Viette #7: Breakfast and Mourning

The rest of Viette's first night back in the Doherty house was uneventful, and in the morning, Delia ushered her briskly into the breakfast room, to a long, low table piled sinfully high with delicious English food. Even Viette couldn't find anything wrong with the food, and she ate so many plump, juicy sausages she thought she might be satisfied to never have to eat a thing ever again.

Delia chattered happily at Viette while she ate, and Viette answered all her mother's questions with enough voluntary detail that she was sure Henry and Grandpa Peter would be proud. She hesitated, though, when Delia asked how she slept; but nearly all of her disconcerting nightmare had dimmed, and she just asserted that her bed was very comfortable, and she was thankful for the fire Delia had sparked up in the hearth. Viette noted at one point that Delia was being very careful not to mention Carlotta's death, and she didn't ask any direct questions about Henry.

Just after Delia had begun to inquire into the specifics about Viette's seaside home in Kavala, they were interrupted by a servant who announced the arrival of Mr. Dawes. Grandpa Peter ducked into the breakfast room behind her and gave an awkward little wave.

"I didn't realize I was disrupting something," he apologized, making to back out, but Viette stood abruptly, self-consciously smoothing her skirt and clamoring out from between the table and her chair.

"That's alright, Grandpa, I've eaten enough to last me our whole week in England," Viette said, realizing too late that she was being very rude. A carefully calculated look from Grandpa Peter was enough to let her know that.

Delia, always poised, offered Grandpa Peter some breakfast, which he politely turned down and followed up by requesting to talk to Delia in private. Viette immediately wondered if she had heard him wrong; but when the two swept from the room, she was left to sullenly speculate about their conversation. They were only gone for a minute, and when they returned, neither seemed any different.

"Well, Viette, if you're ready to go, I'll be needing your assistance about town," Grandpa Peter said gruffly. "There's a lot to do before the funeral tomorrow."

Viette glanced down at her outfit; she'd donned a floral print skirt and a simple white blouse before coming downstairs for breakfast, but a glance outside the tall windows revealed that the rainy weather had not surrendered overnight. And did she need to be dressed in black if she were going out into the village where the people would know Grandpa Peter? How did this mourning thing work in England? Why had no one bothered to fill her in?

Delia had come around to Viette's side of the table, and she slid her arm across her shoulder. "Come on, Vivienne, I'll make sure you're taken care of before you leave," Delia said softly, guiding Viette toward the door and throwing Grandpa Peter a dazzling smile.

*****

Standing before the open wardrobe in the guest room, Delia briefly inspected Viette's clothes, then decidedly pulled her more stylish black dress off the hanger and handed it to her. "I'll make sure you have something nice to wear to the funeral," Delia told her. "But don't worry too much about your appearance. Contrary to what you'll find in society, observance of death is simply not the time to hold on ritual; it's emotion, not rules."

Viette didn't know what to say to this, so she just took the dress and sidled awkwardly behind the changing screen so she could swap the outfits. "I just didn't want to offend anyone who knew Carlotta or make them think I was being disrespectful," Viette confessed reluctantly. She normally pretended to not care what anyone thought, but her mother's kindness was making her feel differently about this habit.

"Oh, not many Brighton folk knew Carlotta," admitted Delia. "She was.... always traveling. Rather like you," she said with a easy laugh, and Viette even cracked a smile. She came out from behind the screen and allowed Delia to lace up the back of the dress.

After a brief interlude of quiet between the women while Delia worked on the knots, Viette wondered aloud, "Do you think any of them know how she died?"

Viette could feel her mother's fingers pause along the trail of the dress. She noticed tension in Delia's voice when she finally responded, "I doubt it, Viette. But if you're curious, you ought to talk to your father." She finished lacing and patted Viette's hair a little clumsily.

Viette stepped reluctantly into her black pumps and reached for a sweater to combat the weather she knew she'd encounter outside, turning to smile with completely false brightness at Delia. "Thanks for your help. I guess I'll see you tonight at dinner?"

"Certainly," Delia said, but Viette noticed the same forged happiness in her eyes. Well, at least she knew where she inherited that talent.

Viette #6: The nightmare

The door to the little guest room opened with an disquieting creak and Viette jumped at the sound. Delia stood in the doorway, still in that wispy jade dress, her pale hands clasped in front of her. She looked apologetic about startling Viette, so Viette offered her a little smile and closed the door to the wardrobe.

"I was wondering if you might want anything for dinner," Delia said as she strode over to the lamp and adjusted its lavender shade idly. "I know you're probably very tired from your long day of travel, but I can have anything whipped up for you in the kitchen. Anything you'd like."

