Secrets Painted by Words

Back in Time

July 24th, 1939, Manchester, Vermont. POV of Beatrice Small

"How do you do, my dear?" Annalise took the lace parasol from my gloved hand. I stood in the foyer of the home of my dear brother, James Small and his wife Annalise.

"I am well, Annalise, how are you? Not too overwhelmed by this heat, I would hope?" I replied kindly. I have always been very fond of my sister in law, who is only a year my senior. My brother is three years elder, who I clung to as a child, but was devastated when he went to a boarding school when he turned sixteen. Now we live relatively close to each other, in the small hometown of our family. Our sister, Elizabeth, lives here with her family, as well as our parents, Sophia and Paul Small.

Annalise fetched us lemonade, and we went to the parlor to find James, sitting in an armchair, newspaper in lap and cigar in mouth, and one of their many corgis laying at his feet, exhausted from the July heat. Dark circles were drawn under his eyes, and his fine- chiseled face looked exhausted. He had copper colored hair, and grey eyes like a hurricane. He was rather handsome, but he had not seen a day in the fields. None of us have.

Our father, a successful lawyer, raised us more than comfortably. In our childhood, we giggled and played freely in the gardens of our home, went caroling in our ribboned cloaks and rosy cheeks through the streets of our little town during the Christmas season, and in the spring we watched with big eyes as gardeners hauled in loads of mulch for our spring flower beds. I was born at the start of the Great War, and was four when it ended, and so it left no significance on my childhood memories. I only remember toddling into the large parlor one evening, when Mother received the news of the end of the war, and that the troops would return home. She burst into tears of joy, hearing that her brothers, officers at the front, would return home safe.

The 1920's, however, proved significant. I saw the world change before me. Despite the small town I grew up in, new fashion and ideas would still flourish before my eyes. I saw the women strutting the streets in their new, perhaps revolutionary, fashions. My focus left my tutor, who lectured my sister and I five days a week, instead of us going to public school. I would instead doodle fashion ideas that I saw in the street, only to be berated by my strict tutor. He could be cruel on occasion.

Alas, it wouldn't only be from my window that I would see this new world. Trips into town on Sundays fascinated me, being able to see everyone in their daily activities. I could experience the world first hand. Mother, however, was not as interested in these new fashions as I was. She would scowl upon passing a flapper dancer, muttering that they would never find a suitable husband wearing "that." I never seemed to mind that the women may or may not find a husband. I surely didn't care to think of marriage. My sister, Elizabeth, however, followed Mother's example to a tee. She intended to become a nice little wife, marrying rich like Mother had, and hosting afternoon tea parties and attending dinner parties. Marrying didn't cross my mind, but becoming an adult with my own home and friends did. I would host gay parties like Mother, but I didn't need a husband to do so, right?

I grew into a teenager in the twenties, and that was how my desires to become a fashion designer were shaped. I figured I could create revolutionary styles, too, maybe even ones Mother would scowl at. I am the youngest child, therefore, the rebel. My notebooks were filled with messy sketches, and my journals with my dreams.

Now, back to the present. "Hello, Beatrice." James looked up from his paper as I entered. The hot sun filled the windows of the parlor, glowing the glass pitcher of lemonade and threatening to cause the upholstered sofas to fade of their vibrant design. "Good afternoon, James. Do you feel well? You look ill." my voice was filled with concern.