Chapter 7
Two years later, Cyril was finally done hating Thomas. For two years she had been resenting him, resenting every step to manhood he crossed, every display of his more and more evident masculinity.
He had always been taller, stronger, faster and more resistant than she was, but until a few years ago she had always hidden that fact behind the guise that it was only because he was older than her. Two years are quite a gap when you're respectively seven and nine years-old.
Yes, this was all because of his two years ahead. It would diminish as and when they grow older, and completely disappear once they both reach adulthood.
But time went by, and she didn't develop any of his enviable characteristics.
Since the day she discovered this oh-so disturbing truth about her birth-nature, Cyril had sought out and observed every male model she could, in order to fit the mould, to mimic their postures, to take from them al those little somethings and nothings that would make a flagrant difference between herself and women.
The way her father rested his arm on the mantelpiece, as though the whole world was his, as though he owned everything and everyone…
The way their coach, Letailleur, patted the horses and even talked to them in a low and deep throaty voice.
The way the old butler Caron frowned his impressively thick eyebrows when he disapproved of something.
The way the gardeners held their tools, and used their arms, and walked.
And then, there was Thomas. Steady Thomas, who was always there. Had always been, or at least as far as she could remember.
Thomas, who was growing up with a two-years head start, experiencing first all the stages in slowly leaving childhood behind: the first to be allowed to ride a horse alone and not just a pony, the first to be able to learn how to swim (though it still seemed against nature to most grown-ups who considered that the only natural environment for human beings was terra firma and not water!), the first allowed to go outside the estate and to the nearest village all by himself, the first to grow tall enough not to need to stand on tiptoes anymore to reach the cookie jar perched on a shelf in Mrs Patemaure's kitchen pantry.
The first to grow some shoulder span.
The first to shave…
And that day she realised.
He was also going through a load of thing she would after all never ever experience.
That's how it started. He was still her best friend, her only friend, her near-brother whom she liked and loved deeply, her model she wanted to follow, her servant she couldn't do without, the person she knew best in the world, the one person she would miss the most if he were to be taken away from her, but at the same time she couldn't help but secretly and silently hate him. With all the passion a frustrated pre-teen can be seized with.
Yes, she was hideously and irrepressibly envious and angry. Sometimes not particularly at him, and some other times very much at him. She couldn't help herself. Couldn't really explain either, at least not rationally so, but all rationality left her the moment she felt the bitter lump raise in her chest.
And slowly, without he being able to recall exactly when it happened, it dimmed, lessened, faded away. Well, mostly.
She was still frustrated, sometimes angry, bitter over the unfairness of what she was not, but she was done resenting Thomas for what he was. None of it was his fault, and she wasn't going to be more a boy nor more mannish by hating him for that.
She had matured, she thought. Not accepted her birth nature, no, but made do. Anyhow, she had no way but deal with that idea the best she could. Or the less bad she could, as may be.
But with each passing day, she was becoming more and more aware of the limitations that the "big secret" was imposing to her way of life.
For instance, she didn't attend a military school. The level of intimacy there was of course absolutely incompatible with the keeping of such a secret. Cyril was therefore kept at home, taught and trained there by her father himself. Not a bad solution in itself, according to her sisters' accounts about life in school: how cold the dormitories were, how strict the discipline was, how much they missed their family, etc.
The last time Cyril had seen Marie-Joséphine, it was for the latter's wedding, two years ago. She remembered being struck by how foreign this young woman looked. She hadn't seen her in two years before that, and yes, although she still looked like Marie – Cyril recognised her – this Marie was now an adult, when all her youngster sibling could remember was a bony teen with dark hair falling down her back, tied with a mere ribbon.
And then Edmée had gone through this same transformation.
And of course Thomas had known his own sort of change. Change Cyril had been the envious witness of those past years.
And what about herself?
Of course she was not naïve enough to still think hers would follow the same route as his. She had come to a vague truce with that thought. But certainly not with the idea that her own transformation would take the same path as Edmée's.
Especially since she noticed the cleavage her sister now displayed, emphasised by the bodice and stomacher of her clothes that did nothing to hide it, but on the contrary seemed to amplify it, squeezing the whole 'set' up.
Yuck! Cyril certainly didn't want to become like that. Not that it wasn't lovely on Edmée, but it certainly wasn't very handy and convenient in everyday life. And to think that men were supposed to be interested in this! Cyril couldn't fathom why. She'd have to ask Thomas his opinion on the matter. But maybe this particular interest would come to her later, when she begins to get interested in girls…
Because, well, of course she was a boy! So she would become interested in women, right? She wasn't stupid, she knew she couldn't get married, barring a long and rather humiliating explanation to her future bride, as well as a whole lot of good will, acceptance, comprehension and self-sacrifice from the girl. Might as well say that she Cyril would never get married, unfortunately. But that did not mean she was forbidden to look at the menu, even though she wouldn't enter the restaurant!
And yes, Cyril also realised with time that she would never be able to become a father, that she would never have children. Never have an heir. Her own father's trick gained his lineage only one more generation, but things would stop with her own death, and the title and estate would fall to their cousin Patrice or his descendants.
His descendants, who will somehow also be her father's, since their cousin Jacques Crolet – Patrice's father – and General de Grand-Tamme had arranged long ago to marry off Patrice to Marie-Joséphine. The wedding was therefore celebrated two years previously, in the family's best interests. Much to Edmée's chagrin, and probably Patrice's too. But what could he have said back then? Sons are to obey their parents, Cyril was so well placed to know that…
