Birdcage

   “Shall I pour you another cup, mam?” Mellie asks as she tiptoes over to my chair, hands shaking nervously causing the tea kettle to clink and water to spurt out.  Though quiet and timid, and not much older than myself I found her company surpringingly enjoyable. 

“Yes, please. I can’t seem to warm up my bones this morning.” I confessed, though I knew this had less to do with the inclement weather and more to do with what lay ahead. 

                Mellie dropped in a cube or two of sugar before transferring the hot cup to me, the steam warming my cheeks as I took the first sip. She encourages me to take a bite or two of the scone she brought from the kitchen, but my appetite is lacking this week. The tea is soothing enough, and I stare out the window with my knees pulled up towards my chest. I watch in amusement as the white snow flurries fall heavily onto the street below.

                Downstairs familiar voices shout firm directions and orders to one another. Young serving maids mumble concerns under their breath as they walk swiftly past my door. Their feeble attempt to create a scene from a fairy tale is almost comical. They confess their annoyances to each other, only out of earshot of Lord and Lady Breaux. The shuffling of feet remains swift and with each step a purpose while chaos is alive and abundant in this very well-respected downtown home on Canal Street.  

                Aside from the current event planning happening right under my nose, it is also the 1899 carnival season in New Orleans. The city appears unusually calm this morning. A thin blanket of snow covers every surface of the city, a very rare occurrence for New Orleans at any time of year.  

                 Any other day I would rake through catalog after catalogue for the perfect gown to wear to the festivities and masked balls that would surely follow the parades. Even on such a dreary day as this my spirits would have been giddy and playful. Today, however, my girlish fantasies and mindless games are far behind me. A new life is waiting for me downstairs, and I am compelled to focus on nothing save the melting snow disappearing from the soiled ground.

         A recollection of past anticipation of “becoming a lady in society” has come back to haunt me. In less than a season, I’ve blossomed from a gangly imaginative child to a lost woman with a world of unwelcome responsibility on my shoulders. A responsibility that I do not wish to inherit and one I despise with all my heart. I’m trying to overlook all that lies ahead, to no avail, and choose instead to focus on the snowy white morning outside. I convince my mind to believe the weather might hold some glimmer of hope. Maybe this unexpected form of precipitation is a sign from God that I may be rescued from this predetermined life that has been my destiny since birth. I’m sure my mother perceives snow in the south on a girl’s wedding day as a sign of good luck. My mother and I disagree on many things.

         Unfortunately for my future, I was born into a prosperous family. When my father inherited his father’s railroad company at eighteen it flourished more than anyone imagined it would. He derived an obscene amount of money only after his father labored most of his life with grunt work, and then passed away before he could benefit from his company’s wealth. 

My mother was born into a family of affluent lawyers. My grandfather, Theodore Monroe, represented my father in a lengthy court case when he was dragged into a lawsuit with one of his conductors. My mother was introduced to him shortly after.  Both families saw courtship between the two as a great opportunity for two well known families in New Orleans to unite as one. Love was never an option for my mother. She understood her duty as the daughter born into a world of privilege. Privilege, although sought after, came with much responsibility.  She married my father without asking any questions or making any fuss. They have been a “happily married couple” ever since. Or at least that is what everyone on the outside is meant to believe.

         So, here I am falling into the same footsteps as my mother. Sitting in my bedroom half dressed in my corset and petticoats pondering a future that was never mine to decide. I watch the last of the snow dissipate from the ground, unable to keep my mind focused on any one coherent thought when my eyes begin to dart around the room, taking in all that will never be mine again. The shredded lampshade I ripped to pieces with my knitting tools. A result of the raging anger that burst from me when I found out I was to be married to a man I could never love. My custom wedding dress hangs ever so delicate on the oversized oak armoire in the corner of the room. It’s one of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever laid eyes on. The exquisite beadwork runs up the torso and fans out across a high neckline to accentuate my small frame. The train is long and embroidered with satiny lace and tiny white jewels. It was shipped all the way from Paris. My mother loves French designers. My wedding dress, in her highly recommended opinion, would not be designed by any other than Callot Soeurs. It’s a shame I won’t be able to enjoy wearing it. Precisely in one hour, I will be expected to walk downstairs adorned in this lavish wedding gown tailored just for me with some semblance of a smile on my face. If only I could convince myself to put the wretched thing on.

