Weekly Prompt Writing

A possible scene toward the beginning of my next book.

Twelve chimes. Noon. I ventured to remove my eyes from the book in my hand. No one looked up. I arched my aching back. 

Before I could persuade myself out of it, I heard my voice say, "Papa?" with a dainty little cough.

He frowned upon me. "What?"

"It's twelve."

"Speak up, child, for heaven's sake."

"I said it's twelve o'clock. Oughtn't we to be going? The train leaves for London at one."

He made a show of folding up his newspaper, rising, and calling the butler. He frowned at me again. I frowned back and donned my coat.

I cast a glance at my mother. She hadn't stirred. "Good-bye, Mum."

She beckoned to me and gave me a short kiss. "Safe journey. Remember to be on your best behavior in America, take care not to stare at people, and don't sing to yourself. It isn't ladylike."

I left without saying good-bye to my brother.