Louisa

My mind returns to the present as Charlie pulls away from me, smiling. "I have to go; I need to walk into the village before it's dark. I'm meeting some friends."

"Oh," I smile, though I am disappointed. I had no idea he had so many friends, he is always going to see them. "That's alright, I better get back in anyway."

Charlie kisses me on the tip of my nose, causing me to laugh quietly. I don't laugh much, not unless I'm with him.

"I'll see you later," he calls over his shoulder as he walks away. I watch him until he is out of sight, leaving me in the dusky light with a fierce need between my legs. If only I knew what to do about that.

"Who was that?" The silence is interrupted, and I jump slightly.

Michael is standing at the other entrance to the garden, casually leaning against the wall. I enjoy the idea of the moss leaving a stain on his dinner jacket. He is watching me shrewdly, then he juts his chin up to the entrance to the garden on my left, where Charlie exited.

"No one that you need concern yourself with," I reply. I should get up now, I tell myself. I should stand and walk inside where he will not be free to speak openly about his judgements of me.

"Of course not," he smiled, pulling away from the wall. "But you seemed very close. It might concern your uncle?"

Is that a threat? I wonder. Is he really trying to threaten me?

I decide not to answer. If he wants to tell my uncle, then so be it -- I won't be giving him any more information.

Instead, he walks to me, coming quite close. His index finger comes under my chin, lifting it up so he can look in my eyes.

"Your cheeks are flushed," he murmurs. His face is quite close to mine. I can see the small lines around his eyes and the flecks of green in his iris's. Perhaps I was too harsh with my assumptions earlier -- he looks closer to his thirty-four than forty.

I dare not move. His hold on my chin has created a tingling all around it. This is strange.

For a moment, just a mere second, I am sure he will kiss me -- this relative stranger. But he does not. His grasp falls from my chin and he sits beside me. I hadn't realised how straight my back had become.

"I take it he's your first love?" Michael asks. I turn to look at him and I am surprised to find a genuine smile on his face, though it seems to be mocking me.

"As I said, it is none of your-" I begin, but I am cut off.

"Does he touch you?"

My eyes widen, my mouth falling open slightly. He can't have asked me that question. "Excuse me?" I whisper.

His grin grows wider.

"Does he touch you? Does he run his hands over your breasts and between your legs? Does he make your breath come short and leave you gasping?"

I don't know how to answer. My mouth hangs open, useless and empty. That feeling is back -- the one that Charlie causes. The pulsing, the wetness. I can feel my heart beating between my legs. I want him to kiss me, I realise.

His hand gently falls on the silk of my skirt, landing just above my knee, jolting me out of my trance.

I jump up from the stone seating. I feel hot all over, and not from the summer air. Without looking back I run to the house, seeking refuge in my bedroom where I lock the door.

I don't leave the room until I hear Robert's car start, at which time I go to the window and watch it pull away, driving down the driveway and out of my life.

August 21^st, 1929

I sit at my dresser, applying make-up gently, subtly, so that it is not garish. I am wearing a burgundy velvet dress. Pear-drop pearls hang from my ears, swaying delicately as I move my head. My hair is curled and pinned neatly around my face.

I look beautiful. I look sad.

"We are having a party!" Uncle exclaimed one evening, just a few days after the incident in the garden. The incident which I had been forcing myself not to think of. We had just finished dinner and the plates were being taken away. Dessert wine was being poured.

"A party?" Edna snarled as though the idea was inhumane.

"Yes, a party. I'm inviting family, friends, colleagues, you name it!" Uncle picked up his glass and drank.

"Why?" I asked. It was no one's birthday. It was not a national holiday, nor had I heard any particularly good news.

"For fun, Louisa," Uncle laughed. "We must bring life back into this house again, a sense of happiness and joy. When I was a boy there were parties here every week! Dancing, singing, food and drink, the place was alive."

"What about my mother?" I asked, realising what a toll the noise and people would be on her. And what if someone should enter her room, unseen? The damage that could do to her health and, more importantly, the damage she could to do them.

