The Monster and the Butterfly

Five - Forsythia

All of last night, sleep evaded me. I just existed in a never-ending state of numb thoughtlessness until the knocker-up snapped me out of my daze at half past six.

I must have read Lord Cushing's letter well over two-hundred times in between packing stockings and folding two moth-eaten, patchwork dresses into a trunk, and whether it had been to calm my nerves or to fill me with an excitement similar to Thomas's, I don't know.

What I did know, however, was that I was in no mood to bid Thomas a final farewell. Instead, I chose to regard his back with a sneer from where I was scrubbing myself in the tin tub when he left.

The rest of my cold bath (I had no time to heat water on the stove) assists in awakening me, though it does nothing to calm me. In fact, it only turns me into a corpse of rigid fear. I'm terrified.

The feeling only amplifies when I stuff myself into one of Gertrude's nicer dresses, and the dread is sickening as whatever fate awaits me prowls nearer. I spent too much time fretting over Lord Cushing's letter that I'd forgotten to wash my own dress, and Gertrude pitied me enough to lend me hers, a dark brown day dress with a gaping hole patched with an uneven square of black cloth in its right sleeve and skirts left tattered by moths and the East End's grime.

Through the small mirror hanging above the tin tub, as I study how I can hide my scalp beneath a hat, I can't help but watch Papa in his armchair and Adam asleep on the sofa.

I had neglected to inform them of my decision to take Lord Cushing's offer, and only at this very moment does guilt begin to gnaw away at my gut as I crush my straw hat onto my head and secure it in place by tying its ribbon underneath my chin. It'd be cruel to suddenly tell them about my departure, though it would be even more so if I didn't. I've ultimately decided against telling them, as I have not the heart to and because I failed to conjure what sensible words I could say to ease them. Regardless, my heart threatens to shatter itself realizing I am to be without Papa or Adam, the only two people I've felt adequately useful enough for, and as of right now I'm unsure as to when I may ever see them again—and it's rather generous to assume I would ever see them again.

Gertrude quietly paces the kitchen, aimlessly scrubbing an already-clean teacup with a thumb cloaked in a damp cloth.

"Well?" I ask and turn to face her, raising my shoulders and arms before letting them fall just as quickly so my palms slapped lightly against my thighs. My voice clips with a sardonic, "Do I appear worthy enough to be presented to a lord?"

The dress is large around the chest and waist, but I'm grateful that I'm not wearing anything that flatters curves. Perhaps it will be modest enough to win the companionship of fellow servants that occupy Rosenthorne Hall.

With a small glance, Gertrude clicks her tongue and abandons her scrubbing to approach me. "You say that as if you are to be married to him," her voice is harsh but her eyes, as she straightens the dress's high, tight collar, are soft, perhaps even understanding. Something that has been absent from her demeanor for what seems like an eternity.

Such gentleness doesn't last, however, because she then lightly slaps my cheek. "Now, don't be this smart when you first meet Lord Cushing. First impressions mean everything, especially with lords and ladies! You don't want to be sacked on your first day, do you?" She questions sharply and rubs her thumb across my cheek in a savage scrub at some unseen smudge.

"I won't, I won't!" I hiss, wrenching myself out of her grasp when she moves to wipe my other cheek. "I'm not that stupid, I'm not."

For a fleeting moment, I swear something resembling something of worry cross Gertrude's stout features, crinkling her broad nose and darkening her eyes and tightening her lips. But no sooner do I catch such an emotion is it swallowed up by her chilled demeanor as she returns to scrubbing her cup, eyes focused downward with a harsh intensity as I back myself towards Papa and Adam's sleeping forms with hushed steps. I still have time for a swift good-bye.