Chapter 1
A dull pain permeates my already clouded mind; wrapped in hopes of fine liquor. I can taste the bitter fire on my tongue. I long for the day to meet its end but it is not yet half over. Impatient to drown my wavering heart with wine, I restlessly pull the lace of my skirt until it frays at the edges.
A range of gaunt thorns skirts the sandstone. Their limbs stretch out as if to embrace the clouds. Bells toll and echo down the cliffs. The chapel stands beyond the gate atop the rocky edge. The depths of roaring waves chorus to the scene before me. How fitting that this ceremonial new beginning will take place before an edge of no return. I smirk at such irony. I stop in awe at the sight before me. The delicate windows set deeply in the walls, shielded by corners of jutting stone. The cobble stones crackle beneath my feet. The bees hum dully among the bloom and a lark sings high off in the distance. I look to see wrens tuck their tiny heads against their plump chests, perched on wiry branches like winged acrobats. The sun is veiled, weary of being background light to a silver dusted screen. The morning devised itself a sense of restlessness that paints the holy grounds.
The immediacy of the day’s proceedings strikes me then. I think of Charlotte, my dear sister-in-law to be. The sound of her vexatious voice rings high in my ears as I think of her leeching onto my family. How dare she scorn such a precious heart and flaunt her lecherous form. I loathe her claim to my family’s worth, through petty words and promises; no ring shall ever prove her family. I’ll not permit a man to take my hand unless it is love that makes him ask. My foolish brother, my lovely George, bitten by that snake. I hope the gold she bites into breaks her wretched fangs
I disguise my odious temper with a mask of false elation. I try to elicit from myself some sentiment of proper gladness as I towards the chapel doors. Tired wooden doors framed a perfect picture within. Bouquets of flowers line the pews and the guests beam with anticipation for the ceremony to begin. As if to exemplify my uneasiness, the mocking voice of God echoes off the walls inside; only to highlight my protracted abstinence of faith.
My lashes flutter as the wind sweeps past my face, my mother becoming a blur of mauve ahead of me. I lose sight of her as i bow my head in woeful anticipation; the sound of her heels clicking against the dampened concrete steps. With each step I take I feel a stab in my chest as I come to fully understand that i cannot wakeup from this nightmare.
My attention is soon taken elsewhere. Abaft a mossy boulder lurks a shadow of whom I know not. A bent figure scuttles around the rock. I suppose it is curiosity that drives me towards it. As if my decision is predestined, a flash of white grasps my wrist and drags me to the rocky surface.
His eyes are daring, as black and vague as the ocean below; his pupils glitter and challenge the darkness. I am captivated by the sparkle. Transfixed by his gaze, I know not how to move. Crusted lips curtained his tell tale tongue. A long, wispy, greyish white beard, skinny hands, with mapped out lines, and creases that prove his past. I can almost taste the salt that dusts his pale skin.
“Unhand me beggar!”
He looks down the cliff side, almost perversely, at the crashing waves and sprays of mist. He turns back to me, as if to question my presence, and then remembers why I am here.
“One cle-er and brightened dey, we set sail on a ship full of the happiest of seamen. We sailed along smoothly until we reached the equator”
Bassoon music begins to play and it is clear now that the last of the wedding guests are taking their seats in the chapel. “I must go, I will surely miss my brother’s wedding if I stay and listen to your story”. However hard I tried to stray away from the old man, i can’t help but crave his adventure.
Ignoring my rejection of his attempt to converse, he continues with words battered words, tainted with desperation.
“As we approached thah great divide, a terrible storm hit and forced thah ship southwards. Thah harling winds blew with such force that thah ship fled in fear and clambered through the waves. We reached a cahlm patch of wondrous cold, full of snow and glistening green icebergs as tall as the mast. We stood alone and living in this frightening, enclosed world where thah ice groaned and echoed our desperation.”
“The wend rahred like thunder, and blew with such farce that it was with grave difficulty that evan strong men kept to their feet, or clung with grim clahsp to the iron stanchions. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and dahmp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clahmmy hands of death, and many a one shooddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by os”
“What happened to you?”
My question remains so long unanswered I soon doubt the pauper’s existence. My own heart stops in that instant; my eyes darted around the grounds to determine a state of Elysium. Was this man the very death he spoke of? His sunken eyes and haggard physique lead me to think him a spirit, a figure of my imagination.
The closing doors condemn me then; I glance at Charlotte as she starts to face her prize. Her eagerness radiates off her as if she were a freshly lit candle. I turn away at the sight of my mother’s dark copper hair. Goosebumps crawl across my skin as i imagine my perdition.
A range of gaunt thorns skirts the sandstone. Their limbs stretch out as if to embrace the clouds. Bells toll and echo down the cliffs. The chapel stands beyond the gate atop the rocky edge. The depths of roaring waves chorus to the scene before me. How fitting that this ceremonial new beginning will take place before an edge of no return. I smirk at such irony. I stop in awe at the sight before me. The delicate windows set deeply in the walls, shielded by corners of jutting stone. The cobble stones crackle beneath my feet. The bees hum dully among the bloom and a lark sings high off in the distance. I look to see wrens tuck their tiny heads against their plump chests, perched on wiry branches like winged acrobats. The sun is veiled, weary of being background light to a silver dusted screen. The morning devised itself a sense of restlessness that paints the holy grounds.
The immediacy of the day’s proceedings strikes me then. I think of Charlotte, my dear sister-in-law to be. The sound of her vexatious voice rings high in my ears as I think of her leeching onto my family. How dare she scorn such a precious heart and flaunt her lecherous form. I loathe her claim to my family’s worth, through petty words and promises; no ring shall ever prove her family. I’ll not permit a man to take my hand unless it is love that makes him ask. My foolish brother, my lovely George, bitten by that snake. I hope the gold she bites into breaks her wretched fangs
I disguise my odious temper with a mask of false elation. I try to elicit from myself some sentiment of proper gladness as I towards the chapel doors. Tired wooden doors framed a perfect picture within. Bouquets of flowers line the pews and the guests beam with anticipation for the ceremony to begin. As if to exemplify my uneasiness, the mocking voice of God echoes off the walls inside; only to highlight my protracted abstinence of faith.
My lashes flutter as the wind sweeps past my face, my mother becoming a blur of mauve ahead of me. I lose sight of her as i bow my head in woeful anticipation; the sound of her heels clicking against the dampened concrete steps. With each step I take I feel a stab in my chest as I come to fully understand that i cannot wakeup from this nightmare.
