"Brocade"

I.

She tosses her head back in a bout of obnoxious childish laughter, the warm candlelight dancing in her eyes. She must think it endearing, this shameful display of mirth. Her arrogance is hardly masked by this gesture; quite the opposite, it is made all the more apparent.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

The room is very richly-dressed, a reflection of the social standings of the home's elderly occupants. They— or the wife at least— must prefer pure crystal above all else; much of the ceiling is taken up by a grand chandelier which would rival even the most ornate objects of Versailles. The tray on the table between us is still set for tea although both of our cups lay untouched. I do not have the stomach for tea this day; nor, I gather, does she.

Peculiarly enough, a large crystal vase of moldering lilies has been placed at its centre, gathering dust. I can't help but to wonder— out of morbid curiosity— whether she has saved them from a funeral. She can't be in mourning; she dresses too extravagantly for that. She seems to drown in an unhealthy spectacle of fabrics and brocade— a clash of red petticoats and several twisting skirts. Although a veil conceals most of her wrinkled face, I am able to gather that her cheeks and lips are caked with rouge. She wears an oversized broach at her throat. The room is scrupulously clean; the vase of repugnant flowers seem an unwelcome intrusion and yet, there they remain, forever gathering a smattering of dust and decay.

Each window in the room has been carefully bolted to block the entry of the harsh wind which could easily decimate the bones and soul of any warm-blooded man. The day is overcast— vile. One could even call it squalid, reflecting the troublesome goings-on of the insipid world around us. "Could you even call a day like this summer?" she asks herself, shaking her head in revulsion. I am not altogether convinced that this matron so despises the weather— she seems to have reveled in it, as an excuse to overdress and exaggerate her homely features.

I am an unlikely candidate to adapt to such surroundings effortlessly; the abrasive façade of decadence renders me naked, inconsequential. I've besmirched many a parlor-room before with my simple attire and odd pedestrian mannerisms. By societal standards, I am common trash. And yet, she has invited me into her home from a chance meeting on the filthy streets of London as if I am an equal.

"You really should have a brandy," she suggests for the tenth time. (I do not drink).

"No," I reply, cracking my knuckles— a nervous habit I can't seem to break.

"You're very much like my father then," she laughs gaily, inclining a heavily bejeweled hand to a faded photograph of the man, "Never enjoyed the pleasures in life much," she snubs out a cigarette before lighting another.

I see little resemblance between myself and the grim-looking man in the photograph, but nod my head in mock agreement. I note that her voice possesses qualities of an accent which have been muddled (most arguably) over the course of adulthood and marriage.

"He died nearly a decade ago," she continues nonchalantly puffing on the cigarette in a very brutish way, "Something to do with an overturned carriage and a mad horse. I hated the old simpleton."

Taken aback at the severity of her words, my eyes widen in slight surprise. She does not notice and instead busies herself with a second tumbler of whiskey. My nostrils flare in distaste as the stench of it invades my senses like an ill-tempered demon. The fire cracks lazily in the background as a silence falls between us. I note that her graying hair has been dyed a blatant auburn. (It does not suit her at all). She seems the matronly type, in spite of her supercilious gesticulations.

She commands the house with a firm hand, enjoying the insatiable desire of being spoiled by her servants and wholly resented by them. They follow her as if she were Queen Victoria herself and had bustled in and out of the parlor room to get everything ready for her. While I waited to meet her there, the fire was lit, the tapestries quickly beaten and a silver tea tray set on the elegant table in front of me.

After having dismissed the servants, I was expected to rise from my seat and kiss the her hand once she'd offered it to me. I couldn't help but nearly wretch at the pungent odor of her eau de cologne: chrysanthemums. The scent of it insults me.

"From what my husband has told me, he finds you to be a very gifted student in language. Particularly French and Latin."

I am taken aback by her sudden compliment, "I've studied language nearly my whole life… my father left us all but destitute. I've gotten by mainly off of scholarships since then."

"Yes, my husband has told me that your translations are impeccable. Flawless, even. He has never known a boy to have mastered so many languages at such a young age," her eyes shine with amusement again as if I am the butt of some unknown practical joke. Her sense of humor is entirely lost on me.

"I am merely eighteen," I admit. My hands are slightly shaking now; I feel my body tensing up with unease. Only as an excuse of something to do, I pour a generous amount of warm milk into my teacup, sloshing most of it down the sides.

"Why must you fidget so?" she asks casually, "It makes me nervous."

"My apologies," I avert my eyes in slight embarrassment and mop up most of the mess with one of the cream-colored handkerchiefs on the tray, which is emblazoned with the initials "R.D." in thin thread that has an almost bloody hue about it.

"Renée Delacroix; a cousin. Died last spring… de la fièvre. Pardon an old woman's schoolgirl French, if you will. I was never keen on the subject. She died sans mari, as they say. I was bequeathed the entirety of her dowry," her eyes narrow in something that is next to petty greed. "A fine woman… never much sense, though," she pauses to wipe her gnarled hands upon an identical handkerchief that has been laid out beside the teapots.

I clench my own handkerchief, appalled by the morose qualities that seem interwoven between its threads. I absentmindedly trace the dead woman's initials as my hands steady themselves, before carefully sopping up the beads of perspiration that have gathered on my forehead.

We seem to be cut off from the rest of the world in this cozy little room… I can't stand the thought of it at all. It feels indecent, to say the very least.

