Author's Note: Please recall when leaving criticisms that this was written in 15 minutes, with very little editing beyond spelling/grammar. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
Lady Rosamund Painswick could not hold her liquor.
Years ago, when she would do the seasons, Rosamund could take champagne in liters and (usually) somehow manage to stay upright. Over the years, however, her tolerance had waned. This did nothing in the way of dissuading her from her evening brandy(s), or her morning mimosa(s). She drank them partly out of respect for routine, but mostly out of necessity. On days she tried to fight the drink, simply to test her willpower, she felt her hands begin to shake and eventually grasped the thin glass tightly, draining the first flute so quickly the maid had begun bringing two on her morning tray.
Occasionally, she tried to reason out why she drank so habitually. She wrote it off as being stuck on her repetitive schedule, but that didn't account for the shaking. One day, she decided she would simply not have even a sip. From her morning tray to when she laid down for bed, not a single drop would cross her lips. Not as a permanent thing, of course- that would be daft- but for one day, she would face the world with a clear head.
She awoke the next morning and rang for her tray. It arrived, as usual, with a chilled grapefruit, two thick slabs of bacon, and the two fizzy drinks. She waited until her lady's maid left the room and poured the concoctions into her chamber pot.
This is going quite well, she applauded herself, slicing her spoon through the skin of the of the grapefruit and pushing the maraschino cherry aside. She ate her fruit sullenly, attempting to stay the vibrations already beginning in her fingertips. The spoon began to clink against the sterling holding the fruit in place. After struggling for a few moments, she tossed the spoon across the room in frustration.
Nothing makes sense anymore, she thought, sullenly, a few tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, as intricately as a spider's web. She rubbed her eyes, willing the tears to stop and the shakes to subside. She was so utterly confused. She'd heard women speak about town, saying their brothers or uncles had 'gone to the drink,' but that was impossible for Rosamund. She was a lady, for God's sake.
That's right, she thought, straightening her posture and ringing the bell once more. When her maid appeared she ordered shortly, "Another."
The burn of champagne rolling down her throat quieted her nerves, that was all. Perhaps she was just an anxious person, and liquor was her medicine. Yes, perhaps, she decided, perhaps I need it after all.
Lady Rosamund Painswick could not hold her liquor, but she was quite adept at letting it hold her.