babyjosephine: (Teenaged)
[personal profile] babyjosephine
Summer of 1960.

“Well, what am I to do?” Alice asked, swinging her feet beneath her so that her heels bounced off the cabinets below. The kitchen counter was no place for sitting, but Margaret was out for the afternoon. “And I don’t understand her fix with me absolutely not being in the wedding.”

“She hasn’t got a fix, Alice,” Scott muttered around an apple. It was caught between his teeth as he used both hands to search for a knife.

“She’s not letting me, though. It’s not as though you have a dozen sisters. There’s no rule for how many bridesmaids you have. Mum and Dad had loads of people in their wedding!”

“She wants to keep it small, Alice. Plenty of groom-sisters don’t make it into weddings.”

“That isn’t fair for any of us.” Alice looked out the window at the bright day and let her heel bang more resolutely against the wood cabinet. “I’m afraid I can’t like Winifred anymore.”

Scott looked up, knife in hand, though he hardly looked dangerous with an apple in his mouth. “What?”

'She’s a domineering psychopath.' )
babyjosephine: (Poor little rich girl)
[personal profile] babyjosephine
12 April, 1947. Alice Fitzwilliam's seventh birthday.

Charlie would be home from school very soon. Home from school for the weekend because it was Alice’s seventh birthday and Mummy made him come home.

Alice was bouncing about the house in her tap shoes, clicking noisily through every hall and every door. Her friends were going to arrive in an hour, and Isabella was putting off dressing her daughter for the occasion until she had calmed down, or at least was presented with birthday-related obstacles, such as cake and presents. Any premature stain would cause unneeded stress.

As she clamored down the stairs into the servants’ hall, their housekeeper, Margaret, peered out of the kitchen. “What on earth are you doing, Miss Alice?” she asked, always soft but strict, as she had raised several boys of her own, most of whom worked on the property.

“Nothing! May I see my cake?” she asked, trying to sneak past Margaret into the kitchen, but Margaret gently took her shoulders and turned her away.

“Why don’t you go put on a show for the boys whilst you wait, hm?”

“Mummy says I can’t wear my shoes out of doors anymore—” Someone called her name and Alice squeaked. “I bet that’s Charlie come home!” She raced down the hall, sliding on the floors and giving Margaret several heart attacks (“Child’s going to split her skull.”) until she was upstairs again.

Upstairs, but hardly safe. )

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