The Depths Of Love

The Mornings Of Indisputable Certainty

It was a cold morning, one that had Mrs Lovelace holding back the bitterness she found upon her tongue. She smiled at her husband, an occurrence becoming seemingly less rare in her old age, time weathering out her pride and cynicism. He looked back at her, his eyes softening in the same way they did on their wedding day, their love for each other seemed infinite in moments like these. 

Mr Lovelace continued dressing himself in silence, the lady of the house spending another contemplative moment in bed. Once again they both fell into the rhythm that had followed the two in their many years together. 

"My love," It was always Mr Lovelace who spoke first, usually with a term of endearment. His statement was a predecessor to a question, normally trivial or rhetorical. In true fashion of this morning ritual, he continued.

"Do you think the girls are up?" This question fell under the rhetorical category, Mrs Lovelace needn't answer, for the girls had a strict morning schedule that each adhered to like law. 

Georgina and Catherine would rise mere seconds after each other, at almost precisely seven o'clock. They would then, as the youngest two,  proceed to play and giggle amongst themselves in such a silly manner that it would wake Jane. Jane was the second eldest and  most sensible of the girls, she was also, much to her chagrin, the lightest sleeper. 

At nine, Frankie would rise from what she termed 'the grave', and, almost in challenge to Jane's disgruntled appearance, would whinge and complain about anything she could (usually about how bright the sun was, or how loud the birds were) until Susan came to consciousness, at ten. Then the two would gossip about boys and fashion for the remainder of the day.

Soon after, at ten thirty, Eliza would awake, Beatrice following quickly after. Together, they would then work on calming down the mass hysteria that had developed between the others in the early morning.

Finally, from anywhere around twelve a.m to one p.m, Grace would stumble from her bed-chambers and tiredly begin her day. 

Such were the workings of the Lovelace Household.

Mrs Lovelace mused these things as she watched her husband get ready from the comfort of her own bed. Like most of her daughters, she despised leaving the warmth of her duvet to meet the challenges of the day. Her husband, Charles, was the early riser. 

He found joy in the terrible squawk of London birds, and serenity in the glow of the sun rise. When she first met him, she had thought he was a fool to spend so much effort to see the same phenomenon every day. And yet, every time she asked, he would tell her "It is not its spontaneity that amazes me. What I find extraordinary is the fact that every time I lay eyes on it, it is just as, if not more beautiful than the last time." It was not until his affections, and his eye for beauty, was turned on her, that at last she understood.

Charles was ultimately a man of maths. He knew stats and figures, and rated beauty as such, as if it were quantitative. Only did this change when he met Mary Goldstein (soon to be Mary Lovelace), who did not follow the limitations that bounded his beauty rating system. She was infinitely beautiful, as she was intelligent, as she was agreeable. Charles fell in love instantly, although Mary needed quite some persuasion. 

They met at a dance, their fathers introducing them with the intentions of their marriage. Charles was as gentlemanly as he could muster while Mary held an icy disposition (she had no intention of being wed no matter how much her father wished it). Although after initial greetings, they danced together more than any other couple that night. And, once they had finally spoken more words than elaborate hellos, they were inseparable. Matching wits and intelligences at every front. It was no wonder why they were married that summer.

Mrs Lovelace chuckled inwardly at the memory, she was so headstrong back then. Years of love and joy had finally mellowed her out of her stubborn thinking, and she would have it no other way. She could say, with honesty, that now, living her husband and her eight children, she was truly happy. 

With that thought in mind, she made the slow trek from the warm comfort of her bed to the cruel coldness of the outside world. She called for a maid as she began dressing for the day ahead.