Below lies the first chapter of the full-length novel, The Girl with the Strawberry Eyes. If you’ve not read the prologue, I strongly suggest you go back and do so. You’ve the option of choosing either an EPUB file or a PDF, or reading the work in the space below. New chapters will be added every Wednesday. Cheers and Happy Reading.
Fifteen years later….
The Latecomer
For reasons unknown even to herself, Paginelle was suddenly of the mind that if enough snowflakes touched her eyelids, her eyeballs would freeze, and become ruined, and then she would be sightless and useless for the rest of her days. It was an absurd thing to think, really—a little snatch of nonsense better suited for a mind far simpler than hers, a mind that didn’t have the first clue about how the world worked.
However, as nonsensical of a thought as it may have indeed been, a small, queerly hopeful, singularly defeatist part of her actually wanted to go blind because literal snow blindness would probably prove a far more effective excuse than the pitiful bundle of events she was usually forced to recount.
Excuses. Lateness. Of course they were excuses for lateness. What else could they be? Paginelle was always late, and today, of course, was no different.
The road on which she ran wound up a stout hill, and was almost completely lost behind swirling sheets of snow. The snow was so thick, in fact, that she didn’t see the long, black sedan powering down the road before it was almost on top of her. The car certainly was as fancy as anything her employers owned, but it wasn’t one of theirs: all of their long, fancy sedans were deep blue in color; the car that had almost flattened her was most definitely black.
Regardless, now was not the time for speculating about which cars belonged to her employer, and which did not. She was already late and had no desire to be any later.
The house at the top of the hill was as enormous as all of the other houses in the area. Red bricks, white columns, plump shrubs, so on and so forth. Paginelle had seen it dozens of times. There was no point in wasting precious seconds dwelling on how impressive it was.
Now protected from the snow by the canopy above the entrance door, she pulled back the hood of her cloak and shook what moisture she could from her long black curls. She raised her hand to press the doorbell and—
SWOOOMPF.
The door suddenly swung open and there she was.
The white-blond pigtail braids were the most noticeable thing, followed by the fierce gray eyes, then the bright pink clouds in her very white cheeks, and the small mouth that seemed to tremble with wit, and vaguely resembled a sugar-blasted raspberry. She wore the olive-gray tweed blazer, gray tartan skirt, burgundy knee socks, royal blue necktie and immaculate black buckle shoes of the Veronica Vauxhall’s School for Girls.
“You,” said the girl, clamping one hand on her hip, “are late.”
Paginelle opened and closed her mouth a few times, but nothing came out.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Babineaux?” said the girl. “Have you become a fish?”
“I—I’m sorry, Miss Frost,” Paginelle stammered, “but—”
“Oh, golly,” Frost said, rolling her eyes. “We’ve been at this for almost two years, Babineaux. Call me Alexandra. Alexandra. Alex, if you absolutely must. Never Ally. And never Miss Frost. Ever. Please. I’m fifteen, for goodness sake. And fresh. And full of possibility and oomph. Miss Frost is a worn out spinster. Or an embittered schoolteacher. Do you see the difference?”
“I—I do,” Paginelle said, looking down at her hole-ridden mittens. She tried to keep her teeth from chattering too much. “I do. And I’d like to apologize—”
“Also, enough with the apologies,” Frost cut in. “They only make things all the more awkward.”
“O … okay,” said Paginelle. “So I’m … not sorry?”
“A step in the right direction,” Frost said, nodding approvingly. “I think. Now come inside. You look like you’re about to be on the wrong side of hypothermia.” She pulled Paginelle into the foyer and kicked the door shut. “There. Now what were we talking about before you started with all of that Miss Front nonsense? Oh, right! You’re late. Explain yourself.”
“You really care?” said Paginelle suspiciously.
“I really don’t,” Frost said, chirping out a laugh. “You work for my father, not me.”
“Is your father around?”
