The House Guest (Unedited)

Chapter 1: Henry

My days with Lady Dorothea are as grey as the English sky. Each night seeps into morning, then into night again, until I cannot remember the date, or even the day of the week. Months become a year, and a year becomes three years. Each morning, Mrs. Potter marches into my bed chambers, her cheeks rosy and her smile bright. She pulls the blankets off my freezing feet, and then attempts to pry me from my mattress. It isn't very soft, but it's far more inviting than the cold, blank stares I receive from Susanna and Lady Dorothea.

The only good thing any day can offer me is Henry. We wander the hills around Lady Dorothea's estate together, and ride horses to the beach. We sneak pastry from the Chef when he isn't looking, and read aloud tantalizing adventure stories and from the gossip columns in the newspapers. He never ceases to make me laugh with his different imitations of accents and ridiculous characters, no matter how hard I try to resist. He knows how to intimidate the vicar's Liverpool accent, or mimic the pretentious way Lady Dorothea walks. He teases me at breakfast, to Lady Dorothea's distinct disapproval, and then forces me outside, to bear the cold in nothing but my worn day dress and stockings.

"Why must you always bring me to the garden?" I plead one morning, when all I want to do is read a book and rest in the kitchen, or perhaps dare a trip to the library. 

Henry's dark curls burnish with the sun, and takes a step towards me, angling his impish face to study my appearance. "You're as pale as a ghost -- with those freckles. You need to get some sun, or people will think that you're deathly ill."

I playfully sock my dear friend in the arm, an action which has become warm and familiar between us, almost as though we are truly kin. In truth, I do not think of him at all as a brother. The tender ache that stings when he is near is more reminiscent of romantic love. I try to banish the thought, squinting up at the sun that Henry believes I need more exposure to. 

"Let's go to the village," he says on an impulse, grabbing my arm, and prompting me to run down the fields with him. By now, I'm no longer out of breath, and can run beside him with significant ease.

The village overlooks a cliff, and is surrounded by a vast area of farmland, including Lady Dorothea's estate. The blue of the ocean sprawls below it, where Henry and I spend our time running and reading upon the banks when we are freed from our lessons. Once, we waded in together -- until the chilling water sent us shivering back to the estate. Henry swaddled me with one of his older riding coats so that Lady Dorothea wouldn't detect our mischief. I remember the feel of his hands on my shoulders as he assisted me in fastening it -- the curve of his lips as he fell silent. Was the look on his face one of admiration? 

My attention is pulled to the current when Henry strides ahead into the village Pub. I notice how tall he's become. His shoulders are sturdy, and he walks with confidence. At eighteen, three years older than me, he is well spoken, eloquent, and particularly charming. Every time we wander around together, I can't help but become slightly irritated by swarms of giggling school girls, gaping at how "handsome" he is. And, privately, I do agree. He has striking blue eyes and dark hair and a magnetic grin. 

Perhaps, in secret, I have also compared his looks to the charming men described in my romance novels and the stories I make up in my head. I never share these stories with Henry, of course. He would tease me relentlessly if he were to know.

"What are you doing, standing there in the cold?" Henry shouts, "Hurry up and come inside!"

Tentative, I adjust my wool shawl tighter around my shoulders, and follow him inside the Pub. Men with booming, loud voices curse and laugh in a chaotic burst of noise. Even Henry looks out of place, his well-kept garments and fashions earning annoyed looks from the working class regulars. He looks like a pruned peacock, and I have to stop myself from laughing.