A Terrifying Teatime

"I will not let you marry my only boy off to a fishmonger," Aunt Iris spits, trace amounts of chamomile flying from her lips. Lorelai, my other aunt, sits back in her chair as if puzzled more by Iris's tea preference than the situation at hand. 

"Her mother has owned that company for fifteen years," Lorelai says, cyan eyes sharp and calculating. "And it's not fishmongering; they have people who do that for them. Althea's mother's company owns the ships, the docks, the fish, everything! It's a large, intricate business."

Iris sputters, and I suppress a smile. Lorelai's always been able to gain the upper hand; her tongue's as silver as my teaspoon and as sharp as my father's sewing needle. By the smug look she always wears, she knows it. 

Iris has a reputation for being, well, weak in the knees. Everyone around town knows how much she listens to her dear husband--taking his advice on everything from fashion to politics. It's an embarrassment, really, that she practically has no mind of her own; that Lorelai can so easily sway her thinking. Well, only when it doesn't benefit me. I'll give Lorelai some credit: when it comes to bailing me out of silly formal dinners, she's a real lifesaver.

Nevertheless, Iris takes a while to recover. In the meantime, I fiddle with the lace on my gown and try to picture married life with Althea Graycott. She's a relatively handsome girl, only a year or two older, with strong hips and pointy cheekbones. I think I've met her once or twice--who can say, when you've gone to as many luncheons as I have. But I do remember her hair: bright, bright red, the chaotic curls pulled back behind her ears. Such a strange color for a girl's hair. Maybe that's part of the reason why Iris hates Althea so; she reminds her of Lorelai, wild in the little details.

I tune back into the conversation just in time to hear my aunt's next furious comment: "Do not try me, Lorelai! John and I have raised this boy since he was eight years old, and I will not have your ignorant opinions taint his delicate demeanor."

Lorelai snorts and pours herself more tea. "I doubt that's true. You, my dear, have done nothing concerning Matteo's upbringing; it was John's chore from the start and you know it."

"Well, I never!"

Lorelai swallows, and sobers up to say, "He deserves a good wife, Iris, and Althea's the best there is. The only one there is, considering Matteo's age and status. He'll be twenty soon, Iris. Remember that."

I revert my gaze to my skirt, cheeks heating up. Iris pats her suit pockets, grumbling as she looks for a cigar to light. Lorelai sees a chance for victory and continues, "He's an orphan, too, Iris. He wasn't raised by his real father, remember that. Barely any girls want to marry an orphan boy. It's bad luck."

"Bad luck?" Iris stares at her sister with wide, frightened eyes. Still no cigar. Maybe a servant will bring her one. I stare, too, my palms wet with embarrassment. 

"Yes," Lorelai nods solemnly, once again with the upper hand. "Just think of the terrible luck that will follow his children. For all we know, they'll do as he did, and end up without a parent at all. Might even kill the mother! Imagine the shame he'd cause, with Althea gone, dead by his own seed."

Iris gasps, covering her mouth with a hand. "No!"

"It's happened before." Lorelai takes another sip. There's a momentary pause. "Say, has John given any opinion to Matteo's marriage?"

"Well, he wants to discuss it soon, as he has a few prospects. People from the Men's Household Association. A few have daughters just old enough, bright young women--"

"But he has no firm opinion yet?" I watch Lorelai's eyebrows inch upward with every syllable. 

"No." Iris tries to smooth the lapels of her suit, and jerks when Lorelai springs close the trap:

"Aha! Iris, my dear, you have nothing to fear! John has no worthy opinion, and therefore cannot stop you from betrothing Matteo this instance!" 

Now my mouth's the one hanging open. All this time, I thought Lorelai was on my side, fighting for a happy marriage, my own choice in the matter--

When actually, she cared more for winning an argument than my freedom. 

"I can't just do that without a discussion--"

"Why, of course, you can!" Lorelai smiles as if Iris's worry is the silliest thing she's heard of today. "You're his wife, Iris. What you say, goes."

I look back and forth between my two aunts, eyes welling up with angry tears. Iris always makes a point to listen to John about important decisions--and he's so giddy, being heard and recognized--so naturally, this whole thing feels criminal. And Lorelai's comment about my age? Surely there's time, right? I mean, it's not like I'm going to expire the moment I turn twenty. Surely I have another six months to go, before I turn into a withered hag with no strong daughters to my name?

I'm about to say something when I remember Althea's smiling face, her flaming hair. She'd treat me right, right? I'd have a roof over my head, beautiful gowns, and lace hankies. Maybe we'd live in a quaint house right by the river. Our kids would play outside, in the sun, while I'd cook and sew and write thankful, loving letters home. 

Dear Mrs. and Mr. Iris Blackwell,

I hope you're having a wonderful Easter, and that your health is well this spring. Althea's business is as strong as ever, and little Andromeda's fifth birthday was just this week! Oh, she loved getting your present. I still can't believe you got her a pony! And Timothy, too; he's delighted with those embroidery kits you sent. Thank you so very much. 

Sincerely,

Mrs. and Mr. Althea Graycott 

It doesn't sound too bad. I wonder if Althea likes shepherd's pie more than roast lamb. And what about her tea: Earl Gray, or Irish Breakfast? Silver or gold forks at the dinner table? What type of paintings over the fireplace?

I guess I'll just have to find out.