Alice is ten when she realizes her parents don’t love her. One of Father’s friends comes to visit on a dreary autumn day, which means she has to sit quietly in a pale dress with matching ribbons in her hair and smile through her discomfort as Mr. Hatchum leers down at her and compliments her dress, her hair, her eyes.
“Yes,” Mother smiles her Company smile, which is polished and shiny and shows just the right amount of teeth for a lady. “She’ll fetch us a good connection when she’s older. Go work on your embroidery, child.”
Alice says nothing, for little girls are meant to be seen and not heard. She executes a perfect curtsey and gently lets herself out of the parlor. Her embroidery doesn’t prevent her mind from turning over her mother’s words. Fetching a connection doesn’t sound like something she would like to do, but little girls do what they’re told without complaint, so Alice will have to bear it.
Later, she discovers why Mr. Hatchum visited.
“Mr. Hatchum’s brother runs a boarding school. You will be leaving for the academy in the morning,” Father tells her.
No further explanation comes, and Alice bites her tongue against the half-dozen questions jostling to be released. “Yes, Father,” is all she says, and she follows the maid to her room to pack.
There are no tearful goodbyes the following day, no words of comfort or reassuring embraces. Alice is bundled into Mr. Hatchum’s carriage with a bit of pin money, and not a word is said to her, although plenty are exchanged with Mr. Hatchum. She watches without really listening, examining her parent’s faces. What she finds there, through their Company expressions, is happiness, joy. They’re glad to see her go. Alice feels hairline fractures trail down her heart as one thought enters her mind: they don’t love me.
She says not a word as they drive away, for little girls are meant to be seen and not heard.