The coach bounced along the country lane. Lizzie sat deeply in thought, Tilney's head still resting against her shoulder. She would have to decide soon what to do. Perhaps this journey will last forever and I need never think again, Lizzie told herself as the fields rolled by.
The darkening of the day seemed to match the unbidden thoughts that returned to whisper that it could not be so. I shall have to leave him, Lizzie reminded herself. She looked outside and saw the gloomy light was not simply cloud cover, but the edge of a forest that drew them into its depths like a giant swallowing.
Just the place for hide and seek, Lizzie thought, then shivered for no reason. The sensation of having a goose step across her grave unsettled the young woman and she shifted a little under Tilney's weight.
What a thick forest this must be to shut out so much light! She had not thought that such woods grew in this part of France. As they approached the higher elevations, surely the trees would thin out. But it was impossible to deny that the forest grew thick hereabouts.
In another moment, Lizzie's sense of unrest grew. She turned her head. Surely that was a sound of hoofbeats behind them! No need to be alarmed, Lizzie told herself, but she could not help the fluttering of her heart. Another set of travelers, doubtless. That was all. It was a road after all and what were roads for but to travel.
Set your mind at ease, Bennett, she scolded. None the less, she wished Tilney were awake. It was not the time to feel on her own. But you're not on your own, Lizzie reminded herself. You have Tilney here beside you and stout Armand on the box. There was no reason to feel nervous.
Yet she could hear the hoof beats distinctly now.
They seemed to be making a speedy clatter on the hard earth. A carriage? She could distinguish no sound of wheels in the echo of the hooves, so that meant riders.
Why jump to the conclusion of brigands? After all, it might just be a group of young farm hands, traveling to the market or to a distant homestead. Perhaps it was a cadre of solicitors, traveling from one court to a higher one. Or soldiers, Lizzie told herself with some rising hope, keeping the roads of France safe from brigands just as the British navy kept the sea safe from pirates.
Well, Lizzie thought hastily, somewhat safe from pirates, that is.
She had nearly convinced herself that she would see the bright colours of the gendarmes as they passed by the carriage, nodding politely as they rode past. But with a jerk, the carriage began to travel more quickly and Lizzie felt her heart leap to keep pace with Armand's team.
"What?" said Tilney, waking with an irritable exhalation. "What are you gibbering about, Bennett?"
"Nothing, it's nothing," Lizzie soothed. "Go back to sleep."
That was when the first bullet rang out. "Lawks," Tilney said with admirable calmness, "Are we under fire again?"
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
18.4
"Monsieur," a familiar voice called.
Lizzie turned to see the kind landlord's cousin Armand, who approached quietly, seeing that Tilney had fallen once more into a slumber. "What is it, Armand?"
"Monsieur, I know that I am to take you . . . what do you say? A ways, no?"
"Oui, that is so, Armand."
"I need to get home soon, monsieur. My children, my wife—there is much to do at our farm."
Lizzie looked at the man and saw a simple farmer far from home. Her heart felt a stab of sympathy quite remote from her own troubles. "I know, Armand. I think we are near enough to the main thoroughfare to catch a mail coach to . . . ah, our destination." Best to remain cagey about that, Lizzie reminded herself.
"Oui, monsieur," Armand agreed. "Do you think your ami will be ready to travel such an arduous way?"
Lizzie had her doubts, but she covered them with bonhomie. "He is quite strong and will recover quickly. Why, he is already much more himself. We will be just fine, Armand. You need not worry."
Perhaps it would make things easier, anyway. If Lizzie needed to make her own escape and head toward Naples, then she could leave Tilney to make his way homeward once more and be safe. She would have to do it and silence her traitorous thoughts that whispered that she could not leave him not tomorrow, not ever.
What is the world, Lizzie thought, that allows us hearts and no way to express them? Allows us minds that must hold in their ruminations that might make this life less painful for many, that must leave to bland tradition the burning passions that wished to break free of such moorings and speak to authentic emotions and lives? What a world this is that gives us hearts to crack with longing and desire and yet no mind to comprehend the ways these hearts operate.
