According To Plan
By Seniya
Chapter Ten
The human body, as magnificent as we claim that it is, does possess very noticeable limits. We humans cannot fly, we cannot survive in waters that dominate our earth, but we are adaptable, we have learnt to cope—to rebel. We devour the birds of the air and the fish of sea, in jealousy perhaps, or retribution. We find a way to exert our superiority over those that believe themselves to be dominant.
Or at least, we try. Emotions however are our real weakness. We cannot devour them, they that reside within ourselves. They weaken us; this is what we already know: there will never be any justice then, never any form of retribution. We are our own victims.
It really was no surprise then that Caleb should succumb to the tiredness that had been assaulting his body over the last few days. Stubborn as he was to allow himself to be lulled asleep by images of that…girl. He could no long withstand the throbbing emanating from his temples.
And so, without much fuss, he had allowed the blissful unconsciousness to drift over him, and he had welcomed, with somewhat open arms the sleep that had eluded him for so long.
Maybe, if he had known what dreams lay dormant, waiting for him in his sub-conscious, he would have made a greater effort to fend off the drowsiness.
He had been standing in the parlor, vaguely staring at the multitude of portraits decorating the wall; Phobos, Cornelia…when she had joined him. He had known that it was her because of the enthralling aroma that she carried around with her. He had frowned, she had scowled, yet wordlessly, she had walked towards him, until she had been close enough to touch his chest. For at least one instant (completely unaware of his dreamy state), he had considered the notion of pushing her away, knowing full well just how easily she had been able to confuse his senses in the past.
But instead he moved for her hands, and led them in one smooth action towards his face, where she had brushed her fingers along his lips. She traced each masculine curve of his mouth, as if trying to remember the feel of them, the taste of him.
He wanted so much to savor her in that moment, but he hesitated, still oblivious to her plan for him.
She had pulled him closer then, he remembered noticing her almost inhuman strength, but then again he hadn't really been trying to impede her work.
He groaned at the thought, though he relished in the second when their lips touched finally, and his hands accomplished in holding her shoulders and pressing her firmly against him.
He needed her; this feeling, the glory of her softness pressed against his hard chest, and the sounds of her whimpering against him.
In his mind—right now, there was nothing else.
No one else.
Consciousness dribbled slowly back into his fantasy world…and eventually the wistful colors and shapes were replaced by the shadows and angles of his room.
Damn.
Well this was fantastic, now she was in his dreams. This was it—the final assault. No, no, no! He didn't need this—not here, not now.
Muttering a series of four lettered words Caleb shifted his position in bed. Women. Ha! They were nothing more than distractions for an idle mind, and that red headed one, well she was no different. How she had managed to infiltrate his defenses was beyond him…it probably had something to do with that cologne.
And, he also hadn't had a very good day trying to ignoring her either. He had led her around for a good hour looking for her missing shoes, and then spent another hour convincing her to go back home. For in her inebriated state, she had decided that it was a wonderful idea to run away. Actually, he thought grudgingly, she was actually amicable when drunk—or at least when she wasn't trying to kick him, throw things at him or silently curse him into the depths of hell.
A knot in his chest tightened, it would be so easy to just…
No, Caleb, get some rest. They're just dreams after all… the spicy scent wafted up from the pillows, seductively trying to lull him back to sleep.
"At long last. You're awake."
Caleb jolted upwards at the sound of the voice. His already racing heart now threatened to burst from his chest, instinctively his eyes roamed the darkness for…
"Taranee?"
She nodded before returning her attention to the knife and the stone that she had been using to sharpen it.
"What? Are the doors too good for you now?" Caleb snapped.
"What were you moaning about just now?" a large grin spread across her shadowy features. "Or do I even want to know?"
"How…long have you been here?" Grateful for the darkness of the night, Caleb stammered what he assumed was an impassive response.
"Long enough," was the curt reply. Caleb snorted; he knew very well that Taranee would find some way to use this bit of information against him later, most likely when it was her turn to muck out the stables at their headquarters.
"Well then why didn't you wake me?"
"Ah, but you seemed to be enjoying yourself so much…" she coughed back a laugh.
Bitch.
"Since you've been here Caleb, you've become complacent! I could have killed you twenty six times since I was standing here." She sliced the knife's blade through the air. "And how do I know that? It's because I had time to count them while you were dreaming!"