My attention is soon taken elsewhere. Abaft a mossy boulder lurks a shadow of whom I know not. A bent figure scuttles around the rock. I suppose it is curiosity that drives me towards it. As if my decision is predestined, a flash of white grasps my wrist and drags me to the rocky surface.
His eyes are daring, as black and vague as the ocean below; his pupils glitter and challenge the darkness. I am captivated by the sparkle. Transfixed by his gaze, I know not how to move. Crusted lips curtained his tell tale tongue. A long, wispy, greyish white beard, skinny hands, with mapped out lines, and creases that prove his past. I can almost taste the salt that dusts his pale skin.
“Unhand me beggar!”
He looks down the cliff side, almost perversely, at the crashing waves and sprays of mist. He turns back to me, as if to question my presence, and then remembers why I am here.
“One cle-er and brightened dey, we set sail on a ship full of the happiest of seamen. We sailed along smoothly until we reached the equator”
Bassoon music begins to play and it is clear now that the last of the wedding guests are taking their seats in the chapel. “I must go, I will surely miss my brother’s wedding if I stay and listen to your story”. However hard I tried to stray away from the old man, i can’t help but crave his adventure.
Ignoring my rejection of his attempt to converse, he continues with words battered words, tainted with desperation.
“As we approached thah great divide, a terrible storm hit and forced thah ship southwards. Thah harling winds blew with such force that thah ship fled in fear and clambered through the waves. We reached a cahlm patch of wondrous cold, full of snow and glistening green icebergs as tall as the mast. We stood alone and living in this frightening, enclosed world where thah ice groaned and echoed our desperation.”
“The wend rahred like thunder, and blew with such farce that it was with grave difficulty that evan strong men kept to their feet, or clung with grim clahsp to the iron stanchions. White, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and dahmp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clahmmy hands of death, and many a one shooddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by os”
“What happened to you?”
My question remains so long unanswered I soon doubt the pauper’s existence. My own heart stops in that instant; my eyes darted around the grounds to determine a state of Elysium. Was this man the very death he spoke of? His sunken eyes and haggard physique lead me to think him a spirit, a figure of my imagination.
The closing doors condemn me then; I glance at Charlotte as she starts to face her prize. Her eagerness radiates off her as if she were a freshly lit candle. I turn away at the sight of my mother’s dark copper hair. Goosebumps crawl across my skin as i imagine my perdition.
chapter 2
Ash grey rock kisses the sole of my shoe as I gently kick it, the gravel hardly crunches under my step. The clock strikes, a deep ring follows. I slowly make my way into the church taking a lonesome seat far behind the combining families.
“All rise,” he delicately hums.
The organ beckons and on cue, the church doors open and she appears.
Her innocence and purity glistens, her bright eyes fixated on her husband to be. She looks him down with the same love a mother would give her newborn child and slowly makes her way down the aisle. Charlotte’s long blonde hair softly bounces as her perfect curls catch the sunlight that beams through the opening doors. The almost enchanting tunes that fill the room amplify the emotions of adoration and anticipation that lingers.
I sink back into the pew, quietly envying George. I secretly wonder what it would be like to conquer such a woman whose beauty shines far beyond her olive skin complexion and petite figure.
The ceremony was of no significance to me and the exchanging of vows was merely a background mutter. Disappointed by the lack of captivation, I sigh and watch as the newly joint families ratify their coming together with the signing of the spousals and stand to see the newlyweds out.
Guests fill the aisles and the once lingering sense of grace and elegance is drowned out by small talk and the scuffing of heels as the group is ushered out. A sense of paranoia grows within me and it seems that everywhere I walk the guests are looking sideways at me, for I, Lord Byron am no common man. Sweaty palmed, I separate from the group and find myself back inside the church, looking for an empty room.
I carefully open an old, brown panelled door and find inside the pieces of an office. A sternly placed wooden desk accompanied by an old bareback chair and an overcrowded bookshelf. I wander the room basking in the poetic foundations it presents. The dwelling natural beauty of the room holds my attention.
A light screech escapes when I pull out the chair to sit. I brush my hand across the wooden table top and off with it comes a soft layer of dust. Opening the drawer, I find an ample of paper and ink. Being careful not to disrupt the tranquillity of the small abandoned room, I slide just one piece of paper from the drawer and make room on the clustered table top.
I begin to write. As if it were beyond my control, I write to Charlotte.
Hands trembling, I plead with her to meet me by the graveyard. I fold the note and slide it into my jacket. I examine the room one last time, ensuring I put the pieces of the puzzle back together, leaving the almost picture perfect scene the same way I had found it.
Panning the perimeter on my way out, I notice a copy of my late Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage covered in dust on the crowded bookshelf. Pulling it out, I confidently admire my art. What a rarity the owner hath succumbed in owning my treasure given its five day sell out. Slowly flicking the ink stained pages it occurs to me that the disillusionment to a life of pleasure I wrote was almost ironic to this given day. The paper feels rough and grainy against my soft touch so I close the book, returning it to its awaiting slot.
The other occupants of the shelf are screaming at me for attention. I pet their well intact spines and peeking at some of their crispy pages. I frown, letting out a heavy sigh at the realisation that the very features tell only one tale, that of nothing. Precious literature crying for admiration.
Looking for any other signs of recent, I peer through the papers that comfortably cover the table top like fallen leaves in Autumn. I pick out a copy of the press dated back twice to 1812 that was hidden under a sea of files. An article relating to the United States embargo on trade with the United Kingdom sprawls across the front page. Scoffing at the atrocity and questioning the intentions behind the movement, I return the piece to its spot; again completing the puzzle.
Wanting to remain unnoticed, I direct my eyes elsewhere and politely nod to a passing clergyman. He stops to turn around after I pass as if to clarify my presence. When I halt to meet his gaze he quickly lowers his head and keeps walking. I roll my eyes and continue back to the garden.
I mingle with some of the more educated guests whilst taking full advantage of the supplied refreshments. I deceivingly seek information of Charlotte’s past in an attempt to unveil the mysteries that morph such a gracious beauty.
‘An unlikely pairing if I must say so myself. George may be better suited to a woman who is a little more… simple,’ I catch as I slither through the mass of guests.
‘Their coming together was quite the surprise.’
The howling of the wind of the brewing storm itches my dark tousled hair. The blackening clouds move closer so in defecne I pull my long and dark trench closer to keep warm.
I set out to find Charlotte and assume she would be away from the cruel weather that was circulating. I spot George outside the main hall and squeeze behind him, passing my congratulations as we brush. Peering through the side window of the church I spy Charlotte standing with George’s mother inside. It seems like the pair are engaged in a heated arguement, although I can not guarantee so.