Armand took his seat once more, a hefty hunk of bread and some of the cheese beside him. The carriage rattled off and while the movement shook Tilney, he did not awake, but slumbered on, leaning comfortably against Lizzie's shoulder as she stared off into the space beyond the window.
The French countryside that passed her view remained unseen. Her thoughts were filled with obligations made, tragedies already unfolded and the warm shape of Tilney's head pressed against her shoulder. Lizzie could smell the scent of his hair, a fragrance she had come to know well as she cared for his injured body. Such a foolish thing, she told herself, a mere animal sensation.
But it did not stop her from inhaling deeply the musky smell of his head, nor caressing with her free hand the dark curls of his head as he lay slumbering beside her. Surely, she remonstrated with herself, surely the King of Naples had charms in excess of this modest English gentleman. Surely the King would make her laugh as much as Tilney did, surely. And his knowledge of insects was vast. Tilney could not with certainty identify more than a dozen species.
"I hate insects!" he had announced quite decidedly one day. Lizzie leaned her head upon his and felt a tear fall from her eye.
Lizzie turned to see the kind landlord's cousin Armand, who approached quietly, seeing that Tilney had fallen once more into a slumber. "What is it, Armand?"
"Monsieur, I know that I am to take you . . . what do you say? A ways, no?"
"Oui, that is so, Armand."
"I need to get home soon, monsieur. My children, my wife—there is much to do at our farm."
Lizzie looked at the man and saw a simple farmer far from home. Her heart felt a stab of sympathy quite remote from her own troubles. "I know, Armand. I think we are near enough to the main thoroughfare to catch a mail coach to . . . ah, our destination." Best to remain cagey about that, Lizzie reminded herself.
"Oui, monsieur," Armand agreed. "Do you think your ami will be ready to travel such an arduous way?"
Lizzie had her doubts, but she covered them with bonhomie. "He is quite strong and will recover quickly. Why, he is already much more himself. We will be just fine, Armand. You need not worry."
Perhaps it would make things easier, anyway. If Lizzie needed to make her own escape and head toward Naples, then she could leave Tilney to make his way homeward once more and be safe. She would have to do it and silence her traitorous thoughts that whispered that she could not leave him not tomorrow, not ever.
What is the world, Lizzie thought, that allows us hearts and no way to express them? Allows us minds that must hold in their ruminations that might make this life less painful for many, that must leave to bland tradition the burning passions that wished to break free of such moorings and speak to authentic emotions and lives? What a world this is that gives us hearts to crack with longing and desire and yet no mind to comprehend the ways these hearts operate.
Armand took his seat once more, a hefty hunk of bread and some of the cheese beside him. The carriage rattled off and while the movement shook Tilney, he did not awake, but slumbered on, leaning comfortably against Lizzie's shoulder as she stared off into the space beyond the window.
The French countryside that passed her view remained unseen. Her thoughts were filled with obligations made, tragedies already unfolded and the warm shape of Tilney's head pressed against her shoulder. Lizzie could smell the scent of his hair, a fragrance she had come to know well as she cared for his injured body. Such a foolish thing, she told herself, a mere animal sensation.
But it did not stop her from inhaling deeply the musky smell of his head, nor caressing with her free hand the dark curls of his head as he lay slumbering beside her. Surely, she remonstrated with herself, surely the King of Naples had charms in excess of this modest English gentleman. Surely the King would make her laugh as much as Tilney did, surely. And his knowledge of insects was vast. Tilney could not with certainty identify more than a dozen species.
"I hate insects!" he had announced quite decidedly one day. Lizzie leaned her head upon his and felt a tear fall from her eye.
Monday, March 15, 2010
18.3
"If I were to make such a feeble escape from an argument," Lizzie said as she sliced off a little more cheese, "You would never let me hear the end of it, excoriating me for laziness and lack of aplomb."
"Bennett, if it weren't so unseasonably hot, I would stridently argue for the natural superiority of English men over English women," Tilney said pulling his hat low enough to cover his eyes from her gaze before yawning elaborately and sinking back. "Lawks, but I'm fagged to death all of the sudden."
"How very convenient for you. You're just in a miff because you can't defend your point. Concede, Tilney."
