In the quiet countryside of Devon, there once lived two sisters, Eleanor and Margaret, who had married and raised their children in very different ways. Eleanor had a daughter named Matilda and a son, while Margaret had only one cherished daughter, Beatrice.
The sisters often met, usually at Eleanor’s home—a fine cottage with a well-tended garden where the children could play freely. Margaret, who lived in a modest flat in London, was convinced her Beatrice was cleverer, prettier, and more refined than her cousin. The girls were but a year apart in age, with Matilda being the elder.
“Eleanor, must you let Matilda climb trees like a boy?” Margaret would scold, her voice sharp with disapproval.
“And why not?” Eleanor would reply, unfazed. “She’s a child—let her explore.”
“That’s no pastime for a proper young lady!” Margaret would insist, but her sister only smiled.
The girls got on well enough, though Beatrice often watched with longing as Matilda scrambled up branches or raced through the fields. Her mother kept her close, forbidding anything that might soil her frilly dresses or white stockings.
Matilda had no interest in dolls or fine ribbons—she was a whirlwind of energy, keeping pace with the lads in the village, climbing fences to snatch apples from orchards, and even brawling when needed. She adored tinkering in her father’s shed, sorting spanners and bolts, though he often joked, “Leave the tidying, love—just hand me the wrench.”
Beatrice, meanwhile, was always immaculate—her dresses laced with lace, her hair tied in elaborate bows. Her mother’s voice was a constant refrain: “Don’t touch that, it’s dirty! Mind the draft! Put that apple down—who knows where it’s been?”
Matilda pitied her cousin, stifled by so many rules.
At school, Matilda took to athletics and even boxing, much to Margaret’s horror. “Is that how a lady behaves?” she would gasp.
“Let her find her own way,” Eleanor would say firmly.
Beatrice, meanwhile, was sent to piano lessons and dancing classes, though she cared little for either. She tried painting, but gave it up when her lack of talent became clear.
At university, Matilda met James at the boxing club. He was no Adonis, but there was a warmth in his smile that drew her in. “I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “You’ve got a fine right hook. I’m James—works as a motor mechanic, studying engineering by correspondence.”
They grew close, sharing walks in the park and trips to the cinema. When Matilda brought him home, her father took to him at once—they spent hours in the shed, tinkering with an old Morris Minor.
When they announced they’d move in together, Eleanor hesitated, but her husband approved. “He’s a good lad,” he said.
Margaret, however, was scandalised. “How could you allow such a thing?”
Yet not a year later, Beatrice did the same with a man named Edmund—older, polished, studying for his second degree. Margaret preened. “Such a refined gentleman! So charming, so well-spoken!”
At Beatrice’s birthday party, Edmund was every bit the gallant suitor, pouring wine, spinning tales, showering compliments. Matilda caught herself envying her cousin—until Edmund drank too much. His wit turned to slurred rambling, then to boorish demands.
“Fetch me water, woman!” he bellowed from the bedroom.
Beatrice huffed but obeyed, as if this were normal.
Matilda and James exchanged glances. By evening’s end, Edmund was snoring, sprawled across the bed.
At his own birthday, the same pattern repeated—charming at first, then drunk and surly.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” Matilda thought wryly, watching James, quiet and steady beside her. “Not much for pretty speeches—but real. No gloss to wear off.”
In time, she and James married, expecting their first child. Beatrice and Edmund, however, parted ways.
Matilda never envied her cousin again.