“He’s preoccupied,” Frost said quickly. “And not feeling well. It’s a little bit of both, actually. Personal matters, really. Mostly nonsense, if we’re being honest with ourselves.” She cleared her throat and smiled, but then seemed to remember her overbite and quickly pulled her teeth back behind her lips. “So,” she said conversationally, “are you always this late?”
“On most days, yes,” Paginelle said quietly. Her cheeks burned. She didn’t like admitting such a thing.
Frost’s eyelashes fluttered with surprise. “Really? And my father simply allows it?”
“Well … yes. He does. But that’s because—”
“I find it hard to believe,” Frost said. “He didn’t get where he is by allowing loafing from any of his employees. In fact, from what Mother tells me, he seems to be quite the taskmaster when he’s at work.”
“I’m not a loafer,” said Paginelle.
Frost’s eyelashes again fluttered with surprise. “Goodness, Babineaux. I don’t think I’ve ever heard such an edge in your voice. You’re sure you haven’t cracked? I don’t have to go hide the fire ax, do I?”
“I haven’t ‘cracked’,” Paginelle said stiffly. “But what you implied isn’t true. I’m not a loafer. I don’t choose to be late. I’m late every time because my home life isn’t”—she sighed—“ideal.”
Frost pressed her palm against her cheek, her eyes cloudy with concern. “Not … ‘ideal’. Oh dear, that’s a euphemism for ‘abusive’, isn’t it?”
“What? N-no, it’s not—”
“Ah, thank goodness. I really wouldn’t know how to go about consoling you over such a thing, you see. I’m a champion listener—there’s no two ways about that—but when it comes to actually, you know, giving advice and providing solutions? I’m something of a joke.” She smiled again, but then remembered her overbite and pulled back her teeth. “Anyhow, there isn’t a need to get your curls in a twiggle, Babineaux: we both know this job of yours isn’t actually a job. I mean, it is a job in that you get paid for your services, but it’s not exactly … well, you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do,” said Paginelle.
Frost let out a little sigh. “Listen, Babineaux. You and I both know my father hired you to be my companion. Not my servant; my companion. And aside from that strawberry fudge business, I have not—and probably never will—ask anything of you. And you—again, aside from that whole strawberry fudge business—don’t have to feel obligated to assist me in any way. Why, you could sneak right back home after you’re finished with the strawberry fudge business. If you wanted to. And my opinion of you would only increase exponentially because I can only think good things about somebody who wrestles back control of her time for sake of productivity. Didn’t you tell me last week you were working on a science project or some such thing? That’s what I was referring to, you know.”
Paginelle decided to steer the topic back to her non-job: “I don’t think I want to go home early. Your father—”
“Is worried that I’m in danger of becoming a recluse. Cat lady. Overall misanthrope. All because I didn’t want to live in a dorm at Vicky Vauxhall’s. Which is beyond absurd. The dorm rooms at that school would make a squirrel feel claustrophobic. Why would I want to endure sure misery when I can come home to this spacious, beautiful, wonderful house? It’s not like we live in England, or India, or—or Hong Kong, like some of the other Vauxhall’s girls’ families. The school is barely forty-five minutes away from here. Of course I’d want to come home every night! Oh, and incidentally, today is the start of the winter holiday, thus explaining why I’ve come home early enough to witness your tardiness first-hand.” Wink.
“Talk about bad luck,” Paginelle said flatly.
“Honestly,” Frost said, nodding with vague agreement. “Or good luck, really, seeing as how I’m not some uptight, sallow-faced harpy who will demand your termination.” Wink.
“Yeah, lucky me,” said Paginelle.
“Anyhoo”—Frost swung up her chronograph watch and gave it a glance. “I moved up my fencing lesson because of … well, because of winter vacation. And that’s where I’ll have to be presently. I’ll need to bite into a piece of strawberry fudge afterwards because you know how much I love ruining my dinner. So I suppose that means you’ve got to go off and do your thing.”
“I suppose it does,” Paginelle said.
The girls were about to go their separate ways when Frost spun back around. “Bother! I almost forgot: the parentals and I are going to the Maldives for the New Year and Papa wanted to know if you’d like to come along.”
