Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
How I long to return to a time when his business limped along and mother baked all day. It was of little consequence that I liked to indulge myself in words, whether reading them or writing them, or that I perhaps spoke up too often in matters of no business of mine. There was no one to impress, therefore lectures were a pointless task my father rarely wasted his time on. In fact, I think he enjoyed me biting around his ankles, squeezing him for all the information I could get. He let me sit on his knee while he worked. Answered my questions when I asked. Gave me more books to read, perhaps to keep me quiet. And Frank would always creep up on me whenever I was lost in those books and flick my ear. I’d punch his bicep. He would scowl playfully. Father would grin down at his quill. I would stick my tongue out. Then Frank would chase me around our father’s desk while I screamed to high heaven and Papa laughed as he dealt with the poor state of his finances.
Now?
Now our address is Belmore Square, Mayfair, London. Father’s newspaper is on course to become the biggest in England with the help of steam printing, and I long for the days when Papa laughed, even though we struggled to make ends meet. These days, all I have to look forward to is Latin and piano. Playing piano bores me to tears, and learning Latin seems like a pointless chore, since I am not permitted to travel to a place where I may have an opportunity to speak the language.
I scowl at the pane of glass, looking across the square to the corner of Bentley Street, where a house, individual in its architecture, stands alone, starkly separate from the rest of the homes on Belmore Square. It’s fascinated me since I arrived here in London. It was once the Winters’ residence, until it burned to the ground a year ago and the family perished. I read the report that was written by Mr Porter, a journalist who works for Father, about the tragic accident that wiped out the Winters family. Rumour has it that it was not, in fact, an accident, and it was the eldest son, Johnny Winters, who started the fire. That he acted in a fit of rage after a disagreement with his father over… what? No one knows. It’s easy to fill mindless people with thoughts and conclusions when the accused is dead and unable to defend himself. Except, Mr Porter is a journalist, and, oddly, a respected one. I say oddly respected, because how anyone in their right mind could possibly trust a man who lives such a promiscuous life I do not know. He is loud, abrupt, egotistical, and dare I say it, a monster. And a power-hungry one at that. He mistreats his wife, ignores her in public and beats her in private. He’s also a raving Conservative.
In any case, the Winters’ house has been rebuilt and someone is moving in.
But who?
Someone audacious, I am sure of it. Bold and unapologetic. There are thirteen houses here on Belmore Square. The old Winters’ residence is the only one that hasn’t followed the uniform exterior so as to keep the rows of homes looking as pristine and neat as the gardens they circle. In fact, the new owner of number one Belmore Square seems to have gone out of their way to make the old Winters’ residence as different as possible to every other home. Better, actually. Bigger and grander in every way. It’s a statement. A declaration of supremacy. Over the past few weeks since we have moved in, I have watched huge, exotic plants being off-loaded and taken into the property, along with the biggest, most sparkly chandeliers you ever did see, and beautiful, heavily carved pieces of furniture, which, after I had asked the men trusted to transport the pieces, I discovered were from India! So, whoever is moving into number one Belmore Square, I assume they are well travelled. How thrilling, to have travelled further than England.
So the finishing touches are being added, the wooden branches held together by hemp coming down from the exterior of the building, and now I, along with the rest of Belmore Square, wait with bated breath to see who will be moving into the sprawling, opulent mansion.
Hmmm, royalty, perhaps? Time will tell.
My attention is caught by the Duke of Cornwall, Lymington. His grey powdered hair is a beacon that could light the street better than the new gas lighting I have seen down in Westminster. He also happens to live at number two Belmore Square, with his son, Frederick, who I am yet to meet, which isn’t such a hardship as I have heard he is an eternal bore. Lymington stops rather abruptly, and I follow his eyes to Lady Dare – she lives at number six Belmore Square and was widowed at the age of twenty after being married off to a decrepit lord at nineteen – breezing towards the gardens in a beautiful coat dress and an elaborately decorated bonnet. The woman does not walk, but floats. Her chin is constantly raised, her lips persistently on the verge of a suggestive, knowing smile, as if she is aware of the unspoken disapproval of the ladies of Belmore Square and the silent awe of the gentry who try and fail to ignore her beauty. Like Lymington right in this moment, who is still motionless, apparently caught in a trance, as he watches Lady Dare go. She is supposedly an exhibitionist, winning genuine disapproval from the ladies of the ton and false disapproval from the gentlemen. This rumour I know to be true, for I have seen the many men come and go from number six in the dead of night when I have been unable to sleep and have sat in my window wishing to be back in the countryside. Lady Dare is a ladybird, set free from the constraints of an arranged marriage by the fortunate death of her ancient husband, and now she will not bow to expectation, and yet she will also not flaunt nonconformity.