And what was she complaining about—he was the one in turmoil. Any other person being subjected to the range of emotions that he was feeling would be off composing sonnets and arranging bouquets, in anything, Taranee should be commending him on his tenacity.
"I want your pistol by the way." She kicked open the trunk at the foot of his bed. "Therefore, I'm taking it…you can have the knife."
"Is that why you came?"
"Of course not, it just occurred to me that in your besotted state it isn't safe for you to carry a pistol." She extracted the offending weapon, and deposited the sheathed knife within the depths of the trunk. "If you have a knife—if you attempt to attack any other of that girl's suitors, they'll definitely shoot you. I do hope that you know that."
"Some logic." Caleb didn't even challenge Taranee's portrayal of him being a heartsick fool, but still—was it that obvious? "Do you really believe that I'm that reckless?"
"I don't know what to think Caleb. I saw the two of you…" Taranee paused to think of a disgusting enough word to describe what she had witnessed, "…promenading about the gardens. And Susan almost saw it as well, I had to convince her to re-do her draperies for the wedding in order to get her away from the window."
"I was not promenading…" a faint feeling of outrage awakened from within his chest, "…you're the one who got her drunk, was I just supposed to leave her?"
"Don't blame this on me!" She snapped, "I just spent the better part of my day being told that there are at least forty different shades of blue—and not one of them matches your little friend's hair!"
Finally, Taranee emitted a sound that sounded part wolf, part crazed lunatic and then stomped off towards the window to conclude the argument by herself. When one of her personalities had emerged victorious, she returned to his bedside.
"Well, what did you learn?"
"Nothing."
"Excuse me…"
Quickly, as a matter of self preservation (since he hadn't actually remembered to question Will about anything concerning Phobos) his mind scanned that conversations he had been dragged into by the other members of her family. "Err…she was sick when he was here…chicken pox or something…actually, she thinks that he's returned home, to Greece."
Taranee, with her hand resting beneath her chin, a pose that indicated that she was in deep thought, frowned at his answer, but at the very least, she didn't question it any further. "Well, then there's no other way—we'll have to get it from," she released a long breath, "their mother."
There were no words of condolence that Caleb could think to give her, so he remained silent, or at least he tried, but that was before a very sinister thought crept into his mind. "Taranee," he slowly strung together his thoughts in a way that wouldn't seem too offensive, "what do you want with my pistol?"
"I told you," she repeated in a blatant parody of his carefully modulated pitch, "you are behaving like a child and it isn't safe…what, you don't think that I would attack them, eh?"
When Caleb didn't respond she took it as a great insult. "Well I'm not a murderer Caleb, in case you've forgotten; I'm trying to catch a killer."
"In case you've forgotten; you're being paid."
Maybe it's a curse—or a sick side effect created by whomever it was that had discovered alcohol…the horrible skin crawling sensations of the morning after. There should be a warning on the bottle, Will decided after her third attempt to pry her eye lids open…something that forewarned unsuspecting girls such as herself about the dangers of the beverage.
It was strange how these after effects seemed to do nothing to Jeffery…maybe it was a built up resistance. In which case Will resolved that she would simply have to endure the pain for the rest of her life—since getting drunk was far less glamorous than she had imagined it to be.
The euphoria hadn't been very uplifting, and then there of course was the fact that she had a sneaky suspicion that she had spent a great deal of time in the company of her mortal enemy, Mister Olsen. It was too blurry to be certain, and far too surreal to be confident…but had he helped her look for her shoes?
Well at least she had slept—it had been a long dreamless slumber punctuated every now and again with dreams of Irma and paper hearts.
Wine—who needed it? Will snuggled deeper within her comforters, inwardly flinching when her stomach lurched as she moved. This wasn't going to be a good day. From outside her closed door, Will could make out the usual morning activities: the screaming, the fighting—the mother nearing her door, but already scolding her for exhibiting yet another one of the seven deadly sins.
An explosion—which must have been a very clever imitation of gunfire—echoed from her wall. Will jumped from beneath the sheets—winced, and then collapsed into her makeshift sanctuary, completely disgruntled.
"Wilhelmina Vandom!" Ah, so it wasn't a sign of battle—it was merely her mother playing rooster. "Do you have any idea what time it is!"
"Yes, mother—I shall just check the pocket watch that is nailed to the backs of my eyes." She grumbled, her head hurt, her eyes hurt, her skin hurt for God's sake…and all she wanted to do was to crawl into her covers until the world disappeared.
