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Authors: Eleanor Beresford
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brushing and curling and pinning. Even Cecily has released her mass of brown hair from its usual ponytail and is arranging it in elegant coils at the nape of her neck. I tug a comb through my hair and leave it, feeling a little out of place among all this girlish giggling and primping. There’s not much I can do to make my hair more fancy than serviceable.
“Charles, you’re hopeless. Come here.” Esther, wearing something floaty in marigold that makes her look even more golden than usual, pushes me into a chair. Her clever fingers move through my curls, winding in a black ribbon to hold them back a little, so that they spring up crisply behind. “There, that’s better.”
“Not bad,” Diana admits, crossing over, Rosalind in her wake. Diana is wearing filmy white with bare arms and looks deceptively innocent and pretty and sweet, like a girl at a coming out dance. She’s going to freeze to death. “You could almost be fooled into thinking she’s a real girl.”
“No one could mistake you, on the other hand, for anything but genuine cat,” Esther says. She gives her handiwork one last pat. “Not quite Cinderella, but you’ll do, dear heart.”
Rosalind, unexpectedly, says, “I think Charley looks very pretty with her hair like that.”
I blink at her. No one, as far as I can remember, has called me pretty since I was six years old, not even Esther. Nor has Rosalind ever volunteered a remark to me, or really to anyone other than Diana and Valerie.
“Thanks.” I wonder if I should say more.
Diana wrinkles her nose and sweeps her shadow off before I can find something better to say. Later, though, when I find myself paired with Rosalind for a dance, I remember to return the compliment.
“You look nice in that pink thing.” It’s perfectly true. While she looks pasty and washed-out in our dark green uniforms, the pale rosy colour of her frock brings out her extreme fairness in an entirely different way, her eyes very blue, her dull greyish hair shining softly on top of head and braided up like the tresses of a Greek goddess, or a Swiss milkmaid. There’s even a faint rose on her cheeks. It must be the reflection of the pink dress.
“Thanks, Charley,” she says. She lowers long fair eyelashes over her eyes for a moment. “Esther looks very lovely, doesn’t she?” It’s as much as I’ve ever know her to say directly to me, and I smile encouragingly. “She and Diana look so perfect together.”
I turn my head. The two are indeed partnered together, Diana touching Esther as little as possible with clear distaste while Esther, equally obviously enjoying herself, is playing the devoted suitor and being ridiculously solicitous and complimentary. The more flowery she is, the more Diana’s forehead furrows with bad temper.
Rosalind, I think, must see the scene a little differently to the way I do. I can feel my cheeks dimpling despite myself.
“Diana is so beautiful, too,” Rosalind adds wistfully. I frown, a little. There’s no argument about Esther’s good looks, with her sleek bronze hair and golden complexion. I don’t see what is so special about Diana. Her face is pretty enough in an ordinary way, of course, with an excellent figure, and white suits her, granted. She’d still hardly qualify as a raving beauty in my book.
Between my puzzlement and my amusement at Esther’s teasing of Diana, I find myself paying too much attention to the other couple instead of my own partner, and end up losing track of my feet and stumbling over her.
“I’m sorry!” Dismayed, I try to set us back on course. Rosalind smiles and shakes her head, but I suppose she’s relieved when we finally exchange partners again. She certainly hasn’t seemed happy for the rest of the dance, or inclined to chat more. It’s a pity. For a moment there, I thought we were actually making some kind of connection. At least she talked to me. I absently extend my hand to my next partner.
“I know you’re taller, but
“Charles, you’re hopeless. Come here.” Esther, wearing something floaty in marigold that makes her look even more golden than usual, pushes me into a chair. Her clever fingers move through my curls, winding in a black ribbon to hold them back a little, so that they spring up crisply behind. “There, that’s better.”
“Not bad,” Diana admits, crossing over, Rosalind in her wake. Diana is wearing filmy white with bare arms and looks deceptively innocent and pretty and sweet, like a girl at a coming out dance. She’s going to freeze to death. “You could almost be fooled into thinking she’s a real girl.”
“No one could mistake you, on the other hand, for anything but genuine cat,” Esther says. She gives her handiwork one last pat. “Not quite Cinderella, but you’ll do, dear heart.”
Rosalind, unexpectedly, says, “I think Charley looks very pretty with her hair like that.”
I blink at her. No one, as far as I can remember, has called me pretty since I was six years old, not even Esther. Nor has Rosalind ever volunteered a remark to me, or really to anyone other than Diana and Valerie.
“Thanks.” I wonder if I should say more.
Diana wrinkles her nose and sweeps her shadow off before I can find something better to say. Later, though, when I find myself paired with Rosalind for a dance, I remember to return the compliment.
“You look nice in that pink thing.” It’s perfectly true. While she looks pasty and washed-out in our dark green uniforms, the pale rosy colour of her frock brings out her extreme fairness in an entirely different way, her eyes very blue, her dull greyish hair shining softly on top of head and braided up like the tresses of a Greek goddess, or a Swiss milkmaid. There’s even a faint rose on her cheeks. It must be the reflection of the pink dress.
“Thanks, Charley,” she says. She lowers long fair eyelashes over her eyes for a moment. “Esther looks very lovely, doesn’t she?” It’s as much as I’ve ever know her to say directly to me, and I smile encouragingly. “She and Diana look so perfect together.”
I turn my head. The two are indeed partnered together, Diana touching Esther as little as possible with clear distaste while Esther, equally obviously enjoying herself, is playing the devoted suitor and being ridiculously solicitous and complimentary. The more flowery she is, the more Diana’s forehead furrows with bad temper.
Rosalind, I think, must see the scene a little differently to the way I do. I can feel my cheeks dimpling despite myself.
“Diana is so beautiful, too,” Rosalind adds wistfully. I frown, a little. There’s no argument about Esther’s good looks, with her sleek bronze hair and golden complexion. I don’t see what is so special about Diana. Her face is pretty enough in an ordinary way, of course, with an excellent figure, and white suits her, granted. She’d still hardly qualify as a raving beauty in my book.
Between my puzzlement and my amusement at Esther’s teasing of Diana, I find myself paying too much attention to the other couple instead of my own partner, and end up losing track of my feet and stumbling over her.
“I’m sorry!” Dismayed, I try to set us back on course. Rosalind smiles and shakes her head, but I suppose she’s relieved when we finally exchange partners again. She certainly hasn’t seemed happy for the rest of the dance, or inclined to chat more. It’s a pity. For a moment there, I thought we were actually making some kind of connection. At least she talked to me. I absently extend my hand to my next partner.
“I know you’re taller, but
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