Louisa

August 2^nd, 1929

I can feel a bead of sweat rolling down my back, beside my spine. It jolts a little further down with each step I take across this sprawling lawn. It is unbearably hot.

My name is Louisa. I am 21 years old. I live in a beautiful home with my mother, my uncle, and my cousin Edna. My father is dead. My mother is very ill. My uncle is seldom here, but his daughter never leaves.

These facts have been true for four years now. I hope that one day they will change.

I was brought up on a large estate in the south of England. It has been in our family for hundreds of years. When I was a child, my father would walk me around the grounds and show me where he would play with his siblings when he was young. I am an only child. I did have one sister, however she died before she was born. There is a small grave for her among the flower patch at the bottom of the garden, marked with a simple wooden cross.

I was sent to boarding school when I was 5, coming home only for a few weeks in the summer and one week over Christmas. Despite having many friends at school, I have always felt lonely. My two lives never crossed paths. At home I was simply Louisa -- a daughter to be married to a gentleman one day. At school, though, I was Lou -- a young girl with thoughts and opinions, who would fall in love one day and be swept off of her feet. I had hopes and plans that I knew would never come to fruition, but I dared to dwell on them anyway.

My father fell ill when I was 17. It was a quick death; I had only been summoned from school for a week when he passed. My uncle moved himself and his daughter into our home then, ending my time at school.

"It is a time," he announced after my father's funeral. My mother was unresponsive, in her room. She had attended the funeral; however, she had needed my uncle to make the arrangements. The light had left her eyes. "A time for family. For togetherness. We must remain strong and think of each other at all times."

My uncle is a kind man. He had told me that he wanted me home from boarding school because life was too short and too unpredictable for us not to surround ourselves with family. I chose to believe this, rather than the idea that he needed someone to help care for my mother.

She had become a ghost -- she wandered the house aimlessly, from room to room, never really seeing what was in front of her. Her lips moved endlessly, as though she were speaking to someone who wasn't there. At times she would fly into such a violent fit of temper that I feared she would kill me, but it would always be followed by a moment of recognition -- a spark of light, and she would say my name: 'Louisa? Louisa, Louisa', before weeping, and falling into such wretched despair that you would have believed she would drown herself in it.

I live the same day every day.

My cousin Edna is an anomaly. When she was born there was a defect in her skull -- a small patch which caved inwards, rather than the smooth dome that most people possessed. It is not noticeable now, she has such thick, dark, curly hair that you would never tell, however, when she was born, her mother cried out and called her a beast. And, as though we lived in the wild and my uncle's wife were some form of monkey, she rejected her child. She refused to touch her, let alone feed her. My uncle's wife does not live with us. I do not know where she is.

Edna is not my friend. She is a cold woman, six years my senior, and yet unmarried. She behaves as though my house is hers, at least when her father is not present. Once he caught her telling me off, treating me as though I were her inferior, and he took her into a room and locked the door. I'm not sure what happened in that room, but at dinner it was evident she had been crying. Her face was red, and she dared not look me in the eye.

I know, for I have spoken to my father's lawyer, Mr Remington, that the house is entirely mine. His will was clear -- that his children inherited everything and, being an only child, when I was married the estate would remain mine and pass onto my children. My uncle was furious at this -- he claimed that no man would want to marry me if I could not give him something in return, but I feared that perhaps his anger was misdirected. It was suggested to me, quite subtly, by Mr Remington, that my uncle may want the estate for himself. Remington thought that perhaps because I was a woman, my uncle may consider the will 'unjust'. I asked if it could be taken to a court of law, however Remington was sure that it would be impossible. The will was iron-clad, he said, and I was the direct heir.

Now, as I walk to the south of the house, I can truly appreciate the building and all of its splendour. My building. My home.

