No time hath she to sport and play:
A charmed web she weaves alway.
A curse is on her, if she stay
Her weaving, either night or day,
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be;
Therefore she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
– Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott
I’m always fond of the autumn season; the vibrant oranges and browns always had a place in my paintings. For somewhere as dull as Surrey, the fall really brings out its hidden charm. Mother used to paint every chance she could get before she got sick. Though, things were different back then, including my father. Mother described him in his youth as “charming,” and a musician, believe it or not. The day they first met he played the lute for her. However, that same day he got so drunk he accidentally dropped it in the river. They were never able to find it after that. It is strange looking into their past, considering love marriage doesn’t really exist. So, in that sense they were somewhat an exception. It’s complicated though. Her death changed him for the worse; soured him.
He’s gone more often nowadays, managing his railroad company in places across Europe. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him near an instrument after Mother died. When he is here, he talks about things like busting unions or conversing with old friends who, I suppose, work in the same business. These are inevitably the kinds of men he tries to introduce me to at the parties, where my attendance is non-negotiable. Things were far simpler back then. Persephone and I used to sneak out when we were children we’d steal apples from the orchard. She was the bright side of the most dismal days. They never suspected it was us, anyway, given who our fathers were. However, they’d always say Persephone was a bad influence on me. I suppose we haven’t really changed that much, we’re practically inseparable. Getting up to more antics that would always end in a scolding from our fathers about how we’re “un-lady-like.” I didn’t take it personally since I never found my father’s lifestyle to be that appealing anyway. The decadent lives of Surrey’s aristocracy, in contrast to what I find to be captivating; the things that are real. Much of the reason why I spend so much time behind a canvas, instead of a tightly wound corset.
A knock on the door to my room breaks the silence of the serene atmosphere, reeling me back to the present. Manfred slips open the door, “Miss Beverley, your father has instructed that you prepare for this evening’s event at Sir Devereux’s estate.” Nineteen autumns, and this will be the one that is spoiled by my father’s own antics. It’s not like I can really say no, even what I wear is decided by him. Our butler, Manfred, is not even Manfred. His name is Rhys, but my father abhorred his Welsh name and assigned him something that sounds more posh. He was always a purist. Despised the people of many countries like Wales, and Scotland. But not nearly as much as he hated the Irish. He calls them dirty and cut from a different cloth than those of Britain. Saying the Norman invasion of Ireland was justified, and that they’re lesser than the common man.
I walk downstairs to see my father in his office before we went out, he was polishing his gun; that old relic. He said it was a gift from his father. I’ve only seen him use it once when somebody tried to break into our home many years ago. The thunderous sound of it scared me half to death. He placed the gun back in his desk and locked it. “You look lovely.” He says as he buttons his jacket. “Manfred will arrange our transportation.”
On the other hand, maybe it won’t be as insufferable as I thought. Persephone’s parents drag her to the same events in Surrey. Our fathers are delightfully agreeable, so there are plenty of opportunities to talk with her. For an event that’s often dull, I suppose this will be my rare occurrence of excitement around here. The house used to be more alive when Mother was still here, since then it feels hollowed out in her absence. The sounds of her baking and pruning were replaced with echoes of the wind chimes, and of father when he was cross about whatever usually lights his fuse. Like when Manfred accidentally knocked over a vase. Father made ruckus so loud it could scare all the warbling magpies in Surrey away.
Father rejected my dreams of wanting to study somewhere outside of Surrey, so I was forced to imagine another world outside of my current one. Perhaps the falling leaves of 1905’s autumn season will bring forth a change of heart this time around. Bring back that charming musician that has been jailed by this vicious aristocrat that has taken his place. Or perhaps not, my father is quite a stubborn man. Very few things can sway his convictions.
Parties are the worst, getting all powdered and perfumed for hours of endless talking and being expected by Father to perform to his satisfaction. I’m indistinguishable from a family heirloom at these events, something that is talked about and admired. It isn’t uncommon for women of my social status. It usually follows along the lines of a quick marriage to any takers as soon as one becomes of age. To be an extension of how great my father is to be my fate.
I feel like I could barely breath with this corset on, like my inside are being squished out through my nose. But my father insisted on me wearing it, said it was more lady-like. This time, he insisted we take the motor carriage there; they were slowly becoming more common in Surrey. The trip there was the usual silence, later filled with my father’s occasional curiosities. Manfred bore the burden of driving, so my father had plenty of opportunities to try his hand at making me more sociable, as he likes to call it. Just the common line of conversation, ranging from talking about the business partners that will be attending, or how much of a gentleman their son is. On the contrary, Persephone always has something going on in her life. Her parents, the Ashworth family, own a garment business in both London and Liverpool. So as expected, they typically travel there and back. Persephone is in line to take on the business.
She talks about how different London is from Surrey, the rural backdrop replaced with the bustling crowds. The height of modern civilization, as she describes it. I wouldn’t mind the noise if it weren’t boring. I want to go to Oxford, and make a living out of painting. It certainly sounds more interesting than being a trophy wife. It was certainly more dignified than Manfred’s position. I just can’t stand the dullness of Surrey; I’m of the age where home no longer feels endearing like it was as a child. All has been seen, and there are no mysteries that elude me. Persephone and I are the adventurous types, sticking our noses in places where they weren’t allowed. Such as finding out about Queen Victoria’s death before our fathers told us. Only because we managed to sneak out of bible study. I could only imagine what we could do in London, had destiny favored me. All likelihood, I was expecting to be married to somebody boring just like my father. The adventurous and artistic part of me carved out in favor of a husband’s heir. That’s about all my father expects of me.
Logan Edwards is a fiction writer of Texas origin, currently studying, as a second year DePaul Student, in English Literature.