Ladies and Savages

 You've made a mockery of the northern coast, too, haven't you? You couldn't let nature be, you had to bastardize it in your over-the-top glitz and glamour. And of course I would attend your soiree. I was in need of a good laugh.

This territory, bland in weather and endless in forest, was remote even for you. The carriage ride was grueling, stomach-turning, a supreme punishment to my hinny, and had frayed my nerves to the point of me condescending to the one righteous God. The gray mist yawned on. We thumped over what must be animal corpses and into ruts the likes of subterranean chasms. How many ladies would endure such travel to make a presence? None with any self-respect.

A shadow lingers below the frays of a hefty fir and I think I see an Indian, armed and crouching, but perhaps it is an effect of the tonics my doctor prescribed—the one for ladies of a certain malleable mental nature. I shan't be afraid, not of the crude remainders of this land or of my own rocky, feminine tendencies. None so daring have dwelled in my mind to know its darkness better than myself. Not even you, with your invasive ways. The bland terrain rumbles on and I subdue a cough.

Vexed as I am, you draw a sigh from my breast when we pull up in the round drive and you stand there in your fine suit, arms behind your back, a butler at your flank bearing a tray with a bottle of my favorite wine. I may forgive you momentarily for drawing me to this monstrosity on the bitter cold seashore, of which you now call home. Or I may draw guilt from you—utterly, my favorite past-time.

"Dear Octavia, sweet angelic lady of my dreams," you say as you help me out of the carriage.

"No need to flatter, Rupert darling; I am already here."

At this you grin wider than your face will allow. Those dimples, those crafty eyebrows, those fierce eyes as deep as the ocean. I had forgotten how much I missed your face. Both of us, twenty or more years older than we used to be, nonetheless flattering in any light. You lend me your hand for support off this rickety wagon and I keep it until you've led me inside that dark, ridiculous house of yours.

I accept the glass of wine from your butler. The thin stem is fragile and cold, whereas your hand is firm and warm.

"How was your journey?"

"Trying. I'll need a nap straight away."

"Yes, of course. Whatever you require, dear. The other guests won't be arriving until later. You see: I wanted you all to myself."

"I'm afraid I'm here for the party, darling, not you." I reclaim my hand and tuck a rogue curl behind my ear.

"Why else do you think I manipulated this gathering? You are the sole heiress to my heart." Your grin is back. I want to smack it off your face. You lean in and kiss my cheek. "Arthur will show you to your room."

The butler has already unloaded my luggage from the carriage, as quick as a whip, and he leads me to the second floor with a straight back and nimble feet.

"See to it that my driver is given dinner before he departs—it's been a harrowing affair," I say.

"Indeed, Miss."

"How do you stand it all the way out here? Mr. Peterson must pay you a pretty sum. He does pay you handsomely, doesn't he?"
"Indeed, Miss."

"You're a social island out here. One can go insane with only the sea in view and a forest barricading the rest of the world."

"Well, we have each other, Miss."

I'm not keen on his answer. "How does Mr. Peterson and the staff get along exactly?" I ask. This is one of those times when my father would chide me for sounding like my grandmother Abigail. She is distrusting of the core of humanity. My cynicism runs nearly as deep when it comes to you.