It sounded like a dream, of course, escaping the harsh Pennsylvania winter for a tropical island. And not only that, but with a family that could afford to take the trip and not feel guilty about it.
But. But but but.
Paginelle wasn’t delusional or foolish enough to waste a single thought on the possibility of that trip to the Maldives ever becoming a reality. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Again with the apologies!”
“Okay, I won’t apologize. But … a trip to the Maldives with you—I mean, w-with your family—just isn’t possible.”
“I see,” Frost said, disappointment flickering across her features. “And why not, if I may ask? I really don’t mean to pry. I’m just a tad baffled, is all. I would have thought this a dream invitation. Because it’s the Maldives, first of all. Second, you wouldn’t have to pay a dime. Maybe a penny, but definitely not a dime.” Her overbite flashed for a few short seconds, but was then pulled back behind her lips. “Admittedly, my mother is a bit much on vacations, but that’s hardly a dealbreaker.”
“I’d really like to go,” said Paginelle. “Believe me, I do. But I have to take care of my….” She swallowed. “I have many responsibilities at home.”
“So then hire a housekeeper. We’re only going to be away for two weeks.”
“We can’t afford a housekeeper.” It was absurd that she even had to say the words.
“Would you like for us to lend you a housekeeper?”
“W-what? No! No, you don’t have to lend us a housekeeper. That’s dehumanizing on so many levels.”
Frost frowned. “Is it really? Because it’s honestly no trouble at all—”
“Thank you, but no,” Paginelle said firmly. “There are certain … certain tasks at home that only I can do. It’s been like that for years. A housekeeper would only throw things out of balance.”
“If you say so,” Frost said with a discouraged shrug. “It really is a pity. I thought for sure you’d accept, and I was actually quite looking forward to….” Her brow furrowed. “Well, I suppose one shouldn’t waste time dwelling on impossibilities. I’ve … I’ve got to prepare for my fencing lesson, if there’s nothing else.”
“There isn’t,” said Paginelle. “Except the strawberry fudge.”
“Which I absolutely cannot wait for. Yum yum.”
And with that, the girls retreated to their respective tasks. Frost, presumably, to her bedroom to change into her fencing gear, and Paginelle down one tall staircase at the far end of the hallway. And once she’d reached the bottom, she climbed down a second staircase, and then a third, and then a fourth. As she descended, she wondered if she should have said something more to Frost. Some parting words, perhaps, that would have left the other girl with little doubt that the refusal of the invitation hadn’t actually been her decision.
“Don’t dwell on the past,” she muttered as she stepped from one creaking, straining stair to the next. “Live in the present. Plan for the future.”
At the bottom of the fourth staircase was a small kitchen comprised of little more than a small black range, a mini fridge, a tiny sink that could only wash a few fingers at a time, and an assortment of pots that hung from the low ceiling like stone bats. It wasn’t the house’s main kitchen by any stretch of the imagination, as it could barely accommodate one person, let alone an entire staff. Frost had explained that the kitchen had been installed by her mother; her mother who had spent the majority of her life believing herself fundamentally talentless, and had wanted to secretly nurture what may have been a knack for cooking after a few successful French toasts.
The endeavor had lasted for a few sweaty, frustrating weeks—the Lady Frost furiously trying to make sense of the head cook’s instructions and tough love. Sadly, it had all ended in disaster: a quiche that exploded and almost set the kitchen to flame. The Lady Frost abandoned her endeavor in private disgrace and the kitchen was left to fester.
Until Paginelle had started to work for the family, anyhow, and when Frost, very soon after, had discovered that Paginelle had a talent for making fudge. Strawberry was Frost’s favorite; the recipe Paginelle had learned from a book (specifically, the addition of Whustor’s Double-Doubly Sweet Strawberry Ice Cream Syrup) and the girls had been in business (as it were) ever since.
