Chapter 5: Chasing Forever Down
… with you around. (*yellowcard voice* whoa-oh-whoa-oh)
Here is the next chapter, at long last! I am not giving up on this story. However it is taking me much longer than necessary to write it. Today, instead of studying for my exam on Wednesday, I decided to write this chapter. I hope someone reads this, and enjoys it!
Christmas was just around the corner. Families were making preparations for the fast approaching holiday. All was madness at the Kennedy residence, just outside of Tisbury. Much to their delight, the weather had cooperated with their wishes thus far: it had snowed several times in the last week, leaving a pleasant coating of white on the outdoor grounds, buildings, and shrubbery.
All was craziness in the Kennedy residence a week before Christmas. Their inherent procrastination had not favored them. Cat was the most disquieted—by nature, she stressed much more than was necessary about the duties of a hostess. The last week had been an endless tirade of cleaning and planning. It was becoming quite clear to the hired hands of the Kennedy residence that their superiors clearly had not prepared for company in a very long time. Choruses of "Have you found it yet?", "What about this?", "When are they coming?" filled the household.
Archie milled about the west parlor, not executing a specific task. A bit sheepishly, he paced around the room, unsure of how to further their progress in preparations. At the moment, the hectic helter-skelter of overseeing one operation to the next kept Cat busy, but he was left feeling a tad useless. From where he stood, he held an excellent view of both the dining hall and the front room, where the two women of the house were hard at work. Mary sat perched on a sofa, a diminishing stack of crisp paper before her, intently focused on cutting out the outlines of tiny girls and boys, snowflakes, ribbons, and bells—the origins of a soon-to-be long string of paper decorations to ornament the walls. Stockings were hung on the mantle over the fireplace, Cat had seen to it that each member of the household—guest or not—received a stocking with a quick-stitched name on it. Many of the names had been abbreviated for the sake of saving time. In spite of Archie's prodding, Cat refused to put "Horry" in replacement of Horatio, knowing how much the man loathed his wife's pet name.
"Did you check the wardrobe in the east guestroom?" his wife was patiently—although her composure had began to dissolve in the last hour—asking a maid in search of the silver wine glasses.
"No, miss," the maid curtsied apologetically, and left to accomplish her newfound task, eager to leave the presence of the ever growing unpleasant Mrs. Kennedy, who was not the best company when broached with an upcoming social gathering.
Cat hated when she misplaced things. The most recent missing item was the set of silver wine goblets they used for only rare occasions. Cat thought it highly appropriate to pull them from out of their dusty place on the shelves up high where no one had bothered them for far to long, to brush off the cobwebs, and actually put them to a functional use. There was no sense in leaving pretty objects untouched, even if they were the prize possessions of the family. Besides, Clara wasn't here to interfere, as she usually was around the holidays. Cat was free to make the decisions as the matriarch of the Kennedy household.
"Archie, can you give Ms. Hubbins some money to go to market?" Cat called to her husband, busy straightening the crocheted coverings over the chairs in the dining room—a task she had completed four times already this morning.
Archie, glad to finally be of some use, approached Ms. Hubbins, who stood waiting at the door. "This is what I'm good at," he remarked his eyes twinkling, fully aware that Cat was out of hearing-range, counting out a generous amount of currency and placing it in the older woman's palm. The cook gave him a wrinkled smile, nodding her head in thanks, and Archie opened the door as she left to fetch whatever ingredients had been forgotten for their holiday meal.
All of the guests had in one way or another, accepted the Kennedys' earnest invitation to conjoin at their manor in celebration of the holiday season. Even Horatio—who reeked of recluse and was nearly obsessed with a burdensome duty to his ship—had written, saying that both him and Maria would attend. Archie's longtime friend regretted to say—though not at all regretfully—that his mother-in-law would remain at home, as she was not feeling up to the journey. She did, however, give her regards to all, particularly William Bush, whom she found most amiable.
