I don’t have another dress. I sent my other two to be laundered, and they haven’t returned yet. The tear is just below my right breast, so pinning something there isn’t an option, either. I could have fixed it, if I’d been able to find the right color thread and had more time. But with neither being available, my only choice is to brace for the inevitable punishment of showing up to dinner in disrepair. Neve half-heartedly offered up a gown, but I could tell she didn’t really want me wearing it. Carla attempted to wrap a scarf around my body, but it looked like a bandage and was equally dismissed. I’ve been punished before for things CJ caused. It’ll be fine. I will be fine. Or so I assure them. As if in apology, Neve darkens my eyelashes, adding a spot of lipstick at the last minute.
“You should always wear lipstick,” she says, sitting back to admire her work. “You’ve got such a great mouth for it.” I look in the mirror and squint at the Summerberry Twist painted on my full lips.
“I look like a fish.” Wearing lipstick to dinner is dumb—it’ll just come off on the glassware. It looks fabulous on Neve, though, her pouty lips painted dark red, with a little brown mixed in. She has this stupid, sentimental grin as I turn back to face her. I would find it incredibly patronizing, if not for the fact I’ll never see her again post-dinner. So I keep my grumbling to myself, and she leads us to the dining room.
Neve enters first, floating in her emerald-green chiffon gown, followed by Carla in her yellow frock that hits mid-shin and feels too dull for her personality. I trail them in my torn, knee-length, cornflower-blue house dress with cap sleeves and a round, juvenile collar, feeling about as welcome as a rodent in the larder. The dated dining room smells like fish and looks as nice as can be expected. The once white paneling sweats under the weak, yellow light of the nickel and glass chandelier. The table is set with white plates on white linen, and the centerpiece is made of orange blossoms with exotic fruits as a base. Everything must pay homage to the tropics and trade when on the peninsula, after all.
“Ladies, you look lovely,” our benefactor says, with zero warmth. He can be charming when he chooses to be, especially when dressed in the formal, lightweight linen suits that only ever see the light of day in this dining room. Tonight’s choice is storm-cloud gray, relaxed enough to keep him from overheating, cut close enough to show that despite his age, he’s in excellent physical shape. His crystal blue eyes narrow on the seam below my bust, and his gray, hairless head folds into disapproving creases. I smile, knowing he’ll spend the next hour pissed off. I’ll pay for this later, I know, but still. Small victories.
“Here we are, gents.” CJ’s smooth baritone careens around the corner, and my shoulders tighten as he steps into view. He’s impeccably dressed, with an ocean-blue linen shirt that matches his eyes tucked neatly into tan linen slacks that fit perfectly through the hips and hang loose for cool comfort through the legs. My stomach clenches. Others find him attractive, but I can barely look at him. Dropping my gaze would be too noticeable, so I continue my practiced assessment, looking anywhere but at his face. His tan Swendish shoes are freshly shined, without a hint of dirt or mud to mar the perfect laces. His straw-blond hair is combed and slicked in place, and he smirks at me as two men, sweating through dark suits that are too heavy and all wrong for this climate, follow him into the room.
“Nice to see you again, my friends,” Conrad says, his smile all warmth and schmooze. He shakes hands with the men and nods toward the table as CJ approaches us with lazy arrogance. My back goes rigid. My neck tightens as he places a proprietary hand on the small of my back and pushes me toward the table, gesturing for Neve and Carla to go first. He talks and makes jokes with the other men, but I am hyper focused on his proximity. I can’t concentrate. Fortunately, it’s clear they’re here for their candidate, and my silence seems acceptable.
“Why don’t you drink your wine?” CJ says under his breath as he pushes me into my seat a little too hard. My body tingles, knowing the wine is unsafe, and I shake my head.
“No, not tonight,” I reply.
“Nice mouth,” he says, just as low, pulling his chair into the table as he takes his own seat—right next to mine. Always next to mine. I press my lips together and try to surreptitiously lick off the lipstick. He chuckles at something someone else says and places his hand on my thigh. I shift away, but he pulls me back, shoves his fingers down, forcing the fabric between my legs. My cheeks burn with the promise to do something mean later, when the inevitable happens. But for now, I bite the side of my tongue and do my best to keep the fear from showing on my face. It’s just my leg. I am not my leg.
“It’s a really lovely blend. Try a sip,” he says, his fingers digging into my flesh. I inhale sharply, gagging on his cocoa butter and tobacco scent.
“If the girl’s not thirsty, leave her be!” one of the men says with a loud guffaw. His interjection startles me and CJ both, enough that CJ lets go. I’m sure introductions were made, but I have no memory of who this person is. I tell my lips to smile gratefully, like I’m supposed to.
“It’s so warm tonight,” I say as demurely as I can fathom. “Water sounds so much more refreshing.”
“Indeed it does, doesn’t it?” the man says, using his napkin to blot sweat from his forehead. His partner nods.
