A/N: At this point in the story, we are probably close to half way through, if not further on. In the face of such, I feel that I ought to address a few questions that you may have (not that I would actually know, what with no complaints or anything). First and foremost, I feel that the Dasey should be addressed. I am, believe it or not, a Dasey shipper at heart. I contemplated how wise it would be to tell you this, but, in the end, I decided to go ahead and say it: ultimately, there will be Dasey. One way or another, something'll happen. Take that to mean whatever you like.

Second, enjoy this chapter, because something big is about to happen. And I do mean big. But, lest I keep you from reading now. So read, REVIEW, enjoy.


Emily

Disclaimer: And and all character that are familiar are property of somebody else. The stanzas from the poem are from Thomas Hardy's "The Ruined Maiden."

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she...

-"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theäs oon,' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
--Thomas Hardy, from the poem "The Ruined Maiden"

In August, there arose in the normally quiet town of Dorchester was in commotion, for earlier in the day, it had been announced that a carriage carrying a man of great wealth was coming towards the town. As Dorchester stood on the route to London, such was not exactly an unusual thing, and, as such, would have normally not caused such commotion as it did; however, according to old John Sosa, who had been walking along the same path, the man and his young lady were hoping to find accommodations in a Dorchester inn of some sort.

Casey, having not been to the town until the late afternoon, came as the carriage was arriving. Holding her daughter, whom she had christened as Charlotte, close to her breast, so as to shield the fragile baby from the press of the crowd, Casey allowed her own curious nature to best her. She found Sam Jenkins to be in the crowd; grateful to see the face of a man she called friend, she maneuvered her way over to him.

"Mr. Jenkins," she called out. He nodded back in recognition, fighting to get to her.

"What is going on?" she inquired.

"A man of some reputation has just arrived with a young woman, who is, they say, his mistress. They are to start a month long tour, and have stopped here for the night. They heard, I imagine, they the inn was recently renovated," he replied.

"Yes, my husband worked on the renovations. I wasn't aware they were such as to make the inn a gathering place for such gentle-people." Indeed, the renovation work had offered up a very small sum; she now couldn't help but wonder what she had once been afraid to wonder, that is, if they had received a grander payment than that which her husband had brought home.

Now, the spectacle grew, for stepping out of the carriage first came a well-dressed man, of an older age and dignified countenance. This elevated personage, it was rumored, had made his fortune some years ago, when he had invested in some factory or another. He arose from a prestigious family of good social standing, and, as though gifted with the touch of Midas, he had profited from all that he seemed to touch.

The young woman with whom he traveled, was from a nearby town, although nobody could say where, exactly. She herself was from a modest middle class home, and, as such, she could carry no expectations of marriage, for he certainly could make none. Despite this, and despite being widowed less than a year prior, he had become infatuated with her, and determined that she was to be his mistress.

As he exited the carriage, he turned, offering his hand to the woman inside. A small white hand took hold of it, and, in a flurry of silk skirts of brilliant colors, a young woman emerged. She, like everything else touched by the man, was a brilliant sight. Dressed in the latest fashions, and of materials most women in observance would never so much as touch, she carried about her an air of dignity, which Casey could hardly understand. She studied her surroundings as though she were looking down upon some sight deemed below her. Forgetting, it seemed, her own origins, she shuddered, whispering something to her companion, and looking around again with cold and impassive eyes. Her face, stony as it was, showed emotions only once; that is, when she observed Mrs. Venturi, standing in the back of the crowd, her own gaze reflective of her curious nature.

Indeed, it was of no surprise that the mysterious lady should have shown a sign of recognition, and indeed, of glee, when she saw Mrs. Venturi; the woman in question was Clara Newborn, the girl whom Mr. Venturi had once favored as a boy.

Dressed as she was, in garments befitting a queen, it took Casey some time to recognize the girl as Clara Newborn. Upon realization, however, her whole countenance changed. In confusion, Casey could not decipher her own feelings. Was she to be jealous, as the girl, once so below her in life, stood now as a queen among paupers. Yet, then, there was still the moral superiority Casey had always felt regarding Clara; indeed, the girl was now living openly as a ruined woman.

After a moments contemplation, Casey resolved herself that she would talk to Clara if at all possible.

0O0O0O0O0

To talk to Clara was, as Casey soon found out, very much a possibility, for, having seen Casey at her arrival, Clara had also wished to speak to the other woman, if only to gloat. Thus, after her bags were placed in the inn, she wandered outside, on the pretense of getting some fresh air. Perhaps subconsciously aware that Clara would be out, Casey had made it her business to remain in the vicinity of the inn, allowing her daughter to gaze with great curiosity at all that was around her. Having been sick some weeks ago, and having had a difficult birth, it was not often that Casey allowed the little girl to come to the town, for she was ever afraid of the child catching some disease or another.

