Viola
As I drive through the gates leading up to the Emerson Manor, the road gets bumpier, and I can't help but feel a little naked under this new dress, which I guess is technically true.
I don't know how French women do it—even with my little breasts bouncing, I feel my nipples tickling against the blue silk fabric, a new sensation altogether I'm rather starting to enjoy. I even intentionally go over a few bumps for a good tickle and have a good laugh at myself. If someone were to see me, I think they would assume me to be insane. I'm definitely going to end up in an asylum.
My father isn't thrilled about me driving myself to events like this at night. However, the thought of leaving Harold, our 60-year-old chauffeur, alone outside while I'm inside having a "good time" is not acceptable. I received an earful from my father about it, and I'm certain Polly will give me a lecture once she finds out—and she will find out—she has eyes and ears everywhere. Already, people are pointing at me as I park my car among the few others already in the drive.
"Head high, cherie," Sophie's voice echoes in my mind as I step out of the car and do as she says.
"Head high," I whisper to myself as I walk towards the bustling manor.
I hear the whispers and see the side glances almost immediately as I walk into the grand hall and through to the ballroom. Honestly, it was a curious feeling to be the center of attention for different reasons than just being somewhat boyish. I'm sure this dress Sophie found will be the talk on everyone's lips tomorrow morning at breakfast. It's tempting to skip and bounce around to see the old ladies gasp, but I restrain myself—I need to consider my father's reputation. He means everything to me right now, and I wouldn't want to burden his already overflowing plate with my tomfoolery.
Even in a packed ballroom amid the loud music and the sound of people talking and dancing, it doesn't take me long to spot Laura fawning over the new man of the hour. He looms over the unattached ladies standing around him—the words "meat market" come to mind, and I can't help but laugh a little too loudly.
Lord William Spencer is the tallest and broadest man in the room, with slightly longish blond hair pulled into a ponytail. He has somewhat of a feminine edge to his chiseled features, making him look almost ethereal, reminiscent of characters from the fantasy novels I've read about elves, goblins, and wisps. From this distance, I can't tell what color his eyes are, but I'm sure whatever their color, if I were to look into them, I'd fall in and drown just like the rest of these girls.
It's the same story every time. Rumors start circulating and spread like wildfire among the single ladies, filling them with excitement and triggering daydreams. I'll admit, I've indulged in these fantasies too—we're all susceptible. But I'd sooner be trampled by a horse than act on these impulses and shamelessly embarrass myself in public the way they do.
I imagine we all share the same daydream—the one where the most eligible bachelor of the hour glances our way and instantly falls for us; it's unclear what makes us special in his eyes, but he would do anything for us. For the other women, I suspect they daydream of dancing all night till their feet ache. Since I'm a clumsy dancer, my fantasy is a little different and too raunchy—most likely inspired by those inappropriate books I hide in my room. This fantasy I keep to myself.
The new meat seems like a polite enough fellow, if not a little snobby. That's the "Lord" part in him. The longer I watch him, the more I know his problem—he's too handsome to be real, and the women around him don't know how to deal with it—they're affected, and their common sense seems to have left them. Laura's shrill laugh grates on my nerves more than usual as she strokes his ego by laughing at whatever nonsensical thing no doubt came out of his mouth.
No matter how handsome the bait, you won't see me going anywhere near the man, not intentionally—the idea of legally binding myself to a man for financial security never appealed to me, and I don't feel compelled to have children because I doubt I could ever find a man in this reality who would genuinely want to know and could accept the true me—the me that I dare show no one.
If I were to marry, I would have to leave my home, friends, and father to follow my husband, join his world, and become absorbed into his life. But what about love, Viola? Don't you want to fall in love?
I sigh and go in search of Polly. Instead of my friend, I find Mr. Harding visibly struggling with something small in his hands and approach the corner he hides himself in.
"Mr. Harding? Is there something I can assist you with?"
He looks at me and sighs with relief. "Viola, dear girl, could you open this for me?"
Mr. Harding holds up a little snuff bottle. "The blasted thing is sealed shut, and I have sausages for fingers."
I take the bottle from his hand and open it.
"Would you mind if I tried some?" I ask half-jokingly.
Mr. Harding eyes me with a cheeky grin and a twinkle in his one good eye. "If your father were to find out, I'd have hellfire to deal with."
"I didn't know you were so scared of my father, Mr. Harding," I elbow him, shooting him my best cheeky smirk while goofily wriggling my brows.
Mr. Harding laughs his loud and jolly big-belly laugh, attracting the attention of nearly everyone around us. "Ah, go on then, just don't be brazen about it."
I take a little snuff out using the tiny spoon attached to the bottle cap and try my best to hide it all behind my hand.
"A little less," Mr. Harding says quietly, and I tap some power back inside.
"Do I just inhale?"
Mr. Harding nods, and I turn to face the wall to hide my tiny spoon. Holding it to my nose, I quickly inhale the snuff.
"Wow, that's...absolutely disgusting," I mutter.
Mr. Harding lets out a loud, hearty chuckle that warms my soul and puts a smile on my face.
