A True Southern Belle

  Her face was serene, sweet, round, and showed the quiet enthusiasm that was proper for a Southern Lady who had found a topic that interested her.   But he needed only to look deeply into her eyes to see the truth - they were the doors to her mind. He knew she was not interested in Mrs. Winter's boring speeches about ancestor's portraits that were hanging on the wall, or the descriptions of the house's space. She was enraptured. She clung to every word. Jason knew this because he knew the reasons behind it, and the look on her face said she processed everything. In Bella's mind, Mrs. Winter was a great woman. A Southern Lady of The Highest Class, and Bella wanted to be just like her, as she had wanted to be like her own mother - terrible as that woman was - and her friends. She wanted to have the kind of class  and mannerisms women like them had, the grace, the respect, the elegance and the perfection. 

   Bella wasn't interested in histories and subtle brags. She was interested in taking notes on Mrs. Winter's behavior, words, and actions. He smiled to himself. This was typical of Bella. She observed everything she could. 

   Mrs. Winter arrived at another room that, to Jason, was just one more room in a houseful. Only when Mrs. Winter opened the door, paled, and had to close her mouth, did the room call forth his attention.

  It was an ordinary room at first glance, Jason saw as he lingered and reopened the door. However, like many first glances, this one was deceitful. In the corner of the room, a few inches of pink fabric - the hem of a horrendously pink dress - and a very bare ankle peeked out from behind a closet. 

  Mrs. Winter and Bella went on, unaware that Jason was no longer with them.

  After a moment, the girl started backing out of the closet on her hands and knees. There was a large spot of ink of her skirt, and several smaller blots on her hands. She was oddly tan for a girl. Brilliant red hair, so red it could have passed for having been dyed, had fallen across her face, and she did not see him because of it. The strange girl latched onto a table and began to pull herself up. Jason laughed at this, making his presence known. He had thought her quite pretty... until she looked at him. 

  She did nothing to mask her irritation and did not bother to hide her discontent, and her eyes, a bright blue, burned into him as he met her gaze. 

  "It's not polite to laugh at people. Especially not ladies," she said in a high, confident tone. Her youthful face had the look of a humored child who had been teased by someone below them. 

"A lady? Is that what you call yourself, or is there someone else here? I didn't see a lady when I laughed." That got her, he was pleased to see. 

   Her face grew stormy, but then quickly it cleared, along with her frowning mouth, which he knew she was fighting to keep closed. "On the contrary," said the little spitfire. "I consider myself as much of a lady as I do you a gentleman." 

  She smiled sweetly, her face innocent as she swept passed him into the hall. She continued to walk as she spoke in a sugary, light voice. "Which is to say, not at all."

   Charlie was fuming. It was one thing for her mother and sisters to tell her she wasn't a lady but what right did that rude, callous man have? He was a stranger and had presumed to know her, to be a judge of her character before she had even seen him. Normally, or so she thought, this kind of encounter would be one that she could disregard. But there was an air of impertinence and arrogance about this fellow which really got on her nerves without reason. Men and women who pointed out her shortcomings always hinted politely, but this man - he didn't! There was nothing polite about him. Thank goodness Charlie had had the last laugh. That was compensation. However, If she were to be honest, she would rather not have needed to be compensated.