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Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.
~ Robert Frost
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Friday evening...
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Prim poked her fork idly at her bread pudding. Like James’s had been at the Gould dinner a couple weeks past, her focus was entirely on the clock on the fireplace mantle. Each tick of the second hand rang like a gong in her mind. Each one making her feel more and more guilty as the clock rounded the half hour and crept up toward nine.
“Aren’t you hungry, Prim?” Jeremy asked, scraping his fork along the edge of his plate to catch up the last of the brandied peach sauce which had topped the dessert.
“Not really.”
“Can I...?”
Prim nudged her uneaten pudding in his direction before he even finished the question. Then her eyes touched the clock again.
She’d shooed James away to spare herself a moment’s embarrassment and what had she gained? A quiet evening at home? How could she expect him to stand for her when she cowered from the part of herself she loved the most? Restraining herself in word or action had never been satisfying. It’d never spared her from being berated like a child. Or consoled her when she offered no more protest than fisted hands that had her fingernails digging into her palms. There’d been nothing but discontent from her inner voice, which scolded her as well. One victory and she’d given up the war.
Awash with self-loathing, Prim glanced at the clock again. She was a competent adult, not a child. She needed to pull herself together and flaunt it. For James. For her.
There was a battle still to be fought if she wanted to live life as she pleased.
She could begin tonight, grasp life with both hands. Though it was likely James wasn’t going to show up after her curt dismissal the other night. She hadn’t sent him a note specifically excusing herself from the evening he’d proposed. But she hadn’t accepted him either.
Would he take her lack of communication as a no then?
He didn’t seem the type to. Not at all.
And who would she disappoint more if she didn’t go? James or herself?
“What do you say about a game of backgammon after dinner, hmm?” her brother asked as he cleared away her portion with a hum of pleasure. “Oh, and I assume my room’s available for the night as usual?”
“Have you nowhere to be this evening?” she asked.
Jeremy shrugged, finishing off the dessert. “Not really. Shane’s dining with Declan and their old banking chap Ogilvie tonight. Dennis has been a bore since he’s taken up with that burlesque dan...uh, Dennis was unavailable.”
“So, I’ve come in as runner up for the finest company available on a Friday evening?”
He shot her a grin. “Well, it’s not as if you had anything better to do tonight, right?”
Oh, but she did.
Every fiber of her being yearned to do it. Seize the moment, her heart cried. Do as you please. As you desire.
The clock told her she would have to hurry, but yes, she did have an option available to her. One far more exciting than a night at a backgammon board.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?”
* * *
Fleeing to her room, Prim rang for her maid and dropped down at her vanity. She reached for her brush and smoothed away some stray hairs, but the sight of herself in the mirror gave her pause.
Running a hand along the edge of her staid dinner dress’s squared neckline, she fingered the heavy metallic of the Grecian key embroidery. Even without the layer of antiqued lace beneath it that covered her from there up to the tight band around her neck, the décolletage was dowdy at best. The fabric was rich, the metallic insets embroidered on the front of the burgundy velvet gown and at the ends of the sleeves were the highest quality. There was even a dash of playfulness in the golden tassel fringe at the ends of the sash.
But it wasn’t right for an evening out at a club. Or an evening out anywhere. It, like most of her wardrobe, had been purchased since she’d been widowed. In a year when she’d been active in the suffragette movement. There wasn’t a thing about most of her gowns that might be considered frivolous or even overly feminine.
She’d thought she had a point to make in presenting herself as dour and matronly as possible in her attempt to be seen as a self-sufficient widow, but she was only twenty-nine years old. Hardly in her dotage.
Tapping lightly on the door, her maid stuck her head in. “You rang, ma’am?”
“Yes, Nellie, I need to change to go out.”
“Of course.” Nellie moved efficiently to her wardrobe and flung it wide. “The taupe lace perhaps? Or the gray faille?”
“No, those won’t do.” She wanted...she wanted to look pretty tonight. Desirable even.
“Hmm, where are you off to? A salon or the theater?”
“Neither.” Prim drew in a deep breath. “Nellie, I need something I can wear to a night club.”
While her maid gaped at her as if she’d gone completely off her rocker, a flash of green caught Prim’s eye among the dreary browns and blahs of her closet. A green neither bright nor rich but so much more feminine than her normal apparel.
She hurried to the wardrobe and fingered the seafoam colored velvet skirt. Tugging it out farther, she then stroked the richly embroidered flowers of pink, fuchsia, and gold with crystal bead accents that covered the bottom third of the skirt. She pulled it all the way out and held it up against her body, running her trembling fingers over the crisscrossing bands of velvet and chiffon.
The neckline was low, the Chantilly lace sleeves hanging from satin bands at the very top of her arms. It was a tad nippy out to be wearing such a revealing gown. But a warm cape would fix that, and she’d never worn the lovely gown before.
She’d never dared.
“Oh, Mrs. Eames, really?” Nellie beamed at her, her hands clasped in excitement. It was only a reflection of Prim’s own. “Oh, we should change your hair also.”
“Then we need to hurry.”