The main house is huge, built in a muted yellow sandstone, with four outbuildings dotted around the grounds in the same colour. The roof slopes high, to a point, with light grey tile covering the entire building. The gardens are kept by a group of four men who attend to all seven acres of land. On the grounds there are several flower gardens (by far the most beautiful is Venus's garden to the east); a tennis court; a large vegetable patch; and a small orchard, which I tend not to go near due to the number of bees and wasps which gather there. Inside, the house boasts thirteen bedrooms, four parlous, and a dancing room, to which we have an annual Christmas Ball. It has been a tradition for ninety years and I intend to carry it on. But that is months away and difficult to think of in this August heat. Luckily, the temperature isn't too much of a concern for us as past the border of the property to the south is the sea, lined with a beautiful beach. We are remote enough that we are rarely disturbed by people coming from the cities to the seaside for the day.

My head snaps up as I hear a car coming down the gravelled driveway. Upstairs in the house I can see Charlie speaking to my uncle. They seem quite animated, though I can't imagine what they'd have to discuss. Charlie is the cook's son. His mother grew up working on our estate and no one knew who Charlie's father was, apparently it was quite the scandal at the time. I'm only a year younger than him, though, so I have no knowledge of it.

My father took Charlie under his wing and paid for an education for him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to see him into an apprenticeship at a law firm in town. I believe my father doted on Charlie somewhat, and I knew my father had been very fond of Wilma, Charlie's mother, having almost grown up with her.

Charlie smiles at me from the window, but I pretend not to see him. It is a dance that we often play in which I feign disinterest in him while he openly admires me. I am not cold or flippant with him, however it would be unseemly for a lady of my standing to openly cohort with the cook's son.

The car comes into view on the driveway and I repress a sigh as it parks right in my path. It is Robert Birchmount, a friend of my uncles. He comes quite often, though I have never invited him, for tea at the request of my uncle. Robert is a normal man, though I find him quite dull but there would be no problem with that if it weren't for my uncle insisting that we all sit in the parlour after supper to converse. Robert can speak for hours on any small detail of interest to him, though he has never done anything interesting. For example, he was here just a week ago and forced us to sit and listen to his views and opinions on the arrangement of trees in his garden. It lasted over fifty-six minutes (I know this because I began counting the seconds when I could not stand to listen anymore).

However, Robert is not alone, and from the passenger-side steps out a man of surprising quality. He must be in his late-thirties, with brown hair, slightly rumpled, and a brow which seems to permanently slope into a serious expression. His skin is slightly darker than mine: not tan, but it has clearly seen the sun. He is built well -- tall and broad shouldered, though it is covered by a simple, and somewhat moth-eaten, dinner jacket. In all, a very handsome, if somewhat foreboding, man.

Immediately I know this is another match for Edna. Uncle has been trying to see her married for at least the past ten-years with no luck. And I cannot blame the men who come to see her. She is rude, outspoken, and makes no effort with her appearance, choosing to wear rumpled dresses in colours she is aware do not suit her skin tone. I have to laugh, though, as when she is not pestered by her father's plans for marriage she dresses remarkably well.

Good luck, I mentally encourage the gentleman, smiling to myself. You'll need it.

"Louisa!" Robert calls to me, closing the door of his car with a slam.

I smile graciously, though I do not hurry towards him, instead climbing the few steps from the grass to the front of the house with leisure.

"Mr Birchmount," I greet him when I am close enough. He smells very strongly of leather.

"Please, it's Robert. We're practically family!" Robert laughs heartily, wheezing slightly. I forgot to mention; he is also quite terribly overweight. I fear that we may not have enough bought in for dinner for our unexpected guests.

"Allow me to introduce my friend, Michael Redgrave," Robert gestures to the handsome man who does not smile at me. He has a very intense gaze and I'm not sure that I like it. "Michael, this is Louisa Bower, Richard's niece."

"How do you do," I say as Michael takes my hand for a fraction of a second before he pulls away. He may as well have not touched me at all. He is seemingly quite rude. Perhaps he and Edna will get along after all.

"Gentlemen!" Uncle calls as he comes through the front door. At this, Michael's lips twitch into a small smile.

"Richard, my lad, how are you?" Robert clasps my uncle's hand warmly, patting his back. "You remember Michael, of course."

