4th November, 1891 — Malfoy Residence, London
She was making her way relentlessly through a plodding tune on the pianoforte, biding her time until the pieces of her latest scheme fell into place. Estelle had thought it better not to attempt some singing practice alongside this, lest this play on Victoire’s nerves so dreadfully as to see her sister flee the room. (After all, the scheme would not have its full effect if none of her sisters were here to witness it.) So, she had mostly been co-existing with her younger sister in relative peace – she had not made one sniping remark yet today, even though Torie’s mere presence was ordinarily enough to get under her skin and wreck her nerves.
The Malfoys’ drawing room was hardly in the same state of familiarity with visitors at this time of year, now that the season was over. And the last season had seen, Estelle had noted with no small jealousy, an unprecedented number of callers; no doubt because this was the year the youngest flower in the family had finally bloomed, and she had already caught the eye of a fair few sons. But, out of season or no, they still received a guest or a card from time to time. (Though not usually for her. Rarely for her. Almost never for her.)
But cousin Brynn was newly engaged, so the end of summer had not yet wrought the end of her hopes. A match could still be made any time of year; a debutante could not simply hibernate through the winter; and with Brynn’s recent advance towards marriage, Estelle wasn’t sure how many more seasons she would be able to bear with only her sisters for unmarried competition company.
And yet the fact was, Estelle had nevertheless made no real steps forward in the pursuit of being married, and she was beginning to think everyone had simply overlooked her, already written her off for good. Which wasn’t fair. She still had plenty of pride left, and she would have rather liked for someone else – even just the rest of her family! – to see it. To see her worth, just once.
A knock at the door; the butler delivering the day’s owl post on a little silver tray, and in his other hand, an elaborate bouquet of flowers with a little folded card attached. Estelle didn’t move from the piano stool, deliberately leaving Victoire to retrieve it.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking up innocently as the butler left again. “Who are those for? Angeline?” Victoire was the most common recipient, she thought darkly, but she would let Victoire take her sweet time poring over this bouquet. Let her get her hopes up for once, and have to feel that pointed blow when she realised someone was not thinking of her. It was a feeling Estelle knew well.
Something else she knew well, even without sparing it more than a glance, was the bouquet’s contents. The card would read To Miss Estelle Malfoy, with admiration and no signature; the bouquet: rather expensive. The flowers: gardenias and heliotrope – secret love and devotion – blue salvias which meant ‘I think of you’; white camellias for perfected loveliness.
(It was only now that Estelle wondered whether she had, perhaps... lain it on a little too thick.)
The Malfoys’ drawing room was hardly in the same state of familiarity with visitors at this time of year, now that the season was over. And the last season had seen, Estelle had noted with no small jealousy, an unprecedented number of callers; no doubt because this was the year the youngest flower in the family had finally bloomed, and she had already caught the eye of a fair few sons. But, out of season or no, they still received a guest or a card from time to time. (Though not usually for her. Rarely for her. Almost never for her.)
But cousin Brynn was newly engaged, so the end of summer had not yet wrought the end of her hopes. A match could still be made any time of year; a debutante could not simply hibernate through the winter; and with Brynn’s recent advance towards marriage, Estelle wasn’t sure how many more seasons she would be able to bear with only her sisters for unmarried competition company.
And yet the fact was, Estelle had nevertheless made no real steps forward in the pursuit of being married, and she was beginning to think everyone had simply overlooked her, already written her off for good. Which wasn’t fair. She still had plenty of pride left, and she would have rather liked for someone else – even just the rest of her family! – to see it. To see her worth, just once.
A knock at the door; the butler delivering the day’s owl post on a little silver tray, and in his other hand, an elaborate bouquet of flowers with a little folded card attached. Estelle didn’t move from the piano stool, deliberately leaving Victoire to retrieve it.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking up innocently as the butler left again. “Who are those for? Angeline?” Victoire was the most common recipient, she thought darkly, but she would let Victoire take her sweet time poring over this bouquet. Let her get her hopes up for once, and have to feel that pointed blow when she realised someone was not thinking of her. It was a feeling Estelle knew well.
Something else she knew well, even without sparing it more than a glance, was the bouquet’s contents. The card would read To Miss Estelle Malfoy, with admiration and no signature; the bouquet: rather expensive. The flowers: gardenias and heliotrope – secret love and devotion – blue salvias which meant ‘I think of you’; white camellias for perfected loveliness.
(It was only now that Estelle wondered whether she had, perhaps... lain it on a little too thick.)