"Do not fear, Lou, I will hire a carer for the evening. We will instruct her not to leave your mother's side. Besides," he smiled, taking a bite of the apple pie before it had even touched the table, "the party will be downstairs, and your mother is on the third floor. She won't hear a thing."

Edna looked almost pale at the idea. Strangers, socialising and music were three of her least favourite things. "Can I stay on the third floor?" I heard her murmur, though her father took no notice.

"And who will pay for this party and carer?" I asked, aware that my uncle had money but not enough to make lavish gestures on the regular.

As he usually did when I questioned him about money, he avoided the question. "Your father used to love throwing parties."

And with that I could not argue. I was silenced and preparations began.

We had a woman come in and take charge -- she brought a small team to the house, with one man who took room measurements, another man with a camera, and a young girl who followed her everywhere and wrote down everything she said.

I was consulted about nothing, which was a small blessing for I'd never been a fan of parties and organising, but Uncle seemed to love it. He wanted everything to be big, grand, but always classy. 'Nothing American' was his mantra, to which I had to scoff. Several of the men he had introduced as potential husbands to Edna had been American and he hadn't seemed to mind all that much then.

All in all, Uncle spent a small fortune, worrying my purse strings, and yet he did not ask me for money. I assumed he paid for it himself.

This afternoon I had gone for a walk when the decorators arrived and when I came back in an hour the house had been transformed.

The grand piano had been moved to the foyer, where candles sat on every available surface and silk sheets were woven into the bannister. The kitchen was in turmoil, with Wilma and Agnes running around and giving out orders to a small army of girls from the village. There was not a counter-top without ingredients on it, and a young boy of about 10 years old rushed to sweep anything that fell on the floor.

In the dining room, the table which sat fourteen people was ready to be covered with a banquet. "Buffets are so in fashion," the lady had told my uncle, who nodded and agreed wholeheartedly. I thought it was barbaric. Why shouldn't you be allowed to sit down?

Upstairs the rooms had been readied for guests -- a select few had been offered accommodation for the night, with the promise of a good breakfast in the morning. Among them was Robert, which I was hardly surprised about, and, to my utter contempt, Michael Redgrave.

I had tried in vain not to think of Mr Redgrave for the past few weeks. Though, on his departure from our home, I had made it very clear to my uncle that I would not be pleased if the man returned.

To this, my uncle had laughed. "Dear Louisa, what will we do with you?" He hugged me to his side as he walked me up the stairs to my room. "Poor Michael. He was quite fond of you, you know?"

What an absurd thing to say. "Well he had a strange way of showing it," was all I replied on the matter and his name hadn't come up again until today.

I had stopped myself from asking questions about him on several occasions. Who was he and what was his connection to my uncle? Where did he come from and would he be back soon? When I lay down to sleep at night I thought about his hand, holding my chin. I thought about his serious eyes. Worst of all, the few times I had kissed Charlie I had wondered what Michael would feel like -- would he kiss the same? Or would he be rougher, as I imagine he would -- not that I'd ever allow myself to find out.

I had decided not to challenge Uncle about the arrangements for tonight. He had been highly strung all day and I didn't want to exacerbate things by demanding that he rescind Michael's invitation.

A knock at my door catches my attention and I move away from the dresser.

"It's seven o'clock, miss. The guests are arriving," a young girl that I think I recognise from the kitchen tells me.

"Thank you," I smile at her and follow her down the stairs. Another of my uncle's requests was that Edna and I join him at the door to greet our guests, at least for the first twenty minutes or so. After that it was a case of mingling -- speaking to as many guests as possible so we weren't considered rude.

At the door, Edna was already standing, looking better than usual in a deep blue silk dress. Her hair was up, though it must have been difficult to tame.

Uncle joins us just after I do, and I wish him good luck. I'm not sure why I do this -- it is his party, but it is my house. Surely, that makes me the hostess.

Guests begin arriving in their numbers and I clasp many hands and embrace many women. Small talk is easy, though it is so dull that I prefer not to bother. Edna is gracious, nodding to most people, though never touching them. People seem to expect this of her, though one man reached for her hand and she snatched it away. We managed to gloss over that, but we were more careful from then on.