Archie and Horatio's friendship was something different from what it had been two years ago. Their current relationship—dogged and infrequent as it was—remained intact, although somewhat on a lesser level than in the past. Their initial friendship was formed out of necessity, a mediated alliance really, and perhaps pity played its part as well. Horatio was a green midshipman with little experience of the sea, Archie was an epileptic coward mistreated by the older bully Jack Simpson.
The catalyst of the change in their friendship was more complicated than the distance between their interaction or the infrequency of their social exchange. Archie no longer needed someone to hide behind. Not that he ever hid behind Horatio, exactly—he fought bravely alongside his men, and never tried to weasel his way from the face of danger. Archie was never a coward—although he had admitted to sentiments of crippling fear and disarming disgust.
Even though their friendship had evolved—or devolved, depending on one's viewpoint—Archie knew they would always share a closeness, an intimacy that could never be shaken. Yes, they would always be friends, and even greater allies as officers of his Majesty's navy. They knew too much about one another to ever be enemies, and their common goal of service to the Crown would keep them united.
Horatio was present when Archie was in the lowest, darkest pit of his existence. When Archie was on the verge of giving in to death's inciting leers, when suicide was more than a passing, wistful fantasy, Horatio remained. It was Horatio, and Horatio alone, that had fought against Archie's broken spirit, who had lifted his malnourished, dying body into his arms demanding he return to health. It was Horatio who had given Archie a will to live after he had lost all hope of ever returning to his home, his family, his country.
To think where he would be—if he would even be at all—had it not been for the loyalty, determination, and compassion of Horatio sent Archie into a grave state of contemplation. Far away from his current life of ease and happiness—far away from Cat, the joy of his life, and without the happiness he had the privilege to embrace every day. Horatio succeeded in doing what Archie could not do for himself—sow the precious seed of hope.
This one, simple yet crucial act of kindness from Horatio gave Archie incentive to reciprocate the favor to others like himself. His experiences aboard the Renown revealed to Archie that there were others who, like himself, had found themselves stuck in dark places without confidence of ever reaching the light.
When Archie had first seen Wellard, he knew. He knew the dark shadows that hooded those youthful brown eyes, the stiff jaw and downcast stare that one assumed when one tried to fight back shameful tears, pretending nothing bothered him. The anxiety, hesitation, and melancholy that swallowed one's every decision. The internal cringe whenever Captain Sawyer passed by.
Archie did not give him mere pitying glances, or try to ignore him, as others had, because Archie saw himself in Wellard. This time, there was not a Horatio around to step into the situation. The Horatio in question had other things to attend to—and with the paranoid Captain incessantly breathing down his back, the aspiring lieutenant had much more worrisome matters on his mind than befriending a friendless midshipman. It was Archie's turn to stand up for him who could not stand up for himself. And so, he did. If the Renown had taught Archie anything, it was that Archie possessed the ability to stand on his own, and to lead.
Wellard stood just inside the inn where he and Lottie berthed, trying to cultivate thoughts of patience as he glanced anxiously out the smudgy front windows. The chaise would be approaching the inn at any moment now. Where was Lottie? Surely she was prepared to leave, he had waited for her for nearly half an hour.
Letting out a sigh, the boy dutifully shuffled back up the set of creaky stairs to their room. Once inside, he found his wife gazing in a full-length mirror. It was a darkened glass, and had a crack running down one thought the reflection did not truly display his wife's beauty. Lottie was holding up a garment to her chest, perturbedly scrutinizing her figure and complexion with the garb. Upon hearing her husband, she glanced up, giving him a sheepish, apologetic smile. Quickly she threw it back into the trunk, a bit embarrassed, clearly not having the intention of being seen gazing at herself in the looking glass.
"Ready to leave, then?" Wellard asked simply. There was a second question in his statement left unsaid, he was obviously curious about the he spectacle he had witnessed. Lottie chose to ignore the hidden inquiry, and answered the first.
"Yes," she said, bobbing her head, eager to leave. It was not often that she did not have to work. It was even a greater rarity that she would have an expanse of time all to herself, to choose what she wanted to do with. She reached down, grasping the handles of her bags—small in comparison to the vast amount of luggage some managed to take on short trips. Before she could lift the parcels, her husband helpfully took it from her. Lottie handed it off to boy, and then tugged at another one. Slowly the couple made their way out of the tavern. A chaise had now arrived, its driver loading somewhat carelessly the various parcels of other travelers' gathered outside.