"Michael Redgrave? My God, boy, you've become a real man, I haven't seen you since you were knee-high!"

Michael laughs slightly, taking my uncles hand and shaking it. He does not pull away as he did with me, I notice. I have to cover my own laugh, amazed at the audacity of his dismissal. How dare he come to my home and so openly snub me?

"Richard it has been too long."

"Come in, come in, we must sit before dinner. How is your wife, Robert?"

With that, my uncle leads the men through the door and calls for some whisky to be sent to the parlour. And I am left standing, alone, on the gravel driveway questioning whether Bower House is mine or not.

Dinner is awful. Mother isn't dining with us, obviously, she never does when we have company (and very rarely does when it's just us). Edna has not spoken a word for the whole meal and my uncle has given Robert full reign of the conversation.

I am seated at the bottom right of the table, with Edna beside me and Michael across from me. Uncle sits at the head of the table with Robert to Michael's left.

The conversation began innocently enough with a question into Robert's travels in India, however it has taken a swift turn to the rapidly declining morals in society these days. Robert seems on quite a roll and I am at my wits end when Michael finally speaks up.

"Are you educated, Ms Bower?" He asks. I am about to answer when, to my surprise, Edna replies instead, and I see that Michael is not looking at me at all.

"I am," Edna says, her tone dull. "I attended boarding school in London, close to my father's offices so that I was never too far from family."

"Edna is as bright as they come," Uncle chips in, beaming at his daughter. I am often surprised at how well he can pretend that he likes her. It seems to me that she is no more than a burden on him at this point.

"And you, Louisa?" Michael asks, scrutinising me. I take note that he has used no formal address with me.

"No, not at all," I smile sweetly. "I was always told that I could get by on my looks alone."

No one laughs. Edna rolls her eyes as Robert clears his throat slightly.

"You'll have to forgive our Louisa," Uncle apologises for me. "She's had a rough time of it the past few years."

"Oh?" Michael asks, suddenly interested.

"I'd really rather not speak about it-"

"Yes, I'm afraid," Uncle interrupts me, ready to weave his tale of woe. "Her father passed away suddenly three years ago, and her education was cut short. Her mother has not handled it well. In fact, there was talk about an institution," Uncle says, stressing the word 'institution' as though it were dirty or scandalous.

"That is enough," I say, rather more loudly than I had meant to, though uncle continues speaking as though I were not there.

"A terrible thing, isn't it? Heartbreak, the doctors say, as though such a state could be brought on in that manner. It has caused quite a melancholy atmosphere in this once lively house."

"My apologies if our grief has caused an interference on your poker nights," I add with as scathing a tone as I can manage. Uncle looks at me with a warning, but I turn to Michael and Robert all the same. "Yes, my father passed away, and he left me his estate, which I now run. If you wish to discuss it further, you may speak to me, the owner of the estate. Miss Bower."

The table sits in complete silence for a few beats. Edna has stopped eating and I can feel the displeasure radiating off of her. It seems as though she prefers to be the only one causing an atmosphere at the dinner table.

From the corner of my eye I can just see Michael watching me with an expression, though I cannot quite understand what it is. Quizzical? Disapproving? I have no way of knowing without looking back at him, which I am loathe to do.

After a few more seconds my uncle clears his throat and asks Robert a question about his business in the states, which brings on a discussion about international relations, and balance is restored. No one asks me any more questions -- I assume that they have learned their lesson.

I sneak one more look at Michael before dinner ends, though it lasts only a split second as I find him looking at me as well. His gaze is so intense I cannot stand it for long.

Finally, uncle pushes his chair back and invites us all to join him in the parlour for brandy. Edna will go but she will not drink. I decline.

"I'm not in the mood for conversation," I tell my uncle. "Please excuse me, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure." I look to Michael when I say this, hoping that he understands how little pleasure his unexpected arrival in my life has caused.

I leave the dining room and head to the back of the house, through the kitchen and into the balmy evening air of the back garden. There is a small walled garden at the bottom with a stone bench in it. I used to like to go here when I wanted to be alone. For the past four years I have always been alone.

