Prelude - Part 3
Prelude- Part 2
Turning the first page, you run your fingers down the length of vellum...their tips tracing the faded black ink in its delicate scrolls and arches. The first few paragraphs seem foreign, as if a familiar voice had taken on a tone you could not quite recognize. You know the words as if by heart...the ring of phrase that captures unknown images and untasted experiences so eloquently on the tip of the tongue...each one inviting you into the author's world. And yet, they seem to stumble off the page, before your heart can discern their meaning and discover their subtle music, note by note...
April 24, 1822
Delhi, India
It has been a scant week since we arrived in India, my brother and I...scant as in time spent, certainly not the riches of experience. The journey alone could fill at least two books, but I will save the crossing and arrival for another time and place. I wish to bore no one with what I view as sublime, least of all myself..and I fear my words at times are simply games.
I am considered by many to be a somewhat seasoned young woman. My travels have been legion, certainly more than the average English female aristocrat is deemed to find acceptable. The lures and splendors of Europe are no mystery to me; yet I still find them to be experiences beyond the shallow edge of common imagination. . I have wandered the banks of the Seine; I have sampled the splendors of Vienna; and I have known the curious pitch and toss of Venice in its glory...but nothing has prepared me for this assault of the senses. This is a land truly torn from the pages of enchantment...a rough, wild beauty perfumed by mystery and every redolent spice your dark imagination can conjure. It is a landscape woven from extremes...simple, arid beauty that steals away the stars , and a violence of bodies clashing with each pulse of breath.
We are currently the guests of an old family friend, a one time compatriot and "partner in crime" to our father. They were childhood friends at Eton and kept close company for years, until our current host felt the pinch of financial obligations and decided to move his family where there was more potential to regain former glories without the ghosts of failure dogging his every step. Desperation can make for strange bedfellows at times, it would seem...and the subcontinent of India is an artist at seduction. Lord Darthmore has opened his home to us. We are ensconced in the family seat for a month, with plans to return to England in May, before what they call "Monsoon Season" sets in.
The product of a somewhat eccentric household, I have little room to concern myself with the peculiarities of others as far as families go, but I am always a student of human nature and all its variations. Lord Darthmore is the perfect host, the perfect English gentleman's mask always in place...and not a moment out of time or wasted. And yet, I can sense a dark underbelly...an appetite belied by a flaccid smile that sinks just below the surface of the soul. Perhaps it is his eyes...there is a glint there not usually found with docile sheep or those content to maintain the status quo or live life as dictated by others. I have watched him watch those around him and found his response troubling.
His wife, Lady Clarissa, is a spent, dried creature..old beyond her years and somewhat withered in her apathy to life. I find her studying me in private moments with a concentration that borders on frightening. Their daughter, Beatrice, is the proverbial porcelain tea cup, all bone china glossed over in a pale pink hue...just ripe for the plucking. I sense discord there.. a war raging under the surface of translucent skin. The features are too perfect...there is no harmony between the slightly vacant eyes and the mouth that cannot quite force itself into something resembling a smile. My companions for the next month, it would seem. Whatever shall we make of each other?
In another two days, we shall visit the city's market. I have managed to negotiate this as a trip for just my brother, Beatrice, myself and a guide hired especially for the expedition. Lady Darthmore's apathy extends to her own flesh and blood, thankfully and Lord Darthmore is too preoccupied with his purse strings
Turning the first page, you run your fingers down the length of vellum...their tips tracing the faded black ink in its delicate scrolls and arches. The first few paragraphs seem foreign, as if a familiar voice had taken on a tone you could not quite recognize. You know the words as if by heart...the ring of phrase that captures unknown images and untasted experiences so eloquently on the tip of the tongue...each one inviting you into the author's world. And yet, they seem to stumble off the page, before your heart can discern their meaning and discover their subtle music, note by note...
April 24, 1822
Delhi, India
It has been a scant week since we arrived in India, my brother and I...scant as in time spent, certainly not the riches of experience. The journey alone could fill at least two books, but I will save the crossing and arrival for another time and place. I wish to bore no one with what I view as sublime, least of all myself..and I fear my words at times are simply games.
I am considered by many to be a somewhat seasoned young woman. My travels have been legion, certainly more than the average English female aristocrat is deemed to find acceptable. The lures and splendors of Europe are no mystery to me; yet I still find them to be experiences beyond the shallow edge of common imagination. . I have wandered the banks of the Seine; I have sampled the splendors of Vienna; and I have known the curious pitch and toss of Venice in its glory...but nothing has prepared me for this assault of the senses. This is a land truly torn from the pages of enchantment...a rough, wild beauty perfumed by mystery and every redolent spice your dark imagination can conjure. It is a landscape woven from extremes...simple, arid beauty that steals away the stars , and a violence of bodies clashing with each pulse of breath.
We are currently the guests of an old family friend, a one time compatriot and "partner in crime" to our father. They were childhood friends at Eton and kept close company for years, until our current host felt the pinch of financial obligations and decided to move his family where there was more potential to regain former glories without the ghosts of failure dogging his every step. Desperation can make for strange bedfellows at times, it would seem...and the subcontinent of India is an artist at seduction. Lord Darthmore has opened his home to us. We are ensconced in the family seat for a month, with plans to return to England in May, before what they call "Monsoon Season" sets in.
The product of a somewhat eccentric household, I have little room to concern myself with the peculiarities of others as far as families go, but I am always a student of human nature and all its variations. Lord Darthmore is the perfect host, the perfect English gentleman's mask always in place...and not a moment out of time or wasted. And yet, I can sense a dark underbelly...an appetite belied by a flaccid smile that sinks just below the surface of the soul. Perhaps it is his eyes...there is a glint there not usually found with docile sheep or those content to maintain the status quo or live life as dictated by others. I have watched him watch those around him and found his response troubling.
His wife, Lady Clarissa, is a spent, dried creature..old beyond her years and somewhat withered in her apathy to life. I find her studying me in private moments with a concentration that borders on frightening. Their daughter, Beatrice, is the proverbial porcelain tea cup, all bone china glossed over in a pale pink hue...just ripe for the plucking. I sense discord there.. a war raging under the surface of translucent skin. The features are too perfect...there is no harmony between the slightly vacant eyes and the mouth that cannot quite force itself into something resembling a smile. My companions for the next month, it would seem. Whatever shall we make of each other?
In another two days, we shall visit the city's market. I have managed to negotiate this as a trip for just my brother, Beatrice, myself and a guide hired especially for the expedition. Lady Darthmore's apathy extends to her own flesh and blood, thankfully and Lord Darthmore is too preoccupied with his purse strings