Free When the Splendor Falls by Laurie McBain Page B

certainly would not, because, I would have the foresight not to choose him in the first place. I declare, Leigh, you have me worried. A lady always knows when a gentleman means trouble. You can spot it a mile away. Never marry a man with a swagger. It’s a sure sign. What do you think we’ve been learning at school? How to find a proper husband and make an ideal match. You don’t want to be another Catherine Earnshaw, do you? Oh, she made the right decision, and married her proper Edgar Linton, but then she tormented herself pining away for that Heathcliff. A dark-visaged gypsy. Nothing good can come of such a mismatching. You have got to be coldhearted about matrimony. Love, my dears, has nothing to do with it.”
    “But I think of the noble sacrifice some heroines make for love. Like Marguerite Gautier? She gave up Armand because she loved him, only to face his wrath, know unhappiness because of his contempt, then die knowing she had made the greatest, most unselfish sacrifice for love.”
    “Well, pooh, who wants to die and leave your lover? What pleasure is there in that? We should never have read so scandalous a story, except that Madame loved it. It’s French,” Julia declared, taking a slice of sponge cake.
    “What about his love? He might die of unhappiness,” Blythe said, defending the hero of La Dame aux Camelias .
    “Oh, la dee, Lucy dear, don’t you believe that. Heroes are never the ones who have to sacrifice anything in romantic novels. It is always the heroine. If she doesn’t die of a broken heart because she didn’t capture the hero’s love, then she dies in childbirth because she did and has to suffer the consequences of their illicit love—because it usually is. He, of course, rides off to great adventure on the last page, certain to find a new love.”
    Leigh stared dreamily at the sky, the pear tart on her plate untouched. “’Twas on an afternoon, much like this, when Daphne fled Apollo, and I am certain that Atalanta stopped in this very glade to pick up one of the golden apples dropped by Hippomenes.”
    “Oh, Leigh, you do know I never enjoyed reading that stuffy ol’ Greek mythology,” Julia reminded her with a frown. But when Leigh remained silent, she added, “So?”
    “Atalanta had to wed Hippomenes, because he had outraced her and won her challenge. She was very fleet of foot and thought no one could catch her, but he tricked her by tossing three golden apples, which were quite irresistible, in her path. She could not resist them, and stopped to capture them for her prize. Alas, no more would she roam the woods alone, because he won the race and claimed her as his prize. And poor Daphne, well, she was turned into a laurel tree in order to escape from Apollo, who was determined to possess her. But a maiden who is loved by one of the gods is to be pitied, for a child of that union is doomed to death, and the maid to exile. She wished for neither, and chose instead another fate. To honor her, Apollo chose to wear a crown of laurel leaves whenever victorious.”
    “Really,” Julia breathed, thinking the Greeks had been more romantic than she remembered from her studies. “La dee, but I am sleepy,” she said with a sigh of contentment, her plate empty.
    “Oh, no, we have work to do, so you’d better not get comfortable,” Leigh reminded her sleepy-eyed friend.
    “Oh, Leigh, you know I can’t go blackberry picking in this,” she said, holding out the fine muslin of her skirt. “It’ll be ruined. Mama will be so displeased with me if I come home with it snagged and stained,” she explained unhappily, yet hopeful of being excused from the purpose of their picnic. “Simone, my modiste in Charleston, she sewed this gown for me and it cost a fortune. And my slippers, remember them,” she added just in case.
    “I did offer you one of my old dresses to wear,” Leigh reminded her, unimpressed by Julia’s argument.
    Julia eyed Leigh’s slender shape with a look of envy.