"What are you muttering about?" Even with her eyes closed, Will knew that her mother was rummaging through her closet. Great, first Irma and now her.
"Come on now child, it's Sunday, we're going to church."
Will felt, if possible, even worse than before. "But I'm sick."
"You're always ill on Sundays aren't you? Did you think that I had forgotten the mysterious case of chills that had done you in, you remember Will, the one that disappeared in two hours?"
"All right, I haven't been honest in the past—but I really am sick today mother!"
"You have a half an hour Wilhelmina. Don't worry, Jesus will heal you if you show some enthusiasm. After all Jesus has no time for those in the midst of committing sloth! And wear this dress," Will forced one eye open, only to clamp it shut only a second after due to the magnitude of light that was surrounding her mother—she groaned.
"Oh come now child, it isn't so terrible, if you move the side of the bow this way it does look less like a sack…"
She peeled the blessed covers from atop of Will's fetal form. "Up!" Was the command.
Half an hour later, Susanna had managed to arrange the majority of her party in the foyer, as planned. Noticeably absent however, were all three of her daughters.
The raven haired mother, who was obviously on the verge of either a meltdown or a rampage ordered Jeffery upstairs to, in her words, haul their ungodly behinds down the stairs.
Turning to her future son-in-law (whom she had practically kidnapped from his lodgings and then notoriously blackmailed into joining them for mass) she smiled self-consciously. "Girls. Well, I'm sure you'll get used to it Mister Olsen!"
She turned away before he could be heard muttering an "I doubt that".
"Madam," Jeffery called from the upstairs hallway. "Cornelia is unwell—she claims that it is Scarlet Fever."
"What!" She shrieked and bounded upstairs to join her manservant.
"Cornelia does not have Scarlet Fever, we've all had it and you can't get it twice—remember Mother when we were younger and you carried us to that old tavern in Jamestown so that we could get exposed to it…oh yes, you must remember because that's where you met Uncle Fredrick, and he certainly won't stop bringing it up when he visits you so late at night…"
"Be quiet Irma!"
Irma shrugged and continued her journey to Will's bedroom across the hall. "Will? Are you decent?" Without waiting for an answer she pried open the door.
"Irma!" Her sister hissed before clutching her bed sheets to her body and dropping to the floor. "I said no!"
"So shy, so shy," Irma chided. "What, it isn't as though you have anything that I haven't seen before—now when you saw me, well I'm sure that it was a shock."
"Oh, I'm sure that you say that to all of your beaus." The red head snapped, before dissolving into a series of uncontrollable moans.
"Will, you're still on the floor."
"It's very comfortable."
"I'm certain." Irma closed the door behind her. "You didn't really get drunk did you?"
"Of course I did, I told you that I would, didn't I?"
"Well Will, you say a lot of things…if you did half of them—you'd been a one-legged concubine in the Orient by now."
"I've changed my mind; I liked you better when you were depressed and suicidal."
"Irma!" From the corridor Susanna, obviously too frustrated and tired to do any actual searching for her children, had resorted to screaming at them.
"I'm in here mother." Irma screamed back, making a face at the invisible owner of the voice when she was finished.
"For God's sake—why don't the lot of you just take a hammer and bludgeon me to death right now." Will grumbled.
"You're still on the floor."
The smirk was erased from her face an instant later when their mother stormed in. "Irma—why are you in here! Go fix your hair—do you still need Emma to do this for you? Where's your sister?"
"Here I am."
Susanna's gaze shifted to the spot beside the bed. "Oh for god's sake—fine, if you choose to be this way, then I'll dress you myself."
Irma chose this time to make an exit.
"Don't touch me woman! I can dress myself…I'm not five! Let GO!"
She thoroughly regretted it though, and spent the next few minutes with her ear pressed against the bedroom door, until she was finally removed minutes later when Will was pushed outside, looking as flustered as a partridge on Christmas.
"Sometimes, I pray that this is some ridiculous cosmic joke." She hissed, but descended the stairway without much incident.
"Irma," Susanna emerged next, looking just as flustered, although marginally happier than her daughter. "Cornelia is unwell—it's probably due to all of this excitement of the wedding and all…Jeffery should be outside her bedroom door, I want you to tell him to stay by her bedside until we return. Remember Irma this is very important…I need to go find some keys—I misplaced them yesterday."
Irma nodded, and wordlessly obeyed. Her thoughts however lay on those keys her mother had mentioned…if she could only get her hands on those…
"And what are you smiling at?" Will's first defense: ignoring her enemy had failed, mainly because he was so damned annoying, so she had resorted to her second line; sheer insolence.
