They had gotten into another argument this morning. He said something, she replied with a stinging remark, he shot back, she shot again, and then it was a total war. People passing by would talk of this argument for years to come, as the violence of it rang up and over the moors. Curses were slung, blood was boiling, and then he said something that just sent her over the edge.
"Where is the man I loved" Elizabeth cried. "What happened to him, and who is this monster I am now forced to call 'husband'?"
"I can say the very same to you!" Clayton roared, slamming the door and walking away in such a furious fit that even the cat up and scurried from him.
It had almost become a casual pasttime of theirs, but it brought them no joy. They were once the happiest of couples, Clayton remarked to himself. What barracuda he lived with now he hadn't the slightest knowledge or trace of affection for.
It was a cloudy Saturday morning on the rolling hills where they lived, and the hunter decided he was going to the men's club to smoke, drink, and gripe and complain amongst similar company. The way was long however, and his wife had already decided to let the servants have the day off. Ergo, no carriage ride.
"You're being too nice, Elizabeth!" he scorned her. "They have their place, and they know it well!"
"Perhaps you should know your place, John Clatyon!" she spat back.
That was only yesterday, but the fact he chose to sleep on the sofa told her he was still in no mood to forgive and forget.
His feet pounded the dirt road, cursing up a storm in his head. Why was she so unreasonable? Why was she so hard-headed?! She was woman, and she had been told her place in life since the day she was born.
But, then again, she never paid much attention to others. Perhaps that is what caught his eye first. Most women cared for clothes and men and gossip. She was born with a bigger mind, a larger set of blue eyes, and to her the world was an open door to be entered.
It was one of times she opened that door that they both saw each other, across the party, where she walked in like a goddess, loud friends on both sides but like a Grecian statue silent and calm. In truth, she was not a calm person, but she put on a good show, and Clayton did hold much affection for both her wildness and her civilized aspect. She would flip between them, like a two-sided mask at a theater, one second laughing, the next crying.
But even she knew better than to overrule his orders, his commands! Why, since he'd left her Majesty's forces she'd been on his tail about "relaxing" and "taking it easy". Why, it'd been the best thing for him! He now knew he was being too easy, too gentle! Someone had to take charge, and she was just too lax to handle these commoners!
But, then again, she'd always been forgiving of him…
John Clayton!" she roared at him. He jumped at the start, turning around to face his verbal attacker.
"Yes, Songbird?" His pet name for her. Whenever he used it, it was either for moments of dearest displays of affection…or when he was caught red-handed.
This time, however, there was no red to be found, but brown, as she pointed to his mud-caked boots. "I just had the servants scrub up the carpet!"
Clayton realized he was at a loss, for no move he could make would save his now-skinned hide. "Can't we just them scrub it up again?" he said cautiously, carefully taking his boots off.
"How dare you say such a thing?" she shot back. "An honest day's work, yes! I will make sure they do that, but to force them to carry on all hours of the day and night just because my husband is too lazy to forget to take care, no!"
Then came the hard part. She got down on her hands and knees, and began to scrub it herself.
Now, Clayton was proud man, but to see his wife scrubbing up after his mess was just too much to bear. Lo and behold, when the last servant left the house that night, they had the rare pleasure of seeing both misses and mister John Clayton scrubbing the carpet, the lady possessing of an enormous smile on her face.
Somehow, she always won. Perhaps he let her beat him, but of late he'd been getting more stubborn. Perhaps his recent deployments were still bothering him. He had been drinking more of late. He chooses not to talk at times just because he doesn't feel like it. Sometimes she would turn off the phonograph record after he fell asleep listening ot it, and suddenly he would be up and barking about why she turned it off.
His mood had been temperamental, he must admit, but yet he was not the only one! A attitude had been developing in her of late, one of rebellion! She never listened to him, never did what was told! Couldn't she just let him be the man, instead of having her slip her leg in when he was wearing both of the pant's legs?
Come to think about it…when was the last time they had sex?
