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The Princess and I have had our first argument in our new home. To be completely truthful (and I must be, it is my bedrock certainty in life, that I am truthful, which does not mean I blurt everything out, oh no, for I am also meek and careful), it was our first argument ever.
I must confess that I feel exhilarated and I know that it shows on my face for I have looked in inquiry into the little square mirror that hangs above my washbasin. Though it is of modest size, it clearly showed that my cheeks had gone pink, unabashedly pink of the shade that typically requires a brisk walk through the Park.
But this time, it was not healthful exercise that made my cheeks flush, it was the knowledge that I had provoked Christabel to the point where she remonstrated with me and almost raised her voice.
I should be sorrier than I am. Actually, I don't believe I'm sorry at all though of course I shall be the one to apologize, for that is fitting. She would not think so, though I also doubt that she would be the one to pad through the quiet house to tap on my bedroom door to make her apologies. Not that she owes me any apologies.
I have read many times that it is the silliest things that cause disagreements between loving friends. And it is true that I have also observed those sorts of contretemps many times in my years as a governess, but I had always attributed that behavior to a particular class of people--those who were rich in all material goods but impoverished in their souls. Unlike me. Unlike Christabel.
So I was startled, no I was shocked, when Christabel took me to task this afternoon for what she called my extravagance.
"Really, Blanche, I do not need such a thing. Whatever possessed you to buy it? It is sheer extravagance," she said when she arrived home and entered her bedroom to find me adjusting her little things on the new dressing table I'd ordered and managed to have delivered under a veil of tightest secrecy. I'd wanted to surprise her and it appeared that I had succeeded, though with unexpected results.
I laughed, determined to believe it was just the shock of the gift that had produced such a strong (and by strong, I mean negative, though I hate to write the word, it seems so forceful and not in a pleasant way) response from my dearest one. In fact, she seemed to fluff up in irritation, rather like a long-haired cat that is vexed and marches about with long, plumy tail lashing back and forth. Only in this case, it was her full skirts gripped tightly in her hands that did the lashing.
"We agreed we would live prudently and simply," she said as she began ticking off her points. She stopped pacing and stood at the dressing table, her hands resting on its top, its wood smooth and polished (I had burnished the rosewood to a high shine with the beeswax Liza and I use for such pleasant tasks). "Really, it must go back." She stroked the silver-backed brush set that once had belonged to her mother, careful to trace the intricate curling raised design that had been made so carefully by a master silversmith. "Though of course I would not wish to be so discourteous to you, dearest." There was a trace of a smile on her lips as she arranged the brush and comb just so that its positioning balanced well with the placement of the other items I had set there.
I decided I would tease her out of it and hoped it would not be difficult. "Have you never heard of housewarming gifts? This is mine to you."
She stepped away from the table, clasped her hands in front of her and pursed her lips. "I agree it would be rude of me to insist on its return, but really Blanche, you must not do such a thing again, not without my knowledge at least. Did we not agree that we would be equal partners in our little venture here, that we would decide together on important purchases? Is this any way to start?"
She had me there. We had agreed. Was it not the bedrock foundation of our new life together, that we had joined our individual selves in equality and fellowship? I noticed with rising alarm that removing herself from immediate proximity to the wretched table allowed her to regain her indignation and remount her arguments with vigor. Perhaps I had counted on teasing her out of her vexation too quickly.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, I cannot decide and suspect that I was a coward to feel so relieved), Liza tapped on the door to announce our tea was ready and wasn't the new table beautiful and wasn't Miss Christabel pleased with it.
Christabel tightened her mouth into a smile, though a rather straight one. "Yes, it's beautiful."
I followed them out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into the sitting room. We made a solemn procession. Once we were seated at the little round table, Liza served us our tea. Needless to say, it was a rather quiet meal, and I caught Liza slipping us quizzical glances more than once. I did not blame her for doing so, for Christabel and I had grown accustomed to merry talk at our meals, no matter the time of day or the menu.
After the meal, Christabel excused herself and went upstairs, and I found a moment to have a word with Liza. I'm afraid I grew a little weepy, and she comforted me. She patted my hand and passed me her handkerchief. "There, there. Don't you worry. Miss Christabel is not used to being surprised like that. You'll see, she'll like it in the end. She won't be able to do without it."
I hope so. I do feel wretched now that I have written this all down in plain words and see what a mess of things I have made. Christabel was right. What a way to start.
***********************
She is sleeping now and I am scratching away in my journal. I love to watch my Princess sleep, her breathing so delicate and even. The ivory lace around her white throat barely moves.
