A Pearl for My Mistress. Annabel Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ course, Hester understood that there were no proud Moors to be found in her family tree (if someone eccentric enough even took the pains to compose it). There were no memories of fragrant lands, no gleaming jewels sewn into the clothes of a refugee. No flaming speeches denouncing Spanish invaders, no swashbuckling flights through the night.

      More likely than not, there was a simple story lost in the last century, a story too ordinary to be remembered. A brief, uninteresting story about a black sailor on his leave in the Victorian port and a white seamstress dying of boredom and drudgery.

      Hester knew it. Hester understood it.

      Hester didn’t want to believe it.

Chapter Five

      The pearls slid between her fingers, catching the flare of light. Polished and white to the point of translucency, but slightly uneven, just like real pearls should be.

      Lucy never failed to be mesmerized by their beauty, the smoothness, the delicacy. And, of course, by the stories behind them.

      They used to embody her dreams of adulthood. She had seen them for the first time (or, to be precise, she was shown them for the first time) that memorable evening years ago. She managed to get the rules right then; to guess and perform everything that was expected of her, to smile at the right moments and say something that would please everyone. For that, she had been rewarded.

      You are such a sweet child, they said; you can behave so well, when you only try!

      Oh, she tried. Being quiet, decorous, and speaking only when spoken to; Lucy tried her best to remake this burden into a weapon. People conversing around her forgot quickly about a ghostly child lingering nearby. But the ghostly child never forgot; the ghostly child was catching every word. She learnt quickly enough to discern the resentments and desires, and then to avoid the former and cater to the latter. She had to.

      You will wear this necklace when you grow older, they said; it’s a family heirloom. You will wear it at your first Season, when you will be presented at Court and stand before Their Majesties. You will have grown into a beautiful young woman by then! And, if you continue behaving well, everything will be splendid. You will have a golden life ahead of you.

      She smiled at these predictions, knowing that it would make her cheeks glow with a maidenly blush, and that the adults would find it to be heart-meltingly touching.

      The idyll of that evening didn’t last, of course. Soon, the rules of the game changed once more, and again Lucy found herself at a loss, unaware, what might provoke the next scandal. These rules changed quite often, actually. She felt herself like a wanderer lost in the marshes, unsure which path to take, and whether there was a safe path at all.

      Several more years passed before Lucy grew exhausted, before she understood that she would never win this game. She was never meant to win it; it wasn’t constructed that way.

      The dreams acquired a desperate edge, now mixed with the yearnings for escape. But the pearls – the pearls remained.

      Oh, she wore them on her neck later. She wore them during her presentation at Court, when she stood in the queue with the other anxious debutantes.

      Lucy looked well enough that night, as she reflected afterwards; but the moment passed, and she curtseyed with her eyes downcast, and Her Majesty nodded, and life went on.

      She wore the necklace later, during the stifling debutante balls. She sat on her gilded chair, upright and nervous, her mother standing behind and watching her closely.

      The understanding mothers of coming-out ladies always organized such dances jointly. It never came cheap, they said. Have you heard how much hiring a band costs? The flowers? And say nothing of the snacks. To own a great townhouse was now beyond even the dreams of most, let alone the means. Therefore, we will need to come together, to divide the costs, to find a good hotel ballroom …

      These are difficult times, darling. Surely we must help each other; how else will our daughters marry?

      The heat during these events was suffocating, the etiquette even more so. But the cold, ancient pearls rested somehow reassuringly against her neck.

      After all, they held her other dreams, too.

      In her adolescence, Lucy used to be mesmerized by the dreams of this elegant future. But, to an even greater extent, she was transfixed by the thoughts of the murky past that the pearls came from. She never asked her mother about their origins directly: partly out of her usual wariness, partly out of fear that the blunt truth might shatter her stories.

      And these stories seemed to swirl around her pearls, like moths swirl around a source of light. Maybe – small, fanciful Lucy wondered – her ancestress was a selkie, a sidhe, an elf? Maybe she brought these gleaming pearls as a keepsake from her native land? She abandoned them after falling in love with a mortal – Lucy’s ancestor who was a knight.

      Maybe – older, worldlier Lucy pondered – her ancestress was a royal favourite, who received this necklace as a high gift? She took it with her after abandoning the court for the seclusion of Hebden Hall due to some magnificent scandal …

      These stories whirled, and tangled, and intertwined with one another. They simply refused to lie still. They buzzed in Lucy’s head, like a swarm of bees. They ignited her blood and pricked her skin, urging her to write them down.

      The pearls slid across her palm now, their sublime beauty a sharp contrast with the ugliness of the scar.

      … Her mother never shouted. She was, in fact, extremely patient. She often sacrificed hours to sit by Lucy’s side after some lapse, and explain in her gentle, tired voice, how worried she was to have such a daughter. How sad that Lucy would never be received in any good houses. How heartbroken, that she would never inspire love in anyone, that her habits and outlook would earn her so many enemies, so much scorn.

      What, Lucy didn’t want to believe it? Oh, of course; she was so young, so foolish. But she had to understand that no one else would tell her these things, because no one else cared about her half as much as her mother did. No one but her mother cared about her at all, in fact. At best, they were just being polite – but she could not believe empty politeness, could she? She was not that foolish, after all.

      Her mother was patient, extremely patient. She could go on for hours, hours, hours. Her words filled Lucy’s head, like the thick, stifling fog of the old cities.

      At the end of such conversations, Lucy was left stiff and pale as ash, choking back tears. It was so strange; it felt as if she had been beaten black and blue, and yet there was not a single mark on her skin. She felt battered, almost dead, and the fact, that she was still breathing felt somehow unnatural.

      She desperately needed something else to fill her head with, some soothing alternative, some safe refuge, something.

      And so, she took cover under her stories, as if they were a makeshift tent in a violent storm.

      At the end of the day, it was these stories that opened the brilliant new perspectives for her. Perspectives that lay as far from the gilded ballrooms and borrowed fans as they did from the world of gargoyles and draughts.

      Lucy could still feel a dreamy smile on her lips when the door creaked behind her. These doors always creaked. On the one hand, it was irritating; on the other hand, though, it provided СКАЧАТЬ