Sorry this took awhile...I'm losing braincells by the minute, I swear...
I swear, if I ever find out what you people look like and I find you on the street, I'm going to death grip hug you....
You May Be Just Yet Chapter 9
The cut on her palm, Hannah discovered, was deeper than she'd thought it was. She tried just letting it sit and clot, but the slightest shift made the blood flow once more.
"Oh, dear...why did I leave that kerchief at home?" She felt about with her free hand to make sure it was just in some obscure place.
Of course, a missing hankie was the least of her problems...even her bleeding hand wasn't first in line of the thoughts clamoring for attention. According to her, the first in line wasn't worthy of heed, hence it was to be defied in anger, hence no one else in line was getting their turn.
The tiny white splinters in the open gash added to the sting. She should've just snuck out the back door...climbing down a trellis pregnant with an injured hand...what had she been thinking?
"Mizzus Pullings?"
She looked up, turning her wounded hand toward her chest as she cradled it.
Barrett Bonden cocked his head at her, smiling slightly in greeting. "Afternoon, ma'am."
"Hello, Barrett," she breathed uneasily, praying he wouldn't see the blood. There was no reason he shouldn't see it, of course; after all, he could be of help. But the voice in the back of one's head will tell a person to do strange things, which they will follow without question.
Young Jeremiah tottered back and forth on his feet, lingering behind the laundry basket on his father's arm.
"Lily made me be useful t'day-" His expression instantly went from trying to make friendly conversation to undoubtedly concerned. "Mizzus Pullings, are you bleedin'?"
"I'm fine," Hannah muttered, unsuccessfully trying to hide the red that was starting to drip and curdle on the ground.
The Bonden boy rose on his tip-toes to look over the linens that puffed out over the top of the basket, but promptly had the wicker shoved into his arms, his father plucking a freshly-cleaned hankerchief from the mess of sheets and shirts.
"'Ere, 'old that a minute, Jeremiah, there's a good lad. Och, 'ow'd you manage to do that, marm? 'Ere, lemme see..."
She pulled it away reluctantly. "No, really, it's just a small nick..."
He softly took her hand, (a motion she relented, much to her own surprise) and pulled it closer to his face for a better look. "Pardon my arguin', ma'am, that ain't no nick. That's a right knife slit."
"It's fine, it's nothing, it'll heal." She tried to pull away, but he gently held firm.
"Mizzus Pullings, wouldn't feel right leavin' you here, hurt as y'are. You was kind to me when I broke my nose, let me return the favor." He looked straight at her (being almost exactly her height), big green eyes doing the work they were no doubt intended to, a pout barely hiding behind his bottom lip. The most manly way to perform the undignified act of begging.
She said nothing, only swallowed and stopped resisting.
Wordlessly thanking the trust, he dabbed at it tenderly, immediately staining the perfect white square of cloth. "Och, that's quite deep. Would you like it if my Lily looked at it? She has to deal with all kinds of wounds and hurtin', bein' married to me. She'd know how to fix it right."
"Really, I don't thin-" Hannah blinked and gritted her teeth at the sudden wave of intoxication and headache that flushed over her nerves, making her unable to finish her protest.
"Ma'am?" Bonden raised his eyebrows, noticing and worrying about her arbitrary pain. "Marm, you look quite warm, should you sit down?"
"No, it's...nothing." She stepped back to maintain her diminishing balance, her heel only hitting the brick wall of the building she'd been leaning against.
"Mizzus Pullings, you don't look well at all..." He held her shoulder as she began to tip. "You know, my Lily said too much heat isn't good for a pregnant woman..."
"I'm...I'll be...fine." She tried to rub the nauseating blur and double-vision out with her free hand, but it was still there when she opened her eyes once more. She felt no less than a drunk who had not only drowned his agony, but had near drowned himself as well.
"You really ought to sit, marm..."
"I'm perfectly fi-" Her speech cut off as though she'd choked, and she teetered a moment.
A dark haze dance across her eyes, like some demon on the prowl, awaiting the moment she would weaken enough for him to spring.
She clutched her throbbing temple, letting her sticky, crimson hand fall to her side, the blood puddle that had accumulated rolling off her fingers and splashing in the dust.
