The Hothouse Rose: Twelfth Tattersby
The Folly
Tattersby
The Hothouse Rose
‘You’ll have to get rid of that woman’
Her voice rings oddly clear, a piercing ray
of sun snowcaps Mrs. Kentworthy’s hair
His housekeeper meets his eye; a glance up from her cleaning kit
And withering glare, that says indeed,
keeping fealty with the name she bears,
‘I’ve worked many places, Mr. Inskip. This here’s summat
below par.’
He’s not certain, though, that Lucille can be heard
By any other than himself
It had been the start—
His giving Macbeth’s before the ghost of Banquo
A run for its money
An earlobe tugged sportingly
That chilling touch
(Not her fault, he grants)
And Dougal being out the night, his coat
dew-spangled
Face unshaved, shoes tracking mud
His help must think him fallen prey to drink
No, she doesn’t hear that laugh
Sees her gentleman strike a listening attitude
helpless
They pantomime these telegraphing roles
He knows Mrs. Kentworthy is jotting notes
Mentally, what she’ll tell her sister
‘You see I’m not such the hothouse rose…
No matter what the envious whisper
I intend making a project of it
Of you, my darling Dougal
Keeping your precious hearth and home
Fiona-proof
Begone melancholy fancy!
(Tinkling merriment)
I’ve always had a will and made a way
You shall be my hands, my Jane
And I your Rochester
Just see what fun we’ll have together, you and I!’
‘What fun!’ he shouts aloud, and sees at once
Of all strange things to blurt
Worse, from a face, no doubt, of humourless defeat
He has found it
That tremour capable of shaking Mrs. Kentworthy
The slamming door frames a hollow quiet
So suddenly
He knows Fiona can never fill it
Lucille…my dear…
How will we ever manage?
The Hothouse Rose
A Cold Reception: Thirteenth Tattersby
(2017, Stephanie Foster)