Are your kitchen staff familiar with moussaka? Viette scoffed fleetingly, then chided herself for being so harsh with her thoughts. Henry had implored her to be civil with Delia, so she ought to at least make the effort. "I'm not very hungry right now, but I'm sure I'll be ready for a big breakfast in the morning."

Delia smiled and reached out, wrapping her arm around Viette's shoulders and giving them a little squeeze. "It's a date, then," she said quietly, then withdrew almost too quickly and crossed her arms as she walked over to the fireplace. "I'm sorry it's so cold in here," she said with her back to Viette. "I'm sure you already really miss the warmth of Greece. I've been there before, you know. Henry and I went shortly before, ahh... you were born."

Viette watched her mother load a few logs into the fireplace and crouch on the floor, expertly striking a match and coaxing spirited flames to fill the hearth from the spark. Hmm, Viette thought with a bit of surprise. So Delia Doherty can do a few things for herself.

Rising from her crouched position, Delia turned and headed for the door. "It's not normally this cold in April," she assured Viette, her hand on the knob. "We've had a rainy spell the past few days. I promise, it'll get better."

But before Viette could assure her that she didn't mind the weather so much, Delia had slipped out the door and closed it behind her.

*****

Exhausted, Viette climbed into the big four poster bed in the center of the room. Sliding in between the thick, silky sheets, she thought of Henry and Grandpa Peter on the vineyard a few miles away, then of the few friends she'd had to say goodbye to in Kavala just yesterday. She couldn't help imagining her Aunt Carlotta, with her round face and sparkling eyes framed by a puff of auburn curls, lying on a table somewhere, her body unfamiliarly cold. Viette glanced thankfully across the room at the fire prancing in the hearth, and was almost instantly asleep.

*****

The door is heavy, but I'm strong enough to break the handle and rip out the lock. I'm glad I know the turns in this big old house, because it's pitch dark inside and I don't dare light the candle in my pocket unless I absolutely have to. The place seems deserted now, but the Dohertys are suspicious folk, and any bump in the night is bound to disturb their blissful, rich slumber.

No trouble finding the staircase, just around the corner where the stupid maid said I would. Now I just have to make it to the third floor. The third floor, and it's the second door on the right. You'll know it because it won't be locked like all the other guest rooms. The girl's only been in the country a few days, but it's been a few days too many, if you ask me.

I feel the heaviness of the revolver in my coat pocket. Loaded.

Second floor landing. This is the dangerous part. Hope none of the servants are doing rounds, tending fires. Hope the heavy heavy night has them all in their beds. The girl's in her bed now. The revolver's in my pocket.

I hear it in time. A door opening. Too late to go back up the stairs, just enough time to get back down. I put my hand on the revolver and slide back down the stairs, fluid-like, and they never hear me.

*****

Viette sat up too quickly in bed, and immediately noticed three things: the fire was out in the hearth, her stomach was growling, but the pounding of her heart overwhelmed the chill and her hunger.

She tried to cling to the last glimmering memories of her disconcerting nightmare, but they faded hastily to the back of her mind. All Viette could recall as she reached for the dressing gown hung by the bed was a feeling of terrible, brutal anger and the worry of being caught.

What a stupid nightmare, Viette thought with a sigh. What else can I expect, though, really? After the uprooting from Greece, the anxiety of Carlotta's looming funeral, and being in England again?

In which I heave a sigh...

If you've read my most recent post on Ashley and the November Novel, you'll have learned that I'm not doing so well when it comes to making progress in my writing. The going's been tough, and this isn't just a regular old case of writer's block; that I know how to remedy. So I'm going to tackle this sort of -- stiffness? -- in my prose-related activities by reviving the idea of this blog.

I'm not sure I'll be continuing the story of Viette (though that's certainly not out of the question); but as mentioned on my main blog, I'm still getting glimmers of my summer novel's plot, but failing to write them down. So confusing little excerpts may be all you get here, but don't read too far into them. They'll just be starting points that I need to make progress. :)

Thanks for reading, really! (And if I don't return to Viette in England, I may try to give you something new to keep up with.)

Viette #5: Changes and a feeling

The room to which Viette was led was familiar to her. She had stayed in the same airy guest room on the second floor anytime she visited in the past, though, since she hadn't been around for three years, she noticed a few modifications. The walls had been repapered to match the new trends of softer colors, and the deep burgundy curtains she remembered had been swapped for sets of lightweight, floral-pattern drapes. There was also a new lamp in the corner with a pale purple shade. Viette liked the changes.

A servant brought in the last of Viette's three bags -- her trunk had gone on with Henry to Grandpa Peter's home -- and ducked out quickly. No doubt, she wanted to have as little as possible to do with the estranged daughter of Mrs. Delia Roche-Doherty. It was an odd arrangement, indeed, that Viette came to spend time here with her mother. But that's what Henry and Delia had decided on sixteen years ago, just after Viette's first birthday.

