3rd January, 1895 — Timoleon Maxime’s Residence, London
She had gone to bed early, claiming a headache in spite of it being her birthday – which Estelle usually milked for all it was worth. As the years passed, of course, it became a bitterer and bitterer day to her, no matter how she tried to combat it; and this year she had more weighing on her mind than ever before.
If it had only been the flowers, those alone still would have been the last straw. But it was much, much worse than that – she was going to kill Timoleon Maxime for all he had done to her, and kill him twice if he didn’t fix things now.
He had ruined her – ruined everything. She had locked her bedroom door, put out her bedside lamp, and then, her hair down but still fully dressed, lit up the Floo. For a moment, Estelle hoped she wouldn’t bump into any of his staff or worse, some other slut in bed with him (no: she might be deluded, but she held with her idea that if he had been fortunate enough to be with her, he would not have wasted his energy on seducing anyone else) – but then she remembered that if she was already ruined, what did it matter if she were seen?
But she hadn’t come across anyone else, just searched from room to room until she found him, her expression stormy. “You think you can just do whatever you want, and get away with it?!” she hissed, already fuming. “Well, I won’t let you. Don’t you dare send flowers to the house –” (it didn’t matter that she had, that was different, and there was no one who would remark on his; and that had been before her monthlies hadn’t come, and she had started to feel strange in herself, and now suspected she was carrying his blasted child) “when I’m – I’m –” She couldn’t seem to say it now that she was actually looking at him, so she just gestured angrily at her midriff, presuming he would understand the consequences of his actions better than she did.
If it had only been the flowers, those alone still would have been the last straw. But it was much, much worse than that – she was going to kill Timoleon Maxime for all he had done to her, and kill him twice if he didn’t fix things now.
He had ruined her – ruined everything. She had locked her bedroom door, put out her bedside lamp, and then, her hair down but still fully dressed, lit up the Floo. For a moment, Estelle hoped she wouldn’t bump into any of his staff or worse, some other slut in bed with him (no: she might be deluded, but she held with her idea that if he had been fortunate enough to be with her, he would not have wasted his energy on seducing anyone else) – but then she remembered that if she was already ruined, what did it matter if she were seen?
But she hadn’t come across anyone else, just searched from room to room until she found him, her expression stormy. “You think you can just do whatever you want, and get away with it?!” she hissed, already fuming. “Well, I won’t let you. Don’t you dare send flowers to the house –” (it didn’t matter that she had, that was different, and there was no one who would remark on his; and that had been before her monthlies hadn’t come, and she had started to feel strange in herself, and now suspected she was carrying his blasted child) “when I’m – I’m –” She couldn’t seem to say it now that she was actually looking at him, so she just gestured angrily at her midriff, presuming he would understand the consequences of his actions better than she did.
