Green Eyes

1

Freida Swancourt was an emotional girl, quick to anger, quick to sadness, quick to whatever it was. her emotions- they were always right there under the surface, waiting to bubble up and overflow. Strangely, not many people knew this about her, only those who had known her for years. And those that did, knew that she had had quite a history. Yes, the events that made up her life's journey alone were not of any particular interest, but it was the fact that all of them had happened to her that made it strange.

Speaking to her didn't reveal any of this. And when you did speak to her, you didn't really even look at her. How weird is it to speak to someone and not really look at them. It was unusual, but somehow that happened when you did.

And it happened not because what she was saying was of such great interest, or meaning, or of consequence, it was the opposite, that what she said was so attractively crude that it distracted from everything  else about her. How did that even make sense.

Or maybe it was because of her eyes. That was what you did notice about her. Her eyes. Those emotions under the surface? They were all there in her eyes, her whole life was in her eyes, everything she had done and seen and been and thought was there for the reading. They were a golden hazel. Is that right? Or green. Green-grey. Like the North Sea, or a late autumn's morning distant forest fog. Like when you look up the distance on an overcast day, and you see layers of hills or trees that look grey. A dark,complicated green-grey that went into the distance, that had no foreseeable end, no defined beginning. You didn't look at her eyes, you looked into them.
And if you weren't look into her eyes, then you might not even notice her. She wasn't particularly outgoing, she didn't draw attention, she didn't command a room, rather she could come and go unnoticed, as a cat goes in and out of her house throughout the day and night.
Unless you knew her. Then you saw something else. Pensiveness. There was this look she had. one that suggested she was in deep thought, like the Mona Lisa has, but without the smile. The warmth and spirited mischievousness of it. A look that looked like all the old master paintings of women. The mortal and immortal ones. The women that weren't beauties, but looked like the most beautiful woman, and one whose thoughts were too deep to comprehend.   That was what she looked like sometimes.

Frieda was an interesting one, an odd one. At fifteen years old she had never had a boyfriend, and socially, she was probably more like a twelve year old. A bit immature. It all started on one winter afternoon at a party her father was throwing. Well, more like a gathering. Like a teatime gathering. And a young man showed up, one she had never seen before. He came into the salon and she stared at him intently, with that pensive look on her face, wondering why she hadn't seen him before.
Her father was upstairs in his room, not feeling well, but had decided to continue with the tea nonetheless, having left Frieda to supervise the preparation for the event. But the servants were all taking care of it now and there was nothing for her to do, so she had left the room a few times, and had gone up the grand staircase to her father's wing, and knocked on his bedroom door.
'Come in!' Despite not feeling well, a hearty voice from the inside was heard.
'Papa,' she addressed the handsome man, but red-faced man of forty, who lay on the bed wrapped in a dressing-gown, and every now and then sighing with frustration from being unwell; 'papa, will you not come downstairs this evening?' She spoke distinctly: since he had a pillow over his head.
'Afraid not Free! My head is pounding. Even the light is making it hurt. I'll definitely take a pass on that."
'Then I hope this London man won't come; for I don't know what I should do, papa.'
'Well, it would be awkward, certainly.'
'He probably won't come today anyway,"
'Why not?"
'Cause it's cold!"
'Cold? Why would the cold stop him? Just send him up when he gets here please. And make sure dinner is ready for him, He's staying the night too- did you make sure the guest wing is ready? I wish I didn't have this headache. So annoying."
"Yes it's ready. Do I really need to have dinner with him?"
'Of course you do. Manners Free. But he'll be tired probably, so it won't be too long,"
'Maybe he can just eat in his room?"
"Absolutely not."
"Well it doesn't have to be a five course meal though does it? We have some chicken and meat pie, that kind of thing would be ok, right?"
"Sure,"
"But I won't pour his drinks for him."
'Of course you will. With mom gone you are the mistress of the house.'
'Papa come on, I have to sit there the whole time, with a stranger, and pour his drinks Without having been properly introduced?"
"You are making a big deal of nothing.,he's travelled a long way, he'll be hungry, and tired, you pour the first drink for him, and he'll eat, and then he'll go to bed. He'll probably be too tired to talk anyway, but you must show him common courtesy, ok? Have you been reading something that's been giving you all these weird ideas?" 
"Papa no. It's just that you're normally the one to take care of all it. I'm just anxious. You know how I get with meeting new people. And I don't want me doing something wrong affecting your business with him, you know?"
"Just don't worry about it, and if he does, then it does. It's no big deal either way."
'Is he Mr. Newby's partner?'
'Maybe,"
"You know how old he is?"
"No idea."
'Go read the email I sent to Newstead. His reply too., then you'll know everything I know about him,"
'I have read them.'
'Then why the questions? Oooh, no don't!"
"Sorry papa, I forgot. I thought you might be cold." She said, taking away the cover she had put over him, and when she saw that he was fine, she left, returning downstairs.