Eagerly Alice approached the bookshelf to take a thick volume in her hands. The well-worn cover was impossible to decipher in the poorly lit gloom of the room, so she flipped the cover open to the title page. Disappointingly, everything seemed to be in some nearly indecipherable script with far too many flourishes and, Alice was almost certain, in German.
It was bad enough to have her hopes dashed, but to have them dashed so in such a decisively Teutonic manner was unforgivable. It was probably something dreadful and educational. Whoever this Goethe chap was, Alice was certain he could not possibly be any fun as the letters of the book looked entirely too fussy and particular.
Sighing, she returned the volume to its place and sought another. Imagine her horror up recognizing the dread name of Fielding and knowing that she held yet another copy of the interminably instructive book by that good woman, The Governess.
If I wanted to be educated, Alice thought perhaps a bit unfairly, I shouldn't have bothered to be kidnapped. However, uncertain what else might lurk among the materials, she held the book in reserve. After all, Miss Fielding was better than nothing at all. She would not have credited it while engaged in her seemingly endless lessons with Miss Travers, but Alice actually missed reading and being quizzed about the contents of a story (though not enough to long for writing essays, it must be admitted).
Or Lizzie's interminable questions: with a sigh, Alice wondered yet again what might have become of her fair cousin, who was far more practical and resourceful and could be home already at that very moment. She was probably chatting comfortably with Alice's mother at that very moment, enjoying the scent of some fine orchids from Mr. Radley's greenhouse.
It should be remarked that Alice let a single tear fall thinking longingly of such a comfortable scene, but one should probably note that this was a rather restrained reaction for the young woman who once burst into tears because she could not have orange marmalade on her toast at tea on a particular April day.
With no one to comfort her, Alice turned again to the shelf in hopes of locating a tale of sufficient entertainment value to divert her thoughts from the terrible tediousness of being kidnapped in a strange villa by an unknown assailant.
Once, Alice thought, I would have thought that a very romantic and diverting scenario. The truth was that it had become more than a little tiresome. There were moments of kidnapping that were quite exciting, but there were an awful lot of aspects of the project where time lagged considerably.
The next volume, although slim, looked far more weighted with potential. There was no author listed (always a good sign, as it suggested contents too scandalous to be acknowledged) and the title, while foreign, seemed to be steeped with mystery. And mentioning a Greek god in the subtitle could only be a good thing.
The Greeks, while famous philosophers, had lodged in Alice's mind as a plethora of scandalous figures. Taking the book and the light to her bedside, she felt the choice made had been a good one as the preface spoke of an "impossible occurrence" and a "work of fancy" and "weaving a series of supernatural terrors."
Here is something without any educational value at all, Alice told herself with great satisfaction.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
13.4
Alice followed along with the masked man with the pistol. What was the alternative? Alice was far too sensible to give into histrionics and after all, she was discovering that kidnapping did not have to be the end of things.
It was rather shocking to consider how frightened she had been the first time, Alice reflected as they walked through the gloomy and decrepit hall that provided an entrance to the strange villa. A world-weary air of pride filled her. It was quite easy now to assume that she would be rescued.
At the very least, she found it possible to anticipate being kidnapped by a competing interest. It suddenly struck Alice that one might circumnavigate the globe simply through being kidnapped by a variety of ruffians. She looked at her latest captor and considered voicing her thoughts aloud. It was difficult to suddenly realise one knew the proper use of a word like 'circumnavigate' and not have the proper chance to demonstrate that ability.
However, her current kidnapper's demeanour seemed more than a little disparaging, so she wisely kept such thoughts to herself as they ascended the rather dusty stairs to the next floor.
Continuing down a long hallway, Alice found herself aghast at the state of things. Having spent most of her short life under the stringent order of Mrs. Perkins and much of the rest on board the spic-and-span decks of the Bonny Read, she found it easy to be censorious. Such filth and no doubt, she was going to be asked to dwell her for an indeterminate time.
One really ought to have more of a say about where one spends one's captivity, Alice sighed.
At the end of the hall, the mysterious man unbolted a door and indicated that Alice should enter it. "Here is where you will be staying. A meal will be brought to you very soon. Do not attempt to escape."
He bolted the door behind Alice and she stared at it while listening to his retreating footsteps. A candle would have been nice, she considered, but acquiescing to the facts as they were, she turned to regard her prison.
