Battle Ground of Wills

Nancy’s frustration leapt to the sharp arch of her eyebrows, to the tight tilt of her mouth, the controlled flare of her nostrils. Frome’s words had struck her like a shard of glass, cutting through his sly pretension. Blind to the blaze he had ignited in her, Frome had exposed his deeply held prejudice. Nancy knew at once, he could not be trusted. She could have retaliated; instead, she eyed him condescendingly with a coldly calculating stare. Then gazing over his head, she focused her ire upon the bare, stark trees, beyond his office window. Frome’s peculiarly clipped speech continued like a river in spate. Seated stiffly on the hard-back upright chair, as if patiently waiting for the London train, Nancy’s thoughts raced, there was much to consider, much to unravel. Averting her gaze from the window, she politely asked him for a cup of tea. The flow of his words halting, Frome’s slippery eyes danced in their sockets, he was not accustomed to interruptions. The immediacy of his heavy silence had become a battle-ground of wills. Frome saw, Nancy could be a formidable woman if thwarted. “Perhaps, Miss Prophet. You need more time to consider my offer?” His placatory words cut no ice with Nancy, her composure was restrained, her voice curt. “Yes, more time. Goodbye, Frome.” Dismissing him like servant, Nancy left the office scheming. She hailed a taxi for the station, her thoughts refusing to consider any further contact with Frome. His offer for the old manor house, had been absurdly arrogant.