Note: To be sure, you may all expect more of Jack and all the sailors next
chapter. I'm thinking about giving Stephen a fairly prominent role next
chapter, as well – perhaps some Bonden, too. So, it won't be just Sophie
and the twins moping around. Yay.
'How could she do that?'
The rooms in Woolcombe were not as comforting as the ones at home – to be sure, they were larger, more elaborate, better taken care of. Yet, the shadows that lurked in the corners, the dark encompasses, were neither warm nor comforting. It was felt all the more as the girls sat on the bed they shared, the door closed against prying eyes and (more importantly) ears.
'How could she –,' Charlotte gasped through a sob, 'could she do that?' she repeated piteously. The child wiped her sleeve against her tear-stained cheek, and was suddenly overborne by anger again. 'How could she do that?' the girl roared.
The room boomed with the sound of the girl's voice. It echoed slightly as she gave a deep, shuddering breath, and relapsed into tears.
'Horrid old meddling BITCH,' Fanny muttered to herself. She sat with her legs swinging over the side, salty beads dripping from where they gathered at her quivering chin. She was much more contained – reserved – than her sister, but her words were carried her meaning further.
'She's just been itching for some means to get Mam in a fix,' mumbled Charlotte, inhaling deeply through her nose. She kicked off her slippers from where she knelt, arms folded over the side of the bed. Fatigued from tears, she laid her dark head against the soft comforter. 'Now she has.'
'She's ne'er liked Da,' replied Fanny in a conspiratorial murmur. 'Never.'
'Damn her. Damn her to 'ell...' Charlotte sniffed, her running nose taking away from her initial dramatic feeling.
There was a moment of silence. An uncomfortable one, since the twins shared nigh everything, generally through a torrent of whispers, giggles, and topgallant screeches. Fanny shifted, obviously discomfited. Charlotte wiped her nose again.
'What do you reckon Mam's going to do?'
Charlotte blinked. 'What do you mean, what's she going to do? What can she do?' she replied. In another case, perhaps, the two would separate – never correspond, without rigid, forced formality, again. Possibly even divorce. Yet that was the impossible. One had to recall, this was Jack and Sophie Aubrey.
Unless...
Charlotte looked her sister in the eye, who was trying her best to look nonchalant. 'You don't – you don't think –' Charlotte began, but trailed off in a low moan. A tear ran down Fanny's cheek. 'They can't,' Charlotte said quietly to herself, mostly to prevent such a thought from reaching home. From reaching realisation, acceptance. 'They love each other too much.'
Fanny finally returned Charlotte's desperate gaze. 'Mayhap that's why they would.'
Her mother's words wouldn't let go.
Sophie scratched out a line, sobbed for a moment, then wrote it out again. The words that her mother had shouted seemed to claw at her heart – they wouldn't release their grip. Even if she had wanted to...
She glimpsed back at the head of the page. 'Mr Aubrey'. Formal. Without familiarity, without love. That made it that much easier to slip it into the post box, metaphorically speaking; but it was so hard to write.
'In open contempt of your promise' – underline. '– before God's altar' – double underline. Sophie reached for her handkerchief and blotted some of the tears that were gathering at her jaw. 'Deny it if you dare,' she thought, an inward snarl. 'I have every last damnable letter.'
It was then that Sophia lost her composure. The pen slipped from her grasp, and she lay her head and arms down on the papers before her. The cold feeling of the wet ink against her cheek; the deep, quaking sobs; the shivers that were now convulsive with sadness. She did not want to send this letter. Deep within, past the jealousy, the seeds of virtue, the want to lord over her husband, better in morals – she did not want to send this letter. She loved him.
She would never admit it. Sophie inhaled shakily as she sat upright, the tears now mixing freely with the ink. She could not admit it.
'You left her bed and came into mine.'
Her pen traced words that, beneath the resentment, she did not mean. Finally, she finished with, 'Yours Faithfully', and a barely decipherable pair of initials – 'SW'.
Five days passed since Sophie had sent off her letter. Then another four. Indeed, each day seemed long and short to all the members of the house, except perhaps Mrs Williams.
