And when I do go, when I get there, I knock on Papa’s door and call, “Papa, may I talk to you?”
“Not now, Beauty,” he always replies over the sound of female giggles. “I’m very busy just now. Later on, perhaps.”
Now that is what our filial relationship amounts to! I don’t think that’s enough of one for the new stepmama to threaten.
I am not jealous of whatever attention Sibylla may receive from the aunts, either. I heartily hope she will take my share along with her own. They pay entirely too much attention to me, all the time, without being in the least comforting or kind.
No, my revulsion at the idea of a stepmama is not jealousy. It arises from the pictured face itself, a pale, rather long face with a simpering mouth over large teeth and with something thoughtfully devious about the eyes, the kind of face that might result if a rabbit mated with a weasel.
And perhaps I am jealous of the fact that she will be mistress of Westfaire Castle.
No, that is not honest. If I am going to write things to remember when I am old, I should at least tell the truth. I am sickened at the thought of her being mistress of Westfaire. Though I have always known it will be my fate to marry and leave it, still I love Westfaire hopelessly. I love the lowe of sunset on the lake at our back, the blossoming trees in the orchard close, the gentle curve of the outer walls resting in the arms of the forest. I love the towers, the shining dome, the delicate buttresses, and the lacy windows. From a hill not far away (we always go there on the first of May to collect herbs and wildflowers) one can look down on Westfaire and see it whole. Whenever I look at it thus, the burning within me grows into a fire, closing my throat, catching at my heart, as though Westfaire and I burned with the same holy light. If I turn in time to catch the aunts staring down, their faces have a look not unlike mine, though not so pained, as though they, too, love the place so much they cannot bear to leave it. I’ve always refused to think about leaving Westfaire, but it is probable my dislike of Sibylla comes from nothing more than simple grief at what she will gain and I will inevitably lose.
Feeling beauty must be rather like feeling arms and legs. Some of the old men-at-arms talk about losing an arm or a leg in battle and how, ever after, one feels it is still there, even while one grieves over the loss. So I know it will be when I lose Westfaire. I will feel it in me forever, even while I grieve endlessly over losing it.
I still don’t want to think about that. Instead, I keep telling myself that a wedding offers to be an interesting event which can be anticipated with an observer’s relish of novelty. It will not make much immediate difference to me, personally, so I can resolve to enjoy it as spectacle.
[I find it interesting that she feels the truth, without understanding it in the least.
I said as much to Israfel and he remarked that it would be better if she didn’t understand it “Much of life,” he said to me, “depends on our being ignorant of reality. If we understood reality, we would never go on.”]
4
ST. MONICA’S DAY, MAY, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1347
When I wrote that Papa’s marriage would make little difference to me, personally, I had failed to perceive Sibylla’s capacity for inventive malice.
She arrived yesterday with her mama and assorted female relatives in a great bustle of boxes and flutter of veils. They trotted briskly through the castle, visiting each of my aunts in her own rooms, which are in various parts of the castle, though not in the long wing where Papa lives, which is virtually empty. We had all assumed the visitors would be quartered there, where the extravagant, lacy vaulting reaches its perfect expression (says Father Raymond) and the tall windows admit the most light. The rooms are comfortably furnished with high, enclosed beds and plenty of benches and hangings and carpets. Besides, in expectation of company, that wing had been given an extraordinarily thorough cleaning. Doll has been at it for days.
Our assumption was mistaken. According to Sibylla’s mama—a woman who always looks as though she has a mouthful of something nasty which only courtesy prevents her spitting out—Sibylla could be happy only in the rooms near the kitchens which I have occupied since my earliest memory. It was not, in her mama’s words, fitting for Sibylla to be housed too near her intended bridegroom lest some indecency occur prior to the blessing of Mother Church. I turned my mind from the indecency which would undoubtedly occur subsequent to that blessing. Far better, Sibylla’s mama went on, for Sibylla to be as far from her intended husband as possible, in the bosom of the aunts, getting to know them better.
Strangely enough, I was rather cheered by all this. It was pleasant to be given a reason for hating her, and this immediate assault upon the daughter of the house by the putative bride told me how right I had been. The rabbit had mated with a weasel, and that right gladly. I was furious, of course, but justified. Beloved and I whispered about it, resolving upon mutiny, after which I smiled at the committee which was delegated to approach me, aunts and all, and declined to move.
Aunt Taragon had a few pious words to say concerning Christian resignation and turning