It was a fairly large room. In a nicely kept villa, it would have been pleasurable indeed. While some feeble attempts had been made to remove the worst of the dirt, cobwebs remained in the corners of the room. The bed had been freshly made with what appeared to be clean linens, but the pitcher next to the bowl was filled with water long gone chill.
Mrs. Radcliffe could make much of a room like this, Alice thought.
Alice walked to the window and looked out curiously. The grounds of the villa were in similar disrepair. Mr. Radley would doubtless weep at the carnage. There were brambles overgrown through the hedges and a wild profusion of vines everywhere. Alice perked up somewhat when she realised that it was possible to see a very dramatic-looking waterfall in the distance, which must have been the direction in which they had arrived.
It wasn't much, but some sense of direction was helpful, if only to give a false sense of security.
Turning once more to regard the gloom of the room, Alice was delighted to spot a shelf of books. At last, entertainment!
It was rather shocking to consider how frightened she had been the first time, Alice reflected as they walked through the gloomy and decrepit hall that provided an entrance to the strange villa. A world-weary air of pride filled her. It was quite easy now to assume that she would be rescued.
At the very least, she found it possible to anticipate being kidnapped by a competing interest. It suddenly struck Alice that one might circumnavigate the globe simply through being kidnapped by a variety of ruffians. She looked at her latest captor and considered voicing her thoughts aloud. It was difficult to suddenly realise one knew the proper use of a word like 'circumnavigate' and not have the proper chance to demonstrate that ability.
However, her current kidnapper's demeanour seemed more than a little disparaging, so she wisely kept such thoughts to herself as they ascended the rather dusty stairs to the next floor.
Continuing down a long hallway, Alice found herself aghast at the state of things. Having spent most of her short life under the stringent order of Mrs. Perkins and much of the rest on board the spic-and-span decks of the Bonny Read, she found it easy to be censorious. Such filth and no doubt, she was going to be asked to dwell her for an indeterminate time.
One really ought to have more of a say about where one spends one's captivity, Alice sighed.
At the end of the hall, the mysterious man unbolted a door and indicated that Alice should enter it. "Here is where you will be staying. A meal will be brought to you very soon. Do not attempt to escape."
He bolted the door behind Alice and she stared at it while listening to his retreating footsteps. A candle would have been nice, she considered, but acquiescing to the facts as they were, she turned to regard her prison.
It was a fairly large room. In a nicely kept villa, it would have been pleasurable indeed. While some feeble attempts had been made to remove the worst of the dirt, cobwebs remained in the corners of the room. The bed had been freshly made with what appeared to be clean linens, but the pitcher next to the bowl was filled with water long gone chill.
Mrs. Radcliffe could make much of a room like this, Alice thought.
Alice walked to the window and looked out curiously. The grounds of the villa were in similar disrepair. Mr. Radley would doubtless weep at the carnage. There were brambles overgrown through the hedges and a wild profusion of vines everywhere. Alice perked up somewhat when she realised that it was possible to see a very dramatic-looking waterfall in the distance, which must have been the direction in which they had arrived.
It wasn't much, but some sense of direction was helpful, if only to give a false sense of security.
Turning once more to regard the gloom of the room, Alice was delighted to spot a shelf of books. At last, entertainment!
Sunday, March 01, 2009
13.3
It was a man whom Alice had never seen, but the alarming manner of his appearance did nothing to stifle the sense of alarm she felt. He was dressed all in black with a kerchief covering the lower half of his face, a broad brimmed hat on his head and he carried some kind of pistol in his hand.
"Alight from the carriage, mademoiselle," he ordered with a peremptory air. "You will not be harmed."
Alice doubted that a might, as you would expect, having seen more than her share of harmful types on the perilous journey since her father's funeral. But the ruffian offered her his hand to step down from the carriage, so unlike the horrible Tricheor, he seemed at least to be a cultured person.
The rapidly setting sun did not leave much light for Alice to take in her surroundings, but there was enough of the roseate light to see that she had come to a large villa, suitably decrepit for any novel by Mrs. Radcliffe. One tower had in fact crumbled and fallen to the courtyard. Many cracks fissured the surface of the walls and a wild profusion of vines clawed along the walls as if desperate to escape some horrible fate.
