The Path Not Taken

((OOC: I would like to thank a very dear friend for the inspiration to write this story line. You've pulled me from the mire of complacency and dissatisfaction into a new world of possibilities. Yes. You did. Shush.))

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I have not written of this clearly, until now.  I feel that I shall perish with the telling of it, but so it must be... I need assurance that this all actually occurred, and this entry shall be my last and only remnant of a path not taken.

Each night since seeing the man outside my windows, I had thought of him.  Of how his head tilted slightly forward, the dim reflection of the moonlight on his eyes, the shape of his mouth, and his fine, clear brow.  So often did I dream of him, that I convinced myself he did not exist, but was merely the projection of a bored and ill contented mind, seeing what it wished to see. 

Until five days after.

Whilst walking along the grounds, a figure appeared in the distance.  At first, just the shape of a man. And then clearer until it formed the very gentleman I saw.  My heart nearly leapt from my chest, and I had to dig my nails into my palms to prevent myself from running towards him.  When first our eyes met, we knew.  We both felt it there, between us, like a hazy wall of light in deepest summer that makes all things seem to shimmer within its heated grasp.  Finally, I learned his name:  Edward Stafford.  Edward.  My heart wrapped around each syllable, and held it close as he spoke it.  He bowed, and I curtsied, but neither of us cared of such things. The sun was warm, and only small clouds painted the canvas of the sky above our heads.

He turned and offered his arm, and I, so eager to learn more of him, accepted it gratefully.  We walked but a little, stopping to turn and look at one another.  So handsome, and engaging, and polite, was he.  As he told me of his life, I relished each word, watching his face as it changed expression.  He was a budding composer and son of a local land owner; likely to be saddled with the land and its tenancies and responsibilities, but still hopeful was he of a change in his fortune, so that he might pursue his own passions.  

I pushed aside the thoughts that often came to mind in such meetings: that he would not be a match approved of by my parents, and simply walked with him as if we two were already promised, and our future union blessed.  The simple act of walking with him, being near to him, and finally hearing his voice, and how he leaned over to look upon me when he made me laugh brought me to a happier place than I believe I had been in far too long.

When the rain started again, as it so often does, out of nowhere, I turned as if to bring him back to the house, but he (wisely) suggested we run beneath the nearby bridge for cover.  We smiled at one another and ran, hand in hand, like children, toward the mossy stones, where I lost my footing and nearly fell into the stream.  But he, so deft and quick, caught me and in a moment that I will carry with me for as long as I occupy this earth, his eyes locked with mine.  I looked up at him, unaware that my arms were encircling him, and his lips were upon mine. O, I still feel them now...  So warm and soft, so urgent in their passion, yet so careful and so gentle.  

 And from this entry, anyone would believe that my tarot reading sprang to life.  That my path was clearly chosen, and that from that day henceforth, all would be as if in a fairy tale.  And oh, in that day, it was.  The rain with gentle tiny fingers caressed our faces as we kissed.  And even in that rain, a stream of sunlight poured down upon us as if providence itself were bestowing its blessing.

We spoke again. And again.  We planned our escape. He thought Belgium a place we two could steal away to.  And each day I moved one gown, one pair of slippers, one hair pin, one hat, one belonging, to a place where they could be taken at a moment's notice.  I used excuses of repair, of giving them to the less fortunate. Any excuse to avoid suspicion. I grew closer to stepping over the threshold and into my future and each day closer brought such joy to me, that my friends likely believed me ill.  T'was that I was so deep in thought of when my horse threw me, and t'was that which brought a brighter smile to my greetings.  

Oh, but such paths are not to be taken.  

 On the day of our first meeting. On the day of my lips first knowing their mate, I did not see my maid... formerly my mother's maid, Katie, as she crossed the bridge, returning from the market.  She must have spied us.  And I have no doubt that she immediately reported it to Mama.  Oh that selfish, shrew! That I could go back in time and see her, I would give her anything... anything... just not to do what she has done...