The girls, having witnessed their mother hand an ominous looking parcel to the postman, knew it was only a matter of time. George, who only just feel the edge of anxiety, remained for the most part oblivious, thankfully entertained by the presence of Diana's new coach, and that of his new cousin, only just recently introduced, Brigid.
Despite the feeling of foreboding, Charlotte and Fanny did their best to keep the younger two in at least some good spirits. They sang and laughed, if not only for their benefit.
It was one of these days, when Charlotte had decided to take up a chorus of 'Roast Beef of Old England', and she began to march merrily out the door. 'Our father, of old, were robust, stout, and strong, and kept open house, with good cheer, all day long, which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song –' she rang out as she slipped through the doorway. Suddenly, she saw a figure, on horseback, about the horizon. Her jaw dropped, but she promptly amended it. 'Dignity, m'lass,' she muttered quietly, as her father drew ever closer.
She stood there, staring, for some time, and it took a good deal longer for him to notice her there. When he did, his blue eyes full of surprise, Charlotte leaned back and shouted, 'It's Papa!'
George, who had begun to yell the following verse, stopped abruptly, and ran past his sister to greet him, eager to find a new victim to tell about Cousin Diana's coach, brand new and poz.
'He's home,' she muttered out of the corner of her mouth as she and Fanny stalked down the corridor, down towards the west wing of the house – the direct opposite side from that of their mother. 'This is not going to be pretty.'
Charlotte's words could not have been truer. No more than fifteen minutes later, they heard their father stomp back out the door, and their mother's racking sobs. Mrs Williams was trying her very best not to look pleased, to look at least partially decent, but failed utterly. Fanny felt her resolve shatter, and the tears grew at her eyes. 'I wish we were at Ashgrove.'
Note: oo; This must be confusing for those who haven't read 'The Surgeon's Mate'. Hence, I'll try to explain this as easily as I may... SPOILER: Jack has an affair with a lady from Halifax, and she writes him letters, saying that he had gotten her with child. However, it was all a ruse in an attempt to steal Jack's money. END SPOILER. There. Oo;;
'How could she do that?'
The rooms in Woolcombe were not as comforting as the ones at home – to be sure, they were larger, more elaborate, better taken care of. Yet, the shadows that lurked in the corners, the dark encompasses, were neither warm nor comforting. It was felt all the more as the girls sat on the bed they shared, the door closed against prying eyes and (more importantly) ears.
'How could she –,' Charlotte gasped through a sob, 'could she do that?' she repeated piteously. The child wiped her sleeve against her tear-stained cheek, and was suddenly overborne by anger again. 'How could she do that?' the girl roared.
The room boomed with the sound of the girl's voice. It echoed slightly as she gave a deep, shuddering breath, and relapsed into tears.
'Horrid old meddling BITCH,' Fanny muttered to herself. She sat with her legs swinging over the side, salty beads dripping from where they gathered at her quivering chin. She was much more contained – reserved – than her sister, but her words were carried her meaning further.
'She's just been itching for some means to get Mam in a fix,' mumbled Charlotte, inhaling deeply through her nose. She kicked off her slippers from where she knelt, arms folded over the side of the bed. Fatigued from tears, she laid her dark head against the soft comforter. 'Now she has.'
'She's ne'er liked Da,' replied Fanny in a conspiratorial murmur. 'Never.'
'Damn her. Damn her to 'ell...' Charlotte sniffed, her running nose taking away from her initial dramatic feeling.
There was a moment of silence. An uncomfortable one, since the twins shared nigh everything, generally through a torrent of whispers, giggles, and topgallant screeches. Fanny shifted, obviously discomfited. Charlotte wiped her nose again.
'What do you reckon Mam's going to do?'
Charlotte blinked. 'What do you mean, what's she going to do? What can she do?' she replied. In another case, perhaps, the two would separate – never correspond, without rigid, forced formality, again. Possibly even divorce. Yet that was the impossible. One had to recall, this was Jack and Sophie Aubrey.