I wait patiently near the main entrance, waiting for Charlotte to appear and when she finally does her radiating beauty strikes me stronger than it had during the ceremony. Weak kneed, I walk by her. Taking her hand, I pleasantly greet her and congratulate her on her newlywed status. Gently rubbing her waist I begin to walk away, leaving the note pressed into the palm of her hand.
Bursting with anticipation and uncertainty, I make my way to the graveyard. The dark clouds have thickened since I last observed them and the chilled wind rushes by me as if it were escaping the rough seas.
Time will only tell of Charlotte’s true loyalty to George.
“All rise,” he delicately hums.
The organ beckons and on cue, the church doors open and she appears.
Her innocence and purity glistens, her bright eyes fixated on her husband to be. She looks him down with the same love a mother would give her newborn child and slowly makes her way down the aisle. Charlotte’s long blonde hair softly bounces as her perfect curls catch the sunlight that beams through the opening doors. The almost enchanting tunes that fill the room amplify the emotions of adoration and anticipation that lingers.
I sink back into the pew, quietly envying George. I secretly wonder what it would be like to conquer such a woman whose beauty shines far beyond her olive skin complexion and petite figure.
The ceremony was of no significance to me and the exchanging of vows was merely a background mutter. Disappointed by the lack of captivation, I sigh and watch as the newly joint families ratify their coming together with the signing of the spousals and stand to see the newlyweds out.
Guests fill the aisles and the once lingering sense of grace and elegance is drowned out by small talk and the scuffing of heels as the group is ushered out. A sense of paranoia grows within me and it seems that everywhere I walk the guests are looking sideways at me, for I, Lord Byron am no common man. Sweaty palmed, I separate from the group and find myself back inside the church, looking for an empty room.
I carefully open an old, brown panelled door and find inside the pieces of an office. A sternly placed wooden desk accompanied by an old bareback chair and an overcrowded bookshelf. I wander the room basking in the poetic foundations it presents. The dwelling natural beauty of the room holds my attention.
A light screech escapes when I pull out the chair to sit. I brush my hand across the wooden table top and off with it comes a soft layer of dust. Opening the drawer, I find an ample of paper and ink. Being careful not to disrupt the tranquillity of the small abandoned room, I slide just one piece of paper from the drawer and make room on the clustered table top.
I begin to write. As if it were beyond my control, I write to Charlotte.
Hands trembling, I plead with her to meet me by the graveyard. I fold the note and slide it into my jacket. I examine the room one last time, ensuring I put the pieces of the puzzle back together, leaving the almost picture perfect scene the same way I had found it.
Panning the perimeter on my way out, I notice a copy of my late Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage covered in dust on the crowded bookshelf. Pulling it out, I confidently admire my art. What a rarity the owner hath succumbed in owning my treasure given its five day sell out. Slowly flicking the ink stained pages it occurs to me that the disillusionment to a life of pleasure I wrote was almost ironic to this given day. The paper feels rough and grainy against my soft touch so I close the book, returning it to its awaiting slot.
The other occupants of the shelf are screaming at me for attention. I pet their well intact spines and peeking at some of their crispy pages. I frown, letting out a heavy sigh at the realisation that the very features tell only one tale, that of nothing. Precious literature crying for admiration.
Looking for any other signs of recent, I peer through the papers that comfortably cover the table top like fallen leaves in Autumn. I pick out a copy of the press dated back twice to 1812 that was hidden under a sea of files. An article relating to the United States embargo on trade with the United Kingdom sprawls across the front page. Scoffing at the atrocity and questioning the intentions behind the movement, I return the piece to its spot; again completing the puzzle.
Wanting to remain unnoticed, I direct my eyes elsewhere and politely nod to a passing clergyman. He stops to turn around after I pass as if to clarify my presence. When I halt to meet his gaze he quickly lowers his head and keeps walking. I roll my eyes and continue back to the garden.
I mingle with some of the more educated guests whilst taking full advantage of the supplied refreshments. I deceivingly seek information of Charlotte’s past in an attempt to unveil the mysteries that morph such a gracious beauty.
‘An unlikely pairing if I must say so myself. George may be better suited to a woman who is a little more… simple,’ I catch as I slither through the mass of guests.
‘Their coming together was quite the surprise.’
The howling of the wind of the brewing storm itches my dark tousled hair. The blackening clouds move closer so in defecne I pull my long and dark trench closer to keep warm.
I set out to find Charlotte and assume she would be away from the cruel weather that was circulating. I spot George outside the main hall and squeeze behind him, passing my congratulations as we brush. Peering through the side window of the church I spy Charlotte standing with George’s mother inside. It seems like the pair are engaged in a heated arguement, although I can not guarantee so.
I wait patiently near the main entrance, waiting for Charlotte to appear and when she finally does her radiating beauty strikes me stronger than it had during the ceremony. Weak kneed, I walk by her. Taking her hand, I pleasantly greet her and congratulate her on her newlywed status. Gently rubbing her waist I begin to walk away, leaving the note pressed into the palm of her hand.
Bursting with anticipation and uncertainty, I make my way to the graveyard. The dark clouds have thickened since I last observed them and the chilled wind rushes by me as if it were escaping the rough seas.
Time will only tell of Charlotte’s true loyalty to George.
Chapter 3
Heavy wooden doors are pushed open and Beethoven’s symphonic Ode to Joy instantly greets me. Joy indeed, I am about to gain everything I have ever wanted: a husband, wealth and status. The guests sharply rise from their seats and stand, while I begin to glide down the aisle. The rays of sunlight that manage to protrude through the clouds illuminate me in comparison to the church. God must know this is my wedding day and is making me look as beautiful as an angel. How lucky for the wedding guests; I wager they have never beheld such a radiant beauty such as myself. Father always did tell me as a child that I was a gift from God, his own personal angel. My footsteps are steady and calm as I take in all my surroundings. The church is dark and musty, I do wish George could have found somewhere more picturesque for our union, but he believes that since we have signed the spousals agreement already this ceremony is just for show. Faces stare at me with awe, and I can see that some of the women have already begun to shed tears; women at these events can be terribly irrational with their emotions. But I suppose who can blame them? They are not afforded the same wonderful opportunities as myself in blissful matrimony.
I reach the altar. George is standing there looking very agreeable in his white cravat and black coat; classic eloquence, I should expect nothing less from a man of his social standing. Father steps forward and indicates to the guests to take their seats. He is about to start the ceremony when the wooden doors once again open and light floods the room. I turn and for a moment a sudden light blinds me, then a deep shadow is cast throughout the room. A figure emerges. Instantly I see it is the remarkable poet Lord Byron. He is bathed in sunlight just as I was. My heart stops a moment and he appears to be something not of this world. His eyes meet mine and I feel as if I am in a trance, mesmerized by his supernatural presence. He limps ever so wonderfully to the back pew to take his seat so the wedding ceremony can proceed.
