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“I am most grateful for this evening. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear….”
“Yes, thank you…but I shan’t attend any other parties. I don’t wish to continue my season.”
Father’s brows knit together in consternation. “Indeed? And why not? Haven’t you been given the best of everything?”
“Yes, and I am most grateful for it,” I say, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Then what is this nonsense?”
“I know. It makes no sense. I’m only just coming to understand it myself.”
“Then perhaps we should discuss it another day.” He starts to rise. Once he does, the conversation will end. There will not be another day. I know this. I know him.
I put my arm on his. “Please, Papa. You said you would hear me out.”
Reluctantly, he sits, but already he has lost interest. He fidgets with his watch. I have little time to make my case. I could sit at his feet as I did when I was a child, let him stroke my hair. Once, it was comforting for us both. But this is not a time for comfort, and I am no longer a child. I take the chair opposite him.
“What I mean to say is, I don’t imagine this life is for me. Parties and endless balls and gossip. I don’t wish to spend my days making myself small enough to fit into such a narrow world. I cannot speak with their bit in my mouth.”
“You’ve quite a dim view of them.”
“I mean no harm.”
Father sighs, irritated. “I don’t understand.”
A door is opened. Music and chatter from the dance intrude on our silence until the door is mercifully closed again, and the party is no more than a dim murmur on the other side. Tears prick at my eyes. I swallow hard.
“I am not asking you to understand, Papa. I’m asking for you to accept.”
“Accept what?”
Me. Accept me, Papa. “My decision to live my own life as I see fit.”
It is so quiet that I suddenly wish I could take it back. Sorry, it was only a terrible joke. I should like a new dress, please.
Father clears his throat. “That is not as easy as you make it sound.”
“I know it. I know I shall make beastly mistakes, Father—”
“The world does not forgive mistakes so quickly, my girl.” He sounds bitter and sad.
“Then if the world will not forgive me,” I say softly, “I shall have to learn to forgive myself.”
He nods in understanding.
“And how will you marry? Or do you intend to marry?”
I think of Kartik, and tears threaten. “I shall meet someone one day, as Mother found you.”
“You are so very much like her,” he says, and for once, I do not wince.
He rises and paces the room, hands behind his back. I do not know what will happen. Will he grant my wish? Will he tell me I am foolish and impossible and sentence me back to the ballroom, with its whirl of satins and fans? Is that where I belong? Will I regret this tomorrow? Father stands before a large portrait of a rather grim woman. She sits, hands in her lap, an unreadable expression upon her face, as if she expects nothing and will likely get it.
“Did I ever tell you the story of that tiger?” he asks.
“Yes, Father. You did.”