Alice shuddered. It was not the warm pension in which she had spent the last few days with, as was clear to her now, all manner of bonhomie and friendly warmth. Poor Constance! She would be quite put out to find her friend gone. Mrs. Forward, doubtless, would consider her well out of it.
It was genuinely annoying to think that the redoubtable matron would probably assume this was some whim on Alice's part. How unfair!
Thus preoccupied, Alice only belatedly heard the masked man's words. "I beg your pardon?" she said at once. "What did you say?"
"I said you are my prisoner, mademoiselle. You will not be allowed to leave this villa." His eyes seemed to flash with fire as he repeated these ominous words.
"Until?" Alice prompted, knowing the way these tales always went.
"I beg your pardon?" the man said unexpectedly.
"Until when?" Alice asked. "Are you asking for a ransom, or merely forcing me to marry against my will. I assure you it is against my will as I do not intend to marry anyone in a mask."
Her captor seemed to have been caught up short by this declaration. "You are my prisoner," he repeated, sounding less commanding than he had initially.
"That I am," Alice agreed, "but why?"
The masked man stared at her a moment, then waved her a long with his pistol. "Come inside. I will show you to your room."
Alice sighed. This did not bode at all well for the start of an adventure.
"Alight from the carriage, mademoiselle," he ordered with a peremptory air. "You will not be harmed."
Alice doubted that a might, as you would expect, having seen more than her share of harmful types on the perilous journey since her father's funeral. But the ruffian offered her his hand to step down from the carriage, so unlike the horrible Tricheor, he seemed at least to be a cultured person.
The rapidly setting sun did not leave much light for Alice to take in her surroundings, but there was enough of the roseate light to see that she had come to a large villa, suitably decrepit for any novel by Mrs. Radcliffe. One tower had in fact crumbled and fallen to the courtyard. Many cracks fissured the surface of the walls and a wild profusion of vines clawed along the walls as if desperate to escape some horrible fate.
Alice shuddered. It was not the warm pension in which she had spent the last few days with, as was clear to her now, all manner of bonhomie and friendly warmth. Poor Constance! She would be quite put out to find her friend gone. Mrs. Forward, doubtless, would consider her well out of it.
It was genuinely annoying to think that the redoubtable matron would probably assume this was some whim on Alice's part. How unfair!
Thus preoccupied, Alice only belatedly heard the masked man's words. "I beg your pardon?" she said at once. "What did you say?"
"I said you are my prisoner, mademoiselle. You will not be allowed to leave this villa." His eyes seemed to flash with fire as he repeated these ominous words.
"Until?" Alice prompted, knowing the way these tales always went.
"I beg your pardon?" the man said unexpectedly.
"Until when?" Alice asked. "Are you asking for a ransom, or merely forcing me to marry against my will. I assure you it is against my will as I do not intend to marry anyone in a mask."
Her captor seemed to have been caught up short by this declaration. "You are my prisoner," he repeated, sounding less commanding than he had initially.
"That I am," Alice agreed, "but why?"
The masked man stared at her a moment, then waved her a long with his pistol. "Come inside. I will show you to your room."
Alice sighed. This did not bode at all well for the start of an adventure.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
13.2
As she lapsed into consideration of the half-remembered plot of Mrs. Radcliffe's tome, Alice began to notice a curious sound. It was a kind of rushing noise that she gradually recognized as a waterfall. This intrigued her and she returned to trying to catch a glimpse through the shutters of the carriage.
The sound continued to grow louder and Alice became quite certain that it was indeed a waterfall. Was this a good thing, she wondered. Would she be hurled off the waterfall to her death? That would be terrible indeed, Alice decided. Perhaps the waterfall would only mean a halt in their journey. Some kindly people in a mill would take pity on her and free her from this latest kidnapping excursion.
The rushing sound of the water increased and finally began to slowly recede. Alice sighed. Even a horrible death would be a nice change from the monotony of the journey. Once one has braved pirates on the ocean and a close shave with a watery death, it was hard to get too concerned about lesser perils, Alice decided.
I suppose I have become quite brave, Alice congratulated herself. If I were to face armed brigands I imagine I should remain quite calm. After all, I have stood in the midst of cannon-fire and did not tremble.