I turn back around to father, when George leans over and whispers,
“I do hope you don’t mind, but I remember you saying how much you admired Byron’s poetry, and since he is an acquaintance from Trinity College, I thought I might surprise you with his presence.”
“Thank you George, this is the most wonderful gift you ever could have given to me.” My voice is elated with joy. For the first time I feel a sense of love for this man who is soon to be my husband. It feels so very new for him take an interest in my artistic and intellectual pursuits rather than just my obvious beauty.
Father commences the ceremony “DEARLY beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this woman in holy matrimony.” It goes on and becomes rather tedious; I do, however, understand the sacredness of these vows.
Memories immediately fill my mind, of poetry, glorious poetry- those are the fondest memories from childhood. I allow myself to reminisce of those times when Byron, Coleridge and Shelley were my only friends and they would fill my hours with wondrous works of beauty. I was 10 years old when Byron first came into my life, his poem “The First Kiss of Love” has forever filled my mind with the vision of true love: “The rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love,” to this day I do not know of the rapture of which Lord Byron speaks. It is likely I will never know this ecstasy, especially with George. I know that he loves me, I can see it in his eyes; he looks at me as if he is gazing into the stars, full of wonderment and awe. But alas, I do not feel this way at all about him. He is a respectable man and will surely make a fine husband, but in my heart I know that this marriage is one sided, he loves me and I him but not as a lover, more as a friend or brother even.
“Do you take this man to be you husband?” Father inquires.
My heart stops a moment, I had not noticed we were already at the end of the ceremony. I take a few moments to gather my thoughts, during this time I can feel the eyes of the guests on me, wondering when I will answer. To the side of me I can see George stiffen and fidget; he always fidgets when he is nervous. I fight the urge to turn around and look at Lord Byron; his wisdom might help me make the right decision.
“I do,” I say.
“Then by the power vested in me by the almighty God, I pronounce you man and wife, in blissful matrimony.” Father instructs us to have our first kiss as husband and wife.
Our lips meet, they are soft and warm, but lacking in passion. This kiss does not consume me or give me ecstasy; this is not a kiss where rapture will dwell, but this is a kiss that I will now know for the entirety of my life. We break apart turn towards the guests, and they all stand to watch us walk out. By this point almost all the women are in tears, except of course Esther - my mother-in-law. She looks utterly disgusted at my union with her son, no more disgusted than myself, as I must now endure the company of this vile woman. Esther has never been welcoming to me; she sees me as a lower class wretch who only wants money. She is right in some way but she is still an old crone. I believe that she is just unhappy at the thought that now her son is married, he will be the patriarch of the family and will be in charge of all assets and wealth.
I smile at this thought, that Esther will soon have no power over her money. That will perhaps teach her a lesson for openly showing her disdain for this wedding and myself.
George and I make our way out of the church arm in arm, and into the rest of our married life. I catch sight of Lord Byron as we are leaving. He smiles an enchanting, almost vampiric smile, and hesitantly I return it with a slight blush.
George notices and suddenly he radiates jealousy so much so that he actually begins to mimic Lord Byron’s limp. How absurd, no one can properly mimic his charismatic gait, and doing so only makes one look foolish.
I reach the altar. George is standing there looking very agreeable in his white cravat and black coat; classic eloquence, I should expect nothing less from a man of his social standing. Father steps forward and indicates to the guests to take their seats. He is about to start the ceremony when the wooden doors once again open and light floods the room. I turn and for a moment a sudden light blinds me, then a deep shadow is cast throughout the room. A figure emerges. Instantly I see it is the remarkable poet Lord Byron. He is bathed in sunlight just as I was. My heart stops a moment and he appears to be something not of this world. His eyes meet mine and I feel as if I am in a trance, mesmerized by his supernatural presence. He limps ever so wonderfully to the back pew to take his seat so the wedding ceremony can proceed.
I turn back around to father, when George leans over and whispers,
“I do hope you don’t mind, but I remember you saying how much you admired Byron’s poetry, and since he is an acquaintance from Trinity College, I thought I might surprise you with his presence.”
“Thank you George, this is the most wonderful gift you ever could have given to me.” My voice is elated with joy. For the first time I feel a sense of love for this man who is soon to be my husband. It feels so very new for him take an interest in my artistic and intellectual pursuits rather than just my obvious beauty.
Father commences the ceremony “DEARLY beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this woman in holy matrimony.” It goes on and becomes rather tedious; I do, however, understand the sacredness of these vows.
Memories immediately fill my mind, of poetry, glorious poetry- those are the fondest memories from childhood. I allow myself to reminisce of those times when Byron, Coleridge and Shelley were my only friends and they would fill my hours with wondrous works of beauty. I was 10 years old when Byron first came into my life, his poem “The First Kiss of Love” has forever filled my mind with the vision of true love: “The rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love,” to this day I do not know of the rapture of which Lord Byron speaks. It is likely I will never know this ecstasy, especially with George. I know that he loves me, I can see it in his eyes; he looks at me as if he is gazing into the stars, full of wonderment and awe. But alas, I do not feel this way at all about him. He is a respectable man and will surely make a fine husband, but in my heart I know that this marriage is one sided, he loves me and I him but not as a lover, more as a friend or brother even.
“Do you take this man to be you husband?” Father inquires.
My heart stops a moment, I had not noticed we were already at the end of the ceremony. I take a few moments to gather my thoughts, during this time I can feel the eyes of the guests on me, wondering when I will answer. To the side of me I can see George stiffen and fidget; he always fidgets when he is nervous. I fight the urge to turn around and look at Lord Byron; his wisdom might help me make the right decision.
“I do,” I say.
“Then by the power vested in me by the almighty God, I pronounce you man and wife, in blissful matrimony.” Father instructs us to have our first kiss as husband and wife.
Our lips meet, they are soft and warm, but lacking in passion. This kiss does not consume me or give me ecstasy; this is not a kiss where rapture will dwell, but this is a kiss that I will now know for the entirety of my life. We break apart turn towards the guests, and they all stand to watch us walk out. By this point almost all the women are in tears, except of course Esther - my mother-in-law. She looks utterly disgusted at my union with her son, no more disgusted than myself, as I must now endure the company of this vile woman. Esther has never been welcoming to me; she sees me as a lower class wretch who only wants money. She is right in some way but she is still an old crone. I believe that she is just unhappy at the thought that now her son is married, he will be the patriarch of the family and will be in charge of all assets and wealth.
