𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Anticlockwise

I didn't read a poem the next morning.

I contemplated doing so, staring at the book, which I now realise had once been a notebook, his notebook. It lay closed, cover side up on top of my bed, which I'd stripped down earlier that morning. My sheets and mismatched quilt sat neatly folded to the side, as if new, untouched.

A suitcase tugged on my arm, my hand wrapped around it's handle as it pulled down my shoulder, leather brushing up against my skirts. It was heavy, filled with everything I felt I needed, which was really just everything I had. Well, everything apart from the book.

I watched it as if expecting something, waiting for it to move or open up on its own; some sign or other. Would I miss it? Would it be of use to me there? Would it... miss me? What?

I ended up taking it with me.

I wouldn't have been able to tell you why, I didn't really know why myself. But I wasn't leaving with the intention of forgetting him. I just needed to see something else for once; something new, different.

When I said goodbye to mum, it was clear she was struggling to keep herself together. She made it clear she would miss me, but also let me know that a part of her was proud; I guess she'd never gone off anywhere alone. It had never occurred to me before, that she might have wanted something other than the life she had.

I knew she loved me, I'd never doubted that, but that doesn't mean she didn't have dreams; dreams that she'd never had the chance to accomplish. After that, it felt like I was leaving for more than just myself, that maybe this was her chance to live vicariously through my actions. There was no going back now.

However, she didn't miss the opportunity to tell me I was stupid for refusing the proposal. She hugged me, whispered in my ear, 'You're a complete idiot Florence', but in an endearing sort of way. As we pulled apart, she sighed, holding onto the side of my face for a moment before ushering me towards the cart.

As always, Mr Warren looked as professional as ever dressed smartly in his butler's uniform. I suppose he knew why I was leaving, Tewkesbury would have had to explain it to him in order to approve my leave. He wasn't there that morning, we'd said our goodbyes on the field. I wasn't expecting him; I told him not to come, that it would be best if he didn't.

Had it been the wrong thing to say? I replayed the conversation in my mind, running over each of my words, deciding which ones could have been better, rewriting it as if it were a letter and not something that had already happened. Had I made the wrong decision? In that moment, would I have wanted him to be there, even if it was to say goodbye?

Mr Warren stuck his hand out for me to shake, so I did. His grip was firm and proper as he led the action. Only, he didn't let go afterwards, instead turning my hand over, and reaching behind him. He pulled out an envelope and placed it in my hand before straightening himself out and resuming his professional manner.

I looked down at my hand. The broken wax seal, the scuffed, dented corners. It displayed no stamp, no address; only a sender, its author, and the intended recipient. I took in his signature like air, gasping for it as if I were drowning, the traces of ink, words he'd written; my fathers handwriting.

My eyes lifted to Mr Warren's, confused as to why I was holding what I was holding. He raised his eyebrows slightly, before lowering them again, into an expression that implied that I already knew the answer. And I remember feeling as though what I was doing was wrong.

My name was not on this envelope, its contents were not addressed to me, It had not been given to me under the right circumstances. And I wasn't the first one to read it, because it was never meant for me to read.