Readers will, of course, recall that Alice did a good deal more than tremble at the time she found herself in the pitched sea battle, that there was in fact a good deal of screaming and crying out in alarm. Let us not therefore suggest that Alice was deliberately fibbing. It is one of the peculiarities of memory for many of us, that we edit the copybook of time ever so subtly over time as to find ourselves in a rather different location than fact or the memories of others, might situate us.
One need not assume that the memories of others are any less prone to adjustment, nor that facts exist in a vacuum. After all, Alice might find herself on the side of philosophers who have suggested that the mere recording of observations change the things observed. However, Alice would have had to consider this matter at a much more subterranean level of thought than she had given it up to this point.
In fact, Alice's thoughts had already returned to unknotting the tangled memories of Mrs. Radcliffe's novel and had come to the conclusion that she was doubtless mixing together the strands of at least two novels. Her charming brow wrinkled inadvisably as she considered the story of the murdered mother and had the distinct feeling that this was from entirely another novel altogether.
It was quite confusing, but it did pass the time.
Just when Alice had determined that she had hold of the main narrative strand of The Italian, the carriage suddenly slowed. Alice was sufficiently surprised to once more drop the thin skein of memory and sit forward with eager anticipation for the next step in her own adventure.
The carriage came to a stop, the horses snorting and wheezing as they accustomed themselves to a stationary situation. An unseen hand snatched the carriage door open and Alice gasped.
The sound continued to grow louder and Alice became quite certain that it was indeed a waterfall. Was this a good thing, she wondered. Would she be hurled off the waterfall to her death? That would be terrible indeed, Alice decided. Perhaps the waterfall would only mean a halt in their journey. Some kindly people in a mill would take pity on her and free her from this latest kidnapping excursion.
The rushing sound of the water increased and finally began to slowly recede. Alice sighed. Even a horrible death would be a nice change from the monotony of the journey. Once one has braved pirates on the ocean and a close shave with a watery death, it was hard to get too concerned about lesser perils, Alice decided.
I suppose I have become quite brave, Alice congratulated herself. If I were to face armed brigands I imagine I should remain quite calm. After all, I have stood in the midst of cannon-fire and did not tremble.
Readers will, of course, recall that Alice did a good deal more than tremble at the time she found herself in the pitched sea battle, that there was in fact a good deal of screaming and crying out in alarm. Let us not therefore suggest that Alice was deliberately fibbing. It is one of the peculiarities of memory for many of us, that we edit the copybook of time ever so subtly over time as to find ourselves in a rather different location than fact or the memories of others, might situate us.
One need not assume that the memories of others are any less prone to adjustment, nor that facts exist in a vacuum. After all, Alice might find herself on the side of philosophers who have suggested that the mere recording of observations change the things observed. However, Alice would have had to consider this matter at a much more subterranean level of thought than she had given it up to this point.
In fact, Alice's thoughts had already returned to unknotting the tangled memories of Mrs. Radcliffe's novel and had come to the conclusion that she was doubtless mixing together the strands of at least two novels. Her charming brow wrinkled inadvisably as she considered the story of the murdered mother and had the distinct feeling that this was from entirely another novel altogether.
It was quite confusing, but it did pass the time.
Just when Alice had determined that she had hold of the main narrative strand of The Italian, the carriage suddenly slowed. Alice was sufficiently surprised to once more drop the thin skein of memory and sit forward with eager anticipation for the next step in her own adventure.
The carriage came to a stop, the horses snorting and wheezing as they accustomed themselves to a stationary situation. An unseen hand snatched the carriage door open and Alice gasped.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
13.1
Alice had begun to wonder if the rumbling of the carriage would ever stop. She had even dozed off after a time, so utterly bored by the endless journey that she very nearly wished for the presence of Miss Fielding's instructive tome, The Governess.
Well, nearly.
As she jounced along on the too-hard seat, Alice dully considered where her captor might be taking her this time. It was strange to realise that she was not overwhelmed by the knowledge that she had once more been kidnapped. Alice marveled how not that long ago she had been quite distraught by the very same experience.
How long ago had her father's funeral taken place? It was hard to tell. She had had ample time to reacquaint herself with the proper calendar dates whilst in the kind keeping of the Forward family, yet she had not bothered. Had she suspected that a short time later she would once more be whisked away?
Or had she simply begun to live for the moment like some summery butterfly?
Alice was unaccustomed to such abstract considerations and gloomily wished yet again for Lizzie's kindly guidance. No doubt her beloved cousin would be able to wisely counsel her on the appropriateness of her musings and warn her away if they should dip too far into melancholy.
