Things People Do Not Say [Melantha Hastings - History Pt 2]
Posted on Thu Jul 16th, 2026 @ 12:52am by Ensign Melantha Hastings
1,279 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Younger Years
Location: Hastings Estate
Timeline: Summer, 1988
Hastings Estate — Summer, 1988
Summer at Hastings Manor had always carried expectations. That was how the now fifteen-year-old Melantha understood it. Not warmth. Not holidays. Not freedom. Expectations. The Berkshire estate had stood in the Hastings family for nearly three hundred years, sprawling across acres of carefully maintained gardens, old woodland, horse paddocks, tenant cottages, and gently rolling countryside that stretched outward beneath the July sun in perfect shades of impossible English green. The manor itself sat proudly atop the estate like something stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the twentieth century had happened at all. Tall Georgian windows reflected brilliant afternoon light. White limestone walls had been scrubbed spotless three days earlier. Every flowerbed had been replanted. Every hedge trimmed precisely. The fountain in the central gardens had been repaired because “One cannot host members of the government with a cracked cherub,” according to her mother. It had been old not cracked really, okay maybe chipped on the wing from where Robert and Oliver had hit it with a cricket ball.
Summer meant garden party season. And garden party season meant Hastings family obligations. Meli hated it. Not openly. One did not openly hate things in families like theirs. One simply… endured. The pale cream dress her mother had selected that morning itched uncomfortably around her shoulders. She had already been instructed three separate times to stand straighter, smile more naturally, and under no circumstances mention politics if approached by any of the invited guests. Which naturally meant politics was all anyone seemed to be discussing. From her place near the eastern gardens, partially concealed beneath the broad shade of a hundred-year-old magnolia tree, Melantha surveyed the gathering with practiced quiet observation.
Nearly eighty guests had arrived. Three Members of Parliament. Two ranking Royal Navy officers. The Chief Executive of Barclay Energy. Several old aristocratic families whose surnames seemed to consist primarily of places rather than people. And, though not formally announced, everyone knew one particular guest carried the unmistakable quiet prestige of direct royal connection. Families like the Hastings did not advertise such things. But everyone knew. That was how these circles worked. Appearances mattered. Relationships mattered. Old blood mattered. Across the lawn, liveried staff moved gracefully between clusters of guests carrying silver trays laden with champagne flutes and carefully arranged summer canapés. A string quartet played softly beneath the west pavilion. The entire scene looked perfect. Her mother demanded nothing less than perfection.
However perfection, Mel had begun noticing, usually meant something was wrong. Her eldest brother James stood near the veranda engaged in conversation with two men in dark summer suits. At twenty-three he already carried himself like their father. Tall. Controlled. Perfectly measured in every movement. Even now, he wore confidence the same way other men wore cufflinks. Beside him, Oliver leaned lazily against the railing looking deeply uninterested in whatever conversation he had been trapped inside. At twenty-one, Oliver had inherited precisely none of the seriousness expected of the second son of a Marquess. Mel liked him for that reason. And somewhere near the fountain— Robert. Seventeen. Still gangly. Still somehow perpetually sunburned despite being English. Still irritating everyone equally. He was currently attempting to flirt with the daughter of one of the visiting Lords while their mother watched from across the garden with visible concern while acting as the proper hostess..
Mel smiled faintly. A shadow crossed beside her. Her mother. Sarah Hastings, Marchioness of Hastings, stood immaculate in pale blue silk, every strand of dark hair precisely pinned despite the summer humidity.
She carried herself with the effortless confidence of women who had spent entire lifetimes learning how to exist within very narrow definitions of perfection. “You vanished.”
Mel took another sip of lemonade. “I am standing directly here.”
Sarah sighed softly. “You disappeared from the guests.”
“I do not know the guests.”
“That is not the point.” Her mother reached down, absentmindedly adjusting the shoulder seam of Mel’s dress. “You are Hastings.” It was not explanation. It was an expectation. Across the garden laughter rose from one cluster of guests. Mel followed the sound instinctively. Lord Carrington stood speaking animatedly with a silver-haired woman in a broad summer hat. Lady Eleanor Davies. Sarah noticed Mel staring. “What are you looking at?”
Mel considered the question carefully. “Lady Davies dislikes him.”
Sarah blinked. “What?”
Mel nodded toward the pair. “She is pretending.”
Sarah stared. “No she isn’t.”
Mel looked confused. “Yes she is.”
“How exactly have you determined that?”
Mel frowned slightly, uncertain why the answer was not obvious. “She has smiled six times in the last three minutes.”
“Yes.”
“But none of them reached her eyes.” Sarah said nothing. Mel continued. "Her left shoulder keeps tightening every time he moves closer.” Silence. “And she keeps touching her necklace.”
Her mother folded her arms now.“…Meaning?”
“She is uncomfortable.”
Across the lawn, Lady Davies laughed again. Too loudly. Mel watched quietly. “She has wanted to leave the conversation for approximately seven minutes.”
Sarah stared at her daughter for several long seconds. Then very softly said— “You notice far too much.”
Mel looked up. “…Was I incorrect?”
Before Sarah could answer— Two men passed nearby speaking quietly enough that most people would have missed the conversation entirely. Most people.
“…Americans have expanded military deployments again…”
“…Middle Eastern alliances are shifting…”
“…Singapore financial markets still haven’t recovered…”
“…Whitehall is becoming increasingly concerned…”
The words meant very little. But the tone beneath them— That she noticed. Fear. She turned instinctively. Near the pavilion, her father stood in conversation with an older naval officer. Edward Hastings. Fifteenth Marquess of Hastings. Tall. Silver begins to touch dark hair near his temples. The kind of man who filled rooms without ever raising his voice. And yet— Something was wrong. He was smiling. But it was not real. His right hand remained wrapped around the stem of his champagne glass. Too tightly. Jaw slightly tense. Eyes never fully engaged in conversation. Mel noticed immediately. Her mother followed her gaze. And sighed. “You see too much.”
Mel looked back. “What is happening?”
Sarah was quiet for several moments. Long enough that Mel thought she would not answer. Then finally, “The world is changing.” The words were spoken so softly they were nearly lost beneath the music.
Mel frowned. “How?”
Sarah looked toward the assembled guests. Toward the politicians. The officers. The wealthy families pretending summer still meant safety. Then quietly said— “Adults become very skilled at pretending things are stable.”
Across the lawn Robert shouted something ridiculous loud enough to make several guests laugh. Oliver groaned visibly. James immediately corrected his posture. Everything looked normal. Perfect. Exactly as expected. And yet— No one was relaxed. No one meant what they said. No smile felt genuine. Every conversation carried tension just beneath its surface. Every adult here knew something. And no one was saying it aloud. Fifteen-year-old Melantha stood very still beneath the magnolia tree. Watching. Listening. Learning. And for perhaps the first time in her young life… She understood something fundamental about people. The things people say… Rarely matter as much as the things they do not. Above the estate, summer sunlight bathed Berkshire in perfect golden warmth. The lawns remained immaculate. The string quartet continued playing. Champagne glasses caught the light beautifully. And somewhere beyond the safety of old English estates and aristocratic tradition… The world had already begun cracking. Only here— Among old money, old families, and centuries of inherited privilege— Everyone was pretending not to notice. And fifteen-year-old Melantha Hastings was quietly discovering that truth rarely lived in words. It lived in everything people tried desperately not to reveal.
==
Ensign Melantha Hastings
Counselor
USS Tokyo
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