Love, Emily Van Dort had concluded, was a very fun thing.
Love was her father tickling her awake on Sunday mornings, or any other day that he was in the mood – and had time – for breakfast in the backyard and a trip around the woods at noon.
Love was her small puppy waggling its tail and pouncing on Emily, barking and licking her face as she giggled on the floor.
Love was also her mother coming from the drawing room to retrieve the animal and bring Emily to her feet, giving both a playful glare before sending her to bathe – and chasing her up the stairs when she refused.
It was the ink across her father's drawings too. Sketches of Emily, of her mother, of the small family along with her grandparents were, he had told her, full of love.
How they could be when they were a black substance Emily was not quite sure, but she had believed him. And when she decided to make her own drawing and showed it proudly to him, even as her mother walked into the room and eyed the ink stains across the dress she was supposed to wear for their outing, even as she sighed heavily, and her father chuckled, saying love was just like this, Emily smiled.
She smiled because, indeed, love was a lot of fun.
Love, she saw one day, was also a very sad thing.
When she escaped from her nanny while in town one afternoon, and only skipped along the road back home until sunset, her puppy trailing behind, her parents opened the door in a heartbeat and pulled her inside. Her mother was teary-eyed, and her father's expression was weird, his brow oddly curved downwards, something she had never seen before.
Carefully, Emily asked him if he was sad – she was sure he was, there was no other way to explain it – and why.
Something seemed to change in him, and after closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he regarded Emily with a completely different, much softer face.
'Yes', he said, 'your mother and I were very sad that you left without telling us. Because we love you.' He engulfed her in a hug and she felt her mother do the same.
Later that night, as nanny helped her change into her night clothes, she heard the woman mumble under her breath all the time, saying something about Mister being too kind hearted and kids needing a good scolding to learn.
She understood none of it. Still, she playfully stuck her tongue out and saw nanny storm away, shutting the door behind her.
Another day, the day her grandfather Everglot didn't wake up in the morning, and they put him in a big black box, Emily asked her mother why she was crying. She smiled through her tears, and said he wasn't coming back for a very long while now.
They didn't even see each other much, and he was always grumpy. So, Emily insisted, why did that make her cry?
'Because I love him', was the answer.
Emily scrunched her nose, not understanding. As she continued to hold on to her mother's hand, watching men throwing dirt over the big box, she felt a stinging in her eyes. Blinking repeatedly, a small drop fell down her cheek.
Love, it seemed, also made you cry.
Love was the most curious thing and could be found in the simplest of places.
It was in the way her parents smiled at each other, briefly, warmly, over the morning coffee and afternoon tea.
It was in baby Elizabeth's hand as she clutched Emily's finger and laughed – Emily supposed she was laughing – in baby gurgles.
Even in the way her grumpy nanny had nodded Emily goodbye the day she was dismissed, there had been a tiny little bit of love. In Elizabeth's subsequent crying and trashing around in her mother's arms too, and when she hushed and then laughed at Emily sticking out her tongue.
At ten, she decided to ask her mother directly.
'It can be anything you want it to be,' was the answer she received, 'love.'
Emily wasn't sure she understood, but at that moment, her father appeared at the door of the drawing room.
'Victoria,' he called, with a weird grimace on his face and a trashing Elizabeth in his arms, 'I very much fear I might have ruined Beth's meal.'
Her mother rolled her eyes, smile never leaving her face, and told Emily that this was exactly what she had meant. From her seat across the room, Emily tilted her head.
'Ma'am,' their nanny appeared at the door next to her father, 'young master Jacob is awake.'
'Thank you, Margaret.' Putting her knitting aside, her mother rose from the armchair. 'Dearest, would you mind watching your sister for a moment? I'll see to Jacob, Margaret, can you help my husband in the kitchen?'
Emily nodded her head and took Elizabeth from her father. When they were left alone in the room, nanny and her father heading to the kitchen and her mother going up the stairs, from where she heard the soft wailing of her baby brother, Emily regarded the girl in her arms. She turned a lock of Emily's black hair in her small fingers and then gave it a sharp tug.
Emily cried in pain and gave Elizabeth what she hoped was an angry look. The girl smiled toothily – with her relatively few teeth – and then put her chubby hands in Emily's face. At the innocent gesture, Emily couldn't help but smile in return. And it was in that moment, that she believed her mother's words made a bit of sense.
Love was difficult to understand. Somehow, it simply was.
Love was, indeed, a most peculiar thing.
A/N: Thanks for reading ! :3