I sit on the bench, enjoying the gentle warmth of the stone, and admire how the space has changed. It is not yet 8 in the evening and so it is still very much light outside. I can see the trestles that now cover every wall and the roses growing in the centre, undisturbed by a certain young girl who used to pick them and take them to her mother during her summer holiday from boarding school. The oil lamp on the far wall has been smashed, most likely a while ago now as there is no glass on the path.

I am not alone for long.

"They're all talking about you."

I look to my right to see Charlie has followed me.

I attempt to stem my happiness at seeing him. "I simply provided some light entertainment for the evening."

Charlie smiles at me, his blonde hair flopping forward, into his eyes. He needs it cut. "Quite right. Perhaps just play the piano next time?"

I smile and make room for him on the bench, allowing him to sit next to me. I can feel the stirrings of excitement low in my stomach -- an anticipation of what's to come.

"That'd be dull. I don't like dull," I lean forward to him. He accepts the invitation and meets me half-way, our lips brushing gently.

Charlie has kept me company for almost a month now. It started out innocently enough: he is so sure of himself that as soon as I returned from boarding school, I found myself gravitating towards him. We did not know each other growing up, despite living in the same house at times. We became friends quickly and spoke as often as we could, but he works in town and so is only here at weekends. Even then, he's usually helping with something, or seeing friends from the village.

Then, about three weeks ago, he found me crying. I had been speaking to my mother and she had seemed so lucid for a moment -- there was a clear recognition, and she had spoken a full sentence to me. But then it was gone again. No matter what I hope for, she doesn't get better. And so, I was feeling rather deflated when he found me.

I don't know what it is about a crying woman, but it seems to spark something in men -- I noticed this with mother and father. Charlie comforted me and one thing led to another. We have not engaged in intercourse -- there has never been an appropriate moment, and I'm not dropping my knickers in the woods -- but we do other things.

We touch each other all over. I had never had anyone touch me between my legs before I met Charlie, but now it's all I can think of. He caresses me so gently that it drives me wild, then firmer until I feel like I could beg him to never stop. But I feel as though something is missing when he does stop. It's like going for a walk to a specific place, but when you arrive it turns out there's nothing there.

I touch him too. I've held his penis (though he's told me to call it a cock; he says it's sexier, and I like to please him). I like to mimic his movements on me -- to start stroking it gently before getting firmer and faster. He ejaculates (though, again, he's told me to call it 'cum' because ejaculate is too medical), we clean up, and then we cuddle.

I think I am in love, though I am unsure. How can you tell? This excitement, this feeling of longing to see him, to touch him -- is that love? Is it infatuation? I have so little to go on, and no one to ask. I have my books; however, I doubt Wuthering Heights is a good example of what real love should look like.

Whenever I think of it, I'm reminded of a night in my mother and father's room when I was six. I was home for the first time from boarding school and was understandably clinging to my parents' sides.

They were getting ready for a night out, my mother sitting at her vanity, applying make-up, as my father was getting dressed behind a partition.

Wilma had told me the tale of Cinderella the night before and I was in love with the idea that true love would always find you.

"Mother, what is true love like?" I asked, though now I think of it I can't understand why I bothered.

"True love doesn't exist, darling. It's a made-up thing for poor people to believe in so that they don't dwell on the fact that the man they're marrying has no money." My mother's face was without so much as a smirk, that's how I knew she truly believed this.

"Don't listen to her, Lou," father called from the other side of the room where he was doing up his dinner tie. "She's bitter because she married for money."

Mother's face tinged pink and I could see her looking at father through the mirror. I knew that look, even at the age of six. It meant that there would be a lot of drinking and shouting tonight.

"Don't listen to your father, Louisa. He's a romantic. You can't trust them."

Father came to the bed and picked me up, dancing me around the room. "True love is real, darling, don't even question it. I love you, and I love your mother, so it must be real, mustn't it?"

I laughed as he spun me and decided there and then to be a romantic. I wasn't sure what it entailed, but if my father was one, then so was I.