"Nothing of the sort," he muttered, sinking even lower and thrusting his legs out in front of him, the picture of perfect ease. "Swallow your spleen, old man. My point's been made for me by better men than I. You just need to open a book."
"You're too smoky by half," Lizzie said with malicious glee. While his hat concealed his eyes from her merry gaze, it did not stop her from admiring his fine profile. There was determination in that chin, but good humour and kindness in his mouth, however much he might scowl. Lizzie felt herself blush at the thought of her stare being noticed and turned her attention to what was left of their lunch.
She wrapped up the bread and cheese and corked the wine, trying to keep the thoughts from racing through her mind again. It was far too difficult to concentrate on anything other than the agreeable young man now snoring softly nearby.
With determination, Lizzie attempted to take command of her thoughts and turn them toward their proper destination: the King of Naples. Think of it, Bennett, she said with mock severity, a king awaits you -- one with a surprising interest in the habits and peculiarities of insects and arachnids, which certainly counted for much.
Tilney evinced no interest in such creatures. Indeed, Lizzie doubted whether he could tell a mosquito from a mosque.
Yet the fact remained all too vividly before her, that she had grown accustomed to his voice, to his slangy speech and moreover, the visage that slumbered before her now.
Lizzie frowned. She had never had a commonplace mind, but now she continually coloured up at the sight of Tilney, at his laughter, at his smile, at that warm voice she once feared she would never hear again after the duellist's bullet winged him. It was fortunate that she had been there to nurse him back to health from the terrible blow, but the idea kept fighting its way into her mind that he might never have been in the position of being shot were it not for her.
Stifling a tiny sob, Lizzie turned her head away from Tilney again. He was nearly recovered, certainly well enough for travel. Though he continued to tire easily, he was well out of danger. There was only one answer.
She would have to abandon him.
"Bennett, if it weren't so unseasonably hot, I would stridently argue for the natural superiority of English men over English women," Tilney said pulling his hat low enough to cover his eyes from her gaze before yawning elaborately and sinking back. "Lawks, but I'm fagged to death all of the sudden."
"How very convenient for you. You're just in a miff because you can't defend your point. Concede, Tilney."
"Nothing of the sort," he muttered, sinking even lower and thrusting his legs out in front of him, the picture of perfect ease. "Swallow your spleen, old man. My point's been made for me by better men than I. You just need to open a book."
"You're too smoky by half," Lizzie said with malicious glee. While his hat concealed his eyes from her merry gaze, it did not stop her from admiring his fine profile. There was determination in that chin, but good humour and kindness in his mouth, however much he might scowl. Lizzie felt herself blush at the thought of her stare being noticed and turned her attention to what was left of their lunch.
She wrapped up the bread and cheese and corked the wine, trying to keep the thoughts from racing through her mind again. It was far too difficult to concentrate on anything other than the agreeable young man now snoring softly nearby.
With determination, Lizzie attempted to take command of her thoughts and turn them toward their proper destination: the King of Naples. Think of it, Bennett, she said with mock severity, a king awaits you -- one with a surprising interest in the habits and peculiarities of insects and arachnids, which certainly counted for much.
Tilney evinced no interest in such creatures. Indeed, Lizzie doubted whether he could tell a mosquito from a mosque.
Yet the fact remained all too vividly before her, that she had grown accustomed to his voice, to his slangy speech and moreover, the visage that slumbered before her now.
Lizzie frowned. She had never had a commonplace mind, but now she continually coloured up at the sight of Tilney, at his laughter, at his smile, at that warm voice she once feared she would never hear again after the duellist's bullet winged him. It was fortunate that she had been there to nurse him back to health from the terrible blow, but the idea kept fighting its way into her mind that he might never have been in the position of being shot were it not for her.
Stifling a tiny sob, Lizzie turned her head away from Tilney again. He was nearly recovered, certainly well enough for travel. Though he continued to tire easily, he was well out of danger. There was only one answer.
She would have to abandon him.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
18.2
"So, Italy is still our destination?" Tilney asked with elaborate carelessness.
