Susan looks at Eponine for a long time, her mouth pressed tight, her brow furrowed. At last, she lets out a long huff of air, like an annoyed filly, and sits down beside Eponine, settling her own back against the wall.
"I ain't rich," she says, unable to keep the faint edge of frustration from creeping into her voice. It isn't Eponine's fault, she knows that - but she's trying, gods rot it, trying hard as she can to find common ground between them and to make the other girl feel better, and it's hard to fool herself into feeling like this is friendship, when 'Ponine doesn't know her at all. (And how should she, missy, when ye've not met her an hour?) "I never was rich, though we used to do all right by it, when Da was alive. And when he died, we sold all the horses, sold the tack, sold everything we had that could bring in money for the rent." It feels uncomfortable to talk about it this way, like somehow this is also rubbing it in, but she just... she needs Eponine to know. She doubts 'Ponine would think this all sounds like real poverty, but it had felt real enough. "I'd one dress, for fairs and the like, and it was nice enough, though I'd taken it out time and again and it was startin' to show. For the rest of the time, I'd one of his old work shirts and some jeans I tucked up to the knee, and bale twine for my hair." There's something fierce in the look she gives the other girl, a hurt of her own. "I ken that it ain't the same. I kennit. But ye're talking like I dressed all my life in silk and velvet and never earned a thing myself. Like... I dunno. Like I was some high lady, snacking on sweetmeats and dancin' the nights away. I ain't that, all right? Closest I ever got was a rich man's toy."
Her jaw shifts under her skin, and she lets her head fall back against the wall, staring up at the sky. "Ye want to know what it's like to be beautiful, 'Ponine? If you wear a dress they'll try to get under it, and if you wear your da's jeans, well, ain't it a filthy thing for a woman to show her legs like that? They'll grab at your ass in the street. They'll corner you in the hay-yard and try to get you somewhere for a quick fumble, and, well, who could blame 'em, for a man's got needs and a girl who looks like that, she no doubt invited him in." Her voice is bitter, and almost as strangled as Eponine's. "They'll fork the evil eye at you in the street, and the girls you thought might be friends, they'll see their man look at you and turn to wishing you into Hell. And they'll look at you trying to keep one thing, just one thing, of what your da spent his whole life to build, and all they'll see in it is that you can't say no. And a part of ye'll be glad when it happens, because ye've been called whore since before you grew tits, and at least bein' one lets you have summat to show for it."
She's not crying. She's all cried out, maybe. She shoots Eponine a rather baleful look, her arms now wrapped around her knees.
"I ain't sayin' I didn't have it easier than some. But I didn't ask to look the way I do, and, sure, for a time I had pretty dresses and a maid to do my hair, but I paid. Ye don't know how I paid." She feels suddenly drained - tired, hollow, and rather embarrassed at her outburst. She rests her chin on her knees, closing her eyes, and sighs. "And ye can comb your own hair out with your fingers and braid it, and it'll look just as good as any high-falutin' noblewoman, once you get the hang of it. I'll show'ee how."
no subject
"I ain't rich," she says, unable to keep the faint edge of frustration from creeping into her voice. It isn't Eponine's fault, she knows that - but she's trying, gods rot it, trying hard as she can to find common ground between them and to make the other girl feel better, and it's hard to fool herself into feeling like this is friendship, when 'Ponine doesn't know her at all. (And how should she, missy, when ye've not met her an hour?) "I never was rich, though we used to do all right by it, when Da was alive. And when he died, we sold all the horses, sold the tack, sold everything we had that could bring in money for the rent." It feels uncomfortable to talk about it this way, like somehow this is also rubbing it in, but she just... she needs Eponine to know. She doubts 'Ponine would think this all sounds like real poverty, but it had felt real enough. "I'd one dress, for fairs and the like, and it was nice enough, though I'd taken it out time and again and it was startin' to show. For the rest of the time, I'd one of his old work shirts and some jeans I tucked up to the knee, and bale twine for my hair." There's something fierce in the look she gives the other girl, a hurt of her own. "I ken that it ain't the same. I kennit. But ye're talking like I dressed all my life in silk and velvet and never earned a thing myself. Like... I dunno. Like I was some high lady, snacking on sweetmeats and dancin' the nights away. I ain't that, all right? Closest I ever got was a rich man's toy."
Her jaw shifts under her skin, and she lets her head fall back against the wall, staring up at the sky. "Ye want to know what it's like to be beautiful, 'Ponine? If you wear a dress they'll try to get under it, and if you wear your da's jeans, well, ain't it a filthy thing for a woman to show her legs like that? They'll grab at your ass in the street. They'll corner you in the hay-yard and try to get you somewhere for a quick fumble, and, well, who could blame 'em, for a man's got needs and a girl who looks like that, she no doubt invited him in." Her voice is bitter, and almost as strangled as Eponine's. "They'll fork the evil eye at you in the street, and the girls you thought might be friends, they'll see their man look at you and turn to wishing you into Hell. And they'll look at you trying to keep one thing, just one thing, of what your da spent his whole life to build, and all they'll see in it is that you can't say no. And a part of ye'll be glad when it happens, because ye've been called whore since before you grew tits, and at least bein' one lets you have summat to show for it."
She's not crying. She's all cried out, maybe. She shoots Eponine a rather baleful look, her arms now wrapped around her knees.
"I ain't sayin' I didn't have it easier than some. But I didn't ask to look the way I do, and, sure, for a time I had pretty dresses and a maid to do my hair, but I paid. Ye don't know how I paid." She feels suddenly drained - tired, hollow, and rather embarrassed at her outburst. She rests her chin on her knees, closing her eyes, and sighs. "And ye can comb your own hair out with your fingers and braid it, and it'll look just as good as any high-falutin' noblewoman, once you get the hang of it. I'll show'ee how."