Wellard looked warily at the sky above them, which was fastly turning from a dismal grey to a threatening gloom. Certainly a storm was approaching. The young lieutenant had witnessed too many ill tempests aboard ship to not recognize the warning signs of an upcoming gale. Sighing, resigning himself to whatever fate would bring them, rain or shine, he handed over the bags to the driver.
It would most certainly snow. Snow was not a horrible thing, other than its chilling frigidity, it was a beautiful weather phenomena. Wellard did not have many happy childhood memories of snow as other children did. No snowmen, snow-related treats, or snow-ball fights dotted his twenty one winters. Lottie would tell him countless tales of sledding with her cousins at her grandfather's house, making a sorbet by flavoring fresh snow, and finding icicles as long as her arms and using them as swords. These were wild tales, and though he enjoyed hearing them, it was hard not to feel a tad guilty, if not a little envious of Lottie's childhood. She had lost everything, her entire life, in that one awful shipwreck, and she could never get it back. Yet she showed no remorse, no bitterness with God over the event. Rather, here she seemed happy even though it was obvious at times she was much out of her element. Lottie was all the more determined to create happy memories in Wellard's mind, in order to make up for the lack of diversity in his experiences in Portsmouth.
Lottie watched out the window as Southampton faded from her view. After living in England for over a year, Lottie realized that aboard ship, social status did not matter nearly as much as it did on land. Aboard the Renown, she was a lady—a rarity, a treasure, a sight for sore eyes—and she was always treated as such. Sailors tipped their hats her, powder monkeys smiled mischievously, and officers moved politely to the side when she passed by. Here, on the solid earth, it was different. One had to assert her way through the crowded streets, to haggle over that measly pound of roast beef in order to get the best price, and to not take the simpering and disapproving looks from the upper class to heart. One had to watch out for herself in England. Although men generally allowed her small privileges because of her sex, she was only one of many, and she was of the working class. This was manifested by the fact she did not own a white dress. It was an impractical color, and her mother had always told her she looked better in other pigments. Society dictated that the lighter one's dress was, the higher one's status, the more money one's husband made, and the more value one possessed.
It was a very hard world in England, and Lottie was discouraged at times, finding herself wondering if there would ever be a possibility for her to better her situation. Of course that was silly. Surely this situation would only be temporary. But her seemingly fathomless supply of optimism was growing rapidly shorter. Only after working for Bridy did Lottie realize how pampered a lifestyle she must have lived in the future. It was painfully ironic that one only realized how rich they were once they were poor. Her fingers had hurt for days at first, until callouses formed, and her hands had lost much of their softness. Cooking was an altogether more laborious and less rewarding experience than she remembered it being. In fact, most tasks all her life she had thought simple—getting a stain out of a garment, washing a dish, making a meal—had proved to be complicated, time-consuming, and arduous.
When faced with visiting her friend Cat, she couldn't help but wonder if she would be an embarrassment. She knew the judgment Cat had faced from Clara, Archie's elder sister. In order to combat this possibility, she had brought her best dresses. She couldn't don her working clothes at Cat's house. But even these lesser-worn garbs were starting to show signs of wear. Cat was her dear friend, and did not care what outfit she sported, she knew this. Their bond could not be broken by the dictations of fashion or society. But the world told her differently, and it was hard to not be indoctrinated by the social pecking order of England. It was made very clear what kind of company one was expected to keep, and Lottie did not meet many of the criteria.
"Wellard," the girl ventured to ask finally, and he looked up, having nearly fallen asleep by the lull of the steady pace of the plodding hooves of the loyal steads ahead of the chaise. Lottie and he and stayed up very late into the night for the past week they he had been here. It was a hard habit to break, when one has not seen another for months, to not want to spend every waking moment with them, sacrificing much needed rest to converse and caress. It was hard to remember that he was here to stay for the time being, and not quick to rush off. It was an adjustment learning not to seize every single moment fearing there would never be another.