Without warning, her eyes rolled back and she crumbled forward, the physical fury that had swept over her obviously too much for her body to bear anymore.
Bonden directly moved to catch her, throwing his arms under hers to support her under her shoulders, and looked over his back at his son, whose jaw was practically on the ground.
"Jeremiah, get your mother, and be quick of it. Move!" He ordered. "Don't gawk like a dead fish! Go! Lest I cuff you!"
The boy instantly trotted off, propping the laundry basket up on his head where it would hinder him the least.
His father steadily lowered the unconscious woman to the ground. "Poor lass, thought she was right ill..."
...
"Sarah, have you seen the Mistress?" Tom asked, walking through the kitchen for the fifth time on his almost rampant search.
"Not recently, sir." Sarah looked at him oddly, having seen him pass her at fifteen minute intervals for the past hour, scouring the house. "Last I saw, she was with you."
"I know," he sighed, voice dropping to a depressed note as he trotted toward the door that led from the kitchen to the side of the house.
Sarah bit back a guilty sigh of relief, watching him go out of the corner of her eye. She'd seen none of what'd happened, only heard the yelling, the slap and the door slam. With that, she didn't need to see, quite frankly; sounds can explain a thing or two sometimes.
Admiration had before conquered her view of her employer, as she'd always seen him a placid loving man, a good husband who would certainly be a wonderful father. A pure gentleman, who paid his household help more than average and treated them with the utmost respect normally extended toward a friend, and not someone beneath one. His being a personal acqaintance of the esteemed Stephen Maturin had it's positive aspects, as well.
He'd been reduced to a man begging God to prevent his wife from leaving him.
Sarah pitied him, but couldn't help being weary, and she felt culpable for it. Fearing him getting too close felt criminal, what with the almost-luxury lifestyle (compared to the way the average maid lived) he'd provided.
"HANNAH!" She heard him yell down the street. "HANNAH, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
"God help him find the Mistress," she murmured under her breath so that none but the soapy water in the sink, the dishes, and the Divine she addressed heard.
I swear, if I ever find out what you people look like and I find you on the street, I'm going to death grip hug you....
You May Be Just Yet Chapter 9
The cut on her palm, Hannah discovered, was deeper than she'd thought it was. She tried just letting it sit and clot, but the slightest shift made the blood flow once more.
"Oh, dear...why did I leave that kerchief at home?" She felt about with her free hand to make sure it was just in some obscure place.
Of course, a missing hankie was the least of her problems...even her bleeding hand wasn't first in line of the thoughts clamoring for attention. According to her, the first in line wasn't worthy of heed, hence it was to be defied in anger, hence no one else in line was getting their turn.
The tiny white splinters in the open gash added to the sting. She should've just snuck out the back door...climbing down a trellis pregnant with an injured hand...what had she been thinking?
"Mizzus Pullings?"
She looked up, turning her wounded hand toward her chest as she cradled it.
Barrett Bonden cocked his head at her, smiling slightly in greeting. "Afternoon, ma'am."
"Hello, Barrett," she breathed uneasily, praying he wouldn't see the blood. There was no reason he shouldn't see it, of course; after all, he could be of help. But the voice in the back of one's head will tell a person to do strange things, which they will follow without question.
Young Jeremiah tottered back and forth on his feet, lingering behind the laundry basket on his father's arm.
"Lily made me be useful t'day-" His expression instantly went from trying to make friendly conversation to undoubtedly concerned. "Mizzus Pullings, are you bleedin'?"
"I'm fine," Hannah muttered, unsuccessfully trying to hide the red that was starting to drip and curdle on the ground.
The Bonden boy rose on his tip-toes to look over the linens that puffed out over the top of the basket, but promptly had the wicker shoved into his arms, his father plucking a freshly-cleaned hankerchief from the mess of sheets and shirts.
"'Ere, 'old that a minute, Jeremiah, there's a good lad. Och, 'ow'd you manage to do that, marm? 'Ere, lemme see..."
She pulled it away reluctantly. "No, really, it's just a small nick..."