"I told you that you would be sick." He mentioned after a moment's consideration, from his accustomed pose, leaning heavily on some wall or the other, he prayed that he conveyed the epitome of casualness.
Truthfully, she couldn't remember much of what had occurred yesterday (most of the conversations that she recalled were filled with loud buzzing noises instead of words) and it annoyed her to realize that he had something over her.
"Sick of you, is more like it." She snapped, "And if I were only a wee bit less tired, I would beat that grin off of your face."
"And if you were only a wee bit less tired, I suppose that I would take you up on that threat."
He allowed a smile to graze his face, and for a long instant she seemed nothing short of stunned to see him smiling at her.
"Are we—having an actual conversation?" She managed to say at last…it was a comment meant for an inward discussion, but it had slipped from her lips due to her astonishment in the situation.
He shrugged and looked away, while Will felt the growing tension in her chest lessen every so slightly. Irma was right, she thought, he was very handsome…
Her face reddened by its own doing, and Will had to shake her head to steady herself. Bad idea, she noticed moments after, as a whirlpool of dizzying sensation overwhelmed her mind. She held on a bit tighter to the banister. Well, at least some things never changed.
A mother's intuition when used correctly is seldom wrong. And Susanna, despite all of her other more dominant personality traits was a very perceptive person. And a perceptive mother, well now, that was just formidable.
Oh what she had seen, as she lingered at the top of the stairwell: the look in her daughter's eyes, the way her face had darkened at his words. The subtle toss of her hair from across her face—she had seen it, hell, she had been it, for a very long time.
And for the first time since that night, fear—cold and hard, that bridged upon unbridled panic, gripped her scheming psyche. This couldn't be happening, not when she was so close…
"Will darling," she intentionally startled the pair into noticing her presence. "You were right, I see it now…you do look terribly ill, and far be it from me to drag you to the cemetery. Go along to your bedroom and get some rest."
Will, if anything had inherited her mother sharpness. "But I thought that Jesus would heal me." That, mixed with her father's sarcasm, was a dreadful blend.
"Don't get smart, I know what's best." Will didn't fight for much longer, and soon the bedroom door had slammed shut; only then did Susanna allow herself to breathe.
"Caleb, I do apologize for the delay—now where is that planner woman; I just know that she'll enjoy mass as well."
She needed to remain calm; Caleb was a man of honor! Well, she expected he was, she hadn't really had much time to research the family's history beforehand. He wouldn't leave one sister for the other—that was a scandal that no man would want to bear. Everything would be fine; she repeated to herself, it all had to be.
Heatherfield Virginia, wasthe classic definition of asmall town. They lacked the excitement and buzz of the larger cities and so the thrived on what little excitement they had…primarily, through gossip.
And what a fine day it had been for them when Susanna Vandom-Hale-Lair soon-to-be Countess, had taken up residence in the large estate at the edge of town. The woman's antics never ceased to amaze, and more recently, her children's antics had gotten just as scandalous, which of course, made it all the more delicious for Sunday morning conversation.
Standing outside the front of the Church among the potted plants and the newly scrubbed cobblestone walkway, discussing these very things were three very fine old ladies. They were all past their prime—long past in the case of Old Miss. Burke, but still every week, (unless the victim of a particularly nasty bout of arthritis) they would make it to Sunday mass. If only to stand outside and "discuss" (they never admitted to gossiping, for gossiping was a sin) the latest going ons in their fine Heatherfield. As you could imagine, the fine Countess, was never exempt from these discussions.
"It's an absolute disgrace!" Mrs. Kingsley declared. "Have you heard that she's marrying off the middle daughter first!"
"It's not wonder I say!" Mrs. Potter sneered in between adjusting her hat. "That first born is a beast, I made the mistake of inviting her to our Ball last summer and she threw a vase at my Joesph!"
Miss Burke shook her head in mock sadness, while on the inside she was jumping with concealed glee. "Their mother just probably wants to get the only good one out of the house before the other two completely tarnish the family's name."
"Name, or names Ruth?" One laughed, and the others followed.
"It is such a pity that the poor girl was born into such a family—it's like I always say," Miss Burke closed her eyes and recited, "It's not the name, it's the people."
"I've told my Edward that if only I had known how these things would have turned out, I would have gladly taken in Cornelia to raise as my own. With the proper upbringing she could have been the belle of Heatherfield."