Today, upon my return from a very lively and insightful book discussion, a letter was handed to me by Katie.  I should have known the contents by the guilty expression on her face.

Nothing could have prepared me for this....

Dearest Daughter,

I write to tell you to come North immediately. Your Papa and I have finally agreed upon a match.

You are to marry Robert Clive a Baron of good fortune and although his age is advanced beyond what I had hoped for you, my dear Olivia, I fear that some rumors have reached me that make this match imperative.

Your things will be packed and moved upon completion of the nuptials, one week hence at the Parish here at the country estate.

Make haste, my dearest daughter, for your future awaits you, and your groom must away to the colonies shortly after.

Your own Mama

Flinging the letter to the floor as if its words could be removed if never looked upon again, I sank down against the doors.  I have never cried so hard without any tears; as if my tears had turned to ash, and my dreams burned to blackened, lifeless embers.   The hope for my happy future is over.  Edward is away seeing to lodgings at our final destination, and when he returns, I will have gone.  He will think me uncaring and I shall never be able to tell him this is not my doing.  I have no doubts that the servants will do all they can to dissuade him from following me, should that be his inclination.

I am inconsolable.  I can only hope that this Baron... this horrid man who has stolen away my dreams... shall go to the colonies forever...

[the entry ends with smudged droplets... evidence of tears lace the page]

White Light

[Journal Entry - 4 July 1773]

In the early morning hours yesterday, I arose and made my way to the stables to take my mare for the day's ride.  I advised my maid that I would be back in time for tea as I had many stops to make that day.  She protested, of course, that I had not had anything to eat.  She is determined that I take better care of myself.

As the boy fetched and geared Barrow (named after a particularly long-faced Governess I had as a child),  I contemplated my life.  A rather meaningless occupation for one newly twenty, but my lack of suitable suitors was a constant ghost, haunting me.  Mama threw every Earl, Duke and Count my way, but either they had no interest in a silly young girl, or I no interest in dull men.  Papa constantly threatened the convent, but as he had not wrapped me in a modest cloak and shipped me off to Coldingham Monastery, I surmised that it was merely his way of keeping me in line. 

Atop Barrow, my main concern was getting where I needed to go with as little of nature's decoration as possible.  The roads were thick with mud after so much rain.  A carriage was quite out of the question.  I had to see Mrs. Hill - our blacksmith's wife, who'd taken ill - to ask after her health; to see the Vicar, to make a donation to the fund for newly opened orphanage; and to speak with a number of others on various personal matters.  Some may think that a politely written letter would suffice; I disagree. Certain things should be done in person, and personally, to my mind.

I did not make it off the estate when something spooked the horse. She reared.  I remember screaming as I lost my grip and flew.  A thousand things flooding my mind in the blink of an eye.  Then nothing more.

I cannot be sure how long I lay on the road, but as it is part of the estate, no stranger would have found me, and as I was to be gone the entire day, no servant came to look for me.

Barrow was gone.  I do not know where to.  I merely brushed myself clean as best I could, and had great difficulties in keeping myself upright.  My hat hid any marks left by the road and I was able to struggle back to the house without being seen.  Katie knocked and I sent her away, saying that I was feeling poorly, and to ask the cook to send up some broth.  She would leave it on the table in the sitting room, I knew, so I made my way into my dressing room and fell back onto the chaise.

I took stock of myself.  Legs were in working order, though quite weak.  I was not bleeding, or at least that I knew of, still dressed in my riding habit.  But the one maddening thing was the light.  The candle light seemed magnified a hundred... nay... a thousand times.  I could not bear to open my eyes, so brilliant and intrusive.

After a long night's rest, it seems to have subsided some, though I still have a residual halo around all things, as if all things were framed in a heavenly aura.  I shall have to cleverly use paste and powders to hide some discoloration along my cheekbones but all in all, feel quite fortunate to have sustained only minor injuries.

