Here comes the entry that I thought was the saddest to write.
Rated M just in case.
Meggy was feeling tired. And stuck. For hours she had been in the streets, walking from Borough Market to St. George The Martyr and back again, going left and right through busy streets and smaller alleys, her shoes thick with muck and dirt, their soles rubbed paper thin through years of use. She had already flicked them the best she could and doubted if they'll go till spring. Exhaling with a sight, a puff of air forms in front of her mouth, the evening air getting colder. Good, colder and longer nights will mean that people will need matches to light their lamps and ovens. And that means more customers for me. Adjusting her basket she considers for a moment where to go and walks on.
Being a match seller isn't the worst of things, but it isn't really much either. She did go to school, yet only stayed long enough to learn how to read and write. With no parents or siblings to take care of her there was a need to start earning a living quickly, grandmother at first doing well enough with laundry work, but as her eyesight began to fail, that source of income soon swindled too. That is why, while at the age when those fine girls at the other side of the river did their debutante at court, she walked and walked the streets with her skirts sweeping the dirty roads instead of a fine ballroom.
The church bell toils and by now night has fallen in those narrow streets that barely let sunshine in even during the day. A fine cloud of smoke had been floating for days now over the humble rooftops of Southwark, the factories always supplying new one, progress making the days gloomier then before. Her parents had worked and died in one of those factories, the reason why grandmother doesn't want her to search work there. And as Meggy wasn't that good with needle and thread, it was down to washing other peoples laundry in the mornings and selling matches in the evenings. Her young fingers are red and cracked from soap and water, her feet sore and painful from walking. Yet, if someone were to see her in broad daylight, without the bonnet hiding her face, one would see a young healthy looking girl, with a fine face and beautiful curly red hair falling around her shoulders, her figure well becoming to a young woman. She herself doesn't hold too much of her looks, as pleasing as they might be, for they did neither fill the cupboard nor warm their rooms.
The streets are quite deserted today, the autumn chill, heavy smog and creeping fog from the Themse having send people home early. She can feel the cold as well, her bonnet only just so keeping her ears from freezing, the shawl around her shoulders nor her skirts thick enough. She doesn't like empty streets either but has to try to sell at least a bit more. Walking past the old debtors prison, that has by now been turned into shops and flats, she wonders if such faith would have befallen her too if she had lived during her grandmothers youth.
She must have been deep in thought for she only notices the two men in front of her after nearly colliding with them. The fog must have been getting thicker and thicker for her not having noticed them. As a child of the streets she had learned early what kind of people to avoid, and she didn't like the looks they gave her.
"What do we have here? Someone looking for company?" The first one asks, the smell of ale heavy upon him.
"I am very well of, thank you." She replies.
"My, my, I wonder if she's just as fiery as her hair." His colleague says while pulling slightly at her loose hair falling under the bonnet.
"I am asking you to let me pass." She tries more fiercely, pulling herself up to her full hight but only earning laughter from them.
"A kiss for each one of us and we may consider." They are awfully close now, the wall behind her and no window nearby so could scream for help.
Suddenly a gloved had appears on one of the fellows shoulder, and a strong voice speaks firmly.
"I seems like the young miss has made it clear she would like to pass." The two drunks turn with a surprise, their movements indicating they would be up for a fight, yet they both stagger back a bit upon facing the stranger. Meggy still waits for a fight to break loose, and the opportunity that would give her to slip away unnoticed, but nothing happens for a moment or two, before the two thugs word some silent obscurities and go their way. She is at first too bewildered to make any reaction to what just happened, the only realisation being that she might have been in real danger yet was rescued before anything accrued. Her eyes turn now to her rescuer and she takes a look at him. Night had fallen and there was only one lantern behind him so all she could see was his silhouette, the silhouette of a tall man with a top hat and a fine looking coat, a silver pin of some sorts holding his neckcloth in form. Even in this darkness his long black hair stood out, as did his moustache and thin beard when set against his pale face. He must be a foreigner, from Spain or Italy or France perhaps, his accent strange to her. He had most certainly the appearance of a gentleman, and Meggy quickly made s courtesy before giving her thanks.
