A/N: I hope you guys don't mind my uploading all these shortish stories that are too long to be drabbles...do you think I should combine them or does it matter? Anyway, I hope you keep enjoying them. :)
**Written for FanFic100!**
Marks of a Gentleman
005. Outsides.
Miss Betsey Trotwood shifted in her chair, and winced as she felt the old pain in her shoulder. Mr. Dick had never noticed this stiffness of movement before, although the ache had been with Miss Betsey all these many years, longer than he himself had; but now, there was a more observant pair of eyes in the little cottage in Dover.
"Aunt, are you hurt?"
Miss Betsey made believe she had not heard this question, and continued in her knitting with great attention, but little Trot, very anxious, asked again. "May I get you anything, Aunt? You look sore, as if you hurt."
"Why Trot, you are such a careful boy!" Miss Trotwood answered, lightly, continuing in her handiwork without so much as raising her eyes. "But you have grown up around industrious women and strong young people, and I suppose you aren't used to the aches of an old woman, eh? A little stiffness is nothing unusual for Miss Betsey Trotwood, my dear boy."
"Ah…I suppose not. But if you should need me to fetch something for you or – or anything, please tell me so, I will be glad to do it."
The poor child was troubled, and Miss Betsey knew why. He himself had suffered, helpless, from plenty of aches and bruises at the hand of that black-whiskered man – she called Mr. Murdstone a man, for he was no gentleman. No more a gentleman than the man who used to throw Miss Betsey down flights of stairs, or pushed her against walls so that she would listen to him better; who pulled her up by her hair in the middle of the night, or applied his walking stick to her shoulders and sides because she had somehow angered him again; who left her bruised and broken, and pulling her shawl around her wrists to hide the damage done to a woman who had been too stubborn, or too quick, or too proud at the wrong moment.
She patted Trotwood, who sat quietly reading at her side. That young gentleman had done more than enough to heal her, already.