Unless...
Charlotte looked her sister in the eye, who was trying her best to look nonchalant. 'You don't – you don't think –' Charlotte began, but trailed off in a low moan. A tear ran down Fanny's cheek. 'They can't,' Charlotte said quietly to herself, mostly to prevent such a thought from reaching home. From reaching realisation, acceptance. 'They love each other too much.'
Fanny finally returned Charlotte's desperate gaze. 'Mayhap that's why they would.'
Her mother's words wouldn't let go.
Sophie scratched out a line, sobbed for a moment, then wrote it out again. The words that her mother had shouted seemed to claw at her heart – they wouldn't release their grip. Even if she had wanted to...
She glimpsed back at the head of the page. 'Mr Aubrey'. Formal. Without familiarity, without love. That made it that much easier to slip it into the post box, metaphorically speaking; but it was so hard to write.
'In open contempt of your promise' – underline. '– before God's altar' – double underline. Sophie reached for her handkerchief and blotted some of the tears that were gathering at her jaw. 'Deny it if you dare,' she thought, an inward snarl. 'I have every last damnable letter.'
It was then that Sophia lost her composure. The pen slipped from her grasp, and she lay her head and arms down on the papers before her. The cold feeling of the wet ink against her cheek; the deep, quaking sobs; the shivers that were now convulsive with sadness. She did not want to send this letter. Deep within, past the jealousy, the seeds of virtue, the want to lord over her husband, better in morals – she did not want to send this letter. She loved him.
She would never admit it. Sophie inhaled shakily as she sat upright, the tears now mixing freely with the ink. She could not admit it.
'You left her bed and came into mine.'
Her pen traced words that, beneath the resentment, she did not mean. Finally, she finished with, 'Yours Faithfully', and a barely decipherable pair of initials – 'SW'.
Five days passed since Sophie had sent off her letter. Then another four. Indeed, each day seemed long and short to all the members of the house, except perhaps Mrs Williams.
The girls, having witnessed their mother hand an ominous looking parcel to the postman, knew it was only a matter of time. George, who only just feel the edge of anxiety, remained for the most part oblivious, thankfully entertained by the presence of Diana's new coach, and that of his new cousin, only just recently introduced, Brigid.
Despite the feeling of foreboding, Charlotte and Fanny did their best to keep the younger two in at least some good spirits. They sang and laughed, if not only for their benefit.
It was one of these days, when Charlotte had decided to take up a chorus of 'Roast Beef of Old England', and she began to march merrily out the door. 'Our father, of old, were robust, stout, and strong, and kept open house, with good cheer, all day long, which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song –' she rang out as she slipped through the doorway. Suddenly, she saw a figure, on horseback, about the horizon. Her jaw dropped, but she promptly amended it. 'Dignity, m'lass,' she muttered quietly, as her father drew ever closer.
She stood there, staring, for some time, and it took a good deal longer for him to notice her there. When he did, his blue eyes full of surprise, Charlotte leaned back and shouted, 'It's Papa!'
George, who had begun to yell the following verse, stopped abruptly, and ran past his sister to greet him, eager to find a new victim to tell about Cousin Diana's coach, brand new and poz.
'He's home,' she muttered out of the corner of her mouth as she and Fanny stalked down the corridor, down towards the west wing of the house – the direct opposite side from that of their mother. 'This is not going to be pretty.'
Charlotte's words could not have been truer. No more than fifteen minutes later, they heard their father stomp back out the door, and their mother's racking sobs. Mrs Williams was trying her very best not to look pleased, to look at least partially decent, but failed utterly. Fanny felt her resolve shatter, and the tears grew at her eyes. 'I wish we were at Ashgrove.'
Note: oo; This must be confusing for those who haven't read 'The Surgeon's Mate'. Hence, I'll try to explain this as easily as I may... SPOILER: Jack has an affair with a lady from Halifax, and she writes him letters, saying that he had gotten her with child. However, it was all a ruse in an attempt to steal Jack's money. END SPOILER. There. Oo;;