Sweet Satisfaction - Four

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Four

A scream bounced off the walls and thundered in my ears. Groggily, I reached out for one of the plump yellow pillows, to put over my head, so I could muffle the sound.

An alarm buzzed inside me. I threw the heavy quilt off, reaching out for the cluttered bedside table as I stumbled in the half-light. My eyes swivelled around to Beatrice, who was pointing at me, mouth formed in an ‘o’ shape.

“Goodness, oh my, Elsie, you’ve been attacked!” Beatrice stammered. Attacked? I laughed to myself, thinking of Emma’s furious blow last night, giving the sleeping girl a quick glance with narrowed eyes. Wait… I ran urgently across the room, pouncing on the mirror. I stopped.

In shock, I traced the perfectly curved wound, which exposed my flesh. I winced as trickles of blood fell out the puckered skin that had not yet stretched back together.

Horror fizzled and crackled all over me. Shaky gasps came out of my mouth. The cut was like no other I had seen. It was small, but a treacherously deep gash as wide as my finger.

“We should alert Miss Rose,” Beatrice said finally. A sweet vengeance gleamed in my eyes; it was payback time for Emma. My face twisted into a devious grin. Alright, I had insulted her perhaps but Emma's reaction had seemed extreme and it had left extreme results. What had been in her hand which could cause so much damage?  Beatrice threw me my lilac rosebud dressing gown and I put my slippers on the wrong feet in my haste.

Rose’s bedroom was empty, so we thundered down the stairs.

“She won’t believe you,” Emma called, dangling over the banister. She tapped at it with a hand embellished with a single, piercing ring with a shining look of malice about her eyes.

"I thought she was asleep!" Beatrice muttered.

Controlling flames of frustration, I ran into the drawing room where Rose’s unusual music blared from her Edison cylinder phonograph, which had a gold-rimmed horn. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration as I took in the empty bottles on the mahogany table by the velvet settee. Dim lighting gave off a spiritual feeling.

“Rose,” I began hesitantly, stopping to pour confidence in my voice, “Emma slapped me.” I paused.

“Rose?” Her soft blue eyes bolted open, the piece of music trailing off. Anger took over her.

“How dare you accuse our guest like that!”

"Look what she did, Rose, look!" I cried, pointing. Rose looked up.

"Elsie, you're over-reacting, it's merely a scratch." 

But I heard no more, flying out the room, heels banging against the floorboards vehemently. My scarf fell like a limp butterfly, fluttering to the floor. Emma had my aunt wrapped round her little finger.

This statement was proved the next day when Aunt Rose took Emma out to buy her a new dress. We had both been invited to a soirée because the hostess shared Emma’s birthday. I thought bitterly of how the invitation ended:

This courtesy is also extended for the Kingston heiress, may she wish to attend.

Is that all anyone cared about me for? I wasn’t even named, just the ‘heiress’. There was sadness, mingled with annoyance inside me, to lash out.

“I want to go; I want to go to the fancy party!” Mary whined later on, admiring Emma’s curls, which admittedly went well with her pastel pink dress. Emma held the commanding look and posture of someone highly powerful, and it seemed to be only me that noticed the hunger in her eyes when she had unwrapped her presents earlier that day.

Goodness, that was painful watching her discover gold jewellery, fans, quills and fripperies all from Selfridges, the wondrous emporium on Oxford Street, and a watercolour painting of a sun from Mary. Painting was my dream. Why couldn’t Rose spend the money on the house instead of Emma, since it was going to be mine when she died anyway, I wondered sourly. Why did Emma deserve presents after what she had done to me, regardless of whether it was her birthday or not?

The night had come; it was time for the soirée. We reached the carriage. I turned round to Mary, as a growing feeling of warning and danger suddenly paralysed my body.

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