A Waste of Shame

One

The painted glass carafe sat on a marble dais in the center of the room. Its gaudy red design had caught the girl’s eye immediately. The light fell upon it just so, illuminating the ugly crimson and bronze pattern in an aura of unsightliness. It taunted her wherever she turned, beckoning like a wicked flame. None of the other patrons milling about the parlor even noticed the bizarre vase, which she took for further evidence of her odd infatuation with strange, old things.

            Around it were china tea cups and plates of crème tarts, bowls of fresh fruit and cob salads. She longed to go and have a closer look at the carafe, but she dared not lose her comfortable and rather unobtrusive position on the sofa. She had endured at least a hundred empty compliments and inquiries about her family and when the wedding would be to earn the seat, and she was not about to give it up again. Though, she admitted only to herself, she would sooner try to make her way outside onto the deck. Some fresh air would do her very good, and might ease some of her mounting nausea.

             The engagement reception had not been affected in the least by the disappearance of young Letha Irving. As the paper had it, she went missing last Thursday evening, and was presumed dead. Despite the local mourning procession, the engagement party was a masterstroke. The Falkners would no doubt be much beloved of the small town to offer the only cheer in such a dark time. Though, perhaps less beloved by poor Letha’s distraught parents. They had been the only ones to decline invitation.

            Though the strange disappearance of the girl cast a dark cloud over the town of Berington, Lusine could hardly think to mourn anything but her own boredom. She glanced toward the hearth across the room, weighing the chances of making a clean escape. Her fiancé still stood there, leaning against the mantle. It was quite a beautiful hearth, granite of the most queer teal and tawny colors, bordered with intricate scrollwork that looked like falcons twining up and down the sides. The sigil of house Falkner, she recalled. Not for the first time did Lusine feel out of place among the Falkners and their high society friends.

            The spacious room was crowded with women in full skirts of sumptuous silk, buttoned up to the collar. Their heels clacked crisply against the veiny white marble floor as they meandered from group to group on the arm of their husband, observing the appropriate pleasantries. It struck Lusine all at once that this was her future, the stiffly poised and demure wife who hangs on her husband’s every word. A life locked up in this wretched corset, shaping and defining her until she was no longer herself, but her husband’s perfect lady wife.

            Her hands, gloved in fine white silk, fidgeted restlessly in her lap, smoothing her skirts, folding and unfolding the lavender handkerchief she clutched. No fewer than two hundred family, friends, and neighbors arrived at the Falkner estate to shower gifts and good tidings upon the young bride-to-be and her esteemed fiancé. Lords and ladies, governors from neighboring regions, and the noblemen of Berington had assembled in the parlor, and there were at least another hundred commoners outside. It did nothing but heighten her anxiety. So far she had not needed to use the lavender handkerchief. She had told herself that she would be strong, to save her tears for when they really mattered. Yet the humidity of the day boiled the guests in one immense stew, and the young bride found it hard to catch her breath.

            It was mid August, and Berington, their east coast town, was untenably hot, despite its distinct location between the sea and the lake. The only thing to do in the summer months was bathe in the warm water and attend auctions. Or, in Lusine’s case, bore yourself half to death at your own engagement reception. The only thing worse than the stifling heat was wearing the three layers of traditional engagement garments she was required, as the fiancée of the Governor’s son, to wear.