Ladies of Esteem: Part One

"Inure thyself to what thou art like to be."

September 14th

Anne had not been able to resist. She had felt the chill the moment she stepped into the chapel; it poured out of a secret door in the wall that had been left just barely ajar. As a means of granting her daughter permission to solve a household crisis in the middle of their visit, Anne had declared she would be happy to spend a little time in prayer. Against the mystery of a secret door, prayers took second place.

Confirming that the chill was sweeping up from a crypt was a disappointment. A secret door in a novel, if it did not open into a chamber ready for a lovers' tryst, almost always led into a crypt. There is truth in literature, I suppose. But Anne had to grant that it was a superior example. The Fitzwilliam crypt was a solemn, boring place. It was almost unworthy of the spit she had bestowed upon it the one time she visited to gloat over her father's tomb. As far as crypts went, this one was stunning. Even when they are dead, the Capulets must have their dramatics.

Will my children lie here, too?

Mothers

"Never did, nor never shall, lie at the proud foot of a conqueror."

August 11th

Miranda regretted her grandfather's death, but she was pregnant and it was the height of summer. It was too hot to wear black. She shouldn't have to wear black. And yet, by her mother's command, she was baking in the only black gown that still fit her. Nothing else she could squeeze into had an inch of black anywhere. If she ever fell pregnant again, Miranda would have a full compliment of mourning attire at the ready for the ill-timed death of another relative.

Do You Know the Cause?

"If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches and poor men’s cottages princes' palaces." 

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August 5th

"No! Henry, I am not sharing grandchildren with that idiot!"

The Gray-Eyed Morn

"We mean to build... and when we see the figure of the house, then must we rate the cost of the erection."

July 28th

Knock. 

Juliette ignored the interruption, and a brief stoke of her hand ensured her husband did as well. Who knew how many quiet mornings were left to her? Her birthday, and the trouble that came with it, was only three days away. And she was not so full of recent indulgences that she cared to forgo one, either. After Will's birth, she had struggled with the idea of intimacy. She had felt a failure when her newborn son's appetite outstripped her body's capability, and her expectations for regaining her figure had grown to cover up that wound. Frank words from a few mothers in her life - her sister, her Aunt Eleanor, her mother-in-law - had recently given her courage to overlook perceived imperfections and try.

The Frowning Night

"The bow is bent and drawn."

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July 27th

As midnight approached, the wind rattled the ornate glass windows in Goneril's study. While beautiful, the decorative glass had strategic value. An onlooker from the garden could have seen the glow of the fire in the room but not the faces of the two sisters staring into it. Nearest the window sat the lady of the house, dressed in rich reds and the silver ornament that kept her thin hair tightly pulled. She had no pretensions to beauty; she knew her sisters, her mother, and her daughters all were her superior in that regard. Finery, like the glass, was strategic - the mark of an important lady. It was also her due as firstborn and heiress of Contessa Capulet, Lady Capulet and Governor of Verona. Goneril always demanded her due.