The Tarot

The entry is smudged in places, the hand looks hurried and frenetic

[Journal Entry - 1 July 1773]

I have not slept at all.   Not once did my eyes close since Ladies Merry and Gabrielle departed.  I have danced alone on the lawn, and picked blooms in the middle of the night.  O, how I wish the delight of this night could continue, but I know there is work ahead...

I had availed myself of Lady Merry's talent with the tarot deck during the weekend's events; but foolishly, I left the matter of my future open to the deck, and much to my dismay it answered in riddles and obscurely.  And so I had requested that perhaps whence a clearer query came to mind, I might again impose.

And so, this night, it was done.  

I clearly explained that I was upon a road, quite stable, and quite straight. But that before me lay two paths; one, which if sought, might give me great pleasure, but those around me some measure of sorrow, and another, that, if taken, would leave me bereft of happiness, but make others quite satisfied. I advised Lady M. that I wished to know if the path that I, in my heart, wished to choose, was the one unto which cards might give their celestial blessings.  

I dare not write my true feelings on this, as until my foot lands over the threshold and my future is assured, I mustn't breathe a word, but still, the message is one that deserves telling, and so I shall in as enigmatic a fashion as I am able....

The writing style improves -  flourishes adorn the carefully penned poem...

Upon the grate, the wheel reversed
No choice advised, no choice is cursed;
The kindling there the Eight of Wands
Reversed, creativity in bonds
Upon my mantel, there does hover
None other card than of The Lovers
The hearth rug is reversed Wands Four
And as it stands, I rest no more

Calamity, departure takes
The Tower out the back doth snake
And in the front, O, woeful Death
But where one dies, another's breath
Then Pentacles of Eight does show
Where, with my efforts, skill shall grow
Queen of Pentacles: Kin and friend
The next card will they stand, defend

The Queen of Swords sits throned, reversed
My choice maligned, my name is cursed
But Knight of Cups, aloft does ride
The universe, my love, abidesAnd as within display it seems From darkness coming sun's bright beamsTwo lovers standing on a cliffHand in hand at precipice

No love borne of similarity
For in the blend, disparity
One with heart of stone, dismayed
The other, by no storm allayed.

The Weekend Party

I hurried down the stairs and through the halls as the first of the carriages arrived.  No sooner had the footmen taken the trunks from it, and the carriage rolled off than it was replaced with another, and then another, until the front gate was buzzing with conversation. The sun moved behind some ominous clouds, and we were all lucky enough to make it to the picnic under the tent before the skies opened up.  All manner of delicacies were laid out by my cook and we feasted on cured venison, local cheeses, freshly baked loaves of bread, fruits and berries, and of course, with champagne.  Laughter rang out as we all were given names of gods and goddesses, making our hilltop retreat into Mount Olympus itself.

The rain soon cleared and we stood, somewhat unsteadily after being seated for so long (it could not have been the freely-flowing champagne), and made our way into the house.  I gave a brief tour of the house to familiarize the guests and then they were shown to their quarters.  Some, who had endured longer journeys, chose to rest while others, more adventurous, joined me for a ride around the grounds.  Lady Merry's horse was more interested in grazing than galloping, and so she refereed a race between Monsieur Gandt and myself and I lost the first, but am happy to report that I won back my losses with the second.  Soon, others came to join us, and sweet Jean-Matisse atop his pony, made a wonderful third to the riders.  Lady Aphrodite and Mr. Ewan Bonham joined us, but alas their horses were too skittish atop the high hill above the lake.  

Soon enough it was time to hand the horses over to the stable boys and we all went to wash and change for dinner.  Many of the guests slept right through, so I made sure to tell the housemaids to have some food prepared in the larder in case they should awaken late in the night, hungry.  Myself, Mr. Bonham, Signore Stern, Ladies Merry and Aphrodite joined me in the dining hall to have a taste, first of some casks of wine my mother sent to me just in time.  A lovely claret that we only get in once every 3 or so years, so it was quite the timely treat.

