"expectation is the root of all heartache."
- william shakespeare

I HATED THAT day—thoroughly.

It was not the fact that I, who lacked patience, had to wait patiently for Jake Warrens to return, nor the pressing reminder of how I despised the fact of how the Major did not go off to fight alongside him. No, much to my misfortune it was not Jake, nor Major, that was the source of my problems. Instead, it was the fact that today was Sunday.

The day I was supposed to be engaged to someone.

Who? You may ask.

I hadn't the faintest idea.

It did not shock me when Mother arrived dressed in the best clothing that someone of her calibre could afford: no silks or velvets, but simply a sheep-skinned coat of sea-foam, draped over her shoulders and trailing behind her as though she were an infamous mistress. Red glossed her lips in the dimly lit London evening, tacky chandeliers slumbering upon her ears rather uncomfortably, but, as Mother preached to me often (much to my dismay): Beauty is pain. Her skin had not improved even though it was showered in products—it only seemed to defeat the purpose of its given task: Mother's aged lines protruded more from her face, and were heavy on her forehead. And nestled on her arm, resembling that of a burden, was my step-father.

Conard Heath.

The man was that of a pigsty, his odour pungent and morbid; he resembled that of a decaying corpse or rotting fish, and his hair sat sloppily—bathed in sweat—against his sorrel skin, those dark eyes of an unwavering intensity and lust lying upon everyone.

Everyone, and then me.

But they lingered too long for my taste.

From the way Mother graced the quaint room—greeting and shaking the hands of the uncalled soldiers as though she were their acquaintance—it was obvious that she had not seen the hand that Conard had slipped onto my elbow, or the often unpleasant smiles he gave me. Of course, I was not someone to take it lightly, for I stepped on his foot and politely told him to leave me alone, unless he wanted a barricade of soldiers upon him.

He, for once, made a wise choice and left me—alone.

Alone with nothing but my thoughts of him.

Jake.

It had been occurring for the past day or so—Jake. His name sent unwanted shivers down my spine, and his warmth—in which I had grown acquainted too in such a brief time—was something I dearly missed around me. It resembled a guiding presence, and without it, I was lost. Lost in a word of conniving people and deception, of lies and corruption. Lost in a world in which I had realised that I did not belong to, no matter if my looks matched it. Lost in a world where I had no-one, or was soon to have no-one. From the way Mollie looked at Major, I could tell that one day, she would soon be to preoccupied looking after her seven children, too busy being a wife to pursue her forgotten dreams; and Mother—well, she was never with me in the first place.

"Amandine, darling." Spoke Mother, a ghastly smile plastered upon her face. It was sickly looking, for the yellow tint on her teeth was only enhanced by the red gloss upon her lips, and her bloodshot eyes stood out like a sore thumb. Beside her stood a soldier, posture acute, eyes set just before my head and face stern and unwavering. "I have a potential suitor for you, my darling Amandine."

"Oh." Was all I said, analysing him. His nerves were evident, from the light sweat that trickled from his brow to the quivering of his lips, and I felt inclined to not reject him because of it. No doubt that he'd, too, been forced here beyond his will—although why marry me? A maid—that is all I was.

In the eyes of Jake, that is.

"Greetings, Madame Lorette." He bowed, the sandy locks upon his head toppling over his forehead. Tall he was, for even when he bowed, he did not reach my height—and his arms were slender and lean, alike his body. The man perched his head up, green eyes staring at me with a rare timidness—a peculiar warmth.

Warmth.

I had not felt such warmth since Jake had left.

"Amandine," spoke Mother, her teeth gritting. "Say. Something."

"Oh!—Greetings, Sir." I curtseyed, letting the coils that graced my head tumble over my face. "I'm so glad you could make it." Rehearsed lines: that's what left my mouth. Overused, repeated words that held no true meaning in my heart. Easily disposable, easily made to someone's ears. Was I truly glad that this man was before me? No, not particularly—but what could I do?

"Madame Lorette," he begun, and the sudden urge to cut him off became prominent within me, "would you do the honour of dancing with me?"

No, I had the urge to say, but bit my tongue. The warmth he emitted was the only thing that kept me from running out of the place. That warmth—Jake's warmth—was what kept me still in my place. Jake's warmth is what made me accept the man's request to dance and dine, to laugh and twirl as though I were a princess—a woman of happiness and wealth.

The extent of how far a façade can go really does startle me; and that fact that I could continue with it, willingly, petrified me.

Hours on end: that is how long I danced with that soldier. What was meant to be a few, quick minutes had become ceaseless hours, and it was only when the sun rose did I step from his grasp and gasp in the cold air of London's summer, coils flailing and cheeks flushed; and it was only then did I realise the extent of a human façade, and how pitiful I had become.

I held no love for the man—no desire or lust or intrigue. There was nothing but a hollow shell of emptiness, and to fill it temporarily was the satisfaction of thinking I'd met an expectation: Mother's expectation.

But not my own.

In pleasing Mother, I'd wounded myself;

After all, expectation is the root of all heartache.