When I tapped on her door an hour or so ago, she had the most remorseful expression on her dear face, I had never seen that before.
"What an ungrateful wretch I was," she said and held out her hand to me from her bed, and I joined her. "Forgive me?"
She clasped my hand and I kissed her fingers one by one. "There is little to forgive. Do you realize we have had our first argument?"
"Have we?" She laughed then and settled against her pillows, her hair curling around her face, her cheeks pink with surprised delight. When I moved to join her under the covers, I found a small stack of books in my way and set them on the bedside table, glancing at their titles as I did so.
"Ash? Isn't he a bit ponderous to take in, all male bluster and empty muscularity?"
"Thank you, dearest. You don't know how that cheers me. You see, I've had a verse in my mind, it's been working away at me these past few days, and then I read some of his work this evening and was just deciding not to bother with my trite words." She smiled and shook her head ruefully.
I settled against her, pressed my head to her shoulder and breathed in the lavender-scented pomade she uses on her hair. "Your words are not trite, no matter what the males of our species might think, though of course as usual you hold your talents in too small a regard. Your words are always carefully chosen and set in perfect order. But come. Tell me what you have. Whisper them to me."
I said those last words in a whisper of my own and then held my breath. Christabel was not wont to recite her works in progress to me though I have been hoping in my heart of hearts that joining our lives together at Richmond would bring a new openness to all our discourse.
After a moment, she took a deep breath and spoke. "I only have a stray line or two but they have been wrapping themselves around my mind like thread around a spindle and I cannot free myself of them. There's this:"
What is done exactly
Cannot be done ill
Who will take it and fold it
And lay us to rest.
I held my breath all through her recitation and spoken worries, then I raised up on my elbow to look into her sweet face. "Let it rest a while in your mind, it will come to you when it's ready. It always does."
She stroked my face then with such tender fingers that my eyes filled with happy tears. What followed made us both cry from happiness though even here, in the intimacy of mine own journal, I will not tell more, only that we are learning to give each other such a depth of pleasure that our souls join together in a joyful chorus.
And now she lies sleeping peacefully next to me and I am writing these words.
***********************
The next morning I woke after Christabel. She was sitting at her new dressing table, her head bent over something and her long hair trailing around her shoulders and down her back like the finest silk shawl woven through with silver threads. When she heard me stir, she turned round and smiled. "Good morning. Do you know I feel like a princess sitting here? How silly I was. I am afraid I am not good with surprises, my Blanche. And I have not thanked you and do so now formally."
I am so unused to such compliments that I grew flustered and cast about for something else upon which to concentrate. I squinted at the book she held in her hand. "Are you at your devotions, then, my lady? Read me your morning lesson?"
She blushed then and closed the book and I saw my mistake for I recognized the cover design though I could not read the title without my spectacles. Still, I did not need to read the title or the author's name to know it was the Ash I'd set on the bedside table the night before. "I don't think I'd call these poems devotional though I am sure Mr. Ash was devoted to their creation," she said and tapped the cover with one finger. "I wonder if he finds their composition as torturous as I sometimes find mine."
She opened a drawer, set the book in it and slid the drawer closed again, trapping the foolish thing in the dark. There. A good place for it, no doubt. Then she stood and went about the room, pulling back the curtains to let the early morning sun flood our blessed space with its golden light. How I look forward to mornings now. I had not realized until we moved here that morning light could be anything other than grudging and gray, full of smothering mists promising nothing more than another day of drudgery no matter whether the sun shone or not.
A half hour later, as we were walking down the stairs to our breakfast, she said, "It's come to me, you know."
"Has it? Tell me."
"It's linen, white linen, clean and starched, pristine. I can almost smell it."
"Just as you can almost smell the words that will come to you to finish the verse?"
"Oh yes, I can. I think I will give it a try after breakfast. Will you keep me company? Perhaps start on the sketches for the Sir Leoline painting? And tonight ... shall we read from Mr. Coleridge's Christabel whilst we sit before the fire? For inspiration's sake?"
I smiled my answer to her as I took my place across the table from her and spread the clean linen napkin across my lap. It was smooth and just a little stiff from being starched and ironed with perfect domestic skill. My heart was too full to speak. Nothing will disturb our unity until someone comes to, as Christabel will write in her new verse, "...take it and fold it and lay us to rest." And even then, I cannot believe our unity will be disturbed for by then, we will be woven together as well as the white linen that clothes our bodies and our home.
I know it now. It is my surety.