Lizzie, who had been caught up in the high spirits of their conversation, frowned. She had managed not to think too much about the road ahead, instead thinking only of the vaguely southward course as further away from trouble rather than toward a particular location. It was the direction they gave to the driver, but time was approaching when they must make a change.
"Italy, in one way or another," Lizzie said with an equal attempt at a drawling casual air. "I think we may need to make some changes once we get nearer to Nice."
"Our fine charioteer will want to return home, doubtless," Tilney said, tearing off another piece of fragrant bread and leaning back on the seat with a yawn.
"Do you think he will take us as far as that?" Lizzie asked, glancing toward the man in question who at present was letting the horses feed, too. It was a rather lovely day and she closed her eyes, imagining if this were only a day of relaxing fun instead of a brief respite on a troubling journey with an uncertain outcome.
"There is no telling what the man might do," Tilney said with finality. "He is French, therefore inscrutable and unpredictable."
Lizzie laughed and looked at her companion. "You are ridiculously closed minded about our sometime compatriots."
"That is because they are our sometime combatants, too," Tilney said, waving away the proffered goat cheese and taking up his glass of wine. "While I cannot fault the French when they turn their hands to the vineyard, I am quite resolved that they only take up other endeavours with an eye toward disrupting the ease of all Englishmen."
"And Englishwomen?" Lizzie asked a little tartly.
Tilney waved away the comment. "It is terrible to think of Frenchmen appropriating English women. Or foreigners of any kind," he added with a dark look.
Lizzie simply laughed. "If Englishmen were more worthy of the love of Englishwomen, they would seldom have need to set out in search of more winning beaux."
Tilney raised one eyebrow in a censorious arch. "Beaux? This influx of vocabulaire français is most unnecessary. It is precisely the way things get quickly out of hand. French wines are one thing, but it beyond the pale to mix in so many superfluous words in a foreign tongue merely for effect or because you are thinking what to say in English."
"What if there is no more exact word?"
"There is always a way to say something," Tilney said, waving away her argument with his bread. "And generally a better and more concise Anglo-Saxon way to say it."
"Sprezzatura," Lizzie said, allowing the syllables to roll off her tongue with delight.
"Oh, Italian now," Tilney said, taking a bite of bread.
"Don't stall for time," Lizzie grinned. "What would you say is English for 'sprezzatura'? Hmm?"
"Oh, I think it's far too warm to think of Italian. We will soon be forced to think on it, but I would rather not do so before we must. Or do you think otherwise?"
Lizzie had to admit to losing that particular maneuver, but wasn't willing to sacrifice the queen yet.
Lizzie, who had been caught up in the high spirits of their conversation, frowned. She had managed not to think too much about the road ahead, instead thinking only of the vaguely southward course as further away from trouble rather than toward a particular location. It was the direction they gave to the driver, but time was approaching when they must make a change.
"Italy, in one way or another," Lizzie said with an equal attempt at a drawling casual air. "I think we may need to make some changes once we get nearer to Nice."
"Our fine charioteer will want to return home, doubtless," Tilney said, tearing off another piece of fragrant bread and leaning back on the seat with a yawn.
"Do you think he will take us as far as that?" Lizzie asked, glancing toward the man in question who at present was letting the horses feed, too. It was a rather lovely day and she closed her eyes, imagining if this were only a day of relaxing fun instead of a brief respite on a troubling journey with an uncertain outcome.
"There is no telling what the man might do," Tilney said with finality. "He is French, therefore inscrutable and unpredictable."
Lizzie laughed and looked at her companion. "You are ridiculously closed minded about our sometime compatriots."
"That is because they are our sometime combatants, too," Tilney said, waving away the proffered goat cheese and taking up his glass of wine. "While I cannot fault the French when they turn their hands to the vineyard, I am quite resolved that they only take up other endeavours with an eye toward disrupting the ease of all Englishmen."
"And Englishwomen?" Lizzie asked a little tartly.
Tilney waved away the comment. "It is terrible to think of Frenchmen appropriating English women. Or foreigners of any kind," he added with a dark look.
Lizzie simply laughed. "If Englishmen were more worthy of the love of Englishwomen, they would seldom have need to set out in search of more winning beaux."