He blinked a few times, vainly attempting to stretch out his legs in the cramped cab, which had already grown stiff in the minutes that ticked by. "What is it, darling?" he asked, tiredness evident in his voice, though he gave her a small smile to let her know that her conversation was not unwanted.
Lottie bit her lip worriedly, debating how to proceed with her question. Finally, squeezing her eyes shut partly out of embarrassment, partly so she wouldn't have to look her husband in the eyes, and party over her concentrating on her words, she asked, "Do you think what I packed is appropriate. What I mean to say is, do you think my attire is suitable for the company, or is it embarrassing?"
She of course meant the dresses, the ones she had undoubtedly be scrutinizing in the mirror earlier that morning. Wellard's brow furrowed, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in concentration. He was not fond of these questions she would now deliver unexpectedly and again. It wasn't that he minded answering them, or that he felt trapped by having to nose around in women's business when he was clearly a man. It was just that he was never quite sure as how to answer.
"Lottie," he said finally, but realized that his wife still wasn't looking at him. He took her other hand in his, twisting gently round the ring he had placed on her finger two years ago upon their arrival back in England.
He stared at her until finally she met his gaze. "Cat is your friend, and always will be. She will remain your friend no matter what attire you wear, whether it's that dirty blue dress I first saw you in aboard the Renown," to which Lottie frowned and shuddered slightly, knowing how unsightly she must have been at the time, "Or the dress you wore when we were married." At this Lottie shrugged slightly, not denying the garb was pleasing to the eye, but knowing that compared to the dresses of high society it was mediocre.
"What's more," Wellard added, a flicker of mischief in his eyes, "I think you're beautiful no matter what garment you are wearing," her husband said, but he could tell that though she appreciated his words, his wife did not fully believe what he was saying. He told her this as often as he could sneak it into casual conversation without being ridiculous.
Knowing she only listened to his compliments with half an ear, Wellard decided to take his statement a step further, dabbling with a kinkier perspective. "Even," he said, in attempts to catch her attention, a smirk playing on the corners on his mouth, he leaned closer and murmured in her ear, "When you're wearing nothing at all." His wife blushed crimson, and she shook her hands from his grasp, which he tried to reclaim with limited success.
Though she was smiling from ear to ear, she tried to keep down the rising bubbly laughter that wanted to escape as she chided her husband, "You are terribly naughty, Wellard!" she said, failing to hide a giggle behind her hands, or the blush spreading across her face. It was obvious to both parties that the wife was not truly unsettled by his off-colored remark.
Bush and Amy were late. Very late. So late that Bush was wondering if they should just delay the journey for another day—again. Their departure should have taken place yesterday, but their attempts to leave their berth were unsuccessful. Earlier that morning, Amy decided her wardrobe was in desperate need of novel attire. This of course, led to a grueling session of searching shops high and low all over London for materials, fittings, and accessories. Bush did not notice anything outdated in his wife's dress—although his knowledge of fashion trends was limited to that of naval uniforms, one garb that remained static.
"There's no need for regalia, we'll be amongst friends," he grumbled to his wife as he slowly, although not unwillingly, forked over payment for the latest additions to Amy's armoire.
"Horatio's going to be there," Amy had quipped as her excuse. To this Bush responded that to him, it did not matter what outfit she wore, and that she was his wife, not Horatio's. There of course was no ill will nor resentment between Horatio and Bush regarding Amy. The passionate kiss and flirtatious performance involving Horatio and Amy that took place aboard the Renown was exclusively one-sided. In truth, Horatio, despite his experience with matters of passion, and most recently his marriage to Mariah, remained awkward and seemingly incapable of true attachment to any female.
Currently, Bush was waiting outside for the arrival of his wife just beyond the front steps of his pad. He watched while a driver placed one parcel on top of the other at the back of the chaise. Although the majority of contents of their luggage included only the necessities of a long trip, many of the additional parcels were Christmas presents his wife had bought for everyone—himself included—to open first and foremost come the morn of the holiday.
"We're adults, not children," Bush had grumbled—his fallback, logical reasoning for nearly every occasion Amy decided something not in his favor.
