Chapter One: Resolve
October Tenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five
The first entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore , the age of Fifteen
I received this from my dear friend Abbie and as of late I have felt- why not use it? Where's the harm, (as if father would care what I wrote anyway)? So I shall call you friend. Here at Ashwood Manor in Devonshire, the world slowly glides by as if it had no cares at all, unlike what I have heard from friends in London about this pending war with France and the nations financial troubles that seem to double by the year, they say. But all father can seem to think of is how and who to marry me off to. He has no care of either of our welfare's, for he has spent every last penny on some disastrous endeavor or another. And since he no longer has a son to dote on just a DAUGHTER, he blames me. I know he no longer cares about feelings, but only for his monetary concerns. I hear his voice from the great room. I must go for I know he has been to drink even at this early hour. And a man drunk is much worse than a man sober. Even my father. If I don't go he will seek me out and, that is worse, much worse. So I end this here, dear friend.
Yours Truly,
Elizabeth Seymore
October Thirteenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five
Second Entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore
Dear Friend,
I am sorry that I have not written for the past two night. Writing has now become an effort of mine. The doctor tells me that my wrist will heal, but not to overly use it, so writing has been off the list till now. I wish I had the courage to tell the good doctor what occurred, as this the third time he hath cared for it. I wish I could gather some flimsy piece of it and set him right. Instead, I hear his response and sigh, "Elizabeth you must stay away from trees. Your wrist cannot properly function if it is broken." But too much of a coward am I, to declaim the actions of my father. In one notion of his I do agree...in the weakness of a woman. Only in this, friend can I envelope the true character of my father.
Today he hath told me I must marry, and marry who pleases him, which I adamantly refuse to do but he does not hear me but advanced on me a in beet red rage. He tells me I am horrible, despicable, uncanny, ugly and a liar, all the while standing over me, force-feeding it down my throat. He raised his hand and shoved my face into the peeled varnish of the oak table. I don't think I have ever cried so much in my life. I don't remember how many times he hit me or when he grabbed my wrist and slammed it into the table, but I was alert enough to hear him. He yelled at me the whole time, 'You will do as you are told, you disagreeable wench! I hope Mr. Windham had some sense to use the cane.' Yet even here, sniveling and cowering in the dark of my father's wrath, I am convinced to rebel and keep to my own resolutions. I will not marry Mr. Windham, a man four time my age, white haired and detestable. He does not care for me, only for my father's land and his sight is ailing as well as his sanity. He deserves the blindness, I am sure of that. For I have heard how he beat and hurt every one of his four wives. I resolve not to be his fifth, death take me first. Oh,...dear friend, what do I do? I have no Oliver; he died last summer of typhoid aided by his sickness. I miss him so! I also have no Abbie for she is visiting a cousin in London. But I will stick to my resolve, though I know not how. I will not marry Mr. Windham. I will not let my jealous father's eyes shine in a profit well made. No father, I resolve, I will not do your bidding anymore. Goodnight, dear friend.
Yours Truly,
Elizabeth Seymore
October Fifteenth, Seventeen-Eighty-Five
Third Entry of a one Miss Elizabeth Seymore
Dear Friend,
I have resolved to resolve my resolve not follow my father's orders and marry Mr. Windham, the old crotchity man who lives a mile west of the manor. For this wretched place is not mine and never will be. Oh dear friend, I cannot go on like this any longer, a ruse to my true feelings. My mind, spirit, and conscience wont let me. Mr. Windham came last night to pay a visit, and when my father had gone to get another bottle of cognac, Mr. Windham made unsavory and ungentelmanly advances towards me and I was almost forced to burn his dirty hands with the candle. He thinks I am already his, but I AM NOT. I have formed a way out, oh, and ingenious way out, one that cannot falter in its course. I will leave and go to London in search of Abbie and her cousin, Miss Lawrence. But, 'how?' you say. Oh, I've thought that up too. I will leave on the mail coach as it passes through Brandburn Wood not far from here, when father is asleep. But I cannot go as I normally would, and have had to call on very interesting resources. I cannot go as a woman, I've decided for that would be impossible for I would be found out. Father will have sent the guards after me and they would have found me out on the coach at Whetlock. No, I will go as a boy. As Oliver's things are still in his stuffy room, and since we were twins I see no reason that they would not fit me and the part I must play. Like Viola, Shakespeare's Viola...oh friend just like her. And as for my hair, my precious golden hair, it must be done away with. It is a price I must pay for this freedom. I have even thought of a new name, since I go as a boy to London, whence I will reveal myself to the right people. I have taken the first name of Oliver, as it is my brother's and the easiest. Many people said we sounded very much alike, and I take my poor mother's maiden name of Whitcomb. It will serve me well, I think. For what I shall bring; I will seek out my father's wallet and take from it a traveling fee and I do have some money of my own. I shall also bring some other precious things. Oh, dear friend, you alone do I confide this in and no one else! Oh, what an adventure this will be!
Yours Truely,
Elizabeth Seymore
or should I say, Oliver Whitcomb.
Elizabeth picked up the scissors in her trembling hands and took one last look at herself. This would be the last time she'd see herself as Elizabeth Seymore till she arrived in London. From her flattering golden hair, to her calm olive green eyes, and her large bosom, pale skin and desired hips, she took it all in. She breathed to calm the ferocity of her frantic nerves and raised her hand. One by one, curls of a golden hue fluttered like feathers to the floor. Elizabeth flinched each time, and tears threatened to pour from her eyes. When at last she was done, she stood still and looked at her hair cut haphazardly, some shoulder length, some to the ear, and bound it with a black ribbon in the fashion most men utilizied. Then she proceeded to unlace her dress, stays, and petticoat, letting them fall to the floor. Then she grabbed the linen cloth from the bed and carefully wrapped her chest flat. She gasped as she pulled a little hard. She had no idea this would involve pain.
It is all for the best. It will only be a few days at most, maybe a week, no use turning back now, Lizzie.
Finally, she finished pinning the last of the linen in place and surveyed the clothing on her bed. Underclothes, breeches, a weskit, vest, shirt, jacket, stockings, and buckle shoes, all her brothers. They were the shabbiest she could find, all in assorted greys and browns; she didn't want to stand out. Piece by piece she slipped into her brothers clothing, the undergarments, undershirt, weskit, shirt, and vest. And after slowly pulling on the stockings, buttoning the breeches, tucking her shirt in, and buckling the shoes, the transformation was complete. Looking in the mirror one last time, she saw a paradox. She was no Elizabeth Seymore now. She made a better boy than she'd thought, thirteen or fourteen. And her chest and other parts such as lips and hips did not show evident womanliness. And if she was looked upon for further scrutinizing, at most she'd be labeled emfemmanite.
And what's a week, compared to a fortnight, compared to a month, compared to a year, compared to a decade, compared to a century, compared to a millennium, compared to eternity? A week. Bah, a week is nothing but a trifle longer than a day.
Lizzie turned to fill her knapsack and blow out her candles. She included in her bag her diary, ink, two quills, a book of sonnets by Donne, The Twelfth Night by Shakespeare(it seemed fitting), a book of essays by Locke, her brother's watch, and the things from the kitchen she had spirited away such as the apples, cheese, and bread. She blew out the candles and found her way down the hall, to her father's study to take a handful of coins and cash from his purse. Her father slept hard, as usual, and they employed no staff, so she had no worries of being caught that night. So, for the first time in her life, Elizabeth Seymore fled her home.