"Instead, she's got an arranged marriage to a…what was it…a lawyer?"
All three women shuddered simultaneously.
"I suppose that she can't afford to be choosy." Mrs. Kingsley noted.
"Oh, the final nail in the coffin was that youngest! Would you believe in the closet—with the stable boy?" Mrs. Potter gasped theatrically as she had done the last fifty or so times that she had heard the exact same story.
"And her mother has yet to sack the brute!" Miss. Burke reported.
"What!" Hissed Mrs. Potter. "Had it been me, I would have had that bastard hanged. What is she thinking?"
"Who knows?" Sighed Mrs. Kingsley, but her confusion didn't last for very long, for she had soon recalled a very interesting talking point. "Did you two know that she's invited the man to come to her house?"
"What?" was the expected and welcomed reply.
"Yes, he has been staying at their house—in that tiny little cottage on the estate…"
"The one where Wilhelmina was taken to when she infected everyone with the measles?"
"That's another thing! I've never seen one person with so many illnesses—I suppose that she gets it from her father, he died young I've heard, from Tuberculosis or some such…"
"Anyway," Mrs. Kingsley interrupted her fiend's train of thought, far too eager to divulge her newly found snippet of information to be lead astray by that tired old piece of news. "It is the very same cottage, and no, we haven't a clue as to if it's clean or not."
"And he's still there?" Questioned Mrs. Burke, "Well, he must be absolutely smitten by Cornelia not to have gone running away in two hours!"
"Or perhaps…" Mrs. Potter lowered her voice, "…they're paying him."
The ladies all huddled together to discuss in more detail all the implications of this suitor being hired. Their conversation was cut short however, by the subsequent arrival of the objects of conversation…or at least, some of them.
By the time the dirty "brute" and "bastard" had climbed from the top of the carriage to open the door, Susanna was already outside and adjusting her gloves.
"I cannot believe that Taranah was ill as well!" She shook her head. "It's that dirty town meat I know it! I swear that I haven't a clue as to what they do those animals in those taverns."
"It's a crying shame Mother." Exited Irma followed by Caleb, who sadly hadn't managed to conceive an excuse before Irma had latched onto his arm and pulled him with her into the awaiting carriage.
"Oh, look," frowned Susanna when her gaze fell upon the three women huddled together in the centre of the lawn. "It's those horrible women…come along now, I have to invite them to the Ball."
"I don't those old prunes at my Ball!" Irma protested.
"Whose Ball is it Irma?" Susanna replied offhandedly, "Anyway I have to do it—or they'll talk."
Susanna made a great show of introductions and greetings, all flaws aside; she did possess a natural skill for being around people.
"Well, I've already posted your formal invitations, but since there is not post on Sundays, I wanted to tell you myself, so that you would all be able to prepare."
'It's a bit sudden, don't you think Susan?" Mrs. Potter said. "Forgive me, but when I have my summer balls, I usually give out the invitations a few months in advance."
"Well, we wouldn't know that." Irma interrupted, "after all, you never invite us."
An awkward silence followed as Irma withered beneath her mother's stern gaze.
"Err…well, have you ladies all heard about the latest murder?" Miss. Burke recovered.
"Dublin's girl?" Mrs. Potter asked, and for the first time since he had arrived Caleb's interest suddenly sparked.
"No, no, there's been another one. A girl in Fadden Hills, I heard that when they found the poor dear's body all of her teeth were pulled out."
Irma froze. "D-Dublin's daughter—she's dead?"
"Oh yes," Mrs. Kingsley snapped, "now don't tell me that your mother doesn't let you girls stay informed with the current events."
Irma didn't reply, her entire mood had suddenly done a complete about face. This couldn't be the same girl that she had been trying so valiantly to help. Her throat closed up and tears stung the backs of her eyes.
Mrs. Kingsley was abruptly hushed by a look from the ever domineering Miss Burke.
"Well, it has been rather recent." She attempted to amend. "I only found out about it this morning."
"Fadden…is rather nearby isn't it?" Susanna mentioned.
"About ten miles that way." Mrs. Potter put in, "it's like I always say, keep your children indoors, there is noting useful about the sunlight."
"But that Dublin!" Mrs. Kingsley began now that the expected ten seconds of reflection had passed, "the man couldn't find the nose on his face!"