"Nonsense, dear! One never grows out of opening Christmas presents," his wife had replied robustly, her cheeks pink with excitement. And Bush knew all hope of winning the argument was lost—the familiar determined glow in his wife's eyes triumphed all logic. "I can't wait to see the look on their faces," she announced, and then added, "Yours too, of course," with an impish edge to her smile that gave Bush a hint of anxiety. He prayed the gift would not be anything remotely embarrassing. Knowing Amy, it would involve his public humiliation.
Bush knew that Amy, although pointedly selfish with many things, namely her time and her company, could be spontaneously generous. This was a character trait he noticed after their marriage, and learned to grow fond of. Yesterday while out shopping had been one of those times, much to Bush's chagrin. With some sighing and apprehension at the price of the parcels, Bush allowed her to purchase the packages. Although he was not fond of surprises, Amy's enthusiasm for them was contagious.
Tom, Bush's brother would be keeping watch of the house while the couple was abroad. Bush fully trusted his brother with many things, however, he knew him far too well to consider him fully reliable. It was for certain that Tom would invite his many cohorts and acquaintances over for drinks and a card game, despite Bush's firm request that there not be anyone else in the house except his brother while they were gone. Amy had made sure to hide anything she thought to be of significant value, "Just in case," she had said. And Bush, despite his love for his younger sibling, did not resent this precaution. Tom wasn't a total idiot—he was Bush's brother after all. The man just lacked motivation to become someone respectable. Amy kept hinting that kicking Tom out of the house would motivate him. "For his own good," was the phrase she often stated. Bush wasn't entirely convinced. He felt the need to care for his brother, as he was the older one. Tom wasn't completely useless either. The man tried to make his presence less of burden by volunteering to do various strenuous household chores while Bush was away. The tense relationship between Amy and Tom was evident. This was disguised slightly by the fact that Tom would never mistreat or contradict Amy in front of Bush. Amy used this to her advantage at every opportunity.
At long last, Amy emerged from behind the heavy wooden door, and made her way daintily down the steps. Tom followed behind her, comically struggling beneath the weight of a particularly large parcel as he slowly, made his way to the cab, one laborious step at a time
"Where shall I place this one, Miss Amy?" he asked, his voice strained.
"At long last the reason for our toiling makes an appearance," Bush began in jest, but stopped his complaining as soon as he set sight on his wife. Her arms were tucked coyly into her muffler, a smile playing on her lips, and her hair set perfectly atop her head in an elaborate up-do.
The garb she displayed was new, one she had bought specifically for traveling. She had put rouge on her cheeks and lips, creating artificial but not unpleasant red hues. This was something she often did, despite the cosmetic's intended primary theatrical rather than everyday use. Bush did not object—it made her lips stand out. At the moment, they looked particularly inviting.
Damn. His wife smiled archly at her husband's reaction, completely aware of her allure. Bush was certain at that moment this was the effect his wife intended. It took Bush all of three seconds to reach a decision. The trip could be delayed even further, he concluded. Arriving later at their destination would not greatly affect the overall journey. The current situation Amy provided demanded his imminent response.
"I've forget something important," Bush said suddenly to the cabdriver, a change coming over his bored and slightly irritated composure. "Wait here," he called to the cab driver, now perched in the seat atop the chaise. The driver let out an impatient sigh, not at all pleased with the elongated wait he endured thus far, and the prospect of waiting longer. Taking hold of his wife's arm, Bush proceeded to lead them hastily into the building and upstairs to their room.
Tom, still holding the still-very-heavy package, called to the retreating couple. "Excuse me, Miss Amy?" he said, his voice shaky, his knees starting to tremble from the weight of the package he was holding. Amy turned, as if only now hearing the question, and a slight mischievous glint could be seen in her eyes if one looked very closely.
