Tudor Manor - Chapter Three |Strutting Like a Peacock|

She arrives, as usual, in a flurry of feathers and exquisite silks. The cool weight of her gems rests against her pale, creping skin. This evening, she thought, she should outfit herself in her true colour, and she is, robed in swaths of creamy blue silk. Of course, she pulled from her trove a collection of sapphires, clusters adorning her wrist, neck, ears and fingers. But beside the priceless blue stone on her finger lies another ring – a treasured ring. Her husband’s.

But that is an issue too tied to fond memories for her to dwell on. She is here for a specific purpose, a very specific purpose.

Her brother-in-law’s house is overwhelmed with guests, and she is relieved in this most social environment. Oh, in her day, she was such the social butterfly. And today, she is late; fashionably late. She walks through the ballroom doors, and the crowd stops, parting so that she may pass. Or that is the fantasy she dreams herself through, in any case. But her duty now is the party – her other plan can wait – and she must get a sense of who is here: who is making conversation, and who is on top in this society.

She sweeps through the crowd, around knots of conversation, through those less important than herself. And quickly she spots someone, someone she wants to talk with. It will, at least, give her some sense of society in this room.

“Oh! Dearest Jonathan Green!” she exclaims, her voice as warm as it might ever get; her tone of familiarity. She knows he must respond.

“Mrs Peacock-!”

“Henrietta, dear, do call me Henrietta,” she interrupts, and strides through the door. By George, this room is disgusting! Albert was civilized. Albert would never have consented to this. She coughs, and with dramatic sigh continues, “How can you bear this room, my darling? Oh! The smoke is just too much. Jon, dear, be a gentleman and go get me a drink.”

He stops, but he must. He must. She knows, but she must roll with it. She coughs again, making sure that the feathers floating around her shudder, as if each a objectified duplicate of herself. She and her feathers look at him. There is a tense moment.

 “Of course, Henrietta, of course I can fetch a drink. You must excuse me; something caught my eye through the door…”

“Well darling I’ll forgive you,” she exhales in relief, her social status not shattered and at least remains whole, “but let us leave this room. The smoke will kill you one day, you know,” it is the right thing to say, though her standing dictates her movements as she takes another long drag of her cigarette, mounted on a holder she bought with Albert’s money. Albert’s money… how she longs for him… and it.  

She leaves the room, Jon following. It appears as if she had the upper hand in this. She knows she does not. But that is not her objective. Her goal is to keep her social standing in class afloat until she dies. Until Albert and his money’s problems are passed onto someone else. For a while she thought she knew who to pas them to. But no, that would be much to kind for him, him that ruined her life forever.

He continues to follow her as she wafts like smoke through the crowd, knowing things over in her state of reverie and revenge. Out of her mouth is a stream of words, none of which matter to her, only to keep her image beautiful and pristine. Her makeup can only go so far.

“She was a purebred, you know – as always, of course – but there was something with that dog I tell you… something not quite good. And to think of it! The offspring of champions! But luckily for me, I decided to breed her anyway, and then out comes – oh, sorry, sorry, Colonel – the most perfect puppy!” Oh, she must have hit the Colonel. Oh dear. He would matter to her if she was not going to ruin him and his career in her will. But she is, and that is the end of that.

“What a wonderful story, Henrietta, but please, do tell me what drink you would like me to get you…” Jon replies. She smiles that he has the energy to attempt to understand her mindless babble.

“Oh, just tell the bartender it’s for me. He’ll know what to do.” She does not care right now. Let one of the professionals deal with it. Besides, it gives her an air of sophistication.

“I’ll return soon.”

“I’ll be waiting, Jonathan!” She replies, but no woman with any sense would really wait. In a wave of silken blue and powdered feathers, she is lost again into the crowd, and lost again in her fantasy. 

She supposes all these people are here for her. Obviously she is the most important guest present. And oh, does she have something waiting for her brother-in-law. Supposing she should talk to the most important guests here, she situates herself by the cigar cabinet, spotting a scarlet gown weaving through the party towards it. Soon enough, her niece-in-law arrives. Henrietta is ready for a conversation. Before she can light her cigarette, Vivianne is interrupted, “Real Carerras? My dear I simply adore them! Might I?” Henrietta does have a favourite type of cigarette – her own custom blend but she has had to stoop to these for some time now. Oh, how she misses Albert. 

“Go ahead,” Vivianne says, and hands the box over to Henrietta, who stubs out a cigarette of the exact same brand, acting with an air of inferiority that even the actress beside her thinks her attitude to be true. Her niece leans on the cabinet, and knows she must press for conversation out of this young woman. So of course, she starts with the ever popular, ever neutral, ever boring subject of “female bonding” 

“You know, one day you will be having grand old parties just like this one, Miss Scarlet. And in this very room too. Your husband will be a lucky man; his wife the niece and only heir to Mr Boddy! Investor and high society man extraordinaire! My dear, you have a wonderful, glamorous life ahead of you. I say, live the life of luxury, and milk those damn husbands for all their worth.” Ah, this is perfect. So like her façade. The other woman believes it. 