I smile at this thought, that Esther will soon have no power over her money. That will perhaps teach her a lesson for openly showing her disdain for this wedding and myself.
George and I make our way out of the church arm in arm, and into the rest of our married life. I catch sight of Lord Byron as we are leaving. He smiles an enchanting, almost vampiric smile, and hesitantly I return it with a slight blush.
George notices and suddenly he radiates jealousy so much so that he actually begins to mimic Lord Byron’s limp. How absurd, no one can properly mimic his charismatic gait, and doing so only makes one look foolish.
Chapter 5
The gathering after the wedding really is quite lovely, if not a bit dull. I do realise that people want to congratulate me, but the only person I truly want to see is Lord Byron. He is nowhere to be found! He appears to have vanished into thin air. My feelings do remind me so of some lines of poetry my Father used to read to me as a child “I snatched, A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face.” A hasty glance was all I was able to get of Lord Byron. I wish to have another chance to lay my eyes upon him; he really does inspire my soul.
My wandering mind has left me completely unaware of my now mother-in-law’s approach.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Worthington-Snape. I do hope you enjoy your new status of matrimony, especially considering your apt choice of a wealthy husband,” Esther snidely remarks. Of course she has to make a scene, in the middle of the guests. Once I get home George and I will have a very long discussion about her future in my household.
“Why thank you Esther. I do hope you enjoyed the wedding; it certainly looked like you did. And dear, it is Mrs. Scott now.” Walking away I smile, a smile of dominance, as if a I am the British fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar and I have just won against the tyranny of the French and Spanish.
I begin to stroll over to George so the guests can congratulate us together as a married couple. George does look so incredibly happy, his smile radiates across the grounds. How proud he must be to have a wife of such beauty on his arm, I admit that I too am quite lucky to have a husband of his standing on mine.
Suddenly my body is lightly knocked backwards. How rude! A guest has bumped into me and has the audacity to leave their rubbish in my hand.
Alas! A note! But what could it be?
On the front my name is written in the most beautiful handwriting; cursive and elegant, it is as if God himself has engraved my name upon this paper. I place the note safely away from eyesight; I must seek a solitary place where I can read it without interruption.
Slowly, my feet wander away from the crowd. There is hardly a place that is not occupied by my guests, except of course the cliff, why it is so windy I dare say no one would venture there for fear of being blown straight off the cliff. The rail that surrounds the looks unsteady even from this distance.
As I begin my ascent towards the cliff, an ancient lime tree comes into view and directly beneath it is a small wooden bench. I am drawn to this spot as it shelters me from the very persistent winds. What an odd spot to have planted a tree, but I suppose it does add to the picturesque scenery of the surrounding area.
I sit and immediately think of George. He does not seem to have noticed that I never did reach him or that I am not with him at this moment. He must be in such a state of joy and happiness that he is not noticing anything. I think of Father as well, as the time is nearing 5’oclock, I do hope that the guests disband soon as I know that he will begin to make a spectacle of himself, as he probably is getting into the spirits already.
My attention is then brought to the note again. I take it from my sleeve and stare at it with confusion and excitement. What lies within this yellowing parchment is a mystery to me and so I begin to open it.
My eyes scan the beautifully inscribed words and a gasp escapes my lips. No one may know of this note. My fingers tremble as they fervently tear the paper into pieces. I take the pieces and throw them into the air. They flutter gracefully away, like doves flying in the breeze. The pieces scatter everywhere and into every direction.
Torn. Just like the paper. I know not what to do. I pray that I have been lead to the right answer as I pick myself up, dust myself off and begin to nervously walk towards the graveyard.
My wandering mind has left me completely unaware of my now mother-in-law’s approach.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Worthington-Snape. I do hope you enjoy your new status of matrimony, especially considering your apt choice of a wealthy husband,” Esther snidely remarks. Of course she has to make a scene, in the middle of the guests. Once I get home George and I will have a very long discussion about her future in my household.
“Why thank you Esther. I do hope you enjoyed the wedding; it certainly looked like you did. And dear, it is Mrs. Scott now.” Walking away I smile, a smile of dominance, as if a I am the British fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar and I have just won against the tyranny of the French and Spanish.
I begin to stroll over to George so the guests can congratulate us together as a married couple. George does look so incredibly happy, his smile radiates across the grounds. How proud he must be to have a wife of such beauty on his arm, I admit that I too am quite lucky to have a husband of his standing on mine.
Suddenly my body is lightly knocked backwards. How rude! A guest has bumped into me and has the audacity to leave their rubbish in my hand.
Alas! A note! But what could it be?
On the front my name is written in the most beautiful handwriting; cursive and elegant, it is as if God himself has engraved my name upon this paper. I place the note safely away from eyesight; I must seek a solitary place where I can read it without interruption.
Slowly, my feet wander away from the crowd. There is hardly a place that is not occupied by my guests, except of course the cliff, why it is so windy I dare say no one would venture there for fear of being blown straight off the cliff. The rail that surrounds the looks unsteady even from this distance.
As I begin my ascent towards the cliff, an ancient lime tree comes into view and directly beneath it is a small wooden bench. I am drawn to this spot as it shelters me from the very persistent winds. What an odd spot to have planted a tree, but I suppose it does add to the picturesque scenery of the surrounding area.
I sit and immediately think of George. He does not seem to have noticed that I never did reach him or that I am not with him at this moment. He must be in such a state of joy and happiness that he is not noticing anything. I think of Father as well, as the time is nearing 5’oclock, I do hope that the guests disband soon as I know that he will begin to make a spectacle of himself, as he probably is getting into the spirits already.
My attention is then brought to the note again. I take it from my sleeve and stare at it with confusion and excitement. What lies within this yellowing parchment is a mystery to me and so I begin to open it.
My eyes scan the beautifully inscribed words and a gasp escapes my lips. No one may know of this note. My fingers tremble as they fervently tear the paper into pieces. I take the pieces and throw them into the air. They flutter gracefully away, like doves flying in the breeze. The pieces scatter everywhere and into every direction.
Torn. Just like the paper. I know not what to do. I pray that I have been lead to the right answer as I pick myself up, dust myself off and begin to nervously walk towards the graveyard.
Chapter 6
A flood of daylight touches my face as I burst through the wooden doors of the church. Cold air rushes to greet me, caressing my face like an old friend. But nothing can quell the rising bitterness in my throat that sabotages my attempts at equanimity. Naturally, the wedding drew cascades of happy tears as all the young ladies envisioned their own unions to rich young gentlemen. Yet, the vows taken were preached with the same intent as most righteous sermons that had preceded them: to deceive. I recall with disgust the moment Charlotte took my son’s hand for herself. Though her radiance has clearly captivated his foolish eyes, I am now left cursing the day Miss Worthington-Snape found her way into his favour.