"Oh, we won't be but just a minute, I'm sure," she said, a wide, sweet grin on her face, to which Bush scoffed, planning on taking much longer than a minute with his wife. Amy pretended not to notice, and continued, "Just hold onto that for me. You will, won't you, Tom, dear? But don't let it touch the ground, I don't want it getting dirty!" she called sweetly, her voice laced with vengeful intent, knowing full well that the man would have to hold the parcel far longer than necessary, and that at any time he could simply set it on the ground, or hand it to the cab driver.
Bush resumed his pulling on her arm, quickly bringing them inside the building. "William! What has come over you? What did you forget?" Amy cried, huffing as her husband took the stairs two at a time and she tried to keep up—not an easy task in her current attire.
"We can't leave just yet," her husband said, dragging his wife into their room and obnoxiously locking the door behind them.
Breathing heavily, her mouth formed a slight 'o' of surprise. As it occurred to her the meaning behind her husband's words, Amy smirked, and then scolded firmly. "William, you are grossly obvious. If I behaved properly I would smack you."
"I'm terribly glad you never behave properly, then," Bush retorted, and his wife sniffed.
"Oh, is that so, sir?" Amy said, placing her hands on her hips and pouting her lips.
"I know you're not really cross with me when you call me sir," Bush said, looking in their wall mirror as he loosened his collar.
Amy sighed, and then tugged a pesky strand of her hair from her bun, shaking down her curls she had labored over putting up atop her head. "Well, if you insist," she said, trying her best to appear bored and apathetic, hiding her pleased smile.
After an elongated day of preparing, Cat sat scrunched up, her knees drawn to her chest as she rested against the propped pillows on her bed. Her husband lay reclined beside her, arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed halfway, waiting for his wife to extinguish the oil lamp flickering on the bedside table. Through his eyelashes, Archie watched her hunch over the letters she was examining. Even now, she wasn't done with the tasks she had set out to complete earlier that morning.
Determined as he was to stay awake for his wife, Archie felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. As his eyes finally closed in protest of his efforts to remain conscious, Cat sniffed loudly, jarring him from his state of semi-sleep.
"Clara declines to join us for the holidays this year, as neither she nor your mother is feeling well enough to travel. Also, she does not feel there is any reason to exchange gifts any longer, as we are, I quote, no longer children but grown adults who should strive to esteem higher articles than trinkets and playthings." Cat's voice was laced with a subdued resentment.
Archie smirked as he listened to Cat's imitation of his sister's slightly snippy, monotone voice. It was a humorous vision, imagining his sister passionately penning the less-than-flowery words. Archie loved his sister, mostly because of their blood relation. As for liking his sister, he would have to enjoy her company in order to stay that truthfully. This was not something he could do with a clear conscience.
Archie stretched his arms above his head, trying to rid the fatigue from his limbs."I guess this means I won't be getting a puppy after all," he joked tiredly.
Cat smiled briefly, but her husband's humor failed to conceive a chuckle, as the girl's attention remained on the letters before her. Archie sighed, not liking to be seconded by a stack of papers. Propping himself up on his elbows, he laid a hand on his wife's knee. "Cat, why don't you finish this tomorrow? The hour is very late."
His words were not heard, or perhaps ignored, by his wife. Thinking for a moment of the repercussions of the actions he was sorely tempted to execute, and coming to the conclusion that any momentary pain would be an acceptable sacrifice, Archie reached out and snatched the papers from Cat's lap. He was very aware that the act was childish, entirely attention-seeking, and perhaps selfish.
"Archie!" Cat cried indignantly, her arms flying out to retrieve her stolen items. Archie waved them above her head, the dim lighting and his longer arms giving him an advantage. The girl chased him to the edge of the bed, and reached for them, grazing but missing as Archie moved his hand again and again, avoiding her open and persistent fists. Then in one moment, as the edge of the bed was reached without realization, both fell to the floor. After the initial surprise of the fall wore off, the struggle continued for the pieces of parchment.
At first, Cat's eyebrows furrowed, and annoyance spread as the girl reached in vain to retrieve her stolen papers. Her hidden competitive nature overtook her usual sweet demeanor, and arms flailing, she climbed over her husband, pinning down one of his arms in order to keep him grounded on the wooden floor. Just as she was about to retrieve what was hers, the woman realized how silly she must look, reaching with arms outspread, trying to climb up her husband's arm as if it were a tree branch, on the floor, red-faced with hair flying everywhere.