“Well then, it’s settled! Ice water all around!” Conrad says, though not without shooting me a vicious glance. Wine is almost certainly better for procuring promises from bureaucrats. Carla looks disappointed, but the beverages are swapped and the thirsty politicians demand a toast. Without betraying his annoyance to our guests, Conrad stands, raising his water glass.
“Five years ago, we welcomed these young ladies to Gaardington. They were all knees and elbows, but with heaps of potential among them. I could see it, and cultivated it into the lovely young women seated here tonight.”
“You do have that gift, Conrad,” the shorter of the bureaucrats interrupts. Our benefactor flashes a devil’s smile, and I chew on my tongue, keeping my expression neutral.
“They arrived wide-eyed, surely overwhelmed by the old-world elegance of life at the Laarsworth estate. Coming from where they did, from such modest backgrounds, they could have had no idea what they were in for.” He’s not entirely wrong. It was hard not to be enchanted by the peninsula, with its acres of citrus groves, the gnarly old trees dripping with garlands of moss, and the warm afternoon trade winds that seemed to promise adventure.
“Of course, not everyone can be nominated, and we knew fairly quick who of these ladies would be most likely to achieve that honor.” At this, Neve freezes. It wasn’t always Neve. We were all dirt poor, but Tatiana looked like the long-lost princess of some ancient kingdom. The rest of us were put to work. Carla and Neve fought over the house chores, but I was happy to be outside, to spend my days moving to and from the ports, breathing in the mysterious possibility of the sea breeze. Neve wasn’t Conrad’s chosen until four months ago, when Tatiana’s tummy outgrew her gowns. But the visiting men wouldn’t know that. They’d assume this speech is about Neve.
“There is much courage in applying,” the taller bureaucrat says, dabbing a cocktail napkin against the sweat beading along his upper lip.
“Agreed,” says the other. “Not everyone can be chosen, after all. It’s brave of you to apply, knowing the unfortunate fate of the alternative.” Again, Neve’s expression grows stony. The nominated girls who aren’t chosen find it difficult to be placed. Rejection by the National Women’s Institute is seen as an official stamp of “not good enough.” It’s brutally unfair. There are only eighteen spots, and many times that number of applicants. Yet the admissions committee does nothing to dissuade this belief. They’re content to cast the leftovers aside, forgotten and branded forever as not worthwhile. Not special. Unchosen.
Why else would these men be here, though, if not to escort Neve for her selection? I give her a small, reassuring smile, and her shoulders soften.
“And yet,” Conrad says, his own smile tight as he surveys the table, “here we are. This is a cause for celebration. Here’s to a tremendous investment paying off, and all the potential it may bring.”
“Hear, hear!” The shorter of the two politicos clinks his glass with mine, and then Neve’s. It’s an odd toast, not really made for Neve, but then, nothing Conrad does is ever just for us.
Dinner is served after that, and I choke down fish roasted in orange sauce with a side of oily zucchini, unable to enjoy it. CJ’s advances grow bolder as the meal goes on. When dinner’s over, Conrad announces that we’ll listen to the official radio broadcast in the parlor. Everyone rises. I go to do the same, but CJ presses his hand against my thigh, holding me down until it’s just us.
“Why such hurry?” He leans his face into my neck as he stands, sliding his fingers up the length of my arm. The smell of him is overwhelming, whiskey adding to the cloying cocoa butter. I close my eyes as he inhales against my neck. “Everything changes after this little announcement, and I’m far from done with you.”
I refuse to look at him. He yanks my chair out and I thump awkwardly to my feet, falling forward, my hands catching against the table in a far too familiar position. He lets out a low, mean, grumbling chuckle. I feel him standing behind me, feel the heat of his legs against mine as he places his hands on my hips, digging his fingers into the sore flesh on my right side. I wince, and can practically hear the territorial grin that spreads across his face. I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, recite the words I’ve memorized in my head: I am not who he wants me to be. I am me, and he cannot have me. I want nothing more than to spin around and slug him, break his nose or his teeth or anything that will leave his face as bloody and bruised as he makes me feel. But then I’d have to explain what I did to encourage this behavior. So I ignore it and focus on the floor instead.
“I think you’ll be very interested to hear the list of nominees,” he says. My heart surges, and I swallow around a hard lump.
“What did you do?”
“It’s a surprise.” My stomach drops as I understand. In that instant, I know what he’s done.
“You nominated me?”
“Yeah! Can you imagine?” He snort-laughs, his mouth twisted with a lascivious grin as he leans in, his breath mixing with mine. “From now on, everyone will know what kind of girl you really are. I’ll have to take pity on you. You’ll be my charity case.” He tugs at a curl on my shoulder and winds it around his finger, pulling a little too hard.
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
“Because I can,” he says. His words drip down the back of my neck like slime. Like I could suffocate under the weight of them. Then he moves the curl and kisses the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. Because he can.