Narrative: "A Scene at Mitchell Manor..."

 A Scene at Mitchell Manor

The ink was still wet upon Amelia’s page when a heavy tread shook the hallway. She barely had time to close her journal when the door to her chamber opened without ceremony. Lord Mitchell’s broad figure filled the frame, his wig askew from the damp, his face set in that familiar expression of discontent.

“What’s this then?” he barked, spying the quill in her hand and the book hastily pushed aside. “At it again, girl? Scribbling your nonsense when there’s work to be done in this house, or learning the affairs of a soon to be woman of your station and standing?!”

Amelia flushed crimson, her heart quickening. “Uncle, I was only… writing some observations of the day.”

“Observations!” he scoffed, striding in and plucking the journal from the table with a speed that belied his age. He squinted at the flowery hand upon the page, and his lips curled into a sour smile as he read aloud in a mocking tone:
‘A phoenix in exile… a poem walking… a riddle wrapped in velvet and silk…’

He slammed the book shut with a snap. “Good God, girl, is this what fills your head? Papist plots dressed up as poetry? Fantasies of Spanish enchantresses, when you ought to be learning the keeping of a house or the proper manner of a lady? You waste ink as others waste coin!”

Amelia tried to speak, but her uncle waved a hand to silence her. “Mark me, Amelia, this Spanish woman is no tale from your books. She is flesh and blood, and dangerous flesh at that. You’ll keep your eyes down and your nose out of such matters, or you’ll find yourself no better than the Irish scullery girls we turn away in droves. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle,” she whispered, though her heart rebelled, fluttering like a bird in a cage.

Lord Mitchell grunted, satisfied enough, and thrust the journal back into her hands. “See that this foolishness doesn’t creep into your conduct. Dreams make poor wives and worse mothers. Remember that.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, the echo of his boots ringing down the corridor.

Amelia sat very still for a moment, staring at the door. Then, with trembling hands, she reopened her journal, dipped her quill again, and in the margin she wrote, smaller than a whisper:

Even in his anger, he cannot erase her. She is here, and I will write of her, though all the world forbids it.