Suddenly, a flash of emerald alerts me to the encroaching and now unavoidable presence of Mrs Hathaway, a woman whose fashion ensemble and facial features might be likened to a peacock. Emblazoned from head to toe in swathes of shimmering fabric, she saunters towards me. From her arm dangles Mr Hathaway who has a reputation for timidness as he rarely speaks when in company. Although, this is hardly problematic, as his wife always makes up for his silence twofold, even when she has nothing particularly interesting to say.
“Esther! Darling!” she calls loudly, taking my arm in hers as I grit my teeth. “What did you think of the service? You must be overjoyed that your son has found such an agreeable wife- so pretty and young! She reminds me of our Eleanor on her big day. Marriage doubtlessly is the happiest moment in a woman’s life, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose it is, Claire. Everything afterwards tends to go downhill rather dramatically,” I say quietly.
“And what of young Mary?” Mrs Hathaway continues, waving her hand airily so that I catch a glimpse of her scintillating wedding ring. “She must surely be thinking of marriage by now- she is Eleanor’s age after all!”
“My daughter tends to do as she pleases. She is under no obligation to find a husband just yet.”
“Yes, well, we can hope that she finds a nice young man soon and ceases to be burden on your graciousness. Eleanor was always tentative in choosing a husband. Although, she had no shortage of suitors! And now she is happily married with a large home and a young child to keep her busy. Why, she couldn’t have asked for more!” Mrs Hathaway laughed loudly, causing several guests from across the churchyard to turn their heads.
I am unfortunately well acquainted with Mrs Hathaway’s conversation, as her husband’s professorship at St George’s medical school places her in similar circles as myself. Apparently, he discovered some obscure artery and has consequently been deemed a pioneer in his field. Personally, I shudder at the notion of skulking around morgues, dissecting and categorising. If ever there was a pointless endeavour, surely mapping every bone, muscle and blood vessel in the human body is a fair candidate. Mrs Hathaway would surely disagree, as when she is not talking of her daughter Eleanor’s exploits in domestic life, she is almost certainly boasting of her husband’s prowess in his field. Of course, she will generally make an exception if she happens to be privy to a particularly scandalous piece of gossip, usually involving Lord Byron or some other despotic public figure.
“You will have to excuse me, Mrs Hathaway,” I say abruptly with a tight smile. “I really ought to attend to my son and his bride.”
“Why of course, my dear Esther!” she says airily, before steering her husband past me to pin down another guest in conversation.
Carefully extricating myself from the crowd, I make my way to a secluded spot behind the church overlooking the cliff. The ocean spits and hisses at its base, trying to grasp with tendrils of foam the ancient church and pull it into its crushing embrace. The face of God Himself seems reflected in its darkened depths, and His voice to rumble with fury at this sacrilegious marriage! Man enraptured by youthful beauty; woman seeking only the security of wealth. Is this sacrosanct? When my husband and I married, we cared only that we were two souls united by a love for the countryside. Wealth was inconsequential; it was like something out of that silly Sense and Sensibility book that Mary is always reading. Then the world moved on and we moved with it to the great city only to become beacons to the rapacious marauders of this world. People like Charlotte, that duplicitous woman who is now tied to me in the guise of a daughter, fully expectant to live upon the fruits of my demise. A vixen with her eyes locked on a fowl.
Suddenly, a great ruckus at the front of the church draws my attention. I quit my post and make my way to the circle of agitated guests. Mr Worthington-Snape, the father of the bride himself, addresses the crowd from the church steps. What little hair he has is dislodged and sways in the wind as his wild eyes survey the crowd accusingly.
“Charlotte is kidnapped! My angel is missing! We must send out a search party immediately,” he shouts, spittle chasing the stench of whisky from his mouth.
“And what gives you that impression, Sir?” I say coldly.
“No one has seen her in twenty minutes!” he shouts, “Something awful must have happened; a bride would never leave the congregation on her wedding day! No, she is kidnapped! I glimpsed a strange old man lurking around the church before the service. He surely is the culprit!”
“It has only been twenty minutes and you wish to march upon a man whom you have accused without a shred of evidence? We have not even established that she is truly missing! Your fancy has surely tempted you beyond the brink of rationality, Mr Worthington. You have read too many Radcliffe novels.” Mr Worthington’s cheeks redden at this last accusation.
“How dare you! I am well within my right mind. Charlotte would be here by the side of her husband if it weren’t for some dreadful occurrence.” Mr Worthington gestures to my son, who stands with utter distress etched on his face and wrings hid hands agitatedly. I survey the crowd to see that the same expression is worn by most of the guests.
“This is absurd!” I exclaim, but the crowd is no longer listening. And in the wake of my protests, angry whispers begin to emerge, swallowing any last sense of rationality…
Suddenly, a flash of emerald alerts me to the encroaching and now unavoidable presence of Mrs Hathaway, a woman whose fashion ensemble and facial features might be likened to a peacock. Emblazoned from head to toe in swathes of shimmering fabric, she saunters towards me. From her arm dangles Mr Hathaway who has a reputation for timidness as he rarely speaks when in company. Although, this is hardly problematic, as his wife always makes up for his silence twofold, even when she has nothing particularly interesting to say.
“Esther! Darling!” she calls loudly, taking my arm in hers as I grit my teeth. “What did you think of the service? You must be overjoyed that your son has found such an agreeable wife- so pretty and young! She reminds me of our Eleanor on her big day. Marriage doubtlessly is the happiest moment in a woman’s life, don’t you agree?”
“I suppose it is, Claire. Everything afterwards tends to go downhill rather dramatically,” I say quietly.
“And what of young Mary?” Mrs Hathaway continues, waving her hand airily so that I catch a glimpse of her scintillating wedding ring. “She must surely be thinking of marriage by now- she is Eleanor’s age after all!”
“My daughter tends to do as she pleases. She is under no obligation to find a husband just yet.”
“Yes, well, we can hope that she finds a nice young man soon and ceases to be burden on your graciousness. Eleanor was always tentative in choosing a husband. Although, she had no shortage of suitors! And now she is happily married with a large home and a young child to keep her busy. Why, she couldn’t have asked for more!” Mrs Hathaway laughed loudly, causing several guests from across the churchyard to turn their heads.