Viette walked over to the big, floor-length window and tugged back the curtain. Her view had also changed, in a way. The once-overgrown glade she'd been so fond of had been cleared out, and a neat little pond now stood in its place. Viette frowned at this transformation and, with a sigh, she turned away and went to unpack her bags.

A funny feeling began to settle in Viette's stomach as she emptied her luggage. This feeling had been looming over her ever since she answered the door when the messenger called on them in Kavala. When her father had sat down with her at their rickety little kitchen table and told her about Carlotta's sudden death, the feeling had started to creep up on her. As she had packed their things and boarded the plane to London and ridden in Grandpa Peter's car here to the house in Brighton, she'd been ignoring this feeling. But now, as she hung her two black dresses in the wardrobe, Viette couldn't ignore the sinister, strange feeling of foreboding in her chest.

Sometimes, Viette got strong feelings about some things. When she had to make a big decision, she'd notice an undeniable pull in one direction, helping her along. She'd always assumed everyone had the same urges, until she told her father about it a few years ago. He had reacted with doubt, as if she might be making it up. But why would Viette invent something like that? What reason had she?

Viette reached for the only pair of black shoes she owned, and placed them neatly on the floor of the wardrobe beneath where she'd hung the dresses. She probably only had her peculiar feeling because of all the strange occurrences of the past few days. No one had even bothered to explain to her how her Aunt Carlotta had died. From her father acting so oddly to suddenly abandoning their work in Greece and coming to stay with Delia, Viette was bound to feel mixed up. Right?

Viette #4: A mother and a daughter

Their footsteps echoed offensively as Viette followed her father and grandfather into the foyer. They had been greeted by a stuffy-looking doorman, his watery eyes looking bored as he ushered in the strange half-family of his mistress. Viette tried to not dwell on the unconventionality of her relationship with her mother, the well-known and equally well-liked Delia Roche-Doherty. It was best to just pretend that she, Henry, Delia, and even Grandpa Peter were an average English family in all possible ways.

But as Viette concentrated on keeping her heels from clicking too noisily on the tiles of the foyer, she couldn't help recalling that rather disheartening feeling of discomfort that plagued her anytime she was in the Doherty house. Its expensive furnishings, heavy curtains, and dark floors, walls, and ceilings never made her feel welcomed, no matter how hard Delia tried to keep her daughter from considering herself a stranger.

Ahead, a slender figure in a fluttery green dress came dashing -- almost too eagerly -- down the splendid oak staircase at the end of the foyer. Viette noted a slight hesitation in her father's tread before he met Delia halfway.

"Vivienne, Henry! I'm so glad you all made it safely," Delia crowed in her attractively throaty voice. She embraced Henry in a very brief, non-romantic sort of way before taking Viette into her pale, willowy arms. "And I'm very glad you're here," she whispered into Viette's ear.

"I'm glad, too," Viette choked a little awkwardly. Delia's auburn hair, the same color as Viette's, smelled familiarly like lavender.

She noticed Grandpa Peter just as she released Viette. "Well, if it isn't Peter Dawes! I know you only live a few miles out from here, Peter, so I'm surprised I never see you."

Grandpa Peter smiled sheepishly and took one of Delia's delicate hands in both of his. "I'm sorry about that, Delia. I do stay pretty busy on our vineyard."

"I'm sure you do," Delia said, her radiant grin lighting up her heart-shaped face. But her eyes cast down at that moment and she sighed. "As glad as I am that Vivienne has made it back here to England at last, I was sorry to hear about the reason for your visit. I'm sure you are going to miss Carlotta a great deal, Henry."

"Yes," Viette's father said as he spun the rim of his fedora hat in his hands. Delia always made him peculiarly nervous, Viette had noticed. Especially when she was looking as uncommonly lovely as now.

Delia's smile returned in a flash and she reached out to take the bag on Viette's shoulder. "Won't you all stay for a while, have a cup of tea? Ernest is out for the evening but if you linger until about eight I'm sure you'll catch him--"

"Oh, no, Delia, I'm sorry," Peter interjected. "I have some things to take care of before dark, and Henry is meeting some visitors at the train station. You know, a lot of old friends are coming into town for the funeral."

Out of the corner of her eye, Viette saw Delia bite her lip in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Peter, I wasn't thinking."

"It's alright, Delia," Henry offered, patting her shoulder clumsily as he returned his fedora to the top of his head. "We'll be around tomorrow night, if we're invited to dinner."

"Of course you are," she said with a wave of her hand. "I want to hear all about Greece and the adventures you and Vivienne have been having without me."

