TORRID SUMMER
Disclaimer: This is a fan fiction about one of my favorite movies, Robin Hood Prince of Thieves, it is an amateur work without any profit, the film and the characters do not belong to me, but are the property of Morgan Creek Productions.
Note: This story is very far from the original, I hope not to disappoint anyone, but the truth is that I love the AU, and most of my stories belong to this kind (my readers of the sites where I write usually in my country know it), though usually I prefer the period of WWII; here I made a change: we are on the English Riviera during the Belle Epoque (this is the first time I use this setting, I am a bit "confused", be lenient, please), and the fan fiction is in the form of the epistolary novel; there is much angst, I hope it does not disturb anyone.
Maid Marian Dubois is a wealthy maiden lady Londoner, who takes the job of a private detective, but unfortunately, she suffers from severe depression, whom she tries to vent in painting. Her cousin, George of Nottingham (who is no longer Sheriff here, but an English high society protective relative, on vacation with his wife and cousin) literally drags her to a forced vacation on the English Riviera, to help her to soothe her psychological torment; during holiday Marian writes letters to her employer and friend, who put her to the ropes: , a criminologist who in his youth had cooperated with the police in the investigation about Londoner Jack the Ripper; but during the staying occur some unexpected events, including bizarre murders, and the meeting between Marian and a very handsome mysterious man, Robin of Locksley.
Now I'll leave you to read, and I am sorry if my English is not really very good, but unfortunately, I am a foreigner!
CHAPTER 1
AN YEAR AGO IN KARLSBAD
Torquay, 15 July 1909
Dear Mrs. Parrett,
even now, I do not know why I agreed to come here.
The fact that my cousin has insisted so much is not enough as an excuse, but I told him yes.
After all, the infallible lawyer George of Nottingham is not accustomed to being told "no", and I could not be me, the cousin he grew up with, to tell him first; "You need to pull the plug," he said: it means to leave the cases I have on hand for at least a month, but never mind: they are for most cases of marital infidelity, no help to the police in these days. It seems that in summer the criminals go on vacation! So, why not do a private detective?
However, now I'm here, and complaining is useless.
We immediately found a great heat: this is the worst summer of the decade, they say. And as a result, the town is a continuous carousel of families on vacation, in light jackets men and women with plumed hats: that kind of festive and enjoyable humanity straight out of a book to come to life only during the summer, in places like this.
Saying that it makes me laugh is little, but these days I find it ridiculous my whole life, so it took me a little as well to conform me to the general theater.
We arrived at the hotel yesterday morning, and we took possession of the rooms immediately, which made Susan in solar mood, after hours in the train; and about George, the first thing he did was looking for another lawyer with whom discuss common issues, as good colleagues on vacation, with a cigar between their fingers.
The hotel is on the seafront, and has a splendid view of the Riviera and the coast almost to Paignton; the atmosphere is bright and welcoming, as is typical in seaside resorts, with plaster clear and large windows; the dining room and the tea room enjoy the best view of the sea. The customers are mostly city people, who wants to forget the daily trouble, hiding them in vacationers' gossips.
There is a certain Guy of Gisborne, lawyer of York, which as you can imagine has immediately made friends with George: they greet each other with caramel transport, and not miss a chance to compete at whist or to get together with a cigar in the smoking-room; Susan , needless to say, has already attracted the attention of the ladies with his looks fashionable, and together they spend their time around the shops.
And I? I get bored? And how!
Unfortunately, my partner anxiety followed me from London as a shadow: I cannot even avoid it for an hour. So far, all normal, you say.
But since I came here, things have definitely face the worst.
My sleepless night gave way to restless and tormented dreams, and migraine has increased significantly.
And thanks also to the season, the thought runs to an year ago.
To Karlsbad. To Gunther.
The sunset strolls among the fashion houses of Central Europe; the classical music concerts in the park, in the afternoon; the evenings at the theater; the dinners with dancing; the long talks at sunset.
Am I acting like a silly little girl in love? Probably.
The truth is that I never entirely overcame it; but the idea to undergo that new treatment of the man Freud horrifies me .. why should I tell my affairs to a stranger that I've never even seen?
Then, the explanation is simple: Gunther was a breath of fresh air for me; obviously, having failed this air, my soul feels suffocated!
And you do not need a doctor to understand this.
Let alone one of those that pull to pieces your soul.
I thought also to join him in this summer, but I soon abandoned the idea. What would be the use, but to try to revive the corpse of a dead feeling? And of course, he is not thinking more of me, in that Felix Austria made of carefree days spent in literary cafés to build a new art for a new century.
And I should look for carefree days too, or at least that's the thought of Susan and George, who also did not explain the reason of my long silence and my sudden illness.
I decided not to tell them anything, nor Karlsbad, nor Gunther.
Neither of my absurd naivety of a summer ago.
Down in the street a dark-skinned man is playing an organ, surrounded by children. The sun is about to set, its slanting rays hit the sea making it look like a golden expanse.
It 's almost time for dinner, and then I must leave you, my friend.
But I will give you my news as soon as possible.
Heat is oppressive.