Eleventh Day of Christmas #2
Two maids brought in the tea cart, and the ladies arose and began to look over the sandwiches and cakes.
“How prettily they are decorated,” said Gussie.
“The Windy Nook staff is simply marvelous and so attentive to every detail,” said Mrs. Martinez. “I adore a sweet cake with my tea.”
How could they be talking about cake? Kestrel felt like the world had been eviscerated and spilled its guts all over her.
“Miss Spinster, may I be mother and serve you tea?” asked Mrs. Martinez. “You look as if you could use some spiriting up.”
“That’s nice of you. You’re nice, aren’t you, Mrs. Martinez?”
The woman had a gentleness that Kestrel was certain Hank appreciated. There was nothing gentle about Kestrel. Maybe Greta Great-Family was gentle, too, and tame, and perfectly broken. He would do better with such a woman.
“You know, I could use some spiriting up,” said Kestrel, going to the drink cart in the corner. She poured a splash of amber-colored liquid into her tea and downed the whole concoction.
Her whirling thoughts slowed and swayed and twisted into harmless nonsense, so Kestrel filled her emptied teacup entirely with spirits and began to sip that. She barely noted the flavor, only feeling the burn.
Two teacups and a whole lot of conversation Kestrel hadn’t bothered to follow later, she was lying prostrate on a couch or lounge or settee or something. The thinking part of her mind was pleasantly shut down.
“Miss Spinster, your behavior is quite shocking,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“Is it?” Kestrel smiled slowly. “I don’t mind. I mean, shocking is fun, right?”
Gussie fussed over her. Mrs. Martinez was trying to feed Kestrel sips of water. Lady Heartwright had some kind of fainting spell that required the Hardy Boys to come carry her out.
Excessively entertained by that, Kestrel yelled “Encore!” And then groaned at whoever was shouting so loudly. Then giggled when she remembered that it had been her. Then frowned at herself for taking so long to realize it.
Kestrel was not accustomed to her own drunken self. She didn’t require the aid of alcohol to lose inhibitions and didn’t normally enjoy the sluggish, sleepy, slurry feeling that coursed through her limbs and coated her brain. She wanted life turned up to eleven, not muffled and dulled.
But right now, life could jump off a cliff for all she cared. Life could wreck itself. Life could take this job and shove it.
She managed to stand upright and lurch toward the drinks cart. She abandoned hope of being able to fill the teacup with any steadiness and, after taking the bottle by its neck, took a swig with cold abandon.
“That is quite enough!” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, wresting the bottle from her hand.
Mrs. Martinez took charge of Kestrel, sitting with her on a sofa and stroking her head until Andrews bustled into the room.
“Andrews, what are you doing at Winny Nook?” asked Kestrel. “Did I say that right? You didn’t come to Winny Nook just for me? Widdy? Widdy . . .”
“As luck would have it, I happened to already be here,” said Andrews.
Kestrel looked around and noticed a roomful of women frowning at her.
“Oh,” she said. “I think this is prolly a regret sort of situation.”
“Come, come, my love,” Andrews said, an arm around her shoulders. “Lean into me. Let’s walk out together, shall we?”
His voice was soothing, and she clung to him as they stumbled down the front steps and into the darkened “carriage.” She felt it start to move, took a breath, and began to weep.
“I’m soooooo sorry,” said Kestrel.
“That’s quite all right,” said Andrews.
“No, it’s not. I’m so sorry, Andrews! This was suppose to be your free time, right? But I intoxicated myself like a noob so you had to save the guests from me. And I rilly rilly rilly wanted you to like me and be my friend forever and ever, and I messed that up gooood.”
“You don’t need to talk,” said Andrews. “Or breathe in my general direction quite so forcefully, there’s a good girl.”
“I am a Fanny!” Kestrel moaned.
“Oh don’t say that! You are not! What a horrible thing to say.”
Even in her dampened state, she could tell by his forceful reaction that he must not have quite understood her. Perhaps she was slurring her words, so she shouted very clearly, “I AM A FANNY!”
Edwin swerved the car but righted it quickly.
“Kestrel! Stop it!” said Andrews.
Kestrel frowned. “I mean that I’m being a Fanny Price?” she said, referring to the heroine of Mansfield Park.
Andrews laughed. “That word—her name—it means something quite different in present-day Britain.”
“I’m Fanny Price because she’s the killjoy, right?
And I ruined my friendship with Charming, and I ruined that stupid tea visit.
But Fanny Price would never get drunk, especially when she’s trying so hard to be her best self so everybody will love her forever and bring her into their lil’ family group.
That’s all Fanny wants, a lil’ family group to love her and accept her as she is.
I really love this lil’ family group. Lil’.