As Delia turned to call someone to bring the rest of Viette's luggage in from the cars, Viette turned to her father with a look of disdain. "I can't believe you won't let me come with you," she hissed in his ear as she hugged him goodbye. "Adventures we've been having without her, indeed -- she would have hated Greece!"

"Actually, Delia's quite fond of Greece," he responded with an air of playfulness as he patted her back. "And she does like to hear about your adventures, Viette. Humor her."

Viette pulled away and stared into her father's eyes. They had the same vividly blue eyes, of which Viette was rather proud. "Well, as long as you and Grandpa are going to be here to deal with her tomorrow night, I guess it's okay," she said. "The longer she's around just me, the quicker she's likely to grow tired of me."

"Viette, lighten up," Grandpa Peter said as he tousled her hair. "There are going to be enough occasions in the next few days which require moroseness. Try to enjoy yourself here in your mother's company."

In which I apologize

This is the part where I hang my head in shame for not updating this blog in five days. Look closely; you'll probably find that I am genuinely sorry and hoping you won't react too harshly to this apology, though chastising and a bit of light scolding would be completely warranted from you, the beautiful (or, handsome, if you prefer) reader.

The only excuse I will make is that I went home this weekend for an amazing Easter break/birthday bash. I turned twenty yesterday, and yes, I do share my birthday with the fabulous Sarah Michelle Gellar (who celebrated her 32nd birthday). Anyway, I did a lot of brainstorming and note-taking regarding our fictional friend Viette, who, if you'll remember, has just arrived in England for the funeral of her aunt, after a three-year hiatus from her maternal family.

:) I'm excited to continue telling you this story; you should be excited, too. It's a good one, I promise. I would know.

Viette #3: The Doherty House

"I'm sure Delia has been looking forward to seeing you again," Grandpa Peter was saying consolingly, his leathery hands gripping the steering wheel as he guided his once-shiny black car along the gravel drive. The Dohertys' huge manor house crouched at the end of a mile-long driveway, tucked in a thin artificial forest that had been planted a generation back.

"Maybe. I'm just not sure it's the best idea to stay with her this whole week. She might even kick me out. It's been three years since she's had to deal with me."

"Nonsense. You're her daughter," Peter insisted. But his tired gray eyes didn't meet Viette's, and she slid deep down in her seat defiantly, trying not to take in too many details of her surroundings. The sheer bleakness of the landscape outside would be enough to drive her to saying things she didn't actually mean. At least her father wasn't in the car to witness her attitude; he was riding behind them, in a taxi laden with all their haphazard luggage from Greece.

Suddenly, Grandpa Peter's car broke through the shadows cast by the too-perfect trees, and Viette couldn't restrain her eyes from glancing out the foggy windshield at the broad, imposing facade of the Doherty house. With its gray stone front and the columns lining the gate, it looked more stereotypically English than Viette could bear, and she could hardly resist rolling her eyes. They had even added some crawling ivy, carefully trimmed to appear as natural as possible, since her last miserable visit. Oh, how perfect.

As the car pulled around the drive, which wound in a half-circle around a pretentious little fountain, Viette hastily snatched up her woven hat and yanked it over her unruly curls. She glanced down at her rumpled dress, the blue one she'd bought at a market in Kavala. It didn't look especially Greek, but she knew it didn't match the maroon cap she'd been wearing all day, and that would be enough to earn a few disdainful looks by the company she was likely to meet inside the Doherty house. Oh, well, Viette thought resignedly. I'm certainly not going to change for them. No need to mention that she had switched out her sandals for scuffed, awkward heels before leaving the airfield in London.

Grandpa Peter parked the car in front of the daunting set of heavy stone stairs which were meant to invite guests inside. Before opening his door, though, he reached over and patted his granddaughter's cheek, as if she were still a small child and not nearly an adult. "Don't worry yourself over all this, Vivienne," he said in the softest possible way his naturally rasping voice would allow. "There are enough things in this world to worry about than acceptance from your own family."

Viette grinned, a slight, rosy blush coloring her cheeks. "Thanks, Grandpa. I'll do my best to remember that as I'm being thrown to the dogs by you two." She motioned out the window, where Henry had come out of his taxi and was already carrying one of Viette's bags to the steps. She sighed. "I guess there's no other choice, is there?"

"No, I don't believe there is," Grandpa Peter said distantly, gazing out the windshield. Holding back another sigh, Viette wondered again how long she would have to wait before anyone asked her opinion in the whole matter -- how she felt about her aunt's as yet-unexplained death, the uprooting from Greece, the week spent in the company of her mother.

Viette adjusted the sleeves on her sweater and, taking a deep breath, she opened her door and was all too-aware of the crunching sound her silly heels made as they met the gravel of the 'round-the-fountain driveway in front of the Doherty house.