Tilney raised one eyebrow in a censorious arch. "Beaux? This influx of vocabulaire français is most unnecessary. It is precisely the way things get quickly out of hand. French wines are one thing, but it beyond the pale to mix in so many superfluous words in a foreign tongue merely for effect or because you are thinking what to say in English."
"What if there is no more exact word?"
"There is always a way to say something," Tilney said, waving away her argument with his bread. "And generally a better and more concise Anglo-Saxon way to say it."
"Sprezzatura," Lizzie said, allowing the syllables to roll off her tongue with delight.
"Oh, Italian now," Tilney said, taking a bite of bread.
"Don't stall for time," Lizzie grinned. "What would you say is English for 'sprezzatura'? Hmm?"
"Oh, I think it's far too warm to think of Italian. We will soon be forced to think on it, but I would rather not do so before we must. Or do you think otherwise?"
Lizzie had to admit to losing that particular maneuver, but wasn't willing to sacrifice the queen yet.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
18.1
"Where the devil are we?"
Lizzie paused at the open door of the carriage. "I take it you have awoken from your nap, Tilney." He looked tired nonetheless and she worried again about the toll the trip was taking on him.
"And I asked question, Bennett," he continued irritably, rubbing his hair in such a manner that wisps of it stood up in a most amusing and undignified way.
"We are much further south than we were the last time we stopped, but still a rather long way from the border with Italy. We are angling to the east, if you would really like to know."
"Indeed, for I cannot be certain that you would not lead us all the way to Zürich without my careful guidance," Tilney said with a return to his familiar drawl. More than anything that tone cheered Lizzie for he sounded once more like himself. Now if only they could deal with the problem of the cousin driving the carriage and her own identity once they arrived in Italy.
"You should be grateful, you mountebank," Lizzie scolded. "I've secured a most appetizing lunch of fine smoked meat and the freshest goat cheese in the market square."
Tilney raised one eye suspiciously. "I do not think it right somehow that goats produce cheese. I'm not saying it's unnatural, mind you," he said, peeking into Lizzie's parcel, "But when a chap is accustomed to cows as the source of dairy, goats open up new vistas that boggle the mind."
"Don't be an idiot," Lizzie laughed.
"What's next?" Tilney continued with mock seriousness even as he spread the warm soft cheese across a baguette. "Horses? Dogs? Hedgehogs? Beavers? It is against nature, I am certain."
Lizzie could not eat her lunch for the hiccoughs of laughter that poured out her mouth. Since Tilney had recovered, life had become once more fun and entertaining. It was only in the last day or so that he had begun to question and argue with her, but Lizzie felt an immense weight lift from her shoulders as Tilney returned to his old self.
The wound of the bullet had been considerable, but she was grateful to think that his heart and mind were strong. "I find this goat cheese to be quite mild and flavourful," Lizzie said with mock umbrage. "If you are not willing to eat what is put in front of you, then you, sir, will have to go do the foraging."
"I certainly shall," Tilney retorted, poking with suspicion at the sausages in the basket. "Are there no peas here after all?"
"We are still in France, I must remind you, good sir," Lizzie said with emphasis on the latter two words, "where good food is required for every meal and people do not accept bland comforts in their place."
"Bland comforts!" Tilney said, throwing his head back with haughty scorn. "English food is the finest in the land."
"Ah, but we are not in 'the land' at present," Lizzie corrected him. "And when in Rome --"
"Eat anchovies, eh?" Tilney grinned and Lizzie felt that unpleasant leap in her heart. "After that, goat cheese will not seem so bad."
Lizzie paused at the open door of the carriage. "I take it you have awoken from your nap, Tilney." He looked tired nonetheless and she worried again about the toll the trip was taking on him.
"And I asked question, Bennett," he continued irritably, rubbing his hair in such a manner that wisps of it stood up in a most amusing and undignified way.
"We are much further south than we were the last time we stopped, but still a rather long way from the border with Italy. We are angling to the east, if you would really like to know."
"Indeed, for I cannot be certain that you would not lead us all the way to Zürich without my careful guidance," Tilney said with a return to his familiar drawl. More than anything that tone cheered Lizzie for he sounded once more like himself. Now if only they could deal with the problem of the cousin driving the carriage and her own identity once they arrived in Italy.
