Creative Writing

The invitation had arrived some weeks prior, a heavy, cream - colored envelope emblazoned with the family crest - a wedding, no less, to be held at a sprawling estate an hour or so north of London. My distant cousin, Lady Adelaide Smythe - Parker, was to marry a baron, or perhaps a viscount - some title whose gravitas ensured the event was heralded as the wedding of the season, as all such affairs so often proclaim themselves. I had spoken to Mother and Father, and as they had no intention of joining, I had scarcely planned to attend until Jessica, with her boundless curiosity, expressed an interest in accompanying me. ...

The glow of that day lingered in my thoughts as I sat at the club the following afternoon, though the once - comforting surroundings now seemed stiflingly dull by comparison. The droning murmur of familiar voices filled the room - men discussing the same topics with the same self - assured gravity, as though the world’s problems had been distilled into trifling debates over sherry and cigars. For the first time, I found myself disconnected, my mind turning back to Jessica - the warmth of her laughter, the ease of our conversation, and the way people spoke of her with such genuine regard. It was a stark contrast to the hollow exchanges echoing around me. ...

Our outing to the park, intended as a serene diversion, had turned, as they say, a trifle more involved. Jessica, after much cheerful persuasion, had convinced me to accompany her to a cinema after our luncheon—a modern establishment specializing in obscure films that I daresay would confound the keenest minds of the previous century. As we approached the concession stand, the air thick with the mingling scents of buttered popcorn and soda syrup, I observed Jessica reaching for her purse. Naturally, I could not abide such a sight. With the speed and decisiveness of a gentleman warding off imminent disaster, I swiftly placed my hand over hers, halting her mid-reach. ...

As more time passed in our getting to know one another, I endeavored to share more of my world with Jessica, extending an invitation to one of my most cherished retreats, the Atheneum. With great pride, I asked her to accompany me to the club that weekend-a gesture I hoped would deepen her understanding of the traditions I held dear. Yet, I must confess, a flicker of unease lingered beneath my enthusiasm. Would she find this glimpse into my world charming, or would it strike her as antiquated and stifling? More troubling still was the question I dared not voice: would my world find her fitting to join? The thought weighed heavier than I cared to admit, though I brushed it aside as the day approached. ...

The morning was crisp, the kind that carried the faint promise of autumn. As I approached Lady Chatterley’s Tea Room, I found myself straightening my tie and brushing an invisible speck of lint from my coat. The quaint establishment had become a favored retreat of mine, a place where the world seemed to slow, and the chaos of modernity was held at bay by the comforting hum of clinking teacups and low murmurs. Today, though, the purpose of my visit lent it a weight unlike any other. ...

It was, in truth, a most alarming prospect. After a mere 2 months of being her “Gentlemen Friend” as she put it, Jessica had extended the invitation with an eagerness that I suspected was fraught with a certain peril: “I’d love for you to come and hang out with my friends, Percival. It’s just Blake and Ruby, who you’ve met, and one other guy. We’re meeting at a small pub this Friday. Come along. I think they’d really… well, enjoy you.” ...

After three weeks of dating, Jessica had finally reached her limit with the endless back-and-forth involved in coordinating plans through my answering service. “Percival,” she had declared the previous evening, her tone light but pointed, “if you can master a double Windsor knot and recite Chaucer, you can learn to use a phone.” I had protested, of course. Tradition, I argued, demanded dignity, and there was little dignified about clinging to a glowing rectangle that demanded constant attention. But Jessica, ever practical and persistent, had recruited reinforcements, ironically by interrupting a call Aunt Beatrice who had called to arrange our next tea. Aunt Beatrice, unshockingly, had sided with her. ...

After the movie picture, she pointed out this quaint, if not quirky, café off of a side street near her apartment. The café was unassuming but lively, with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu offering everything from flat whites to avocado toast. Jessica had insisted on this place, calling it “perfect for a afternoon tea.” I would have preferred something more traditional, perhaps a tea room with a sense of gravitas, but her enthusiasm was disarming. ...

There are moments in a gentleman’s life when the familiar contours of one’s existence begin to chafe ever so slightly, like a well-tailored suit that has inexplicably become snug. This evening was such a moment. I had just departed from Mr. Bernard’s esteemed tailoring establishment, the final adjustments to my winter wardrobe having been made with the usual precision. The late September night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the distant hum of the city’s relentless energy. As I walked along the cobblestone streets-my preferred route, avoiding the harsher glare of modern thoroughfares-I couldn’t help but notice the world around me with a curious detachment. ...

I hated playing the piano. I really did. I had no talent for it, and compounding my lack of talent was my complete lack of interest. Naturally, I did not spend a lot of time practicing. There was a problem though. Every Tuesday we’d have to go for our weekly piano lessons with Mrs. Lin. I was going to be exposed as I had most likely not practiced all week. This also meant that, if we were going home directly after the lesson, my mother was going to be pretty angry. ...