That sounds funny. Lil’ lil’ lil’. Is it a word? ”
“I am glad you’re not a mean drunk, darling, but I’m sorry to inform you that you are not a linguistic drunk.”
“Lin-goo-i-stick. That’s a funny word too.”
“What do you do, Kestrel?” he asked. “When you’re not Miss Spinster or winning dance marathons, what is your occupation?”
“You mean, currently?” she asked. “Or, like, the whole list? It’s a long list.”
“I see.”
“Currently I’m Miss Spinster in a horseless carriage, and I would like to stay Miss Spinster, though not in the horseless carriage. Oh, Andrews”—she clutched the lapels of his jacket—“I really want to stay.”
“But not in the horseless carriage.”
Kestrel started to laugh but quickly puffed out her cheeks and groaned. All that high tea was rising dangerously high.
“Edwin, pull over!” Andrews shouted.
Edwin swerved to the curb. Kestrel opened the door and heaved everything onto the roadside. It burned as it came up. And it did indeed taste like regret.
Back at Pembrook Park, Juliette made Kestrel drink a tall glass of water before she rescued her from her dress and corset and let her flop down into bed.
When she opened her eyes again, night had fallen like an avalanche, her tongue seemed to be formed out of cotton balls, and Charming was standing by her bed.
“Hi,” squeaked Kestrel.
“Hidey-ho yourself,” said Charming. She rang the bell, and soon a maid dropped off a tray with a pot of hot tea and a cold chicken sandwich.
Kestrel carefully sat up, and since her head seemed to swivel all the way around like an owl’s, she knew she was still some degree of intoxicated. She held very still while Charming poured her tea.
“Eat,” said Charming.
So Kestrel did, between bites taking little sips of bitter tea. There was a pot of honey, but she didn’t feel like she deserved it.
Charming sighed, and Kestrel braced herself to hear: “It’s time you went home.”
But instead, Charming’s voice turned heavy and sad as she said, “I shouldn’t’ve let Bobby within five inches of this place.”
“No!” said Kestrel.
Charming startled at her vigor.
“Sorry, but no self-blame! You did what you had to do. In the end, you saw him clearly, and that was not an easy victory. Guys like Bobby are so sneakily manipulative, they make you believe they’re your only option.”
Charming squinted at her. “How do you know?”
Kestrel waved a dismissive hand, signaling that it was too long a story. “‘Nobody else will love you, you’re so lucky to have me, so be exactly who I want you to be or you’ll die alone, blah blah blah.’ It’s so awful and so boring and yet so effective. But it’s also so false.”
“I knew what Bobby is like,” said Charming defensively. “I’m not a ding-dong.”
“Of course not.”
“But I wasn’t any happier alone, so I thought . . .” Charming sat on the foot of her bed. “I thought, maybe the good parts will be worth the bad parts, you know? And I so badly wanted to go to the ball for once with someone who was actually in love with me.”
Kestrel nodded and then regretted what the nodding did to her swooping vision. “I’ve been reeled in before, and it feels amazing for a while, right? Like, finally somebody gets me! Finally somebody makes me feel like I’m worth something! But the good part doesn’t last.”
“And soon it feels like you’ve been squashed under his heel,” said Charming, “and you’re lying there all flat and stiff and sure you’ll never pop back up again.”
“You’re a poet, missus,” said Kestrel.
Charming played with a ruffle on her neckline, and looking like an insecure preteen, she asked, “You really have been reeled in too?”
“As a kid, I was in a literal cult, so that was fun. And there was this forty-year-old ranch owner when I was eighteen. Oh, and the bartender when I was twenty-two! I forgot about that noxious tool.”
“How did you get away from the tool?” asked Charming.
Kestrel shrugged. “I had some good friends who helped me see it and supported me out of it.”
“Good friends are good,” said Charming.
“They really are.”
“Andrews tried, but I wasn’t ready yet.”
“And that’s okay,” Kestrel said. “We’re ready when we’re ready. So in the end, what changed for you?”
Charming shimmied her whole body, as if trying to scare away flies or unstick an uncomfortable emotion.
“My first session, I came in here with my hands full of money, paying to be loved and pampered. But when I stayed on, Andrews kept on pampering me, even between sessions. And it kinda freaked me out! I tried to tip him extra, but he refused my money and just kept being kind. At first I was sure he was an all-out phoney, but soon, kinda magically, his kindness started to feel real as oatmeal.”
Kestrel understood completely. “Andrews was showing you what it feels like to be in a relationship with someone whose love isn’t transactional.”
“Maybe,” Charming said with a doubtful face. “Depending on what transactional means.”
“The transactional a-holes love you if you give them something in return—money or loyalty or obedience—rather than just loving because they adore you.”