"You should be grateful, you mountebank," Lizzie scolded. "I've secured a most appetizing lunch of fine smoked meat and the freshest goat cheese in the market square."
Tilney raised one eye suspiciously. "I do not think it right somehow that goats produce cheese. I'm not saying it's unnatural, mind you," he said, peeking into Lizzie's parcel, "But when a chap is accustomed to cows as the source of dairy, goats open up new vistas that boggle the mind."
"Don't be an idiot," Lizzie laughed.
"What's next?" Tilney continued with mock seriousness even as he spread the warm soft cheese across a baguette. "Horses? Dogs? Hedgehogs? Beavers? It is against nature, I am certain."
Lizzie could not eat her lunch for the hiccoughs of laughter that poured out her mouth. Since Tilney had recovered, life had become once more fun and entertaining. It was only in the last day or so that he had begun to question and argue with her, but Lizzie felt an immense weight lift from her shoulders as Tilney returned to his old self.
The wound of the bullet had been considerable, but she was grateful to think that his heart and mind were strong. "I find this goat cheese to be quite mild and flavourful," Lizzie said with mock umbrage. "If you are not willing to eat what is put in front of you, then you, sir, will have to go do the foraging."
"I certainly shall," Tilney retorted, poking with suspicion at the sausages in the basket. "Are there no peas here after all?"
"We are still in France, I must remind you, good sir," Lizzie said with emphasis on the latter two words, "where good food is required for every meal and people do not accept bland comforts in their place."
"Bland comforts!" Tilney said, throwing his head back with haughty scorn. "English food is the finest in the land."
"Ah, but we are not in 'the land' at present," Lizzie corrected him. "And when in Rome --"
"Eat anchovies, eh?" Tilney grinned and Lizzie felt that unpleasant leap in her heart. "After that, goat cheese will not seem so bad."
Sunday, February 14, 2010
17.9
"They murdered you!" Alice said wonderingly. It was awful to hear the words out loud. Alice could barely accept the notion. Miss Wychwood, such a charming young woman! How could anyone be so dreadful to her?
But all it took was the sight of her sad face to assure Alice that this terrible fact was true.
"Alas, it is true! And no one could mourn me, dear Miss Mangrove, because no one knew that I had died." Sorrow suffused her handsome face and Alice suddenly realised how difficult her own situation was. Should she succumb too? Would they ever miss her at home? Tears fell easily and we must not feel too much approbation that many of Alice's tears were for herself -- many were also for Miss Wychwood, for whom she felt a lively sympathy.
"Oh, Miss Wychwood! I mourn your death! And I swear, I swear, that I will acquaint those who love you with your sad fate. I shall cross oceans if necessary!" As indeed it would be necessary to do if she were to return to England.
"Thank you, Miss Mangrove," came the sad reply, nonetheless suffused with all proper politeness.
"Please, do call me Alice," the same said to her friend, trying again in vain but in earnest to take her hand. "We must be as close as sisters, or at least as cousins. My dear cousin Lizzie is as close as a sister and I must include you among those dear to me!"
"Oh…Alice! You are too kind." Miss Wychwood wept anew, this time for joy. "Do please call me Judith. I ought to have asked you before, only I did not wish to be forward." As best they could, one being entirely insubstantial, the friends embraced.
After a moment, the two smiled between their tears and continued their intimate conversation, no formal layer of politeness between them anymore. "Alice, my dearest, you must try the method I had planned before I was so…"
"Untimely disrupted?" Alice was amazed at her own attempt to smooth over the sadness of her friend's demise. Oh Lizzie, you would be proud, she thought.
"Indeed! I was able to loosen the latch and would have sought egress, but for the arrival of the horrible miscreants. Surely you can loosen the latch, too."
"I can but try!" Alice said and leapt up to do so. With Miss Wychwood's insightful coaching, Alice was quickly able to make good headway with the latch and soon, loosened it enough to be able to open the window.
The two young heads peeked out into the fresh air. The warmth was exquisite and Alice remembered it was not England that she found herself in.