A clock chimes, bringing back a sense of time to the room, "I'm expected home soon," I whisper, more to myself.

Whether she takes me seriously, I cannot say, "My husband has informed me that you've decided to give your place up at his university for the fall term."

"Yes," I whisper through clenched teeth, unnerved by the touchiness of the subject, "With home life the way it is, I've decided not to continue with schooling."

"He was very disappointed to have heard it, boy. Yes, very disappointed," she picks at a spot on her chin through the veil; her voice is still firm and almost biting. I am surprised that her words are not slurred with drink.

"I have hitherto made my regrets known to him," I explicate feebly, "I did not have much choice in the matter, as I'm sure you're aware. I have abandoned my studies and taken up an additional job at the printing press to provide for myself and my mother."

"Surely only for the time being?" she interjects, almost enthusiastically.

"Yes, only for the time being… if I can manage it," I finish lamely.

"How ill is she?" the old woman finally manages, at last cutting to the chase, "how I pity her… and I've never seen her in town, I must admit."

"A doctor up at Westminster told us she would die before the month was out… that was a two years ago. Right before I took up my place at Cambridge."

"You're a very determined young man, or so I've gathered. What has made you decide to abandon your education altogether?"

"Financially, it has always been a struggle. Ever since Father left us when I was a youth. He was a nasty piece of work. A German," I feel intoxicated by the smothering heat of the room. Although I would rather have them forever stifled, the words nonetheless tumble out of me rapidly as she continues to prompt me.

"Ah, yes, I figured your heritage was Germanic. Your surname—"

"I meant to have it dropped and adopt my mother's maiden name… she wouldn't hear of it, of course."

"No, I daresay it would be far too upsetting for a woman of her temperament. She is very frail— she suffers a weak heart, does she not?" I am suddenly able place the woman's accent as watered-down Irish.

"Yes. I have always felt obligated to keep my mother at peace."

"What a selfless young man you are. And you don't resent your mother at all, do you, boy?"

Ah, the clincher of the matter; in any case, I must not let on the true nature of my feelings… They scandalize even myself.

I can not meet her gaze as I form a reply, "No," I lie, "not one bit."

"I feel that such personalities are few and far between in this world. Wouldn't you agree?" she smoothes out her ruffled skirts and carefully adjusts hers broach again. She must look in on her reflection by way of mirror constantly on a daily basis.

"Yes, one could easily arrive at such a conclusion."

She does not hear me and instead gazes out of the window again, "Sorry that I must digress from the matter at hand… But, I must confess that I can't help but worry over my husband this evening. Is that naïve of me?"

"No, but it was necessary for him to travel overseas this year. I am certain that he shall be returned to you in full health."

"Your optimism comforts me. Such a waif of a thing you are too. You seem an overgrown street urchin in those secondhand clothes. Not a Cambridge student-- far from it."

I sense my cheeks reddening.

"Yes, you matched my husband's description perfectly. I've been hearing of your troubles for quite some time now… such regrettable circumstances, my dear. My heart aches for you."

"Don't waste your sympathies on me, madam. I—"

"Please. Allow me to continue."

"By all means," I wring my hands together expectantly as she clears her throat.

"As you know, I am a very wealthy woman. I have not always been very generous with my fortune, no, but I admire your determination in this world. I should very much like to see you rise up in it. Even if I were to help you, financially…"

"I couldn't possibly—"

"I would like to provide a private nurse for your mother and take care of those nasty medical bills that plague you so. A young man of twenty—"

"Eighteen," I interject.

"— eighteen, should not be so indebted. I'll also ensure that you are able to keep your scholarship, and take your place up at Cambridge again this fall. In addition, I'll have my tailor brought in to make some suits for you. I wouldn't want my ward wandering around Britain, looking like a sickly pauper in torn rags," she laughs at the blunt irony of this statement. "But would you be willing to accept my terms?"

I fiddle with the buttons on my shirtsleeve, hardly daring to believe my luck, "It is my greatest desire to finish my education. I shan't deny it to anyone."

"My husband has remarked on many an occasion that not only are you fit to be a professor at any university on this continent, but also maintain the qualities necessary to one day replace him as Dean."

Unable to stifle my ego, I am now glowing with pride; I suddenly feel terribly dirty and self-conscious of my appearance all over again.

"He is very kind to think so. My aspirations do not reach that high, of course," this is a blatant lie, but it is dubious that she shall comprehend it.

"In time, you shall be regarded very highly, dear. I shall see to it and provide for it in any manner I see fit, given the circumstances."

"But, madam, how could I ever possibly repay you? A private nurse…"

"Your mother's health shall be my concern now, boy. I have but one favor to ask of you, but cannot possibly even think to ask it on such a loathsome day. It is far too fantastic," her words drip with withheld vigor— even her Irish accent becomes easier to pick up on. "I would like to meet with you again, in two weeks' time. You'll be expected to enter this household properly dressed. I'll see to it that a tailor visits you within a few days. It is prudent that you look the part, as my own ward."

I even manage to chuckle at this second jab at my appearance, before standing again to take leave of her, "I can hardly find the words to thank you for your kindness."

"You shall find them at length, I daresay," she offers her hand and I gently kiss it again before turning again to head out onto the streets again.

"Take care, dear," she calls to me as I reenter the house's entryway again. A servant stands at the ready; she hands me my coat before joining the old woman in the parlor room and closing the door securely behind them.