She had to admit that she did not feel overwhelmed by melancholy, although perhaps it was one of the characteristics of that dread state that one did not seem overwhelmed by it even when one was in fact engulfed by it. It would take much pondering, Alice mused.
Tired of musing, Alice tried to apply her eye to a crack in the tight blinds that darkened the carriage. Perhaps she might see something that would give her a clue as to her whereabouts. Try as she might, however, there was nothing to be seen but a slight glimmer of light and colour that flashed by the carriage's path. There was little information to glean from it.
Alice sighed. If Lizzie were here, she would entertain me. Alice considered the point. What would Lizzie do? Draw her out in improving conversation? What might they converse about? Geography would probably be hopeless. Literature? Well, certainly it would be better to broach that subject with some evidence of the products of it in hand.
No, surely Lizzie would have generous reserves of memory to draw up and discuss at length. What stories might I dig up from memory, Alice asked herself. She tried to retrieve some details of the last tome by Mrs. Radcliffe that she had devoured. Certainly at the time, the adventures had seemed vivid and breathtaking.
In vain, Alice sought for the strands of narrative that had gripped her so completely at the time. There had been a ghost, was there not? And a heroine, of course, in grave danger. Her father -- or was it some other man -- forcing her to marry against her will? There was a nun, she was almost certain -- or had it been a priest?
Alice sighed. Why couldn't writers give one more to go on?
Well, nearly.
As she jounced along on the too-hard seat, Alice dully considered where her captor might be taking her this time. It was strange to realise that she was not overwhelmed by the knowledge that she had once more been kidnapped. Alice marveled how not that long ago she had been quite distraught by the very same experience.
How long ago had her father's funeral taken place? It was hard to tell. She had had ample time to reacquaint herself with the proper calendar dates whilst in the kind keeping of the Forward family, yet she had not bothered. Had she suspected that a short time later she would once more be whisked away?
Or had she simply begun to live for the moment like some summery butterfly?
Alice was unaccustomed to such abstract considerations and gloomily wished yet again for Lizzie's kindly guidance. No doubt her beloved cousin would be able to wisely counsel her on the appropriateness of her musings and warn her away if they should dip too far into melancholy.
She had to admit that she did not feel overwhelmed by melancholy, although perhaps it was one of the characteristics of that dread state that one did not seem overwhelmed by it even when one was in fact engulfed by it. It would take much pondering, Alice mused.
Tired of musing, Alice tried to apply her eye to a crack in the tight blinds that darkened the carriage. Perhaps she might see something that would give her a clue as to her whereabouts. Try as she might, however, there was nothing to be seen but a slight glimmer of light and colour that flashed by the carriage's path. There was little information to glean from it.
Alice sighed. If Lizzie were here, she would entertain me. Alice considered the point. What would Lizzie do? Draw her out in improving conversation? What might they converse about? Geography would probably be hopeless. Literature? Well, certainly it would be better to broach that subject with some evidence of the products of it in hand.
No, surely Lizzie would have generous reserves of memory to draw up and discuss at length. What stories might I dig up from memory, Alice asked herself. She tried to retrieve some details of the last tome by Mrs. Radcliffe that she had devoured. Certainly at the time, the adventures had seemed vivid and breathtaking.
In vain, Alice sought for the strands of narrative that had gripped her so completely at the time. There had been a ghost, was there not? And a heroine, of course, in grave danger. Her father -- or was it some other man -- forcing her to marry against her will? There was a nun, she was almost certain -- or had it been a priest?
Alice sighed. Why couldn't writers give one more to go on?
Sunday, February 08, 2009
12.10
Lizzie did not immediately know what to do and remained immobile as statue. Then she thought better of it and stood up hastily. "Yes, Tilney, it is I. How do you feel…old fellow?"
"Weak," he chuckled, eyes still closed and his cheeks looking drawn and pale. "But at least I suppose I am still in this world. I had begun to think I might lose the fight, Bennett."
"They're going to be taking you to an inn to recover. The physician says you need a good deal of rest to recover." Lizzie restrained herself from fussing over him and adjusting his collar.
"Well, I got all the adventure I had been desiring, I fear," Tilney said with a weak smile. "I wanted a wild life and I got it. Perhaps I only wished to play at adventurer."