She sat back, releasing her grip on her husband's arm and pulling the flyaway hairs from her braid behind her ears, a bit embarrassed. Catching her husband's gaze, the two of them fell into a fit of quiet laughter, progressively growing louder and louder until neither of them could breathe. Cat collapsed onto her back, wheezing, vainly trying to shush her husband's guffaws with limited success.
"We're going to wake Mary!" she said, still unable to stifle the bubbly laughter spilling from her lips.
"Not a chance, that girl can sleep through anything," Archie replied, his laughter slowly receding to a quieter giggle.
Husband and wife helped each other back under the covers. The misfortunate papers were quite forgotten, laid strewn across the floor.
More people boarded and departed the chaise in which Lottie and Wellard sat as the cab progressed towards its destination. Exiting travelers would make their way out of the cab, looking dismally at the sky, and make their way towards the shelter of nearby buildings. As of now, the couple remained the only passengers in the cab.
The windows were shut fast now to prevent all the heat from escaping, and Wellard peeked through a crack in the fabric. It was snowing now. At first, large downy flakes softly touched earth, their intricacies melting upon touching the warmer ground. But soon it became apparent that the storm was only worsening. The winter air, at first refreshingly chilly, was now bleak and bitter. The timid breeze was now a gale. The road they traveled was filled with holes and bumps. The first layer of ground which had melted at high noon that day caused ruts to form where both lone riders and chaise-and-fours had plundered on. Now the ground was frozen, accruing a hoary coating of white. The sky grew continuously darker, ominous. It was still very early in the evening, and yet it seemed the sun had relinquished its will to shine, and the night had claimed the sky prematurely.
Wellard felt his wife tremble beside him. "Cold, Lottie?" he asked, pulling her closer to him and tucking part of his cloak around the girl. She did not answer, but leaned against the boy, seeking his warmth, and displayed her appreciation by means of a hasty buss on his cheek.
The chaise, which had started out at a brisk pace, now moved sluggishly down the road. It was not long before they were all but crawling along, and Wellard was sure that even when carrying all their luggage the couple would move faster down the road on foot. Somewhere ahead of it, the obedient beasts plodded on down the road, but the snow, now coming down in sheets of icy rain, was making it increasingly difficult to navigate the less-than-adequate road. He could just make out the guiding lantern, its small sphere of light shafting a halo through the flying snow. Beyond the beacon, all was a hoary blur.
At first it was not apparent to Wellard that the chaise had stopped. The blundering blizzard beyond the canvas window cover conveyed the illusion of movement. "Why have we stopped?" Lottie voiced the question aloud, and Wellard squeezed her hand reassuringly.
The boy exited the cab, leaving his wife alone. Moments later he returned, and relayed the message from the driver above. "We're stopping here, there's an inn we can stay at for the night. The driver will resume this route in the morning, and he won't charge additional payment on account of the weather." Offering his hand to his wife, he told her, "Come on darling, let's make a run for it."
He grabbed her hand, helping her down out of the cab. The wind was biting, and Lottie pulled tight her cloak around her, holding her hood closed. Parcel after parcel was handed off to the pair, and the couple walked as briskly as they could without tripping to the inn, trying their best to avoid getting wet. This was in vain, for by the time they managed to open the door of the tavern and get inside, shutting out the howling wind and stormy skies, both husband and wife were nearly chilled to the bone, and their exterior garments coated in a film of ice.
Lottie blinked in the dim light, her eyes slowly adjusting to the fire lit room. There were a great deal of people inside, all evidently waiting out the storm before going on their way to their own homes. Wellard held tightly on to her hand, not wanting to lose her in the crowd.
Before long, Wellard had purchased a room for the night, and kindled a fire in its hearth. Lottie looked out the window at the miserable sky, and the falling snow darting downwards towards the earth. Something shifted in her view, and she saw something strange that filled her whole being with dread. It was the man. The same man! The man in the alleyway, the one she had nearly convinced herself of being a figment of her imagination. Quickly she closed the curtains tight, and turned back to see Wellard stoking the fire, impatiently trying to get the damp wood to burn.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of two cups of tea presented by the innkeeper. "It's quite a storm we have out there," the woman said. "If you need anything, just ask."