Hungry from our ride, we sat down straight away and enjoyed quite the feast. Oysters and lobster, succulent beef and ham, and sweets to complete the meal. A wonderful compliment to my cook, whom I kept hidden from Lady Merry (who threatened to try to bribe her from my service! The nerve :P ).  

Finally satisfied, we all made our way into the gaming room, where Lady Merry read our fortunes. Lady Aphrodite's was very well received. Mine was a bit perplexing, and not just a little bit frightening! And Signore Stern's was enlightening and helpful.  Lady Merry was very proficient in explaining the possible meanings of each card!

All in all, a wonderful first night of a house full of guests, and much merriment was had by those of us with a stronger constitution.  The others had the constant soothing sound of the rain on the roof and windows to lull them into much needed rest.

The Spectre

I know not what brought me from my sewing to the window.  Perhaps it was the constant tapping on the panes; the endless rain of England, beckoning me to watch it paint the landscape in watercolor.

As I stood and gazed upon the beauty of nature's artistry, I noticed that two eyes stared back at me from 'neath the canopy of night.  Squinting, leaning forward, nose to glass the eyes stayed true to their target, and as my vision grew accustomed to the darkness, a nose, a mouth, a shock of hair beneath a tri-corn'd hat.

He was revealed to me, little by little, as if a curtain of rain were parting.  Strong chin and charcoal eyes, his stature that of health and prosperity.  

A lady (barely a woman) should have gasped or run to fetch a footman to interrogate this brash stranger, question his intentions, and inform him that the storm must have put him off his path, advise him that he stood on my grounds, and yet...

My eyes and his were sealed; a key to a lock, not yet turned.  He did not smile, nor bow, nor did he make any motion to come forward or retreat, but stood there still.  Transfixed.  

I cannot tell you how long I stood there, though time seemed to stretch out like an endless bolt of silk coming from a loom, until I felt an overwhelming need to seek him out and ask his name.

I turned, rushing through the hall and entry, and through the front doors, out into the teeming rain and over the foot bridge to where I had seen him.  Trying to see where he had gone to as the storm lashed against me, turning my gown to a tight-fitting layer of plaster: a statue standing in the grass, looking upon the spot where he had been, as if upon a sacred object, blinking rapidly against a mixture of the rain and my own tears of disappointment.

Where could he have gone to, so quickly? 

I stood stock-still in the pouring rain, seeking out a dream.

My maid ran out, calling my name, holding out a blanket to wrap around my shoulders, and lead me back, as I looked over my shoulder, eyes searching every shadow and finding nothing.

Finally, dressed in my night clothes, I sat before the hearth watching the sparks dance, and then deeper, into the charcoal eyes of the fire.

The folded letter

[Journal entry]

8 June 1773

It has been a week's time since my last entry.  So consumed by preparations for my weekend guests, that I have all but abandoned thoughts of detailing my days... until to-night.

My staff have worked tirelessly to see that old beds were brought from the attics, and deliveries have come at least three times this week alone, bringing new feather mattresses, and other supplies necessary for the comfort of my guests.  Despite my fatigue, I was awoken early; this time by the cook accepting provisions for the larder.  As her menus never disappoint, I shall forgive her for rousing me.

 I have earned at least a little more respect from the staff in these preparations; they have become aware that I am quite capable.  Yesterday, however, I had a set-back in that progression -and one which pains me. I had hoped to bestow the responsibility of arranging each of the guest quarters to the head house maid.  I drew a fairly good diagram of each of the rooms, and detailed where each piece should be set.  Upon handing it to her, initially I thought I had provided too much detail (though in cases like this, one should always do too much, than too little) until it dawned upon me.  The poor girl could not read.  I did my best to cover her shame and replace it with my own, by saying that I had made mistakes, and she was quite right to look at it so oddly.  She had a faint expression of relief, but it was mixed with awkwardness and self-consciousness.   I have made note of that short-falling in my character, and shall endeavour to commit myself to more forethought in such dealings.