"Thank you, good sir. I am in your dept. Here-" upon which she took out a bundle of her matches and held them out to him "-for your kindness."
He continued to look at her for a moment, she becoming awfully conscious of her tattered appearance in his nicely dressed presence, when he came closer, his glowed hand as if to take the matches from her fingers, only to bring his arm suddenly drawn through hers.
"Allow me to take you a few steps."
She is startled at his request, and aware that she should politely decline, yet his firm hold makes her only lean into him more and her lips stay silent.
As the bells toil midnight she finds herself walking, walking arm in arm with a stranger in a direction she has no idea of. In the dim lights of the lanterns they pass she tries to get a better look at him from under her bonnet, deep shadows making it hard to get a good view. At first she had thought him a gentlemen in his best age but upon looking now he appears younger. Casting another glance she is surprised to find she would take him for no more than early thirties. A young, strong Italian gentleman that came to the rescue of a poor matchmaker girl. Somehow, this all seems to her rather romantic, walking arm in arm with a prince that guides her through the darkness. Then a new thought enters her mind, and she becomes sure- although she wouldn't know how- that her friend has truly come to rescue her, rescue her from this life of poverty and uncertainty, from this life of mudded sunlight and cold rains. He came to take her to the lush vineyards, and golden fields and turquoise sea. Leaning closer onto his arms even her feet don't hurt anymore.
The fog has truly become all engulfing, the buildings around them barely visible, the light of the lanterns only a dull speck of floating light. She becomes aware that the houses have disappeared, the sound of the river now clearly in front of them. The view becomes a bit better, and she can make out the form of mighty London Bridge to her left, the City a dark silhouette on the other side. Slowly he leads her to one of the steps that go down to the river bank, he leads her calmly, without haste, surely taking care as to that she might not slip on the wet and slippery stone. Her feet find gravel and sand under them, his hold releases her and she takes a few steps forward on her own. The water looks so peaceful, small waves ebbing up and down the shore, the steady current taking all that float upon her far away, to exotic places beyond imagining. Soon its stream will take her too. The air is already filled with scents of summer and sun, so, slowly she lets her bonnet and basket fall the ground, she won't need them anymore, her hands are free, her long red hair flowing without restraint along her shoulders.
She can hear him slowly coming up behind her, a wave of excitement washing over her. He is now only inches apart and from the corner of her eye she can make out his right hand on her shoulder, without the glove his fingers looking unnaturally long and white. Her shawl falls from her shoulders as he closes the distance, gently puling the hair away from her face and with it baring her neck. His fingers cares her check before trailing downward, stoping at the neck of her dress and pulling it away as to freeing her shoulder. For a moment something in the back of her mind tells her this is awfully wrong for reasons that escape her, but she is too much lulled into this blissful dream of warmth to respond. She is now leaning into his chest, his hand still on her shoulder, a sudden feeling of dread making her heart beat faster as he leans closer, his breath icy on her skin. His lips plant a kiss under her ear and then pain shots through her, unbearable pain. Her delicate body is at war with itself, both protesting violently and yearning desperately for the burning warmth that comes. In a while, her pains and troubles are forgotten, her frozen fingers and sore feet, the crooked place of grey stone she calls home, with its baren two rooms and the old woman that is a constant remainder of mortality. There is warmth and there is comfort but for a moment, far too soon replaced with the realisation of an iron grip holding her and a frightening cold going right to her mark. As she opens her eyes she can see this wide river that will be taking her body far away.
Ok, this was really sad to write. The fact that we kinda know Lucy far from the only young girl with a whole life & dreams in front of her, only to have it all extinguished by the Count, is tragic in itself, but giving them a face and name?