I am unfortunately well acquainted with Mrs Hathaway’s conversation, as her husband’s professorship at St George’s medical school places her in similar circles as myself. Apparently, he discovered some obscure artery and has consequently been deemed a pioneer in his field. Personally, I shudder at the notion of skulking around morgues, dissecting and categorising. If ever there was a pointless endeavour, surely mapping every bone, muscle and blood vessel in the human body is a fair candidate. Mrs Hathaway would surely disagree, as when she is not talking of her daughter Eleanor’s exploits in domestic life, she is almost certainly boasting of her husband’s prowess in his field. Of course, she will generally make an exception if she happens to be privy to a particularly scandalous piece of gossip, usually involving Lord Byron or some other despotic public figure.
“You will have to excuse me, Mrs Hathaway,” I say abruptly with a tight smile. “I really ought to attend to my son and his bride.”
“Why of course, my dear Esther!” she says airily, before steering her husband past me to pin down another guest in conversation.
Carefully extricating myself from the crowd, I make my way to a secluded spot behind the church overlooking the cliff. The ocean spits and hisses at its base, trying to grasp with tendrils of foam the ancient church and pull it into its crushing embrace. The face of God Himself seems reflected in its darkened depths, and His voice to rumble with fury at this sacrilegious marriage! Man enraptured by youthful beauty; woman seeking only the security of wealth. Is this sacrosanct? When my husband and I married, we cared only that we were two souls united by a love for the countryside. Wealth was inconsequential; it was like something out of that silly Sense and Sensibility book that Mary is always reading. Then the world moved on and we moved with it to the great city only to become beacons to the rapacious marauders of this world. People like Charlotte, that duplicitous woman who is now tied to me in the guise of a daughter, fully expectant to live upon the fruits of my demise. A vixen with her eyes locked on a fowl.
Suddenly, a great ruckus at the front of the church draws my attention. I quit my post and make my way to the circle of agitated guests. Mr Worthington-Snape, the father of the bride himself, addresses the crowd from the church steps. What little hair he has is dislodged and sways in the wind as his wild eyes survey the crowd accusingly.
“Charlotte is kidnapped! My angel is missing! We must send out a search party immediately,” he shouts, spittle chasing the stench of whisky from his mouth.
“And what gives you that impression, Sir?” I say coldly.
“No one has seen her in twenty minutes!” he shouts, “Something awful must have happened; a bride would never leave the congregation on her wedding day! No, she is kidnapped! I glimpsed a strange old man lurking around the church before the service. He surely is the culprit!”
“It has only been twenty minutes and you wish to march upon a man whom you have accused without a shred of evidence? We have not even established that she is truly missing! Your fancy has surely tempted you beyond the brink of rationality, Mr Worthington. You have read too many Radcliffe novels.” Mr Worthington’s cheeks redden at this last accusation.
“How dare you! I am well within my right mind. Charlotte would be here by the side of her husband if it weren’t for some dreadful occurrence.” Mr Worthington gestures to my son, who stands with utter distress etched on his face and wrings hid hands agitatedly. I survey the crowd to see that the same expression is worn by most of the guests.
“This is absurd!” I exclaim, but the crowd is no longer listening. And in the wake of my protests, angry whispers begin to emerge, swallowing any last sense of rationality…
Chapter 8
I seek a seat in the shade under a twisted lime tree as Mr Worthington-Snape’s voice rings throughout the churchyard. The fool’s gesticulations increase in number and intensity as his confidence in his conviction grows. As he would represent it, the stranger’s character had been laid bare before Mr Worthington-Snape in their brief encounter, uncovering an inhospitable nature and an impecunious situation. In fact, what had initially been described only as a ‘glimpse’ had now seemingly become a full conversation with the old man, which had assuredly indicated his absolute guilt in the disappearance of Charlotte. I sigh wearily and attempt to distract myself. Although I am far from the congregation, Mr Worthington-Snape’s ability to project his voice rivals most theatre actors, though he now appears to be in direct competition with a hysterical outburst from Mrs Hathaway.
The wind is howling, and threatens to tear my hat away from its nest of ginger curls. Yet even nature’s violent protest cannot interrupt the commotion at the front of the church. I am contemplating whether I should feign illness and return to the seclusion of my house when a glimpse of white catches my eye. A fragment of parchment flutters across the ground towards me, being pursued by the wind, just as an enraptured child may follow a butterfly. Suddenly, a gust throws the parchment upwards, and seems to guide it into my lap with inexplicable accuracy. Frowning, I turn the parchment in my hands. My initial confusion evaporates, like a veil of cloud being lifted by the piercing rays of the sun. My smile grows wider as I read the delicate inscription, which effortlessly conveys Charlotte’s guilt and offers me an irresistible path to salvation from her grasping hands. Written by an unknown hand, though I am tempted to credit it to an angel in human form, the inscription reads:
“Meet me in the graveyard. Let no one see you.”
Suddenly, I am grateful for Mr Worthington-Snape’s captivating tirade. I rise from my seat and quietly seek the least conspicuous path to the church’s century-old graveyard. For the first time today, my step seems infused with a sense of vivacity. It would seem I finally have the means to make this marriage of convenience work in my favour.
I round the corner, my mood lifting with each step, and the sight that greets my eyes tempts an irresistible smile to reveal itself unashamedly. It would seem that there is one last atrocity that the house of the lord is yet to witness. Mrs Scott sits on a gravestone, snivelling like a child, her dishevelled attire as sure an indicator of her guilt as her expression. I clear my throat and she springs upwards, fearfully glancing over her shoulder. I follow her gaze and am greeted by the sight of the angel himself, Lord Byron, triumphantly strolling from his conquest in the most nonchalant and indifferent manner. Little does he know what he has done for me today; he has stripped Charlotte not only of her purity, but of that pride that was sure to make my existence a miserable one. I return my gaze to Charlotte, who seems utterly lost for words.
“Why, hello Mrs Scott. We’ve all been looking for you. You’ve caused quite a stir in the churchyard; your father and your husband are dreadfully worried,” I say calmly, though my voice is cold and laced with disdain.
“Esther… oh goodness… I… I... I assure you, this isn’t what it seems,” Charlotte squeaks, too stunned to even cry. She looks desperately around her, but no aid is coming for her now. No father to justify her every action; no husband to idealise her. She is a hare who has realised too late that she is, and always has been, fixed in the eye of a hound.
“I am no fool, Charlotte,” I snap. “This is exactly what it looks like and you should be utterly ashamed! Passion has claimed you as his own. You are sullied, you will be haunted every time you kiss or embrace your husband.”
My reproach seems to stun the young bride, as though she is unused to being reprimanded. Large tears well in her sapphire eyes.