"See, there?" Miss Wychwood asked, pointing her insubstantial arm out the sash. "The ledge is fairly substantial, perhaps enough for one to make her way around to the balcony over there."
Alice leaned out and swallowed nervously. It seemed a rather significant distance over which to traverse a rather small ledge. "It certainly looks…possible," she said at last.
"Do try! You do not wish to end up as I did," Miss Wychwood reminded her.
Alice thought it over and realised she was right. "Will you come with me?" she asked her friend.
"I will," Miss Wychwood promised, her demeanour as solemn as death.
"All right, then," Alice said and gingerly stepped out onto the ledge.
But all it took was the sight of her sad face to assure Alice that this terrible fact was true.
"Alas, it is true! And no one could mourn me, dear Miss Mangrove, because no one knew that I had died." Sorrow suffused her handsome face and Alice suddenly realised how difficult her own situation was. Should she succumb too? Would they ever miss her at home? Tears fell easily and we must not feel too much approbation that many of Alice's tears were for herself -- many were also for Miss Wychwood, for whom she felt a lively sympathy.
"Oh, Miss Wychwood! I mourn your death! And I swear, I swear, that I will acquaint those who love you with your sad fate. I shall cross oceans if necessary!" As indeed it would be necessary to do if she were to return to England.
"Thank you, Miss Mangrove," came the sad reply, nonetheless suffused with all proper politeness.
"Please, do call me Alice," the same said to her friend, trying again in vain but in earnest to take her hand. "We must be as close as sisters, or at least as cousins. My dear cousin Lizzie is as close as a sister and I must include you among those dear to me!"
"Oh…Alice! You are too kind." Miss Wychwood wept anew, this time for joy. "Do please call me Judith. I ought to have asked you before, only I did not wish to be forward." As best they could, one being entirely insubstantial, the friends embraced.
After a moment, the two smiled between their tears and continued their intimate conversation, no formal layer of politeness between them anymore. "Alice, my dearest, you must try the method I had planned before I was so…"
"Untimely disrupted?" Alice was amazed at her own attempt to smooth over the sadness of her friend's demise. Oh Lizzie, you would be proud, she thought.
"Indeed! I was able to loosen the latch and would have sought egress, but for the arrival of the horrible miscreants. Surely you can loosen the latch, too."
"I can but try!" Alice said and leapt up to do so. With Miss Wychwood's insightful coaching, Alice was quickly able to make good headway with the latch and soon, loosened it enough to be able to open the window.
The two young heads peeked out into the fresh air. The warmth was exquisite and Alice remembered it was not England that she found herself in.
"See, there?" Miss Wychwood asked, pointing her insubstantial arm out the sash. "The ledge is fairly substantial, perhaps enough for one to make her way around to the balcony over there."
Alice leaned out and swallowed nervously. It seemed a rather significant distance over which to traverse a rather small ledge. "It certainly looks…possible," she said at last.
"Do try! You do not wish to end up as I did," Miss Wychwood reminded her.
Alice thought it over and realised she was right. "Will you come with me?" she asked her friend.
"I will," Miss Wychwood promised, her demeanour as solemn as death.
"All right, then," Alice said and gingerly stepped out onto the ledge.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
17.8
Alice thought she might nearly burst with excitement as the spectral Miss Wychwood led her toward the fireplace and the hiding place of her unusual instrument of freedom. Naturally, she was loathe to get any of the ash on her gown, so she crept forward carefully, but it was difficult to restrain the urge to clap her hands together.
One could only imagine the mess that would ensue, so it is fortunate that she did not actually do so.
Miss Wychwood's insubstantial arm pointed to a spot inside the chimney. Alice had to bend over and crane her neck to see the spot where she indicated. Sure enough, there was a little chink in the stones.
Gingerly, Alice reached up and sought with her fingertips to find some kind of hidden shelf between the stones. Something moved under her touch and she fought the urge to recoil and instead pulled out the tiny silver lobster fork.
The tines were scratched and their tips uneven. Alice stared in wonder.
"Do you see!" Miss Wychwood said, her eager tone conveying the joy of sharing her small success at long last. "It fit so snugly into that spot."