On that particular day, however, Paginelle found a surprise waiting in the kitchen: Mr. Frost leaning against the range, puffing away on a yellow Rienzi cigarette. A tall, broad man who shared both beauty and blond hair with his daughter, he was, as usual, dressed in a pristine three-piece—this one a deep, deep blue, and pinstriped, and complemented by a red polkadot necktie. When Paginelle stepped into the kitchen, he jerked with surprise, but then relaxed when he realized who his company was.
“Ah, Paginelle,” he said in a smooth, dark baritone. Despite the decades spent in the United States, there was still a light sprinkling of Germany on his words. “What are you doing down here, I wonder?”
“Pardon me, sir,” Paginelle said with a slight curtsy. She made sure not to meet his eyes. “I’m … very sorry to disturb you, but I need to, um … I need to make Miss Frost’s after-practice snack.”
“Nothing too sugary, I hope,” Mr. Frost said, lifting an eyebrow. “The girl isn’t going to be much use as an athlete if her thighs are as thick as Christmas hams.”
“I’m sure there isn’t too much sugar, sir,” Paginelle said quickly. “B-but if you think I should reduce the amount, then I’ll—”
“I wasn’t being serious,” Mr. Frost said, waving his cigarette hand nonchalantly. “And you don’t have to worry about disturbing me. I’m not doing anything. Just thinking.”
Paginelle almost said, “Thinking is good, sir”, but kept her mouth shut. Instead, she remained silent and made sure her eyes were pointed at the floor.
“How old are you again, Paginelle?” Mr. Frost said. He sounded as if talking more to himself than her. “Thirteen?”
“Fifteen, sir,” Paginelle gently corrected.
“Ah, yes, fifteen,” he said. “Of course, of course. The same age as Alexandra. That is why I hired you, is it not?”
“I … I believe so, sir.”
“You look young for your age,” Mr. Frost went on. “You look young and are very beautiful. Those are good traits for a woman to have.” He frowned as he caught himself. “Girl. Not woman. Apologies.”
Paginelle had begun to squeeze her toes together in her tight, black shoes, and her stomach was making all sorts of uncomfortable noises, but she still managed to smile and say, “You’re very flattering, sir.”
Mr. Frost took a deep drag from his cigarette and released the smoke with a sigh. “What I am,” he said, “is rambling. And I imagine the very last thing a young person wants to do is stand around listening to one of the Ancients ramble.”
“I don’t mind, sir,” Paginelle said. Though she was going to have to get started on that strawberry fudge soon if I wanted any hope of finishing by the time Frost returned.
“I am wasting your time,” Mr. Frost said, stubbing out his cigarette in the sink. “I shall leave you to your … to your snack-making. But before I do…. Well, I’ve decided that I like you, Paginelle. You seem like a nice person, and my daughter is always very happy when you visit.”
She had begun to squeeze her toes together harder, but only said, “I’m happy to hear that, sir.”
“As such,” Mr. Frost went on, “I feel that I would be remiss if I didn’t leave you with some life advice.”
“Life advice, sir?”
“I realize it is somewhat untoward of me,” Mr. Frost said with another sigh, “but there are things on mind; such things….”
Paginelle smiled, but couldn’t really imagine—nor did she have any interest in finding out—what she had to do with the things in his head. She had to get started on that fudge.
Mr. Frost pulled a heavy black envelope from within his coat and held it up for her to see. “Do you know what this is, Paginelle?”
“I don’t, sir.”
“It’s a love letter,” Mr. Frost said without missing a beat. “But not from my wife.”
Paginelle swallowed. Why was he telling her this?
“My advice to you, little Paginelle,” said Mr. Frost with a small grunt, “is to fall in love as many times as you see fit, but never, ever let anybody fall in love with you. Follow this advice, and you will have a truly fine life.”
And with that, he replaced the envelope into his coat, slid another Rienzi between his lips, and started the climb out of the basement.
Many thanks for reading(!) And now, on to Chapter 2….
Or,
if you liked what you read, and would like to devour a completed work in one go, why not give my romantic novella, Knits, a gander. Get it here.
