As a British woman in the Edwardian era, I have to admit that at times I’ve been swept up in fantasies of Gilded Age splendor. Perhaps it was the allure of evening gowns and perfumed parlors that led me to Henry Higgins’s door for speech classes. It was certainly what made me stay.
But tonight, choked to the gills in Parisian satins, I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve made a huge mistake.
Just a few hours ago, after telling Higgins quite plainly he would “not be seeing me again,” I changed my mind and returned to his home anyway—so seductive was the offer of social and financial security. And yet, despite all we’ve been through, instead of greeting me with any hint of delight, the man just slumped into his chair and said, “Eliza, where the devil are my slippers?” He didn’t even look at me.
I feel like the last person in the world to realize this, but I should have chosen Freddy.
My reasons are myriad. Freddy: