Ficlet: Unfinished love
Spamming my flist tonight. Sorry. This is just something I wrote in 50 minutes. Unbetaed and all that. I just had to kill someone, to get it out of my system. I apologize. My only excuse is that I came up with this idea when I was on my way to dentist...
She credited herself of the change in him. She had not imagined that Bertram could turn to be the perfect husband so quickly but that, of course, was all her doing. Even her stepmother agreed. She had done good job in moulding him.
He read philosophy. Not that Spinoza could be classified as a great philosopher but it was better than nothing. He also read Burns, Shakespeare and other poets’ works as well as Serious Literature instead of those Red Wests or the kind. Well, he did read Wilde too, but nobody was perfect. She could forgive that. It meant nothing.
He was also a great father. Their daughter was only four and a half years old but he spent so much time with her. He taught her to play piano. His taste in those musical pieces had improved too, as all the music hall ditties he was once so fond of were forgotten and the talented fingers that ran over the ivories only followed the notes by the great masters like Chopin and Mozart.
And he had abandoned his old club and its members. No Littles, Bangos, Barmies, Bassingtons or Gussies visited him for whatever reason they had sought his company earlier. He was a member of the circles his wife introduced him to, intellectual ones that were good for him. No more stealing of police helmet or roll cricket. He had finally gotten some sense.
But she did not realise the truth, nor did he want her to. Or in fact he didn’t care. All he cared of was his daughter, his dear little Regina. All the rest... He read because he had read those books, played the music he had loved, improved his mind the way he had always done. He was the perfect gentleman from the handkerchief in his pocket to the matters of the foot-wear. No polka-dots, stripes, ill-suitable colours, alpine hats or silky handkerchiefs. He was sensible.
She credited herself of the change. Had she looked deep in her husband’s eyes even for once she would have known the change had happened months before they had walked down the aisle. If she had taken a little closer look she would have known he didn’t sleep at nights. Had she seen how the smile on his lips died every time he finished Fantaisie-Impromptu and looked over his shoulder where his servant hadn’t stood in many years, she would have realised that even beyond the grave someone else had more influence in her husband than she ever could have.