Left Behind
By Felicia Ferguson
Rating: G
Disclaimer: the woman belongs to me, the child belongs to Newline.
Summary: A child abandoned.
Author's Note: I was always curious, but "The Secret" finally spurred me to writing.
1/1
The pale light of dawn glinted off the Seine shading the blue-gray depths with a pinky tone. In the deserted early morning streets, the market vendors unfurled their canvas awnings and laid out their wares intent on wooing passers-by as potential customers. One such woman, who normally would patronize the tents, instead walked briskly through the Rue Saint-Honore, her face a rigid mask.
A little girl about four clutched her hand her toddling steps barely keeping pace with her mother's longer strides. "Come along, Marguerite. We haven't much time." The woman spoke in English, her cultured tones evidence of her station, even if her clothes, threadbare and in decided need of mending, were not.
"Mama, where are we going?"
The woman spared a quick glance for the child beside her and answered, "To your new home."
Marguerite tugged at her mother's hand and halted, forcing the woman to stop as well. "But I like my old home," she countered, then clutching the doll in her right arm closer to her chest added, "Dolly and I like our old room. All my friends are there."
The woman stifled a sigh and darted a nervous glance over her shoulder. Tugging the little girl along the street, she soothed, "That's why Dolly is with you...to help you become accustomed to your new home. Now, do hurry along."
The child, silenced more by her mother's curt tone than her reassuring words, followed without further comment. All too soon, the pair reached the imposing façade of the convent. "Mama, I don't like this place. I want to go home," Marguerite cried stepping back away from the door.
"This is God's house, Marguerite. There's nothing to be afraid of here." Though the words were meant to comfort her daughter, she hoped they would ease her own nerves as well. She cast an uncertain gaze at the flying buttresses and carved gargoyles and a sense of foreboding filled her. 'It's for the best...to allow Marguerite the future she deserves,' the woman harshly reminded herself. 'These choices were made long ago. Nothing left to be done but live them out.'
With renewed resolution, she knocked on the door then knelt in front of the girl. "Now, these nice ladies will be taking care of you." She fussed lightly with Marguerite's dress, pulling her locket from beneath the collar and straightening the chain. "Do you remember what you are to say?"
Marguerite nodded, her gray-blue eyes huge with fearful solemnity.
Her mother smiled, the action lifting her lips for a moment then sliding them back to their usual stoic regard. "Mama has to go away now. Be a good girl."
A quick kiss to the top of the child's curly head and she was gone.
The imposing doors creaked open to reveal a woman clothed in the black robes of her profession. Face lined with age and eyes weary of the world around her, she peered down at Marguerite.
And Marguerite stared up into a future she neither asked for nor wanted.
By Felicia Ferguson
Rating: G
Disclaimer: the woman belongs to me, the child belongs to Newline.
Summary: A child abandoned.
Author's Note: I was always curious, but "The Secret" finally spurred me to writing.
1/1
The pale light of dawn glinted off the Seine shading the blue-gray depths with a pinky tone. In the deserted early morning streets, the market vendors unfurled their canvas awnings and laid out their wares intent on wooing passers-by as potential customers. One such woman, who normally would patronize the tents, instead walked briskly through the Rue Saint-Honore, her face a rigid mask.
A little girl about four clutched her hand her toddling steps barely keeping pace with her mother's longer strides. "Come along, Marguerite. We haven't much time." The woman spoke in English, her cultured tones evidence of her station, even if her clothes, threadbare and in decided need of mending, were not.
"Mama, where are we going?"
The woman spared a quick glance for the child beside her and answered, "To your new home."
Marguerite tugged at her mother's hand and halted, forcing the woman to stop as well. "But I like my old home," she countered, then clutching the doll in her right arm closer to her chest added, "Dolly and I like our old room. All my friends are there."
The woman stifled a sigh and darted a nervous glance over her shoulder. Tugging the little girl along the street, she soothed, "That's why Dolly is with you...to help you become accustomed to your new home. Now, do hurry along."
The child, silenced more by her mother's curt tone than her reassuring words, followed without further comment. All too soon, the pair reached the imposing façade of the convent. "Mama, I don't like this place. I want to go home," Marguerite cried stepping back away from the door.
"This is God's house, Marguerite. There's nothing to be afraid of here." Though the words were meant to comfort her daughter, she hoped they would ease her own nerves as well. She cast an uncertain gaze at the flying buttresses and carved gargoyles and a sense of foreboding filled her. 'It's for the best...to allow Marguerite the future she deserves,' the woman harshly reminded herself. 'These choices were made long ago. Nothing left to be done but live them out.'
With renewed resolution, she knocked on the door then knelt in front of the girl. "Now, these nice ladies will be taking care of you." She fussed lightly with Marguerite's dress, pulling her locket from beneath the collar and straightening the chain. "Do you remember what you are to say?"
Marguerite nodded, her gray-blue eyes huge with fearful solemnity.
Her mother smiled, the action lifting her lips for a moment then sliding them back to their usual stoic regard. "Mama has to go away now. Be a good girl."
A quick kiss to the top of the child's curly head and she was gone.
The imposing doors creaked open to reveal a woman clothed in the black robes of her profession. Face lined with age and eyes weary of the world around her, she peered down at Marguerite.
And Marguerite stared up into a future she neither asked for nor wanted.