After a half an hour of greeting, we disperse into the crowd. I am very aware that Michael was not there to greet him, though I am unsure as to whether or not I am pleased about this. I must try not to think of him too much.

I am passed from person to person in an endless sea of perfume and mink and black and white dinner suits. I am handed drinks which I do not question, and I listen to conversations that I do not care about.

At nine-thirty, I break away from the conversations and look around. I have yet to see Charlie. He promised. He said he'd be here to keep me company. And, besides that, he would be such a welcome distraction.

We had spoken at length last week about this party. I had told him my reservations, how I didn't think we should bother and how I'd sooner cancel the whole thing. The closer the date came, the less I could be bothered with it. Charlie had looked uncomfortable at the idea of cancelling. I suppose he's more social than I am and he is trying very hard to climb in his career. He made me promise that I wouldn't cancel and in exchange he would be here for me every step of the way.

"We can steal a bottle of champagne and go to one of the rooms and just sit ourselves," he had said before kissing my neck. I had, of course, agreed.

I have searched the downstairs rooms, even asked his mother, but she says she hasn't seen him since before the party.

And then there he is. Charlie is on the stairs, his arm around a small blonde girl who is grinning from ear to ear. A voice in my head -- more of a siren -- begins to go wild. I am not going to like what is about to happen.

My uncle is there, joining them, clinking his glass with a spoon.

"Everyone? Everyone, may I have your attention please?"

The chatter dies down to a very low hum and then there is silence. I am in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by people on all sides. I have nowhere to run.

"Now, those of you who knew my brother, and Louisa's dear father, William, well you knew how fond he was of our Charles. Charlie grew up on this estate and William paid for his education -- always pushing him to strive for more. And so," Uncle pauses. He seems a bit too drunk to be doing this. His eyes are glittering with tears which, in all honesty, is a tad too much. "It is with the greatest of pleasure that I can announce: our very own Charles has just asked the lovely young Victoria to be his wife, and she said yes!"

Gasps go up around the room, an excited chatter, a happy babble, and I'm at the centre to hear it all.

"Many of you may recognise Victoria from the village. So, will you all please join me in raising your glasses to Charles and Victoria, may their future be filled with love and happiness."

Around me glasses are raised, and congratulations are announced. Charlie and Victoria, whom I had never even heard of, descend the stairs to hugs and kisses and pats on the back.

I believe I am in shock. How could he be engaged? It makes no sense -- he loves me. He's never even mentioned Victoria; no one has!

But then I see Wilma. She rushes over to the both of them with tears in her eyes and embraces them both, holding Victoria's face and then taking her hand to see the ring. She is happy and I realise that this has been planned and spoken of. He will have told his mother -- he has clearly told my uncle. He has told everyone. But not me.

I wait a moment before heading to the study. It is off limits to guests; a large leather chair has been placed at the beginning of this part of the hallway to stop anyone from coming down here. We don't lock doors -- there are too many for us to remember which key is for where. On the way I pass the kitchen, stopping briefly to grab a bottle of champagne. We have almost a hundred bottles of various alcohol tonight, one will not be missed.

The room is in total darkness. Instead of using the main light, I head to my father's desk and turn on the lamp there. It gives the room a softer glow.

Carefully, I light the fire, already stocked with coal, and sit on the plush couch, champagne bottle in hand.

Let's take stock, I think. What has happened and what have we learned from it?

Well, for starters, I am now enacting the scenario that Charlie had suggested -- of hiding away in a cosy room with a bottle of champagne -- however, I am sans Charlie. That alone is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I remind myself that tears are good. Tears are a sign that it's sinking in. I take a swig of champagne.

I was 'the other woman'. Charlie and I have only been intimate for two months now, he must have known this girl for longer, surely? And she's from the village? What if it was her he was seeing rather than friends? What if that's why he didn't want me to cancel the party? What if, what if, what if?

I take another drink, and then another for good measure. I want the world to be dulled. I would like the alcohol to work quicker. Luckily I have had very little to eat today and I have already indulged in several drinks of unknown contents.