"You should recover completely from this, the physician seemed to be certain. You are young and hearty, Tilney. All will be well," Lizzie could not restrain herself from patting his shoulder, but she thought perhaps it was a manly enough gesture.
"Let us hope so," Tilney sighed. "I suppose I really ought to write to let my family know that I will be laid up for some time. Perhaps it would be best not to disclose the complete details. No need to worry them unnecessarily."
Lizzie nodded. "You can dictate and I will write. I should make myself useful."
Tilney reached for her hand and tapped it with his own. "You have been invaluable, Bennett. I hardly know how to thank you."
Lizzie blushed, relieved that he could not see her face. "Not necessary, Tilney. You have done much for me, more than you know."
"Nonetheless, I must say I owe you. I shall repay you."
"What do you plan to do once you recover?" Lizzie asked, trying to move the subject away from the awkward expressions of debts owed. Surely the men from the inn would be arriving any moment.
Tilney sighed. "I haven't the remotest idea. Perhaps I should go home and let you get on with your adventures, Bennett."
"Ah," Lizzie said, in surprise, struck for words. "I suppose I might have to consider heading back to the homeland as well."
"That precious stone set in a silver sea," Tilney chuckled. "At our lowest moments, home shines all the more brightly in our memory. Yet—"
"There were reasons to leave?"
"Indeed." Tilney lay silent so long that Lizzie feared he had once more lapsed into unconsciousness, but at last he continued somewhat enigmatically, "Problems must be solved, disappointments accepted, one supposes."
"I guess so," Lizzie said, her brow furrowed with puzzlement at his words. She looked up, hearing steps across the square. The men from the inn were coming at last. "Here they come, Tilney."
"Ah, very good," Tilney said, opening his eyes again to meet Lizzie's gaze. "I need to rest."
"You do, indeed, sir."
"Perhaps afterward," Tilney said, "we can discuss why a girl might pretend to be a boy, eh Bennet?"
Lizzie gulped, but the men from the inn were coming through the door, so she remained agonizingly silent.
"Weak," he chuckled, eyes still closed and his cheeks looking drawn and pale. "But at least I suppose I am still in this world. I had begun to think I might lose the fight, Bennett."
"They're going to be taking you to an inn to recover. The physician says you need a good deal of rest to recover." Lizzie restrained herself from fussing over him and adjusting his collar.
"Well, I got all the adventure I had been desiring, I fear," Tilney said with a weak smile. "I wanted a wild life and I got it. Perhaps I only wished to play at adventurer."
"You should recover completely from this, the physician seemed to be certain. You are young and hearty, Tilney. All will be well," Lizzie could not restrain herself from patting his shoulder, but she thought perhaps it was a manly enough gesture.
"Let us hope so," Tilney sighed. "I suppose I really ought to write to let my family know that I will be laid up for some time. Perhaps it would be best not to disclose the complete details. No need to worry them unnecessarily."
Lizzie nodded. "You can dictate and I will write. I should make myself useful."
Tilney reached for her hand and tapped it with his own. "You have been invaluable, Bennett. I hardly know how to thank you."
Lizzie blushed, relieved that he could not see her face. "Not necessary, Tilney. You have done much for me, more than you know."
"Nonetheless, I must say I owe you. I shall repay you."
"What do you plan to do once you recover?" Lizzie asked, trying to move the subject away from the awkward expressions of debts owed. Surely the men from the inn would be arriving any moment.
Tilney sighed. "I haven't the remotest idea. Perhaps I should go home and let you get on with your adventures, Bennett."
"Ah," Lizzie said, in surprise, struck for words. "I suppose I might have to consider heading back to the homeland as well."
"That precious stone set in a silver sea," Tilney chuckled. "At our lowest moments, home shines all the more brightly in our memory. Yet—"
"There were reasons to leave?"
"Indeed." Tilney lay silent so long that Lizzie feared he had once more lapsed into unconsciousness, but at last he continued somewhat enigmatically, "Problems must be solved, disappointments accepted, one supposes."
"I guess so," Lizzie said, her brow furrowed with puzzlement at his words. She looked up, hearing steps across the square. The men from the inn were coming at last. "Here they come, Tilney."
"Ah, very good," Tilney said, opening his eyes again to meet Lizzie's gaze. "I need to rest."
"You do, indeed, sir."