"A perfect place of concealment," Alice agreed, her tone gentle as she tried to hold back the tears that wished to burst forth. The story writ upon the grooved surface of the implement was a horrific one.
How worn the little tines had become! Alice looked up to see Miss Wychwood now by the window.
"See here, where I pried up the latch bit by bit," Miss Wychood said, pointing to the spot as Alice drew near. "It took so very long, you can imagine."
"Yes," Alice said absently, staring at the latch patinaed by age and neglect. "How very patient you must have been," she said finally, feeling as if she ought to comment somehow upon Miss Wychwood's ingenuity, even if she were loathe to follow this discussion to its logical end.
"If only I had been able to discover the plan sooner," Miss Wychwood sighed.
"Sooner?" Alice said, feeling a sudden ripple of even greater unease.
"Yes," Miss Wychwood said drifting a little higher in the air than was necessarily required. "A pity, that?"
"Whatever do you mean?" Alice could not help interrogating her friend, though her insides seized up in a kind of awful anticipation. "Were you unable to put your plan into action?"
"Indeed I was not," Miss Wychwood said, her face turned toward the gloomy haze outside the window.
"But you were able to free the lock?"
"I was," she said, turning back to Alice. "Though they have since repaired it -- look! Here." She leaned closely over the latch. "I am quite certain they did no more than the minimum to repair it. You could use the same method, I think, to free yourself."
"But if the plan did not, er, work…" Alice let her voice trail off, hoping Miss Wychwood would be able to construct the conclusion without her saying it.
"It was not the plan that was faulty," Miss Wychwood said, her voice as cold as the grave. "It was my captors."
"Do you mean--" Alice gasped. It was too horrible to consider.
"They murdered me!"
One could only imagine the mess that would ensue, so it is fortunate that she did not actually do so.
Miss Wychwood's insubstantial arm pointed to a spot inside the chimney. Alice had to bend over and crane her neck to see the spot where she indicated. Sure enough, there was a little chink in the stones.
Gingerly, Alice reached up and sought with her fingertips to find some kind of hidden shelf between the stones. Something moved under her touch and she fought the urge to recoil and instead pulled out the tiny silver lobster fork.
The tines were scratched and their tips uneven. Alice stared in wonder.
"Do you see!" Miss Wychwood said, her eager tone conveying the joy of sharing her small success at long last. "It fit so snugly into that spot."
"A perfect place of concealment," Alice agreed, her tone gentle as she tried to hold back the tears that wished to burst forth. The story writ upon the grooved surface of the implement was a horrific one.
How worn the little tines had become! Alice looked up to see Miss Wychwood now by the window.
"See here, where I pried up the latch bit by bit," Miss Wychood said, pointing to the spot as Alice drew near. "It took so very long, you can imagine."
"Yes," Alice said absently, staring at the latch patinaed by age and neglect. "How very patient you must have been," she said finally, feeling as if she ought to comment somehow upon Miss Wychwood's ingenuity, even if she were loathe to follow this discussion to its logical end.
"If only I had been able to discover the plan sooner," Miss Wychwood sighed.
"Sooner?" Alice said, feeling a sudden ripple of even greater unease.
"Yes," Miss Wychwood said drifting a little higher in the air than was necessarily required. "A pity, that?"
"Whatever do you mean?" Alice could not help interrogating her friend, though her insides seized up in a kind of awful anticipation. "Were you unable to put your plan into action?"
"Indeed I was not," Miss Wychwood said, her face turned toward the gloomy haze outside the window.
"But you were able to free the lock?"
"I was," she said, turning back to Alice. "Though they have since repaired it -- look! Here." She leaned closely over the latch. "I am quite certain they did no more than the minimum to repair it. You could use the same method, I think, to free yourself."
"But if the plan did not, er, work…" Alice let her voice trail off, hoping Miss Wychwood would be able to construct the conclusion without her saying it.
"It was not the plan that was faulty," Miss Wychwood said, her voice as cold as the grave. "It was my captors."
"Do you mean--" Alice gasped. It was too horrible to consider.
"They murdered me!"
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