As I sniff a little sniff and hand the tiny little bottle back to Mr. Harding, I catch a pair of rather piercing and amused eyes lock onto me—Lord William Spencer himself watches me in the reflection of the mirror behind Mr. Harding. Bollocks, how did I not see that? Half the room could have seen me, and I'd be none the wiser.
At that precise moment, I sneeze so loudly, and so un-lady that everyone else who isn't already watching me turns to glance my way before quickly resuming their gossip and judgmental gawking.
"Well, I'm never doing that again. Have you seen Polly, by any chance?"
He shakes his head and sniffs some snuff. "No, I haven't."
I excuse myself and resume my search for Polly, carefully scanning the crowd. She should have found me by now. Surely, the talk of the corset-free Viola Clifton has reached her ear, which is the best-connected ear in town.
Polly won't be easy to find—she's the smallest person I know and detests these types of events even more than I do, but her mother insists on her making an appearance whenever events like these present themselves. She's either somewhere in a corner with a stiff drink in her hand or hiding in the garden.
As I make my way to the patio, a rather large hand gently grips my arm, and when I see whom it belongs to, I'm more than a little surprised. Lord William Spencer, in all his glory, stands before me. Blue, his eyes are dark blue, and I've suddenly stopped breathing.
I quickly regain my senses and suspiciously eye his hand. He quickly withdraws it, almost looking surprised at having touched me.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," his voice is so smooth it makes my belly warm, "I am Lord William Spencer."
"Viola Clifton. Excuse me," I turn around and start to walk, but Lord William Spencer seems to have other ideas.
"I was hoping to ask you for a dance," he says, trying to keep up with me as I hike up my dress a bit and make my way out to the gardens.
"For the sake of your feet, I don't recommend it." I mumble before calling out, "Pollyanna, are you out here?"
I pause and listen, hearing only the crackling of flames from the fire pits illuminating the path, the chirping of crickets, and the hushed murmurs of couples attempting to conceal their affection for one another.
"Would you like some assistance in finding your friend?" Lord William Spencer watches me curiously, brows slowly raising.
He claps his hands and rubs them together, ready to start the search. "What does she look like? I have a rather good view from up here." He is rather tall—I'll give him that.
I hold my hand up to about my shoulder height. "Short, golden hair...has rather large bosoms for someone her height."
Not taken aback by my description, he laughs and scans the people mingling about.
I take the opportunity to examine him as he looks around. The legends say Adonis was the most handsome man to have ever lived—he could be him in disguise.
"There's no one of that description out here." He looks at me and smirks, offering his arm for me to take. "Shall we search inside?"
I glance at his arm before meeting his hooded gaze. A twist of unease tightens in my gut—there's something off about him. Ignoring the wild fantasy of him tearing off my clothes and taking me right here in the garden, my cheeks flush with heat, and I suppress a smirk as I turn my gaze toward the house.
My mother's voice echoes in my mind, urging me to trust my instincts. Right now, they're warning me not to be alone with him.
"Thank you, but no thank you. I'll be fine. Enjoy the rest of your meat market. Good night," I turn and head quickly toward the house.
The moment I step back into the grand house, Laura approaches me with a rather displeased look on her face. "Good evening, Miss Clifton. What were you two talking about out there?"
I can't help but click my tongue and take a deep breath, ready to wallop her with my words, until I notice Mr. Harding watching me and quickly change my mind. "Oh, nothing of interest. I was looking for Pollyanna. Have you seen her?"
Laura's brows stay stiff on her forehead as if constantly glowering. "No, I haven't."
"If you see Polly, please tell her I was looking for her," I shoot her the best smile I can muster.
As I go to walk past her, Laura grabs my arm more firmly than necessary. "Do not get in my way, Clifton, even in that dress you're—"
"Stunning? Thank you, Laura. Sophie picked it out for me." I smirk. "Are you threatened by me, or did your mother send you to try to put me in my place?"
She gasps a little, the offense clearly written all over her. "Threatened?!"
I look down at her hand still gripped around my arm. Why are people grabbing me tonight?
Laura finally removes her hand from me, glancing around to check for any onlookers. As she regains her composure, I briefly meet her gaze and give her a hug. It's clear to me that her mother is behind this facade, prompting her behavior. When I notice her mother glaring at me from the corner of the room, my suspicions are confirmed.
"Laura, if you ever need someone to talk to, come call on me," I say, holding her away from me by her shoulders. "We're not friends, but we could be. I'll leave that entirely up to you."
Unable to find Polly, I give up and head home for the night.
Later that night, my dream became clearer than ever. By morning, I vividly remember not only my dream man's warm, longing voice beckoning to me but also his captivating eyes. They were unlike any I had seen before—piercing the deepest parts of my soul, revealing the hidden truths I keep from others, with a deep brown shade that slowly transformed into fiery red hues.
Upon waking, his unforgettable gaze lingers vividly in my memory. The sudden realization that he isn't real hits me like a sudden wave, and I find myself in tears, mourning his absence throughout the day, and I'm unable to shake the lingering feeling of loss and emptiness in my chest.
Sitting in the garden, basking in the warmth of the sun, I know for a fact that this ache will stay with me until I meet this man or until my dying day when I fall into eternal slumber. After all, there isn't a soul in this world with eyes as red as the carnation I hold in my hand.