tiles of the floor. “I wish you would call again,” she said awkwardly, unable to understand why she felt so extraordinarily shy.
Maeve’s fingers squeezed her own. “Then I will, Catherine dear. For you. Until then.” She smiled widely at Catherine, and then turned and made her way down the steps. Halfway down she turned back, glancing at the statue which stood there. “And I’d love to draw this statue,” she called. “Maybe when I return.” Catherine looked at the half-naked stone woman and her throat felt tight. There was no reasonable answer, so she simply let Maeve’s comment hang in the air and drift away on the autumn breeze.
Maeve walked in the direction of the beech avenue. Her carriage waited for her at the end of the driveway, since she claimed it was a shame to deprive herself of the walk on such a lovely evening. Soon she was among the trees with their russet and gold leaves, her glorious red hair, the soft peach of her skirts, and the warm brown of her coat making her appear part of the scene, at one with nature. Catherine watched until she had disappeared.
That night, Catherine could not sleep. She stared at the heavy canopy over her bed and listened to the wood crackling in the hearth. She turned her pillow over and over, needing the cool fabric against her hot face. It felt unnaturally warm in the room and her heartbeat was unusually loud, too thunderous to allow slumber. The image of Maeve filled her mind, no matter how hard she tried to focus on her mother’s righteous disapproval of their unusual visitor. That such a woman existed turned the world upside down. She presented a challenge to everything: the possibilities that lay before her, her sense of her place in the world, the rules of respectability. In such a short amount of time, Maeve had destroyed Catherine’s cloistered yet bewildered perspective on the world, and Catherine could barely contain her impatience to see the beautiful destroyer again.
Maeve was true to her word and visited again the very next week. She delivered a card to the door, which was brought to Catherine as she attempted to read in the library just after lunch. On the back of the calling card was written in flowing handwriting: Come outside, meet me in the park . M. Catherine’s heart beat faster as she read the words. The notion that Maeve had returned, especially to see her, was thrilling enough. The necessity of their meeting being kept a secret simply added to the peculiar excitement beginning to throb through her body. She called for her outdoor coat and bonnet at once and told Rosie the maid, whose loyalty she trusted, to inform her mother she had elected to take a turn in the park for the sake of the fresh air.
That walk with Maeve in the park was to be the first of many. They began to arrange times to meet in advance, to save Maeve the need of coming to the house at all, since Catherine’s subtle questioning of her mother had revealed the “quite improper” Miss Greville was not at all welcome as a visitor at Winter again.
Maeve and Catherine would stroll arm in arm towards the river, even as the air grew frosty and Christmas drew nearer. There were endless topics to discuss, and Catherine always had new questions for Maeve. They talked about poetry and art, artists and nature, and Catherine was delighted to find her knowledge of the sciences, far from meeting with disapproval, actually was a subject of continuing fascination for Maeve.
The days and hours between their last parting and the next time she would see Maeve felt interminable to Catherine. Nothing was the same for her any longer; even the books in the library could not hold her interest. Her life was empty, only those few stolen hours with Maeve felt full and worthwhile. Maeve’s ideas were constantly in her mind, and she imagined she could feel her consciousness expanding with every new topic they broached.
One day, at the beginning of December, they had walked down to the bridge
Maeve’s fingers squeezed her own. “Then I will, Catherine dear. For you. Until then.” She smiled widely at Catherine, and then turned and made her way down the steps. Halfway down she turned back, glancing at the statue which stood there. “And I’d love to draw this statue,” she called. “Maybe when I return.” Catherine looked at the half-naked stone woman and her throat felt tight. There was no reasonable answer, so she simply let Maeve’s comment hang in the air and drift away on the autumn breeze.
Maeve walked in the direction of the beech avenue. Her carriage waited for her at the end of the driveway, since she claimed it was a shame to deprive herself of the walk on such a lovely evening. Soon she was among the trees with their russet and gold leaves, her glorious red hair, the soft peach of her skirts, and the warm brown of her coat making her appear part of the scene, at one with nature. Catherine watched until she had disappeared.
That night, Catherine could not sleep. She stared at the heavy canopy over her bed and listened to the wood crackling in the hearth. She turned her pillow over and over, needing the cool fabric against her hot face. It felt unnaturally warm in the room and her heartbeat was unusually loud, too thunderous to allow slumber. The image of Maeve filled her mind, no matter how hard she tried to focus on her mother’s righteous disapproval of their unusual visitor. That such a woman existed turned the world upside down. She presented a challenge to everything: the possibilities that lay before her, her sense of her place in the world, the rules of respectability. In such a short amount of time, Maeve had destroyed Catherine’s cloistered yet bewildered perspective on the world, and Catherine could barely contain her impatience to see the beautiful destroyer again.
Maeve was true to her word and visited again the very next week. She delivered a card to the door, which was brought to Catherine as she attempted to read in the library just after lunch. On the back of the calling card was written in flowing handwriting: Come outside, meet me in the park . M. Catherine’s heart beat faster as she read the words. The notion that Maeve had returned, especially to see her, was thrilling enough. The necessity of their meeting being kept a secret simply added to the peculiar excitement beginning to throb through her body. She called for her outdoor coat and bonnet at once and told Rosie the maid, whose loyalty she trusted, to inform her mother she had elected to take a turn in the park for the sake of the fresh air.
That walk with Maeve in the park was to be the first of many. They began to arrange times to meet in advance, to save Maeve the need of coming to the house at all, since Catherine’s subtle questioning of her mother had revealed the “quite improper” Miss Greville was not at all welcome as a visitor at Winter again.
Maeve and Catherine would stroll arm in arm towards the river, even as the air grew frosty and Christmas drew nearer. There were endless topics to discuss, and Catherine always had new questions for Maeve. They talked about poetry and art, artists and nature, and Catherine was delighted to find her knowledge of the sciences, far from meeting with disapproval, actually was a subject of continuing fascination for Maeve.
The days and hours between their last parting and the next time she would see Maeve felt interminable to Catherine. Nothing was the same for her any longer; even the books in the library could not hold her interest. Her life was empty, only those few stolen hours with Maeve felt full and worthwhile. Maeve’s ideas were constantly in her mind, and she imagined she could feel her consciousness expanding with every new topic they broached.
One day, at the beginning of December, they had walked down to the bridge
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