe down the hallway, grab my coat from the hook, and am just about to leave when I hear footsteps approaching.
‘Clementine?’ the voice says quietly, a smooth American voice.
I turn, my eyes still brimming with tears, to find August standing in the hallway. His green eyes look at me kindly, but they are full of pity and I can’t bear to look at him. ‘You must think me awfully rude,’ I say, turning away. ‘I am sorry to up and leave in the middle of your party but I fear my presence will only make things more uncomfortable for your guests.’
‘Clementine, please,’ he says softly, taking a step towards me. He cups my face in his hands and wipes a tear from my cheek as my heart starts to race. ‘What your mother said back there … it’s – it’s inexcusable. Please don’t cry. You are such a sweet girl.’
I look up at him, barely able to conceal my disappointment. A girl? So that’s how he sees me. I brush his hand away from my cheek. ‘I thank you for inviting me this evening, Mr Draper, and for your hospitality, but I really must go.’
He steps back, a bemused look upon his face, and I take the opportunity to make a break for it.
Our house feels colder and darker, having left the warming glow of August Draper’s home behind me. I close the door and the silence engulfs me for a moment. I feel small in this house, like I never quite grew up. Maybe I am still just a girl. I am about to climb the staircase to my bedroom, when I stop outside Father’s study. I remember now, after his funeral, how Mother spent hours every night locked away in here. Grace and I used to watch the flickering light pool out from the crack beneath the door until one of us would fall asleep on the stairs and the other would inevitably drag them upstairs. When Father was still alive, Grace and I used to sit in the study whenever we pleased. Grace would read a book aloud, curled up in her favourite green leather armchair, while I lay on the sheepskin rug by the fire and listened. Sometimes Father would be there too. I can picture him at his desk, a smile growing beneath his moustache. If Grace struggled with a word, she would sit on his lap and he would teach her to spell it out phonetically.
After he died, the study remained locked to everyone except Mother. Then, one day, she came out. Grace and I were sat on the stairs as usual, wondering what Mother was doing in there, when the door was flung open, causing us both to start in surprise. We thought we would be in trouble, but she didn’t even seem to see us. Her eyes were dark and hollow like two holes, crescent-moonlike shadows hung beneath them. Her skin seemed to sag around her bones and her hair was unkempt as if she had been running her fingers through it over and over. She locked the door behind her and slipped the key on a chain around her neck. Then she sloped up the stairs, straight past us, to bed. And she didn’t get out of that bed again until last week.
I come back around from the memory and find my hand clutching the brass doorknob. I look down at it in surprise. I hadn’t noticed myself reach out and grasp it. The metal is cold beneath my hand, and I try to turn it but it is still firmly locked. My heart sinks with disappointment and I trudge upstairs to my bedroom. I unzip my borrowed dress and slip back into my leotard and ballet shoes, ready for one final round of stretches before calling it a night. I limber up by the window where I can still see the glowing lights of the Draper house. I watch shadows pass by the windows; it looks like they are dancing, or maybe it is my imagination. I can’t take my eyes off the house as I practise my barre exercises. I should be there, I should be a part of the merrymaking going on inside, but Mother ruined it. Tonight, even ballet cannot distract me from my misery. I change into my nightdress, unable to watch the party from across the street a moment longer, and climb into bed.
‘Clem!’
I open my eyes to find Grace sitting on the side of my bed. She is swaying from side to side a little and her eyes look slightly glassy in the darkness.
‘You’re drunk,’ I comment.
‘I am not.’
‘Why are you swaying so much then?’ I ask, pulling myself up into a seated position and plumping my pillow.
‘Never mind that,’ she dismisses. ‘I came to see if you are alright.’
‘I’ve been better,’ I tell her truthfully. ‘Oh, Grace, do you think it’s true? Do you really think Father had a mistress during the war?’
Her nose wrinkles in the manner it always does when she is concentrating. ‘I don’t know, Clem,’ she answers truthfully. ‘We were so young when he died, but it doesn’t seem right, does it? I just keep thinking that doesn’t seem like something he would do. But then the war was hard on everyone … How can we possibly understand what he went through?’
‘So you do think it’s true!’ I needle and she rolls her eyes with exasperation.
‘I didn’t say that, I said I don’t know,’ she replies diplomatically. ‘But I can’t imagine Father ever being so callous as to name one of his children after his mistress – it just doesn’t make sense.’
‘This is why Mother hates me, isn’t it?’
‘She doesn’t hate you, Clem.’
‘She has a funny way of showing it,’ I reply, rolling away from her to face the wall.
‘I think Father’s death hit her a lot harder than we perhaps understood as children, that’s all.’
‘Well, she seems to have made a spectacular recovery now that August Draper has moved across the street,’ I respond. ‘How was the rest of the evening?’
‘Not as much fun without you there,’ she says earnestly. ‘I am so sorry I didn’t come after you, Clem. I wanted to, I really did, I stood up to dash after you but Mother forbade me to leave. August was really worried too. I could tell he was unhappy to see you like that.’
‘You two seemed very cosy,’ I remark, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye, and I notice a small blush appear at her cheeks.
‘Yes, he was certainly very charming,’ she replies, trying to feign nonchalance. Then she catches my eye and whatever she is trying to keep bottled up inside bursts forth. ‘Oh, Clem, Mother thinks he may make a potential suitor. Can you imagine?’
‘You?’ I splutter. ‘And August?’
‘Yes, I must admit he isn’t exactly the type of man I had imagined myself settling down with …’ she murmurs.
‘I imagine he would always be galivanting off on expeditions, leaving you at home to look after the children.’ I yawn, and a peculiar expression crosses her face.
‘Yes, I suppose he would,’ she mutters, then she brightens. ‘But just think about what it could mean for us! No more scraping by, no more cold winters and empty pantries. We would be set for life; he is incredibly wealthy. And the best part is, I wouldn’t have to move far away, I would be just across the street, Clem. It would almost be as if nothing had changed!’
‘You mean to say you plan to ensnare him for his money?’ I retort, ignoring her justifications and growing more outraged by the moment.
‘That seems like a rather cut-throat way of describing it.’ She recoils, nettled. ‘But yes, I certainly would consider a proposal for the good of our family. You heard what Mother said: we barely have two pennies to rub together.’
I flop back down in bed and pull the duvet over my head in a fury.
‘Clem, what is the matter?’ she asks in surprise.
‘I’m tired and I wish to go back to sleep,’ I reply bluntly from under the covers. ‘I was sleeping soundly until you came and disturbed me.’
‘Oh,’ she says, her soft voice brimming with disappointment. ‘Well, goodnight then.’
I don’t reply as I feel her lift herself off the bed. My heart is hammering in my chest. It feels like it is trying to escape and force its way up my throat. My mind is swimming with images of Grace and August, the way his hand lingered on her arm, how his eyes followed her around the room. I picture Grace and August married … Grace alone at home with their children … Would she be happy? I think of what she told me at the boutique, and her face at the dinner table tonight … Is she doing this for us? Or herself? And then I see myself in this crumbling old house with Mother. The spinster aunt, named after her father’s mistress. What about my ballet? If it were me in Grace’s position, August and I could travel the world together. I could dance on all the international stages I have ever dreamed of, and he could travel with me, exploring countries far and wide, discovering new plants and writing papers along the way.
Mother’s plans for Grace to marry August make no sense at all. She would be miserable, at home on her own all the time. And I would be miserable too, stuck at home with Mother. If anyone is to marry August, it should be me. That way, Grace is free to live as she pleases and I am free to dance. I know it makes more sense that way. I just have to make them see it.