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368 pages, Paperback
First published January 5, 2021
How would it be, I wondered, to move through the world like Miss Bennet, with such energy and sureness? There was strength in Miss Bennet’s form, and health in the brightness of her cheeks. Her muslin gown showed the full outline of her legs as she moved, and they looked so very sturdy. I imagined running my palms down their length, feeling the soft brush of fine hair and the solidity of muscle. Cupping the backs of her calves. They would feel, I thought, very different to my own.
Miss Amherst, shorter and fuller, with curving shoulders and blunt, irregular features—small eyes, round nose, soft, receding chin. Both had hair of an unfortunate shade of orange, though Miss Julia wore it better, her skin pale and smooth enough that the contrast was dramatic. Miss Amherst’s skin was covered in freckles so scattered and numerous they looked like droplets of paint. She was elegance and irreverence at once, one foot, in its neat green slipper, swinging lightly as she sat. I watched it move, the better to keep my eyes from wandering over all the oddly appealing, clashing parts of her.
At night, the house breathed, and it was this that made me realize I had been hearing and feeling Rosings Park for most of my life. I remembered, when I was a child, imagining that the walls of the house were moving in and out around me, just as my own rib cage expanded and subsided with each of my breaths. It had, I knew now, been breathing the whole time; I simply had not recognized its respiration for what it was.
Memories of my early life begin slow and dreamy as any on my nurse's stories. They meander like dust motes in the shafts of sunlight that came in through the nursery window. I was not supposed to dance, myself, but I could pretend, in the hours I spent watching those flecks twirl and collide, that I was one of them, a member of the set.
I had spent half a decade, after all, sitting beside her in church, watching her when I ought to have been listening to the sermon.
The rose garden where we currently sat was adorned by classical sculptures Papa ordered, sculptures with long, curving lines, round-limbed women whose state of general undress displeased my mother. The one nearest us now had one shoulder hitched invitingly; I liked to imagine she looked back at me with a fascination equal to my own as I studied her.
But I could not speak sensibly, my mouth crowded with thoughts of tiger-souls and tiger-hope, and the hopelessly insensible urge to unlatch the tiger's cage and see all its potential unleashed on the world.