"It's just like I've always said Ester," Mrs. Potter nodded and continued. "They should have given that job to my George." No one dared to mention that the only reason that George Potter hadn't been given the post in the first place had been because he had been…temporarily indisposed; as in jailed.
"Susanna dear, you look terribly unwell." Miss Burke spotted. "Is it all of this talk of missing teeth and murders?"
"No, no!" Susanna removed that hand that she had clamped against her forehead. "I don't think that I'm feeling so well—it's probably this heat."
"These are the last days my dear! The good book says that there will be signs and wonders—"
"I've just noticed Susanna, your party looks a bit short today!" Mary Potter interjected.
"Oh! Well, Cornelia came down with a case of the chills this morning—or the heats, I can never really tell. And Will, she had…"
"Wilhelmina is ill again!" Miss Burke practically yelled. "Listen Susanna, that child possesses a terrible disposition, and it would be in your best interest to attempt to cure her! Boil a lizard—and give it to her in a broth, do you here me, my niece is Ireland suffered from the same thing, now she's as right as rain. With such poor health, it's becoming obvious that she won't be able to bear strong, healthy sons."
"That's wonderful, Ruth." Susanna smiled, apparently thankful for the advice. "I shall do that as soon as I return home!"
"So are they both at home by themselves?" Mrs. Potter pried.
"Oh no, Jeffery is there with them." Susanna placated, obviously unaware of the silence that had just besieged the three older women.
"Forgive me…" Mrs. Kingsley sputtered, under the frank impression that this was simply too scandalous to be true, "…but you left your two unwed daughters at home…alone, in the company of an unwed man?"
"Oh, it really isn't that horrible. When Will had taken ill with the measles, he stayed with her in the cottage for weeks!" Even Irma, by now had become aware that her mother was digging her own grave; she prodded the woman in her side, wordlessly begging her to stop. "Stop that Irma, he grew up in Scotland you see, and as a result he's had every disease known to man. It's perfectly safe; he's like a brother to them."
"I see…" Miss. Burke tried to remove the look of revulsion that had become etched on her face.
"I do believe that the heat has gone right to your head Mother…we really should return home."
"I agree." Susanna bade the stunned, joyful, old women goodbye, before asking them to remember the ball.
When they had all dispersed, Miss. Burke turned to face her comrades. "Did you notice that the boy never said a word in friendly conversation?"
"He's so anti-social."
"It's more anti-person, in my opinion."
"Or perhaps…he's an invalid."
Will had been just dozing off; when Irma had loudly pushed open her bedroom door. "I'm depressed Will."
"Go away Irma." Will mumbled from beneath her multitude of pillows and blankets. Her sister ignored her rude request and instead crawled into bed beside her.
"Is church finished already?"
"No, Mother felt ill so we returned home. Will, Mister Dublin's daughter is dead."
"Was she sick?" Will mumbled out of curiosity.
"No she was missing. Someone murdered her."
"That's…" No words she could think of seemed adequate enough to describe the situation, so Will remained silent. "How old was she?"
"I don't know, but he had said that she resembled me…I feel terrible."
"It—wasn't your fault, you shouldn't."
"I suppose," Irma sighed. "I should just find something to take my mind off of all this."
"That's a good idea, go knit or embroider something."
"I'd much rather continue with my attempts to make Mister Olsen fall in love with you—"
Will's heart suddenly jumped to her throat, she had just become so much more aware of the blood flowing in her ears. "What—no, don't do that…I-I…go away Irma!"
"Did something happen?" Irma practically squealed.
"Leave me alone!" She yanked the covers over her head; the equivalent of hiding.
"Yes…something did happen! Did he kiss you?"
"No! Nothing—and I…" she trailed off. "I said to leave me alone or I'll tell Cornelia exactly what happened to her blue dress."
"She already knows…and did you help me do it? Anyway, you don't need to worry yourself any more. My work here seems almost done." She grinned to herself and practically danced downstairs.
Only then did Will remove the blankets from her face. Her very, very hot face. A traitor, terrible and blatant. Heh, she thought, Irma was most definitely loving this.
The point of exempting herself from Sunday mass, had been (and God forgive her already blemished soul) to search the (hopefully) empty house. Little had she anticipated on that fact that two daughters and one butler would remain at home. As well as several servants, who had been fished from the kitchens and stables to various posts about the house.
There was a cook at the entrance, two stable boys at the servant's door…in truth, Susanna (after realizing that her keys were really lost) had placed a servant or two at every door and even the first floor windows. It was as though she had been preparing for an attack.
