The Girl Who Didn't Need Anybody

Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay

The Patron always put off business for as long as he could. 

He never confined himself to his study until the leaves changed color, and only then would he engage in the duties he found so tedious. 

This was the time of year when he reacquainted himself with the sounds of his household.

He could recognize the Cook from her heavy shuffle and the maids from their light-footed trots; his daughter’s personal maid and his manservant had similar glides, the tread of the latter heavier than the former. 

Their paces made a mesmerizing rhythm, making the dullness of his work more tolerable.

Late one afternoon, his concentration was interrupted by an unfamiliar tread coming from his daughter’s rooms. 

The Patron looked to the ceiling and frowned. 

This gait was long and steady with a firm step to the floor, its resonance echoing through the ceiling.

His daughter’s footfall was a whisper, so soft to be almost silent. Many times, a servant or merchant would be startled to turn around and find her standing there, for they hadn’t heard her approach. 

The Patron looked at his watch. 

The girl was usually on a ride at this time before dinner. Whoever he heard walking above him couldn’t be his daughter.  

Stunned that an intruder should be in his home, the Patron rushed from his study and up the stairs. 

Her skirts and petticoats swirled around breeches cuffed at her boots. Thus reminded of his daughter’s refusal to ride in a lady’s saddle, the Patron knew it was she who now had the firm tread of a stranger.  

In his haste, the Patron almost collided with his daughter at the top of the stairs. 

But the girl reeled away from her father, her face pale. 

Yet she recovered quickly and stepped back, crossing one foot behind the other and sweeping one side of her skirts to her waist. The girl’s composure restored, color returned to her cheeks as she came out of her curtsy, waiting for her father to allow her to pass.

Embarrassed, the Patron stepped aside. 

His daughter descended to the landing.

To his surprise, she stopped before the portrait of his wife. The girl kissed her fingers and then pressed them on the lips in the portrait. 

His daughter glanced to the top of the staircase, and flushed when she saw the Patron still watching her. 

Yet all the Patron noticed was that she now stood a shade taller than the woman in the painting.

His daughter was now the same exact age as his wife when he had met her. 

He looked at her again. 

The girl was actually glaring at him, the defiance in her eyes unnerving, even as she curtsied to him once more.

The Patron didn’t return to his study.  

He stayed upstairs, listening to the fade of his daughter’s gait as she left for the stables. 

He came down a step and sat down, staring at the portrait, while the same question ran through his mind. 

When had their daughter grown up? 

There he stayed until his manservant startled him out of his reverie with a hint to get ready for dinner.  

The Patron watched his daughter closely after that day.

He found it wasn’t just her walk that had changed. 

All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. The girl’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his wife.

But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to. 

Time had not refined the girl’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother. 

Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women, and she possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom. 

The Patron also noticed his daughter had grown more animated. 

He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles.

She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east. 

The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling. 

His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. 

How had this happened? For nothing had changed. 

The girl was still despised everywhere she went. 

Rooms fell silent on her entrance.  

People stared at her or ignored her, just as they had for years. 

But the girl was no longer stricken by it. 

Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear as crystal, even though she went through her day as alone as ever. Yet she now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even. 

After years of ostracism, his daughter had become the rarest of human mysteries, somebody who didn’t need anybody.