I can feel a few errant tears dropping onto my cheeks and I wipe them before they can reach my dress.

The door begins to creak open, and I stand. Apparently, the alcohol is working well because I feel slightly lightheaded.

Oh Lord, of all the people. Michael steps into the room, holding a bottle of vermouth. He doesn't smile when he sees me. I remind myself that the feelings I have had towards him for the past few weeks are not necessarily reciprocated. The excitement, I admit to myself. The feeling which I had reserved for Charlie -- the feeling of want.

"This room is off limit to guests, I'm afraid you'll need to leave." I stare at him, hoping that I sound authoritative and stern, but he comes in anyway.

"Why are you hiding away?" He asks, joining me on the sofa. I pick the champagne up and hold it closely to my body, as though protecting it from him.

"Why are you hiding away?" I parrot back to him, raising an eyebrow.

He really is very handsome or, he would be, if he weren't so serious all the time. But I do like the seriousness. The idea that he is a grown man and I am just a young woman -- it makes it all the more enticing. I must remind myself that I have been drinking. And, therefore, I am allowed to think things like that.

"I don't really like crowds," he answers. He takes a swig of vermouth before offering me some. I accept; I've never had vermouth before.

It's vile. Eugh, I cough. Michael smiles slightly, taking the bottle back.

"So why are you in here?" He asks me again. I consider telling him the truth, but then that would be embarrassing. Instead, I tell him a small part of the truth.

"I'm avoiding a few of the guests."

He smiles dryly. "Am I one of them?"

"No!" I refute the idea immediately -- perhaps too quickly. "Though it's true, I didn't want you to come." He looks at me quizzically. Clearly, he wasn't expecting me to admit that. Neither was I, but it came out anyway. "You were very rude when you were last here."

Michael nods, accepting this, though he does not apologise. I wonder if he thinks I'm speaking of his attitude over dinner or the part afterwards. I wonder which one I'm referring to?

"My uncle said you rather like me," I tell him after a few moments. We haven't been sitting in this room for long, but it's already warm and I don't want to think of anything that is happening outside these four walls. Besides that, I'm not quite sure why I said that.

"Not at first. I thought you were a spoiled brat to begin with." I gape at him in quite an unladylike manner, but I cannot believe he has the audacity to say this. "However, he's right. Now I do," Michael does not look at me when he says this, but I'm quite sure he's telling the truth.

"I quite like you, too," I tell him, omitting the thought that the feeling is slightly less now, knowing what he thought of me to begin with. However, it's not a lie, I realise, but if he asked me why I liked him I'm not sure I would know the answer.

"No, you don't, you think I'm rude," he chuckles slightly. It's a low, rumbling sound in his chest and I like it. I want to put my head on his chest and ask him to do it again.

"No," I correct him. "I thought that you were rude. I don't anymore." After a moment of thought I add, "but first impressions are important, so you should be careful of that."

"I'm curious as to whether you're referring to when we first met or-"

"Or when you asked me dirty questions and put your hand on me?" I surprise myself by my boldness, but I didn't want to hear the words come out of his mouth. It would be too much. I'd be sent spiralling into that lust-filled haze from before and then who knows what would happen? "I'm referring to both. However I am willing to forgive, so long as you promise not to do it again."

"Do what again? Touch you?" Michael looks at me now, grinning. It's a seductive grin -- his eyes are sparkling. It's the kind of grin a lion would give you before it began toying with you mercilessly.

"Yes," I clear my throat. "That." I take a drink of champagne.

"Do you want me to promise that? Really? Or do you just think that's what you're supposed to want?"

I absolutely do not want him to promise that -- I want him to touch me now; to lift my skirt up and feel how wet I am, just from looking at him. But I cannot admit that.

It feels as though we're playing some sort of a game, one which I can't seem to see a way of winning. If I get him to promise then I win a moral victory, but he'll never do what I want him to. If I don't, I lose any power I have but I gain so much more.

"Perhaps it's better not to make promises while you're drinking," I say, hoping that this does not make me lose. From the warm way he smiles and the way his eyes wander over me, I feel as though I have not.

We sit in silence for a few moments.