         I anticipate my nanny will be up soon to check on me. It seems senseless that I even still have a nanny when I’m seventeen years old. My father thinks of me as an “ill mannered young girl with wild dreams in her head.”  Yet, he thinks I am old enough to be betrothed to a man near his forties.

         My fiancé, Andrew, is the son of one of the most successful plantation owners in the South. He inherited his family’s tobacco plantation outside of town, but he's been working for my father for the last five years. His interest has always been in railroads. We started a courtship only a few months ago after my mother met him at a dinner party. Both my mother and father  decided he would make for more than a suitable husband. Thinking more of his purse than his person, I wasn’t given the chance to refuse him and my father reminds me every day that “Andrew’s wealth exceeds our own by ten times our worth”  .

         We’ve been on numerous outings together over the past few months. He escorted me to a dinner party one evening recently, but barely spoke a word to me while we were out. He sat at the bar with some of his fellow businessmen and ordered his usual brandy to go with his ill smelling cigars. I was expected to mingle with the other young ladies who were brought to this party for the same reasons as me. I think of our kind as pigs being fattened up for slaughter. We were only there for one reason. It’s our destiny and the will of our fathers to be married off to someone of substantial fortunes. If I would have fallen in love with someone of that said worth before now I wouldn’t be in my current position. Only I am to blame for believing I could escape the fate so many before me have surrendered to. The only purpose for girls like me at balls such as these is to show off our dresses and make small talk with each other. Most of the girls were more than delighted to be invited, myself included up until I realized the intention of such charades. They have dreamed of nights like this their entire lives. I am only beginning to realize how substandard their ambitions are. The thought of it makes my stomach churn from the absurdity of it all.

         When Andrew finally chose to speak to me once or twice during the course of the evening he did so in such a tone to suggest I’m only a child without a clue of how the world works around her, while at the same time staring only at my breasts. When I spoke to my mother about this she only told me that it will be his God-given right only too soon to stare at my breasts as often as he chooses. She then goes on to argue how, “he’s a very handsome and powerful man around New Orleans and any bright young woman would feel flattered and fortunate to have him as a husband.” My mother can’t understand that it’s his power that frightens me the most.

         All of these things considered, today is still my wedding day. It’s supposed to be the most important and happiest day of my life, but I cannot be happy about something or someone that I did not choose. Every ounce of energy I had stored for this day has been drained from the last three days of uncontrollable sobbing and my frequent need to throw adolescent fits. 

Regardless of the energy it takes, I try to make an effort to stand up. For the last several hours I’ve been lounging on the peach colored settee that has been in my room since childhood. I record a mental note in my mind to ask my mother if I can bring this settee to Andrew’s house. Maybe having one familiar object will help me feel more at home there. Glancing over at the clock I realize I’m down to ten minutes before I must go downstairs to meet my fate. 

After my maids help me dress, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Moving at a slower pace than normal, every step is just one step closer to my new life. I stand before the large floor-to-ceiling mirror that has also been in my room my entire life. The diamond necklace my mother passed down to me from her wedding day and the other family weddings before hers lies delicately on my vanity. Clasping it around my neck I curse the precious diamonds for their existence and the unending curse it holds for each new generation. As my fingers caress the glimmering diamonds, my breath catches. The dress suddenly feels heavy and tight, and the room gets smaller with every breath. The sunlight shining through the window seems dark and haunting. For a moment I feel as if I’m a small bird stuck in a cage, just waiting for someone to set me free. I’m afraid I may lose consciousness, but there is an impatient knock at the door. If only I could have been so fortunate to faint at that moment, but I didn’t.  Nanny is calling to me. It’s time. 

Staring into my dark brown eyes on the other side of the mirror, I recognize a small glimpse of my mother. Her strained smile reminds me that I’m doing the honorable thing. Andrew is a decent man, and it’s only proper to do this without a fight. Her eyes, on the other hand, are urging me to run. A small tear runs down my cheek and into my mouth. The taste of salt on my tongue sends me back into my harsh reality. My time is up.   My eyes lock with the ones in the mirror once more and I can’t help but imagine the tiny bird stuck in a cage chirping loudly to be freed.