[The page ends uncharacteristically mid-page, and continues on the next]

Although all of that is necessary to record, and long overdue, it is peripheral in comparison to a discovery that I made.

Such labours took much of my time, and rather than take tea in the garden, I sought refuge in the library.  I scanned the titles and finally settled on an old volume, a book of prose, its spine weathered and worn.  As I carried it to the chair, something slipped from between the pages and fell to the floor . . .  a folded letter.  So delicate; yellowed and old.  I feared I might shatter the pages like a pane of glass as I opened it.  I was in shock that it was addressed to one Robert Chapman, of whom I was told was responsible for the raising of my family from mere merchant caste to nobility.  I must relate here, the contents:

Dear Mister Chapman,

I have become acquainted with a mate on your ship The [illegible] who informs me that you or someone you know may be in possession of pages which are of great interest to me.  They are written by a dear friend, Anthony Babbington, who has laboured many years on a volume of fiction, and bereft of the pages which you now hold, renders his work nearly useless.  As you can well imagine, the re-writing of a book would take more years than a man can hope to live.

I am currently residing at the Rose & Crown pub in Portsmouth, and would very much appreciate if you would bring these missing pages to me at your earliest convenience.  For your trouble, I am willing to part with a good sum of silver and with gratitude, would happily recount the plot of the book to you, over a few mugs of ale, should you be interested in such things.

I look forward to receiving word of your acceptance of my offer.

Sincerely,

Thomas [illegible]

As I write, I tremble to think what may have become of England, let alone the realization that my very birth would not have occurred should that document have been handed over for a handful of silver and some ale, but what of the letter? Part of me wishes I had never seen it, and so for now, I have replaced it within the volume from which it fell.  I shall make arrangements to speak with my father and his wisdom will guide us down the correct path.  Should he feel its place is best among the embers of the fire, I shall make this entry its companion.

To sleep, perchance to dream

[Journal entry]

1 June 1773

Two days have passed and still I sleep restlessly, if I sleep at all.  My countenance has suffered for it, and I dread sitting before the mirror each day.  Katie had commented that perhaps I am suffering from an affliction of some sort.  I do not even have the energy to write long, nor paint, nor play a piece.  Thus has this lethargy settled in my whole being.  I wonder if I shall ever feel the vibrant energies I did before I came to this house...

My dearest wish,  I shall write MamaCome the morning...

[a series of sentences, begun, crossed out, and abandoned, end the day's entry.  No further entry is seen until 3 June]

[Journal entry]

3 June 1773

I have received a parcel from La Rocca.  In it is the most wonderful gift from my dear friend Lady Aphrodite Macbain... the gift of sleep!  I am almost too exuberant to fully describe the manner of this elixir... such dreams! One moment in gauzy chemise, unabashedly spread in a field of flowers so vibrant, so delicate yet un-crushed, their tendrils and soft blossoms formed to make nature's most fragrant, colorful and exquisite bed.  O, and the next, a vivid sunlight, so bright I feared the light would burn my sight away and so fearful was I of missing one single flash of colour... such a riot of hues and shadow!  I shall heed my friend's warning that only a small amount of this laudanum be taken, even though I long to see and lay amongst that field of blossoms once again.

I should be wary of such open admissions and yet I am so giddy for the blessing of a sound and lengthy slumber!

I slept so soundly and so long, I nearly danced down the stair this morning to breakfast, though I was quite long past the set time, and I understand Mrs. Burridge was quite cross with me, but nothing... nothing at all could sour my mood to day!  I am taking a turn in the park and will have paper, pen and ink set out on the bench beneath the tree, to write a note in thanks.  As the day looks to be quite fine, I shall also set some time aside to select some roses and lavender to make a gift for her in return.