It wasn’t light yet when she woke; the early hours of the morning. She probably had a few more hours in bed, but something had stirred her from sleep – she felt oddly bloated, maybe, and uncomfortable; or her bladder was full. She got out of bed and fished for the chamberpot under it rather than disturb anyone by going down the stairs. The contents vanished; Jemima had been about to crawl back under the covers when she registered that there was the murmur of voices already. Someone was awake.
It had to be Ford, because there was no one else but him on their floor, no one else to hear: but either he was talking in his sleep, which was new, or he was talking to someone. Was something wrong? Jemima felt a flash of uncertainty, a muddled concern. Blinking herself better awake, she moved to her door and cracked it open. None of the family were congregated on the landing; the voices were coming from Ford’s bedroom. Perhaps she ought to leave this be, but it was odd, wasn’t it? So she moved across the hall to his room instead. Even in her winter nightdress, she shivered here, feeling a waft of cold air under the crack of the door – and hearing muffled snatches of conversation. Her hand was on the doorknob, but she paused there, perplexed. Miss you, had that been, or kiss you? She heard the word married; something dropped in her stomach; and it sounded like the other person was going to leave, and Jemima thought surely she was imagining this, that it was all a bad dream, because for some reason the other person sounded like a man.
The nightmare got worse. Love of my life, the other man said, and Jemima tensed for the reply. When no answer came, her pulse gave a jagged leap. Were they kissing now? They had gone worryingly quiet – was he going to leave? – or was she going to let this alone and tiptoe back to bed, hoping and praying she was perfectly wrong about everything she had just heard?
Her heart was drumming in her ears, so she didn’t know how loud or softly she had done it: but Ford’s bedroom door swung open before her. They were still there, Ford and his friend, not kissing as she’d dreaded but – entwined, nestled into each other in a way that was – was –
“His what?” Jemima echoed shrilly.
It had to be Ford, because there was no one else but him on their floor, no one else to hear: but either he was talking in his sleep, which was new, or he was talking to someone. Was something wrong? Jemima felt a flash of uncertainty, a muddled concern. Blinking herself better awake, she moved to her door and cracked it open. None of the family were congregated on the landing; the voices were coming from Ford’s bedroom. Perhaps she ought to leave this be, but it was odd, wasn’t it? So she moved across the hall to his room instead. Even in her winter nightdress, she shivered here, feeling a waft of cold air under the crack of the door – and hearing muffled snatches of conversation. Her hand was on the doorknob, but she paused there, perplexed. Miss you, had that been, or kiss you? She heard the word married; something dropped in her stomach; and it sounded like the other person was going to leave, and Jemima thought surely she was imagining this, that it was all a bad dream, because for some reason the other person sounded like a man.
The nightmare got worse. Love of my life, the other man said, and Jemima tensed for the reply. When no answer came, her pulse gave a jagged leap. Were they kissing now? They had gone worryingly quiet – was he going to leave? – or was she going to let this alone and tiptoe back to bed, hoping and praying she was perfectly wrong about everything she had just heard?
Her heart was drumming in her ears, so she didn’t know how loud or softly she had done it: but Ford’s bedroom door swung open before her. They were still there, Ford and his friend, not kissing as she’d dreaded but – entwined, nestled into each other in a way that was – was –
“His what?” Jemima echoed shrilly.
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Adrienne Lestrange, Fortitude Greengrass, Noble Greengrass, Rosalie Hunniford, Tycho Dodonus