"Perhaps afterward," Tilney said, "we can discuss why a girl might pretend to be a boy, eh Bennet?"
Lizzie gulped, but the men from the inn were coming through the door, so she remained agonizingly silent.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
12.9
"Ah ha!" cried the physician. Grinning with pleasure, he held aloft the shot that had pierced Tilney's side. Lizzie realised that the cry had come from him and not the pale body before her. She grasped Tilney's hand and felt for a pulse at his wrist. It was still there, albeit weak.
"S'il vous plaît tenir encore," the doctor cautioned. Lizzie returned her hands to his shoulders although it seemed unlikely that he could move at all. However, when the surgeon began to sew up the would, Tilney did indeed begin to moan and move. Lizzie leaned down more firmly upon his shoulders and tried to restrain his movements.
The poor seamstress looked quite faint, clearly unaccustomed to such a sight in her little shop. But she held the basin steadily while the physician continued to mutter various oaths and imprecations under his breath as he tried to close the wound. Lizzie cast a glance at the work and blanched to see the terrible gash bound up with dark thread.
The physician, however, seemed quite pleased with his work. He reached into his bag to get a small bottle, which he then poured over the wound. Whatever was in the bottle must have been caustic, for it brought Tilney around with a shout and then a groan as he sank back down to the table.
"It must stay clean," the doctor said in painfully slow English. "Clean." He placed a square of linen over the horrible stitches and then sought her help to wrap bandages around Tilney's waist to hold the square in place. They slipped the roll under his back and Lizzie was too occupied to consider the intimacy of the moment, which was doubtless just as well.
Her thoughts were already as confused as a mending basket in a windstorm. She put all thoughts of propriety and correspondence away from her mind and concentrated on what would help her friend pull through this unfortunate experience. The seamstress smiled kindly and patted Tilney's head with a cloth dampened from the basin.
"Brandy," the physician said. "La fièvre, she always comes after. If he is strong, all will be well." He turned to the seamstress and bad her go get some men from the inn to take Tilney to a room there. Lizzie was grateful for his help.
"I will come back tomorrow," the doctor said, shaking Lizzie's hand. "To see how he goes and to receive my fee, one hopes." He chuckled, grabbed his bag and was out the door.
Lizzie leaned down to kiss Tilney's forehead. Already the heat of fever seemed to embrace it.
"Bennett?" he said weakly. "Is that you?"
Lizzie froze.
"S'il vous plaît tenir encore," the doctor cautioned. Lizzie returned her hands to his shoulders although it seemed unlikely that he could move at all. However, when the surgeon began to sew up the would, Tilney did indeed begin to moan and move. Lizzie leaned down more firmly upon his shoulders and tried to restrain his movements.
The poor seamstress looked quite faint, clearly unaccustomed to such a sight in her little shop. But she held the basin steadily while the physician continued to mutter various oaths and imprecations under his breath as he tried to close the wound. Lizzie cast a glance at the work and blanched to see the terrible gash bound up with dark thread.
The physician, however, seemed quite pleased with his work. He reached into his bag to get a small bottle, which he then poured over the wound. Whatever was in the bottle must have been caustic, for it brought Tilney around with a shout and then a groan as he sank back down to the table.
"It must stay clean," the doctor said in painfully slow English. "Clean." He placed a square of linen over the horrible stitches and then sought her help to wrap bandages around Tilney's waist to hold the square in place. They slipped the roll under his back and Lizzie was too occupied to consider the intimacy of the moment, which was doubtless just as well.
Her thoughts were already as confused as a mending basket in a windstorm. She put all thoughts of propriety and correspondence away from her mind and concentrated on what would help her friend pull through this unfortunate experience. The seamstress smiled kindly and patted Tilney's head with a cloth dampened from the basin.
"Brandy," the physician said. "La fièvre, she always comes after. If he is strong, all will be well." He turned to the seamstress and bad her go get some men from the inn to take Tilney to a room there. Lizzie was grateful for his help.
"I will come back tomorrow," the doctor said, shaking Lizzie's hand. "To see how he goes and to receive my fee, one hopes." He chuckled, grabbed his bag and was out the door.
Lizzie leaned down to kiss Tilney's forehead. Already the heat of fever seemed to embrace it.
"Bennett?" he said weakly. "Is that you?"
Lizzie froze.
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