Now, however, she used the pretense of allowing Charlotte fresh air as a reason for loitering around the inn.

"Miss MacDonald," a woman's voice called out in impish delight.

"Mrs. Venturi," corrected Casey.

"Of course, pardon my mistake, Mrs. Venturi. It just seems not so long ago that I knew you for a maiden, and knew your brother, or, really, your husband, as a boy."

"Of course, he favored you for a brief time, did he not?" Casey answered, a hint of malice in her voice. "Oh, of course he did. He rather upset your brother, if I correctly remember."

"Never mind that," Clara said flippantly. "I see you've a child. So soon after your marriage? Why, I didn't think you were one for children," Clara commented smugly.

"Yes, well, it's been long enough I believe. She's not seven months yet. Have you any children, Miss? Last I saw of you, you didn't, but then, neither were you the mistress of so important a man," Casey coldly observed.

"Do not take up that tone of superiority with me, Mrs. Venturi," admonished Clara. Surely, as she stood, she found that she was superior to the young wife. "I find that you no longer may speak as though you were so morally above myself."

"Yet," spoke Casey, "I am the one who is legitimately wed, and you stand before me a ruined woman, a common mistress, to be played with and then tossed about. Isn't that right? You played for my husbands hand, and he rejected you, left you to ruins."

"If he ruined me, it was surely a good happening. Don't you believe that I am not aware of my position. Of course I am ruined; what else could I be, after your husband's treatment of me? Yet, I've made myself a life. The man with whom I travel, he has handsomely compensated me, and my family. My brother, with whom you had a brief flirtation, he is married now, to a girl of good standing. And don't think for a moment that your reasons for marriage are a secret. Everyone knows you married Derek because of the little maid that you now carry as though it were a legitimate child." The maliciousness of her speech served as a reminder of the uncultured beginnings of this glorious façade of a female; she could not remind herself of the rules she had learned whilst living alongside a man of respectability, and she could not help but revert back to childish gossip to cut down the smugness of Casey.

"You know nothing of my relations with my husband. You are nothing but a common whore, and you haven't the right to speak to a lady of respectable means in that fashion. I beg you to hold your tongue, and let me be," Casey replied in harsh tones. Despite her words, it was clear to Clara that her words had greatly upset Mrs. Venturi. She was a nervous sort of woman, and always had been, when Clara thought about it. To point out the clear reasoning behind her marriage was to disrupt the delicate balance of lies and deceiving thoughts Casey had so carefully constructed in order to retain some sense of dignity, some idea that she still controlled, to an extent, her life.

"So then, you say that you do love him?" Clara alleged with great skepticism.

"He is my husband," replied Casey in a measured tone. She couldn't quite bring herself to confirm this jab of Clara's, for in truth, she wasn't sure what, exactly, she felt for her husband.

"Yes, I suppose so, although how much your husband, I have my doubts. But then, how silly I must be; if there is a child…" she replied, her painted lips forming a cynical smile.

They had, at this point, made their way through the winding streets, and had paused in front of a store to engage in this harsh exchange of words. They were not, however, alone, as they both undoubtedly thought (for if either had thought themselves to be observed, they certainly wouldn't have spoken as they did). From a shop, now, emerged the familiar figure of Mrs. James. Perceiving the confrontation between the girl she had grown somewhat fond of (although she could not quite understand way) and this strange lady, she thought fit to end it by announcing her presence.

"Mrs. Venturi," she called out, startling both women. "It has been some time since I've last seen ye. Oh, pardon my interruption. I didn't see ye there," she said, addressing Clara. "Mrs. Adams, is it?"

"No, it's Miss Newborn," corrected Clara with some embarrassment. Glancing quickly at Casey, Mrs. James was surprised to see, in the girls face, an open look of thanks. It was, she thought idly, perhaps the first kind look she had seen upon Casey's face in all the time that she had known the girl.

"It really is getting quite late," Clara said after a moment. "I must be taking my leave. It was good to meet you again, Mrs. Venturi. Give your husband my love."

"Of course. Goodbye, Miss Newborn." With that, Casey turned away from the girl, looking now at Mrs. James, who had observed the interaction with some interest. As soon as Clara had disappeared around a corner, Casey's eyes narrowed as she looked at Mrs. James.

"How much of what I said to her did you hear," she questioned, attempting, quite badly, not to show her fear of what had been revealed. Aware that Mrs. Venturi did not know that she knew the truth, Mrs. James thought it best to keep it as such.

"I heard nothing; I saw only that you were exchanging harsh words, and that you looked as though you wished her to leave. I thought it best to come out before you did anything hasty."

"I thank you then," said the younger woman. They walked idly, enjoying the last of the suns' rays, which reflected upon the paved paths, forming shadowy patches on the streets, near the storefronts. Shading her eyes against the angry glare of the setting sun, Mrs. James stole a glance at Casey. She walked quietly, her head lowered, the girl in one arm, with the other carefully shading the child's own eyes.

During the summer months, since the birth of her child, Mrs. James, and indeed, many others, had observed a change of sorts in Mrs. Venturi. She remained above the town, in her own mind, looking down upon all she saw, but she no longer secluded herself in her small home. Often was she seen in the town, always with her beloved child with her, dressed always in fashionable clothing while she herself wore old dresses and skirts, stained with time and poverty. She remained strong in the light of the day, her blue eyes forever focused, as though she were occupied by some troublesome thought. She smiled at the girl, however, and, it was generally agreed that she had acquired some softness, and influence of motherhood. Now, she walked alongside Mrs. James, not proud, but certainly not with arrogant shame as she possessed.

"I hear your child was unwell some time ago. Nothing serious, I hope," commented Mrs. James, noting the stifling silence.

"Oh, 'twas nothing, I assure you. She caught a fever last month, and a cough; it gave me a fright, but the doctor assured us that it was quite normal for a child of her age, especially since her birth was so difficult."

"I am glad to hear that. She has become such a lovely girl."

"Yes, I am very proud of her. She will be a lady yet, I tell you, Mrs. James. Already she looks the part. Yes," she said, more to herself now, "she will be a lady."

The two remained silent the remainder of the walk, speaking only to bid one another farewell when their paths diverged.

0O0O0O0O0

As the two women talked, Clara walked away. In the rapidly diminishing light (for she had chosen to walk in a direction in which the sun had already ceased to highlight) she stumbled on the roughened streets. Her fall was, however, intercepted by a man's body, which, at that moment, happened to be passing by. She regained her footing, looking up to thank the man, and then, she gasped. In the doom of the twilight, she could discern the familiarly handsome features of the man before her, and she was surprised to find that the man was, indeed, Derek Venturi.

"Why, Derek Venturi! Fancy meeting you again this way," she said brightly.

"Pardon me, Miss; I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh, now, surely you must remember me; it is I, Clara Newborn. We knew one another quite well some years ago. Quite well, indeed," she repeated coyly.

"Miss Newborn… ah, yes, I recall it now; you briefly interested me when I was younger."

"Yes, Mr. Venturi, we were quite interested in one another, I assure you. Why, our affections worried my brother so that he took it upon himself to protect me," she laughed, attempting to gain again some of the confidence inevitable lost from Derek's words.

In the dusk, his face was illuminated by a single lamp upon the corner. Yet, still she could make out the familiar features of the man, and she perceived that his face had not changed visibly since she had last seen him. And yet, talking to him, looking at him, she knew that there was some difference between the man who currently stood before her and the man she had once loved. This man was harder in person, his words more measured, less ironical, more cynical. He carried himself gravely, lacking the arrogance that had so defined him as a youth. Still, Clara was a girl who believed fully, and often not incorrectly, that her charms could break even the worst of a person. Flirtation was her weapon of choice in her interactions with men, leading her into the life that she now lived. Barring any sort of judgment upon this life, it could be agreed that, when faced with all she had done, and all that she was, it was, inevitably, better than she could have hoped for.

"I saw your wife, just a few moments ago. I must admit that I never figured ye for a father, nor a husband, for that matter," she said offhandedly, speaking the word 'wife' as though it were some sort of joke.

"I've changed greatly, I suppose," Derek replied. He had not said much to the girl, nor had he moved to flirt with her, as she had rather hoped he would.

"Yes, well, haven't we all, though I must admit, your wife seemed as lovely as she ever was," Clara noted, a sneer of sorts upon her lips. When Derek did not reply, she lowered her voice, and moved closer to the stoic man. "Don't play the fool with me, Derek Venturi. I know just as well as anyone else why you married that girl. 'Twas not love of any sorts that brought you together. I learned something from you: the likes of you and me are not meant to marry; it is disagreeable to our type. She trapped you into it, did she not? She would, I believe, she would do it. So now, you look down upon me, and yet I believe that you envy me for what I have, and for what you have not."

"My feelings are my own, Miss. I do not care to discuss my private relations with you, nor do I wish to discuss my motivations for marriage. I value my privacy, and, thusly, I wish to end this interview with you. I would, however, advise you not to speak ill of my wife whilst within my presence; one would think your suitor would have taught you better," he told her coolly. "Now, I must leave; I've a long walk home, and my wife does not care for it when I arrive home at a late hour. I will escort you to your lodgings, and will see you safely in, but we must leave now." He turned and started walking. In the absence of her footsteps, he turned to see her still stationary. "Come," he called, "you are unfamiliar with these streets, and this is no place for a lady like yourself to roam around in the dark." That said, he paused, allowing the sullen girl to catch up to him. Thus they walked back to the inn, Derek leading the way, and Clara following morosely behind him.

Just as there was a change in Mrs. Venturi, there too was a change in the personage of Derek Venturi. He was more subdued in his actions, or, rather, in the meanings of his actions. He seemed not kinder in any way, but, rather, more indifferent, less alive. His actions were such that one could not read exactly what was occurring in his head, although, to be fair, his actions, it was supposed, never truly expressed his thoughts. Sam Jenkins himself had noted that Derek Venturi was less volatile, and seemed, on the whole, less of a human. He spoke nothing of his wife or child, and, it was suspected, did not speak to either of them whilst at home.

Often, he found himself away from his home, perhaps by his own doing. He remained a constant figure at the taverns, showing any signs of livelihood in the comfort of his drink. Surely, he still joked about while working, making crude comments when it was appropriate, but, nevertheless, it was not the same. Some sort of change had occurred in him following his disappearance for a day some months ago, when he had spoken to his father. His face was one of perpetual thought, it seemed. He would often look out at some invisible force in the horizon, his thoughts and feelings a secret to all but himself. What question he pondered again and again, for there was unquestionably something that plagued his mind, was not to be determined, and often it went unobserved, except for the few who had the privilege of knowing him well. Whether the change was for better or worse could not be determined; Mrs. James, being one of those who most noticed the change, merely hoped that he would not lose what fragile grasp he had on sanity, for when that happened (and she had no doubt that it would), she pitied whoever stood in his way.

As long as Derek did nothing, Sam Jenkins could do nothing as well. He dared not move around Casey Venturi, for lest his tender thoughts towards her reveal themselves unwittingly to her or her husband. He had taken Mrs. James' advice of not making himself available to the girl, in an attempt to temper his own emotions. Yet, often, he could not help but see her, and when she would see him as well, she would often be ready with a kind smile, a small wave, or, even worse, some gentle words of friendship. To avoid such confrontations, Sam had finally resorted to ducking rather shamefully into stores or alley's in an attempt to conceal himself from her.

In their relations at home, Casey and Derek lived as though they were strangers. They seemed to live in two worlds, parallel to one another, and every so often meeting, but ultimately apart from one another. Seldom were words spoken, in contrast to the vicious fights that had defined their relationship since they were young. What had happened was not clear, and could not be explained by either party. Perhaps they had merely grown weary of trying to break one another; neither was broken completely, and yet it could have been for all they knew. There was only one thing that was certain: the silence, neither truce nor hatred driven, was fickle in nature, and below it there was some undefined current, surging and splashing beneath the calm layer that contained it. Inevitably, something would happen, and the silence would no longer master the two. Yet, the emotion, what would happen, remained so uncertain that it was ignored, for to ignore was easier than to acknowledge.

0O0O0O0O0

A/N: Again, enjoy the lack of action. The next chapter is big. Like, really, really big. Smelly brown stuff is goin' to hit the roof big, and things are a-changin'. Whether it's for the better or not, I can't really say.

Now, after you've read, I can really lecture. Reviews. People love them. It's nice to get feedback. I don't have high expectations. I really don't. I've lived with six per chapter, and while I would obviously like more, it's really okay. I understand that the story's nature is somewhat different. But TWO reviews will not cut it. I work hard on this, and I do need some sort of encouragement, or even flames/criticism. Ask anyone who's criticized me: I take it pretty well, actually. I listen, don't cry, etc. Now, I hate idle threats, and I tend not to make threats unless I am serious. I have the story in my mind-there is no reason that I should have to type up the details, and try to convey my thoughts in hard form. I will discontinue the story if I find that it is lacking in readers. A bitch I may be, but even we have feelings.

Now, if I haven't scared anyone away, please, leave a review. Anything will do-it needn't be encouraging, even. Just a word.

Emily.