“Actually I’m not so convinced I shall marry,” Vivianne states. Henrietta is taken a little aback, but not enough to show real shock. Albert… oh Albert. Her happiest day was her wedding day. “Perhaps I shall enjoy the life of an heiress until the day I die.”

“No, no, no, my dear, oh no,” Mrs. Peacock shakes her head dramatically.  “So long ago, I was so much like you my dear, but then I met dear Albert. Oh! And what a difference it made! Oh for sure he was pleasant enough but men will simply shower you with gifts. I was like you, you know, I know what it will be like for you.” 

“Do you now…” Vivianne mumbles.

“Oh yes, yes. The jewels, the cars, the clothes, the houses. You my dear have it all made for you! The world is your oyster, and you its pearl! Oh, pearls! You know,” she takes a long drink of her cocktail, “Albert bought me pearls just before he died. I never though I would miss him, but now that he is gone, it can just be so… lonely. Oh,” she drapes a powdered hand on Vivianne’s arm, “I do miss him so!” This, at least, is not drama. Albert was her life, is her life. She cannot function without him. She is here to finish that, but she can wait a little longer for an opportunity.

“I am sure wherever he is Albert is thinking of you, Mrs. Peacock.” But Henrietta is lost again in her fantasy. She is not paying attention. Reliving through those faded thoughts she remembers Albert. The balls, the dances, the operas in Vienna. She longs for those days again. And she knows just how to get them back. All she must do is wait for her opportunity.

“Call me Henrietta, dear please.” She replies absentmindedly through the cloud of daydreams.

“I am quite sure Albert is thinking of you, Henrietta.”

“Oh, I like to think so…” she is completely lost now. In fact she is not replying to Vivianne at all, but to her sister. They were talking about him, and then he did… he did propose on just that day!

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Peacock, but I really must be going. I believe Colonel Mustard has been waiting for me for some time.”
Henrietta tears from her dream-world to end the conversation with some sense of class. “You really shouldn’t keep him waiting my dear! And Colonel Mustard! Such a fine young bachelor… off you go, off you go. You shouldn’t keep him waiting!”
As Vivianne disappears into the crowd, Henrietta realises she has been coaxing her niece-in-law to flirt with the fraud Mustard. She is amused.
She smiles, the cakes makeup on her face too thick to allow any new wrinkle to be seen. It is him. She is know sure he knows she knows. In fact, he may think Mr Boddy knows.  She can leave her act now.

“Colonel Mustard,” she greets without the carefully planned tactics of high class. He is anything but high class.

“Mrs Peacock,” he replies smoothly, the smoothness that has wormed him out of so many situations. “I was just going to leave – I have a lot of work to be doing.”

“Leaving so soon? How odd. Goodnight, then, Mustard.”

“Goodnight Mrs Peacock. I shall see you again soon.”

“Perhaps,” she replies as he begins to walk away, and he cannot hear her, “But not like this. No, not like this, Colonel Mustard.”
She is tired, weary from so long keeping up this disguise. She collapses into a chair, only to see another of those oh-so-familiar figures. It is Mrs White this time. Perhaps Henrietta has had too much to drink, since she cannot make out what the elder woman is doing, but she doubts it. This party is nothing out of the norm. At least, not now. Not yet.

“Mrs Peacock!” for once, someone else has greeted her.

“Edgar?” she asks, exhausted.

“Yes, yes, it’s me!” Plum exclaims, coming toward her quickly.

“And how has the night been going for you?”

“Well, quite well dear, thank you for asking,” now it is her turn to be absentminded.

“Are you tired?”

“Do I look tired… are you trying to ask me if I’m old!” She sits up in her seat. She is not old. She has enough energy to do many things. Many, many, many things.

“No, no of course!”

“I see you’ve finally succeeded in overcoming your stutter with me, Edgar.” He is taken aback. Perhaps she was not meant to notice that. He counters quickly.

“It seems I have, Henrietta. But I’m afraid I have only had success with you. Have you talked to Mr Green yet…?”

Again, this is the conversation not worth time. Her time, for once. She can tell he is using her, perhaps for some kind of alibi? That would be clever, but he is underestimating her. She knows what she can do; how she can use him.

“Well I am truly sorry, Professor Plum, but I must go – just a quick dash to the powder room.”

“Will you be back then?” he asks.

“No,” she replies slowly,. “No, I suppose not.” Getting up, she turns away from him, a sly smile on her face.

Soon, she is free of the ballroom, and she begins her hunt. She is hunting him, him who caused her so much pain. He will  pay, and he will pay now. She slinks through the halls, energized by her fantasy. To her, she is following Albert through the halls of the Vienna opera house. He is leading he on, to where he will propose. To where everything will begin. But here, now, this is where everything will end.

On her way through the halls, she passes a small side table, set with a bouquet and a candle stick. Odd. But no one is here to notice, and this candlestick may not be completely useless. She takes the stick in hand, testing its weight. She arrives in front of the dining room doors, her eyes wild with a mix of clouded fantasy and wild rage. She is poised and waiting: waiting for joy, for revenge, for an end.

Mrs Peacock, in the dining room, with the candlestick.