Pointing stick

Amelia had difficulties sleeping that night. Everytime she thought of what Gordon had told her that afternoon her body tensed up and her mind began to race. She had tried to pace around the room to tire herself out but it had done nothing to help. Now she just layed under the covers trying to not recall the memories of the lessons she had gone through a few years prior.

She could not repress the mental images of that pointing stick though. Funny how such a commonplace object had caused her so much pain. Neither could she forget the face of her teacher who had relentlessely aimed it at the back of her hands, a woman with grey streaked hair gathered in a tight bun and wrinkles on her face that made her appear to always be frowning.

The fourteen year old Amelia had barely even lived at her father's for a month when she was first introduced to the etiquette teacher. Still mourning the death of her mother she had not dared to go against her father's, and by extension her teacher's, words. He had been her last remaining family afterall.

For the three coming years Amelia spent every waking moment trying to fullfill their expectations, practising her posture and movements by the mirror for hours each early morning. During the days she'd study with her teacher until her vision became blurry and in the evening she rehearsed her table manners. Yet she was not even once complemented for her efforts.

Worst of all had been the poiting stick though, that had been used on her everytime she made a mistake. Thinking back on it it was probably not the pain that Amelia had feared so but the harsh words and shame that accompanied each hit. The reminders that she was someone lowly and disposable.

And now she would have to go through such lessons again.

She had wracked her brain the entire night trying to recall any obvious mistakes that she might have made, but apart from the night when she'd first arrived to the duke's estate she hadn't been able to think of any. She had always adhered to what she had learned from her teacher, being careful not to forget her lowly birth or think to highly of herself. She had been polite and never questioned what the duke or his staff had told her nor had she shown any unpleasant expressions.

Amelia groaned and turned to her side. Once again she could not help but to miss the days before she became a noble, though most would likely find such a thought to be foolish. But despite the hunger, cold and contant stress that had been an everyday occurrence in her childhood Amelia had been happier back then. She'd at least had the freedom to be herself without contantly questioning her every move.

And she'd had her mother, her kind and beautiful mother who raised her despite barely having enough to care for herself. Her loving woman with a beautiful smile and blonde hair that made her resemble the sun itself.

Amelia choked up at the thought. Even though it had been nearly eight years since her passing it still hurt just like it had back then.

Too tired to deal with the flood of emotions she sat up and slid her feet into the slippers on the floor next to the bed. The air was cold so before she stood up she wrapped the quilt around her shoulders. When she just layed in bed she could not help but to think about useless things so it would likely be best to find a distraction.

In one of the vanity drawers layed a pile of old handkerchiefs along with some colored thread and a needle. Olivia had given them to her earlier that day when she told the maid that she used to enjoy doing embroidery on her downtime. Of course that wasn't true, but Amelia had missed the chance to ask Gordon for sewing lessons and with the etiquette lessons ahead of her she probably wouldn't have the time to learn anything else.

She would ask for the sewing lessons right after the banquet. Until then she'd just had to settle with practising on her own.

By the light from the fireplace along with a candle that she lit Amelia tried her best to replicate what she had seen in the library's small collection of embroidery books. She was seated on a pillow that she'd layed on the floor to get as close to the fire as possible, not only for the light but also for the pleasant warmth radiating from it. At first her stitching came out crooked and she kept stabbing her fingers with the needle, but as the minutes passed her hands started to work quicker.