The Yellow Dress

First time posting here. This is a veryrough draft of a wider selection of stories I'm doing. Hope you enjoy!

As soon as the glints of sun had caressed my face and almost blinded my eyes as I lay in bed, I threw aside the covers and rushed to pull open the curtains. Swirls of dust rose up from the brocade as I pressed my face to the glass and smiled at the sunrise unravelling before me.

The elm trees and the tamarisk swayed calmly in the clear morning air. It was going to be a hot day, I thought, as I looked up the cloudless sky and the feebly stirring wind: and nobody was here but Anne and mother, and the Presidente, who would no doubt ignore the beauty of the grounds in spring and play dowdy card games and mumble from a book of sermons all day.

I splashed my face and neck with cool water from the jug and shook out my hair. Sitting at my small dresser, I slowly brushed my hair. It is not as pleasurable as one somebody else brushes my hair, but Cecile was still asleep, even though she ought to be keeping servant hours.

I quickly threw on my chemise, stomacher and skirt. I knelt beside the oak chest at the foot of my bed and lifted the heavy lid. On top lay the grey colours of my half mourning, but I caught sight of a yellow sleeve at the bottom and carefully pulled it out and lay it on my bed.

I had not had a chance to wear it, as I had been trapped in mourning for a year, and the dark colours had brought out the paleness of my skin and made me look sallow. But today was not a day for the dead, and I could dress myself.

I pulled it over my head and struggled with the laces in the back. The material was exquisite; soft to the touch and light, I felt like I was sloughing off the dead skin of last year. I smoothed out my skirt and turned to the mirror.

I have always loved bright simple colours. I had neither the dramatic looks that is required for heavier colours, nor the inclination; this dress gave me an extraordinary feeling of lightness and optimism. I bunched up my hair in a bun, pulled my spring muff out of a smaller chest, and slipped on my shoes as I made for the door.

Before my hand fell on the doorknob I thought that I might at least obey social convention in some insignificant way, even if I provoked comments due to what Mama is often quick to term ‘insubordinate insolence.’

I had the urge to laugh. I slowly went back to my small chest, and picked out a black kerchief. Mama might complain, but the others will not know what to say.

My heels tapped quickly along the stone floor as I rushed past the bedrooms of the west wing. The shutters had not been opened, nor the chandeliers lit. Only the French doors in the hallway gave light to the west wing and I quickly opened the latch, trying to close it as quietly as I could.

The west wing overlooked the rose garden and I immediately caught the heady scent of the primroses and the jasmine. The dew glowed in the sunshine, and I felt the familiar exhilaration of the warmth on my skin.

Jasmine is the rose of memories. I stood there, leaning against the brick panels, images stirred in my mind ever more vivid than before; I saw my brother at his telescope, determinedly mapping out the various constellations he could see. Antoine used to say that I was a creature of the sunrise and he of the night. I remembered him so clearly in his striped banyan, sitting at his desk, and the sound of his quill scratching the parchment.. When he died, I did not mourn his death like the others who did not know him did, I felt it; a part of me had been extinguished just like the candle clock he would have at his desk. It was the natural order of things when Papa died, yet when Antoine was no longer there, I felt as if the Fates had opened up a wound in my soul that would bleed forever. He had not died; he had been snatched from me.

When I opened my eyes the sun had fully risen. I carefully buried my memories along with the scent of jasmine, and made my way along to the wicker gate.

I walked in the garden and amongst the trees for a long time, twirling my hat and humming. The birds fluttered frantically from one tree to another. The branches swayed and the leaves fell on my hair and shoulders.

When I reached the clearing I decided it would be time to return, at any rate, the servants would be up and were quite capable of informing Mama that I was out.

I gazed at the hills for a few moments before picking up my skirts turning back to the house.

It was a typical summerhouse; the architects had tried to add noble affect to a provincial home by an array of sculpted bossages and reliefs. The fountain at the foot of the terrace had been imported from Florence, and featured a muscular Amour holding a flailing Psyche. Her face was turned away from his and her lips parted in terror. Her breasts stood up, bizarrely spaced apart and her nipples erect. I smoothed my bodice consciously as I made my way up the steps.