, alone in my little world .

[laurel bennet]

[laurel bennet]

It snowed today. Mother used to tell me that snowflakes were like dreams, if you held them too closely they vanished. Instead they were meant to be experienced and appreciated.

I have but one dream: to find my place. I fear I shan't. I watch the girls around me, light and carefree and find myself wishing to be them. I fear I am nothing more than a disappointment. Grandmother always seems displeased and Miss Asters, my governess, always finds me lacking in whatever I do.

Did I choose the correct path in coming here? Perhaps Robert was right, I should be grateful for the opportunity of marriage he presented me. With all my faults, he still wanted me as his wife. Yet, I find myself wondering... surely there must be more to aspire to than wife and mother.

I aspire to be loved.

- Laurel

[laurel bennet]

I fear I shall have to accept that I will forever be a disappointment to Grandmother. No matter how hard I try to please her, I fall short.

Today I ventured a walk in the gardens alone. I shan't make that mistake again. Oh, but for that precious hour how free I felt! It was like being a little girl once more without a trouble. I walked forever, thinking of nothing, just being. The weather was pleasant today and it was all I could do to keep from imagining spring. When I found the old, gnarled willow tree, I couldn't stop myself. I climbed amongst the lower branches till I found one perfectly suited as a seat. Even without the thick cover of leaves, I felt safe, sheltered.

It was in the trees back at the cottage where I was able to seek respite from Robert and Steven. I was better at climbing than either of them. Even when Robert's intentions were made known, it was within those trees I found solace. There is something soothing about being above the world, your troubles resting on the ground. I wish it possible to feel such freedom always.

I'm not certain how long I remained in that old willow this afternoon. It was not until our housekeeper began calling for me that I returned. My skirts were dirty, and my palms scratched, but I had thought it to be worth it. After all, nothing was irreparable. Grandmother had a differing opinion. And despite my apologies and assurances to never climb again, I know she was not appeased.

There are times where I feel she is steering me toward a future of her choosing, bending me into desired form. I only wish I knew what it was she expected of me. I should like to chart my own course. But I find myself wondering, dearest diary, if that is something only men are able to do.

- Laurel

[laurel bennet]

It has been a lifetime since I have last written here and yet it seems that everything remains the same. My days are spent enduring endless teas while my evenings I am either made to endure more weakened tea and whilst attempting to perfect my needlepoint (I only pray that my future husband does not expect daintily embroidered handkerchiefs and samplers for he will be sorely displeased with what I produce) or at parties hosted by Grandmother’s various acquaintances. I have yet to decide which torture I prefer most – staring at my lap whilst listening to Grandmother prattle about the weather and silks for dresses or standing amidst other girls my age while we are scrutinized by the males in attendance for our viability.

I know that I am not a beauty. While I would not say that I am utterly unfortunate, I am not one to draw the eye. My skin is far too fair and I am forever pinching my cheeks so they will appear rosy and healthy. My eyes are a peculiar shade of green – at times they are pastel, others too piercing. They are not the sort of eyes that would compel a man to gaze into them. Ellie assures me that all of my misgivings exist only within my mind. She is, however, one of my dearest friends and I am certain that it is her duty to say such. Robert always told me how plain I was; how grateful I should be for his affection. It is his voice I hear when I see myself in the mirror and I fear I shall never grow deaf to its sound.

One party I was made to attend recently was more bizarre than others. It was to welcome the nephew of one of Grandmother’s dearest friends to London – a Mr. Viktor Petrovich from Russia. Naturally we were invited. From the moment the invitation arrived Grandmother was a case of nerves. She fretted over my dress, my hair, gloves, everything. I have never seen her so concerned over my appearance. I felt as though I was one of those elaborate dolls from France that sit in frothy gowns feathered with lace. My sole purpose was to be preened and fussed over. A small part of me enjoyed the attention. And while Grandmother’s comments were edged with contempt – “You have such a lovely complexion my dear, a pity it appears so pallid” – it was a nice reprieve to not be lectured about some asinine social faux-pas that I had unknowingly committed.

The day of the actual party was a whirlwind of dresses and petticoats, hair combs and flowers. By the time the carriage arrived she was satisfied with my appearance. While I smiled at her and thanked her, inside I felt as though butterflies had taken flight. I could scarcely breathe and the corset was not assisting my plight. There was something more to this evening than welcoming a beloved nephew to London. Grandmother had never made such a fuss over me before and I was terrified that all of her efforts would be for naught.

I had met Mrs. Pratchett before during tea. She always struck me as a most engaging woman, the sort that naturally draws others to her warmth without any effort. She is beautiful in an understated way. There was no need for elaborate gems or feathers to draw the eye to her, when she enters a room the eye naturally finds her. A piece of me wishes I could do the same. As she greeted us, complimenting my appearance and eliciting a blush, I knew she was merely playing the part of kind hostess. Behind Grandmother was Constance Bettsworth and her parents. She reminds me of a gnat, always flitting about, buzzing gossip in your ear whether you care to hear it or not. Even so there is no denying her loveliness. Her amber curls brushed against her peaches and cream complexion. Regardless of the annoyance I feel in her presence, like a gnat, there was no way to ignore that she is there. As Grandmother and I turned to greet others in attendance I met her blue-eyed gaze. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly as she scrutinized me, and then, with the slightest flip of her perfect ringlets she turned her pert nose up at me and flashed a brilliant, if not false, smile at Mrs. Pratchett and cast her bewitching spell over another unsuspecting victim.