Not since he came back from deployment. At first things were fine, as if they were hot-blooded youths again. But soon things started cropping up, and before long…this.
Was he to blame?
No! Of course not! Marriage was a partnership, so she must have…done…something?
He struggled for the answer to his own question. What has his Songbird done to anger him? Surely, she'd been hard-headed, and difficult to deal with…but when hasn't she been?
The first time they'd danced at the party, she stepped on his toes quite a bit. "I'm terribly sorry!" she almost cried. "I just rarely…get invited to dance."
She had always been a social outcast. Nice enough, but always kept away from the inner circles. Her only desirable talent besides her kindness and beauty (the former ignored, the latter more of a curse somedays then a blessing) was her voice. She had the loveliest of songs to sing, and one knew she was happy when she humming or singing or even just vocalizing. Clayton adored her for this, and it was common practice for him to stop once a day, play the piano, and wait for her voice to come echoing through the house, until she made her way next to him and finished the song acapella, for by then Clayton had stopped in awe.
He always had stopped in awe of her.
She was prone to fits of madness, though to him she was not mad, but merely free of the normal mental constraints. She would race to the woods, barefoot and free. She would do nothing all day but sit outside and watch the world for hours. She took apart the grandfather clock just to see what was inside, and then put it back together better than new. She would bring home injured animals to nurse back to health. She would sometimes clean the house herself, or just chat with the servants like they were old friends.
In a way, they were. No one else wanted to have part with her. Clayton knew marrying her held no social advantage, no promise of wealth or power. It was quite the opposite in reputation, that much was sure. He had, surprisingly enough, married her…for her, and the only ones ot approve were his sister, and Elizabeth's desperate parents.
Why did she marry him then? She had known him by reputation before. He was a marksman, who's tally of beasts both near and far was astounding. He had served for God and Country, and was ruthless in war. Rumor was (and true) that he was prone to fits of violence, that his father was abusive, and that he was a man of blood. His good traits? He was of noble birth, and that he made it a point to be chivlous, polite, and of good cheer among all companies. He was quick as a whip at finanaces, and his love (some might say lust) of money was well known. He was a man of taste and class, a fine dancer, piano player, and amateur opera singer. All in all, he was a good catch socially (not to toot his own horn too much) and was quite well known by men and women in all social circles. So…why would she care for him?
Was he the first to care for her? That much could be true, for she was quite scared when they first talked, as if she suspected trouble. But they grew close, and closer, and closer, until they bound themselves in marriage.
She loved adventure, he was adventurous. She sang beautifully, he listened every time. She was stubborn, and so was he. She was fascinated by science and life and math, and he could only sit back and smile as she explained things beyond his keen. She would stand his love of hunting, though in the end he always kept it low-key for her, and since it fed the house she had very little reason to argue. She loved animals, and would challenge him to do the same, managing to conning him to love the family dog before it passed away from disease. She had compassion, and Clayton was learning it…before he left for his last deployment.
Perhaps he had hung out with other men too long, stubborn men, proud men, with an opinion of the world that Elizabeth found narrow and cruel. Perhaps, he had let them get to him again, got him thinking about rank and status and such. Perhaps, he had forgotten about what the other man felt, how the lesser folk thought, when he was putting rounds into their hearts…
He came back the man he was before, and she didn't want that man in her life. She wanted John, but got Mister Clayton.
Clayton stopped cold. The world was silent. There was no wind, no sound of cattle or man, just silence.
There were no songbirds.
By the time he had raced back to the house, she was gone. Not a note, not an explanation, but only a phonograph record playing their favorite song,
He ran out, to the backyard, where the woods were. He dived into those deep woods, scouring every inch for miracle. He looked to the treetops, but only saw the pouring rain. He looked to the hollow trees, but only found void. He looked in the earth, but only found darkness.
He searched for hours, and hours, and hours into the night, his master tracking skills leading him no where.
He stopped, and he cried.
And then he caged the songbird…forever.