He softly took her hand, (a motion she relented, much to her own surprise) and pulled it closer to his face for a better look. "Pardon my arguin', ma'am, that ain't no nick. That's a right knife slit."
"It's fine, it's nothing, it'll heal." She tried to pull away, but he gently held firm.
"Mizzus Pullings, wouldn't feel right leavin' you here, hurt as y'are. You was kind to me when I broke my nose, let me return the favor." He looked straight at her (being almost exactly her height), big green eyes doing the work they were no doubt intended to, a pout barely hiding behind his bottom lip. The most manly way to perform the undignified act of begging.
She said nothing, only swallowed and stopped resisting.
Wordlessly thanking the trust, he dabbed at it tenderly, immediately staining the perfect white square of cloth. "Och, that's quite deep. Would you like it if my Lily looked at it? She has to deal with all kinds of wounds and hurtin', bein' married to me. She'd know how to fix it right."
"Really, I don't thin-" Hannah blinked and gritted her teeth at the sudden wave of intoxication and headache that flushed over her nerves, making her unable to finish her protest.
"Ma'am?" Bonden raised his eyebrows, noticing and worrying about her arbitrary pain. "Marm, you look quite warm, should you sit down?"
"No, it's...nothing." She stepped back to maintain her diminishing balance, her heel only hitting the brick wall of the building she'd been leaning against.
"Mizzus Pullings, you don't look well at all..." He held her shoulder as she began to tip. "You know, my Lily said too much heat isn't good for a pregnant woman..."
"I'm...I'll be...fine." She tried to rub the nauseating blur and double-vision out with her free hand, but it was still there when she opened her eyes once more. She felt no less than a drunk who had not only drowned his agony, but had near drowned himself as well.
"You really ought to sit, marm..."
"I'm perfectly fi-" Her speech cut off as though she'd choked, and she teetered a moment.
A dark haze dance across her eyes, like some demon on the prowl, awaiting the moment she would weaken enough for him to spring.
She clutched her throbbing temple, letting her sticky, crimson hand fall to her side, the blood puddle that had accumulated rolling off her fingers and splashing in the dust.
Without warning, her eyes rolled back and she crumbled forward, the physical fury that had swept over her obviously too much for her body to bear anymore.
Bonden directly moved to catch her, throwing his arms under hers to support her under her shoulders, and looked over his back at his son, whose jaw was practically on the ground.
"Jeremiah, get your mother, and be quick of it. Move!" He ordered. "Don't gawk like a dead fish! Go! Lest I cuff you!"
The boy instantly trotted off, propping the laundry basket up on his head where it would hinder him the least.
His father steadily lowered the unconscious woman to the ground. "Poor lass, thought she was right ill..."
...
"Sarah, have you seen the Mistress?" Tom asked, walking through the kitchen for the fifth time on his almost rampant search.
"Not recently, sir." Sarah looked at him oddly, having seen him pass her at fifteen minute intervals for the past hour, scouring the house. "Last I saw, she was with you."
"I know," he sighed, voice dropping to a depressed note as he trotted toward the door that led from the kitchen to the side of the house.
Sarah bit back a guilty sigh of relief, watching him go out of the corner of her eye. She'd seen none of what'd happened, only heard the yelling, the slap and the door slam. With that, she didn't need to see, quite frankly; sounds can explain a thing or two sometimes.
Admiration had before conquered her view of her employer, as she'd always seen him a placid loving man, a good husband who would certainly be a wonderful father. A pure gentleman, who paid his household help more than average and treated them with the utmost respect normally extended toward a friend, and not someone beneath one. His being a personal acqaintance of the esteemed Stephen Maturin had it's positive aspects, as well.
He'd been reduced to a man begging God to prevent his wife from leaving him.
Sarah pitied him, but couldn't help being weary, and she felt culpable for it. Fearing him getting too close felt criminal, what with the almost-luxury lifestyle (compared to the way the average maid lived) he'd provided.
"HANNAH!" She heard him yell down the street. "HANNAH, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
"God help him find the Mistress," she murmured under her breath so that none but the soapy water in the sink, the dishes, and the Divine she addressed heard.