After thanking her kindly, Wellard went over to bed and sat down next to Lottie, handing her carefully the steaming mug. "We best not stay in these wet clothes, Lottie," Wellard suggested, and eager to put as much distance between herself and the cold garb, the couple shed their outer layers, trading the garments for night clothes. Lottie was glad for the feel of the dry fabric against her skin.
The girl sat on the floor cross-legged near the fire, stretching out her cold hands towards the slowly growing flames. Heat radiated from the fireplace, and red, yellow, and orange danced and flickered, casting long shifting shadows across the room. Her husband crouched down behind her, and sat with one leg on either side of her, enveloping them both in the massive blanket he had removed from their bed. She leaned back, enjoying his warmth and the feel of his body pressed against hers. He wrapped his arms around her torso, pulling with him the blanket he had snatched from the bed, enveloping them in the cotton fabric.
For a while, the couple sat in silence, their frozen, stiff limbs slowly loosening, the pain of the cold ebbing away from their fingertips, and the damp receding from their scalps and skins. Many minutes passed as they simply held each other, both in a state of fatigue companied with contentment.
"Warmer?" the boy asked finally, cozied up against his wife's neck.
Lottie let out a breath, humming in agreement. "Much," she uttered, though the mild anxiety over the man she had seen outside refused to diminish entirely.
Growing bored with his circumstances, the boy shifted to lean back on his hands, examining the long locks of blonde in front of him. He ran his fingertips through his wife's hair, careful to be gentle around the knots and tangles that had formed during the day.
"I brought a comb, it's in my small bag," Lottie stated softly, as if reading his mind, and the boy needed no further encouragement. He leapt to his feet, peering around the room to where the girl was pointing, and rummaged around in the sack until he had located the object. He sat down in front of her again, and Lottie rested her elbows on her husband's outstretched knees. Patiently and without complaint, Lottie allowed him to comb her hair, freeing it of its many tangles and insubordinations. She winced, but did not protest, when her hair fought the comb, or her husband's large clumsy fingers tugged ungently at the uncooperative strands. Wellard began the complicated yet satisfying process of braiding his wife's hair.
Wellard's deceased twin sister Isobel had taught him to braid hair, as their mother was often busy and Isobel tired of having to do it herself. Their mother was hardly home, and was nearly always working. Sometimes her work was brought home, and she would make them sleep in the kitchen rather than the bedroom they shared. Wellard as a child never realized the type of work his mother must have lowered herself to in order to provide for her two bastard children.
Growing up, Wellard learned a lot of things most boys his age did not, such as how to braid a girl's hair. In order to accomplish this one had to be exceedingly gentle, as not to pull too hard and make her cry. He was out-of-practice, of course, not needing to access his hair-dresser skills since his sister passed away. Lottie had discovered his remarkable ability to braid hair aboard the Retribution on the return voyage home to England. He swore he had done it out of boredom that one time. Embarrassed, he had shrugged off her amazement, he was a sailor, of course he knew how to braid.
Now, she allowed him to braid her hair, knowing full well that it would probably be loose, and that if she really wanted her hair to be curly she would have to re-braid it herself. She didn't mind his hands weaving in and out, grunting and sighing as hairs went awry and he was forced to pause and rethink the process. She didn't mind that strands hung outside the braid, or that the weave was uneven. The feel of his fingers in her hair was pleasant, and an occurrence that never came frequently enough.
Lottie wished that this moment would continue forever. Forever braiding an endless amount of hair, watching as the firelight flickered in front of them, and shadows dancing on the wall. Forever here, in Wellard's arms, where no beast, no doubt, no lingering fear could pull her away, or tear her apart—not even the strange man that now remained fixed in her every thought.
Reviews are much loved, as always! As soon as the semester is over in December, I will be finishing this story. I'm more than halfway through, just a few more chapters to go.