A writing assignment of mine from three years ago. We had to take the first couple of lines from Pride and Prejudice and expand on them. This was the result.

Eleanor

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering in the leafless shrubbery for an hour in the morning, admiring the way the frost on the skeletal branches turned amber in the new sun, the way the moon still hung in the sky of the dawn. St. Martin's roses, now slightly rotted from the November cold, were still a beautiful deep crimson.

Indeed, this garden in the hands of a less experienced gardener would have been sleeping in the frost by now, but Eleanor's touch had assured that those roses might still be blooming into early December, still life on an otherwise empty canvas.

Eleanor's elegantly gloved hands silently touched the frozen last of the autumn leaves, the white satin of her gloes almost rubbing off the crimson frost. Her walk, a light dance on the brittle ground, barely disturbed the yellowish grass. In envied her natural grace, the way she so seamlessly fit into the garden's scene, the way the stray thorns from the rose bushes did not snag on her voluminous skirts and coat.

I, on the other hand, stumbled through the thorns and the slippery frost. When I did fall, a hand gloved in satin paused from caressing frozen petals and leaes, and offered me support as I struggled back up, leaving earthy gouges from my hard little boots. We laughed, her delicate voice of mirth contrasting with my deeper chuckle, but those sounds so broke the serenity that we very soon stopped.

It was only when the cold finally got to Eleanor's pale cheeks that her hand wandered to her face, trying to rub some warmth in the now rosy flesh. A stray black lock fell into her soft brown eyes like a thin shadow, and that was when impatience flashed in her eyes. She would tuck that lock back into her bonnet, while I noticed with annoyance that the curl hung from where the rest of her hair was. But now that it was out of her sight, Eleanor did not care anymore.

I could not understand my need for my older sister to be perfect, or her uncaring attitude about being so flawless. I suppose it came easier to Eleanor, and she took it for granted. She only spilled her perfection into the garden, the garden that she worshiped almost to the extreme. It had always been Eleanor's garden, and now it reflected her in every aspect.

She had made it into the Garden of Eden. And she had made the task look so easy, too. All she did was trim the once-wild bushes and make a path in the overgrown grass, and she had recreated Paradise.

Yes, I was jealous. Jealous of Eleanor.