Taranee had decided to keep the keys for a while longer, since she was most definitely not a suspect in their disappearance. They had proved most un-useful however, since there were far too many people present for her to search places like the Library and the Study to her heart's desire.
So that the opportunity wouldn't be a complete waste, she had stalked off to the Attic. It had been, cluttered as she had expected, but not filled with the bits and pieces of old decaying furniture and trunks of old clothes.
It was clean for a start…all of the boxes and trunks were arranged neatly in a corner around a table. On the top of the table were books, mostly those horrible Gothic Romances, Taranee saw.
The papers there were scattered and all covered in a very familiar looking scrawl. Irma, she recognized it as from the letter she had read before.
She had finally picked the lock on one of the trunks when she heard Susan's voice calling the preposterous name that she had given her. Oh shit.
Deciding that self preservation was more important than whatever was within the trunk, she hastily descended the ladder from the Attic, and ran down the stairs to the foyer.
"Where is she?" Susanna appeared from the parlor door. "Oh there you are! Come, come now, I know that you haven't been feeling very well recently—it's that horrible colonist meat, so I fixed you some stew. It's guaranteed to make you just right."
"Actually, I'm feeling a great deal better than before…" Taranee stammered before being pulled away by the Raven haired woman…who possessed an astonishingly strong grip.
"Nonsense, food poisoning is a dangerous disease!" She hissed, "I should know! It nearly took my life only a few days ago!"
Irma then emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of steaming stew on a platter. "Irma is that my stew?" Her mother challenged.
"No, I'm carrying it for Cornelia…since she isn't feeling very well."
"Irma put that back where you found it, I had Cook prepare that for Taranah, she's been food poisoned."
The brunette's rosy face fell noticeably. "But—I—maybe Cornelia needs it more…"
"Cornelia will get chicken soup when it is finished, this is for Taranah, now put it back!"
"But mother!" She protested.
"Irma! Do as I say!"
Visibly reluctant, Irma turned and walked into the kitchen.
"And what is with this sudden concern for your sister?"
"I'm just trying to atone—since she's going to be moving away so soon."
Susanna narrowed her eyes, but didn't say anything. "Enjoy your stew Taranah!" She told the dark skinned woman, indicating to the stew that Irma had just replaced on the table.
Taranee nodded, and lifted the silver spoon to her lips, before swallowing a mouthful of the salty substance. To her surprise Irma watched her movements with her blue eyes wide with fear, when she swallowed the girl had gasped.
"Irma Lair! Enough with these theatrics! Go finish tying the ribbons to the dancing cards, since you want this Ball so badly. And get Will to help you, she should be better by now."
Irma obeyed after casting another weary glance at the bowl of stew. "Isn't it good?" Susan cooed, "the only reason that I hired that man is because his stew is so magnificent— anything else of his will kill you if you eat it, he always complains about me not giving him enough time to boil the foods, but I know better, after all!"
Taranee nodded and swallowed another mouthful of food. After all.
Author: Uh oh, Susan knows! Haha! Ah, that's not really a big deal though; she might just up her efforts to make Cornelia and Caleb get married sooner. I'll have to decide on that one, and soon we'll have more action between our couple.
I always say that I don't know how good a writer I am, but I can make very strange plots. You'll never figure out my plot unless I want you to. From these 10 chapters, I've finally explained everything that you need to know to figure out what will happen. So feel free to take a guess if you'd like.
For those of you who have tried, sorry, but that's not it.
The "dream" scene above there was actually a part of my sex scene before I changed it. Now it's hotter. HEHEHE! I refuse to change the rating right now because, well, I realized that most if not all of my stories are rated M, and quite frankly, it's a bit shameful.
And what is up with these CxC fans…do they run on sunlight on something? I pop up on this website the other day and what do I see? A million farking Cornelia and Caleb fics staring at me! I'm more of a nocturnal creature…the heat wave is doing NOTHING for me. So far I try to write some part of this story everyday, unfortunately, I've been writing the last few chapters first, hence the delay here.
Dedicated: To the WillxCaleb ship. May it rest in peace after being slaughtered by Greg Weisman. Yes, it's true, if you watch the second season Will and Caleb no longer talk to each other (and by the way, yes and no are not suitable conversations), it seems that in a last ditch effort to force Cornelia and Caleb down our throats the writers have destroyed any other relationship that Caleb may have had with other females. Sigh.