The party was everything I had anticipated it to be. The other girls in attendance whispered in anxious anticipation over the arrival of the guest of honor. He was something new and shiny and each wished to be the first to converse with him or share a waltz. Their murmurs only intensified as he strolled into the crowded room, without a glance toward anyone in attendance. He hardly seemed worth the fuss they were making. His worth lay in the novelty of his newness to the already-crowded London social scene. If he’d any brain at all he never would have come to such a dreary existence. Though it must be said that a man most assuredly has a easier time. He merely has to select the girl with whom he feels he can build a solid future. She must come from a well-bred family, be demure and pleasing, airy and carefree with enough commonsense to keep from sounding flighty. Or so I have been told. From what I can ascertain, a woman’s worth appears to fall into three categories. First and foremost, the wealth her family possesses is paramount. Even a troll will marry well if her family’s name and fortune are vast enough. Second, her appearance. If she is fair enough, a man is often willing to overlook financial misgivings as being seen with her on his arm is enough to make other heads turn at his fortune. And finally, her health should cause no concern. While a fainting spell can make a young lady appear delicate, should it happen too frequently, her vitality is questioned. After all, aside from running a household a woman’s sole task lies in her ability to reproduce and carry on the family name. Forgive me when I say that such a life does not appeal to me. I do not wish to be scrutinized like cattle in a farmer’s market. It is possible to marry for love and nothing more. My parents found it and I must believe that I can, too. It is the only way I can survive this new world I am now apart of.

I found myself drifting to the edges of the party. I can only maintain the façade of belonging for so long before I grow weary. It was then that I broke through the carefully maintained walls of upper-society. A young servant girl stumbled and dropped her tray eliciting the attention from those nearby. I rushed to her aid, much to Grandmother’s horror. Her life could have been mine. I knew I could not remain and marry Robert and had it not been for Mother’s letters I never would have found Grandmother. Despite all the distress we cause one another, I will forever be in her debt for sparing me that life.

Grandmother was by my side at once, her talon-like fingers creating shallow bruises upon my arm as she escorted me across the room to where Mr. Petrovich and his aunt stood. Horror gripped me. Had they witnessed my slip? Would they think I was lacking and tell others? I already walk upon cracking glass. The lies Grandmother created when I arrived hold us both prisoner.

If they had seen my error, neither commented on it, instead they greeted us warmly. As my eyes met Mr. Petrovich’s, a chill traced my spine. There was a knowledge in his eyes – a knowledge of me. And then he said the word that confirmed everything I had feared since the invitation had arrived. He referred to my grandmother as my grandmother. Not my aunt or as Mrs. Alcott, but grandmother. My heart sped within my chest, Grandmother’s grip tightening on my arm as her eyes darted round to see if anyone was within earshot. I steeled my gaze as I looked back at him, wondering how he knew; what else he could possibly know about me.

His eyes were sharp and clear, as though they could see straight through me. Despite his apparent knowledge the conversation followed predictable conventions and was predictably dull. That is until both Grandmother and his aunt excused themselves simultaneously. I cannot recall an instance where Grandmother has left me to my own devices in a social setting. Ever afraid of my tainting her standing she monitors my every word, every action. For the first time I find myself wishing that she had not left me this evening. My curiosity over how he had known of my relation to Mrs. Alcott seized me and I questioned him in a less than polite manner. His words haunt me still and cause my hand to tremble as I commit them to paper. “You should hardly concern yourself with such things, Miss Bennet. Surely, no one is more acquainted with you than yourself. I would go as far as to say some might faint with fright if they were to be personally acquainted with you.”

There was no malice in his voice, only forthrightness - though it is possible that the thickness of his accent marred the intent. Our gazes met once more, and again, it was as though he could glimpse my soul with his dark eyes. He turned and walked away, and as I turned I met Constance’s smug gaze. I had seen her watching my conversation with Mr. Petrovich with jealous intrigue. She was used to being the center of attention and undoubtedly miffed that I had garnished the first introduction of the evening. I wanted to walk to her and tell her how insufferable the oh-so-intriguing Mr. Petrovich was. That she was welcome to marry him and I hoped their servants could withstand the biting remarks and cool looks. Instead I retreated into myself, allowing his words to take root.

How did he know is the question I am still pondering. Even after he returned to my side to apologize for his bold admission, I cannot shake what he said. His dark eyes still pierce me even in the stillness of my room. Perhaps what has captivated me most is not the notion that he sees me but how desperately I wish for someone to see past the elaborate role I play daily to see me. If Viktor Petrovich truly does see me perhaps it means that I am worth being seen; that Robert was wrong and there is something redeemable about me after all.

I have grown so accustomed to being invisible that I now desire to know how it feels to be seen.

- Laurel