There was a fizzle of electricity in her veins at this – deception, or plot, or plan, or whatever it was – that was almost exciting. Invigorating. (Who knew sending flowers to oneself could be such a thrill?)
However. Victoire had not even immediately looked up from her needlepoint. Damn her, Estelle thought, for being so self-centred as not to care about anything else in the world but her own work. Except then Victoire had followed it up with a sentiment so guilelessly generous and pitying towards Angeline, so – well – fine, then, damn her for being so selfless and considerate! Estelle felt her jaw set together as solidly as if she had been chewing treacle. She just couldn’t win with Victoire, could she? (Well, who could? It was in her sister’s name. Victoire might be the most altruistic or the most self-absorbed specimen of a girl in the world – and yet, either way, she would also always be the most infuriating.)
It was why Estelle cared a little less in this instance about whether or not Angeline was there to witness the bouquet’s arrival. Her other sister would be waltz in sometime later today to read the card for herself, which would be something, and Victoire had a point about one thing: Angeline was just too erratic to gain anyone’s attention (at least, not for the right reasons). It might have given Estelle ample reason to complain about her elder sister too, yes, but it was certainly easier to feel a little sympathy or superiority there, a little less triumph. No, the joy here would be to see a glimmer of surprise in Victoire’s face, to force her younger sister to say nice things to her, or to imagine that Estelle was well-thought of by someone in society, after all. One small dent in Victoire’s superiority would not make her bearable, Estelle was certain, but this was bound to be a start.
But only if she actually looked at it.
So Estelle also kept her place at the piano stool as if her derrière had also been glued to it by treacle, because she was stubborn enough not to give up on a scheme before it had played out to its full potential, and she had to be subtle about how she played this. What does the card say? Torie had asked – and Estelle had noticed her set aside her embroidery – so here indeed were some signs that her sister was harbouring a little curiosity... And Estelle simply couldn’t feign curiosity, because she never did ordinarily, because the trinkets and gestures were never for her, and her sisters would never believe her if she started crooning over gifts for them.
So she only gave a haughty shrug, a barely-disguised huff to say pfft, why ought I care about that, if it’s for one of you, and made a show of settling her eyes back on the sheet music. Estelle replaced her fingers upon the keys and began to play again. Albeit, this time, slower and more softly than before, in case her sister picked up the card and read it aloud, or said anything else; and indeed with a few slipped notes to the song, because her gaze was trained not on the sheet music at all, but, out of the corner of her eye, on her sister and the bouquet.
However. Victoire had not even immediately looked up from her needlepoint. Damn her, Estelle thought, for being so self-centred as not to care about anything else in the world but her own work. Except then Victoire had followed it up with a sentiment so guilelessly generous and pitying towards Angeline, so – well – fine, then, damn her for being so selfless and considerate! Estelle felt her jaw set together as solidly as if she had been chewing treacle. She just couldn’t win with Victoire, could she? (Well, who could? It was in her sister’s name. Victoire might be the most altruistic or the most self-absorbed specimen of a girl in the world – and yet, either way, she would also always be the most infuriating.)
It was why Estelle cared a little less in this instance about whether or not Angeline was there to witness the bouquet’s arrival. Her other sister would be waltz in sometime later today to read the card for herself, which would be something, and Victoire had a point about one thing: Angeline was just too erratic to gain anyone’s attention (at least, not for the right reasons). It might have given Estelle ample reason to complain about her elder sister too, yes, but it was certainly easier to feel a little sympathy or superiority there, a little less triumph. No, the joy here would be to see a glimmer of surprise in Victoire’s face, to force her younger sister to say nice things to her, or to imagine that Estelle was well-thought of by someone in society, after all. One small dent in Victoire’s superiority would not make her bearable, Estelle was certain, but this was bound to be a start.
But only if she actually looked at it.
So Estelle also kept her place at the piano stool as if her derrière had also been glued to it by treacle, because she was stubborn enough not to give up on a scheme before it had played out to its full potential, and she had to be subtle about how she played this. What does the card say? Torie had asked – and Estelle had noticed her set aside her embroidery – so here indeed were some signs that her sister was harbouring a little curiosity... And Estelle simply couldn’t feign curiosity, because she never did ordinarily, because the trinkets and gestures were never for her, and her sisters would never believe her if she started crooning over gifts for them.
So she only gave a haughty shrug, a barely-disguised huff to say pfft, why ought I care about that, if it’s for one of you, and made a show of settling her eyes back on the sheet music. Estelle replaced her fingers upon the keys and began to play again. Albeit, this time, slower and more softly than before, in case her sister picked up the card and read it aloud, or said anything else; and indeed with a few slipped notes to the song, because her gaze was trained not on the sheet music at all, but, out of the corner of her eye, on her sister and the bouquet.
