Edited since first two comments. Thanks so much for the suggestions! Still working on character and setting development.
His eyes on me. That’s the first feeling I can remember. That unsettling grey-blue gaze, like a dog’s leash, as tight around my neck as the pearls he used to buy for me. When I was a little girl, he would watch me as we strolled briefly through the park to make sure I wouldn’t get kidnapped or lost. I suppose he feared I would run away from him as well, but at that age I had no wish to escape.
Mr. Renard was my Godfather, my legal guardian. Wherever he went, he was the tallest man in the room. But he was not gaunt or frail. He had a sturdy frame and silvery hair that grew thinner and thinner every year. And of course, ogling grey-blue eyes. To his face, he requested that I call him Father, seeing as he was raising me as his own, and though he was not always kind or gentle, he gave me everything I ever needed. Gowns in the newest style each month, sewing tools, sapphires to match my eyes. However, I was not spoiled. Far from it, Mr. Renard had me under strict rules. I was not to leave the house without his company, and I could not speak to anyone unless he was present. Mr. Renard threatened to send me to a convent the second I disobeyed him. I might have found these conditions abominable if I had known anything different. How was I to understand that fathers needn’t obsess over their daughters’ innocence? My love for him, if you can call it that, was not born of fondness, but of gratitude for material things given to me. It was not love, of course, but more of a certain dependence.
He was my tutor as well, teaching me to read in English and French. I was impressed by his intellect, his sharp mind quick to discover my mistakes and lightly punish me for them. The one thing he could not teach me was music, since music is an art form and only people with souls can create art. The music tutor he hired was young and brilliant- a German man with thick, black hair and gleaming green eyes that looked up happily from where he sat at our noble, black pianoforte. He had a deep voice that gave me an instant sense of tranquility, and he always smiled. That was my favourite thing about him, his beautiful smile with his barely crooked teeth. Yet even during these lessons, the highlight of my week, my Father’s eyes were on me. He sat in the corner of the room by the shelves filled with dolls dressed in lace and fancy silver rattles, analyzing my every move and those of Herr Kurz as I sang by the piano. At the time I couldn’t even guess at what he was looking for.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out. By the time I turned fifteen, his gaze had grown hungry. He looked at me longer, more carefully. His hand was more often at my shoulder as I sat at my sewing by the grand fireplace, or around my forearm, preventing me from pulling certain volumes from his vast library. I wore the tightest corsets under lavish gowns, usually in light colors, white or rose. There was one deep blue gown that I found garish, but that he insisted I wear. He said it flattered my eyes.
One week my music tutor was late for my lesson. I sat by my window for an hour, scanning the busy London street below for any trace of his dark hair. When none came, I walked down the marble staircase to find Mr. Renard reading a literary journal by the fire.
“Father, has Herr Kurz come by? I was supposed to have my…” I trailed off as a dark look came over his face.
As if reading a the day’s weather report, he replied, “You will no longer be studying music with Herr Kurz. I have found his methods impractical and his intentions lascivious.” At the look of outrage on my face, he stood up from his armchair and placed a finger under my chin, turning my face towards his. “Do not fret so, my dear girl. Your voice is too lovely already. You have no need for a tutor.” I stared furiously at the floor as he gently placed a large hand upon my cheek. “Such a pretty girl. My dear Cecilia.” Tears stung my eyes. I turned away from him and ran back up the stairs to my room.
I did not come down for dinner that night out of protest, which Mr. Renard did not seem to mind. No doubt he thought I would wake up starving the next morning, begging for forgiveness. I sat on my bed, wondering what had caused Mr. Renard’s sudden decision to cancel my lessons. Did he hold no concern for my happiness? And what had he meant when he said that Herr Kurz’s intentions were lascivious? He most certainly did not seem like a man with lechery on his mind. Yet how was I to know what lechery looked like in a man? The only men I’d spoken to were the ones at the formal dinners I used to attend with Mr. Renard. But he had stopped taking me to those too. I began to think that it was not Herr Kurz’s faults that had ended our lessons so abruptly. Mr. Renard would have said that of any man with whom he thought I was forming a bond.
With this realisation, I collapsed back onto my pillows with a hiss of rage, and then out of nowhere I was sobbing. Fury tore at my insides, twisting my gut and burning in my head. A shout escaped from my lips, and fearing that Mr. Renard would come to inquire about the noise, I put a hand to my mouth and let my tears stream over my fingers. My anger confused me; I had never felt like this before. But confusion only intensified my frustration, and the urge to throw something was almost unbearable.
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