“He seduced me!” she exclaims, pointing with a shaking hand in the direction of the absent philanderer. “He is the traitor, and he should be held accountable.”
“Foolish girl! These actions are your own doing, and I am compelled to inform the congregation of them.”
“No! Please don’t tell them! Think of my father! Think of George!”
“George! You, my dear, are the one who has betrayed George. If I was any kind of a dutiful mother, I would be obliged to tell him exactly what kind of an adulterous and hedonistic woman his bride is!”
“Please, I’ll do anything!” Charlotte wails with huge tears running tracks down her neck towards her heart.
“Why, that is precisely what I have come here to discuss, my dear. Let us take a short walk, and I suggest you try your very hardest to convince me not to reveal your indiscretion to your husband,” I say. I watch as understanding dawns in Charlotte’s wide, tear-streaked eyes. I take her arm in mine, a wicked smile lurking on my face.
“I think you and I ought to have a conversation, my dear, about our future relationship. After all, I think you could benefit from the understanding of precisely what is expected from a dutiful daughter in law…”
The wind is howling, and threatens to tear my hat away from its nest of ginger curls. Yet even nature’s violent protest cannot interrupt the commotion at the front of the church. I am contemplating whether I should feign illness and return to the seclusion of my house when a glimpse of white catches my eye. A fragment of parchment flutters across the ground towards me, being pursued by the wind, just as an enraptured child may follow a butterfly. Suddenly, a gust throws the parchment upwards, and seems to guide it into my lap with inexplicable accuracy. Frowning, I turn the parchment in my hands. My initial confusion evaporates, like a veil of cloud being lifted by the piercing rays of the sun. My smile grows wider as I read the delicate inscription, which effortlessly conveys Charlotte’s guilt and offers me an irresistible path to salvation from her grasping hands. Written by an unknown hand, though I am tempted to credit it to an angel in human form, the inscription reads:
“Meet me in the graveyard. Let no one see you.”
Suddenly, I am grateful for Mr Worthington-Snape’s captivating tirade. I rise from my seat and quietly seek the least conspicuous path to the church’s century-old graveyard. For the first time today, my step seems infused with a sense of vivacity. It would seem I finally have the means to make this marriage of convenience work in my favour.
I round the corner, my mood lifting with each step, and the sight that greets my eyes tempts an irresistible smile to reveal itself unashamedly. It would seem that there is one last atrocity that the house of the lord is yet to witness. Mrs Scott sits on a gravestone, snivelling like a child, her dishevelled attire as sure an indicator of her guilt as her expression. I clear my throat and she springs upwards, fearfully glancing over her shoulder. I follow her gaze and am greeted by the sight of the angel himself, Lord Byron, triumphantly strolling from his conquest in the most nonchalant and indifferent manner. Little does he know what he has done for me today; he has stripped Charlotte not only of her purity, but of that pride that was sure to make my existence a miserable one. I return my gaze to Charlotte, who seems utterly lost for words.
“Why, hello Mrs Scott. We’ve all been looking for you. You’ve caused quite a stir in the churchyard; your father and your husband are dreadfully worried,” I say calmly, though my voice is cold and laced with disdain.
“Esther… oh goodness… I… I... I assure you, this isn’t what it seems,” Charlotte squeaks, too stunned to even cry. She looks desperately around her, but no aid is coming for her now. No father to justify her every action; no husband to idealise her. She is a hare who has realised too late that she is, and always has been, fixed in the eye of a hound.
“I am no fool, Charlotte,” I snap. “This is exactly what it looks like and you should be utterly ashamed! Passion has claimed you as his own. You are sullied, you will be haunted every time you kiss or embrace your husband.”
My reproach seems to stun the young bride, as though she is unused to being reprimanded. Large tears well in her sapphire eyes.
“He seduced me!” she exclaims, pointing with a shaking hand in the direction of the absent philanderer. “He is the traitor, and he should be held accountable.”
“Foolish girl! These actions are your own doing, and I am compelled to inform the congregation of them.”
“No! Please don’t tell them! Think of my father! Think of George!”
“George! You, my dear, are the one who has betrayed George. If I was any kind of a dutiful mother, I would be obliged to tell him exactly what kind of an adulterous and hedonistic woman his bride is!”
“Please, I’ll do anything!” Charlotte wails with huge tears running tracks down her neck towards her heart.
“Why, that is precisely what I have come here to discuss, my dear. Let us take a short walk, and I suggest you try your very hardest to convince me not to reveal your indiscretion to your husband,” I say. I watch as understanding dawns in Charlotte’s wide, tear-streaked eyes. I take her arm in mine, a wicked smile lurking on my face.
“I think you and I ought to have a conversation, my dear, about our future relationship. After all, I think you could benefit from the understanding of precisely what is expected from a dutiful daughter in law…”
chapter 9
Her soft whimpers of pleasure make the hairs on my arm stick up like daggers. I feel her heavy breathing reach the depth of my spine as she playfully scratches the underneath of my shoulders. Pinning her under my touch, I rub my thumb against her cheek, barely touching it and catch her eyes. I touch her with the sole purpose of learning all of her. I touch her because what light is left looks pretty on her. I touch her like she’s the most beautiful royal.
I feel her soft leg rub against mine as I slowly reach up under her dress. A sea of white fabric spawns as her dress finds itself alone in the grass and dirt. Gently caressing her face, I bring mine closer and kiss her with such passion and emotion that even I was taken aback. She tastes sweet like the wine that lingers on her breath. Her pale face flushed as if she were embarrassed.
After making gentle love, signals of defeat escape her. She lies, panting heavily. Her pupils dilating as she wipes her brow line with her forearm.
‘Byron,’ she whispers.
I press my index finger to her pulsing lips, hushing her.
I gather my items and leave her with a steaming touch of the lips.
Charlotte, sitting gracefully on the small, iron framed bench lightly hiccups as a sea of tears stream down her face. I catch a glimpse of her quivering bottom lip where her salty tears meet and guiltily duck my head, preparing to flee the scene. An overwhelming sense of accomplishment engulfs me as I parade away.
I decide to walk north, away from the church and away from the prying eyes to celebrate my victory. I take a moment to reflect and praise the mortal sin that I had not only witnessed, but encouraged to the point where I gained pleasure and satisfaction.
The image of Charlotte with her head hung back in ecstasy and shoulders pressed in the fresh grass as she quivered at my touch has firmly planted itself at the forefront of my consciousness. Accepting that it wouldn’t be fading anytime soon, I settle down against a large tree trunk where the dirt forms a surprisingly comfortable cushion for my young and rounded toosh. I close my eyes and let the rough wind disrupt the soft dirt that surrounds me. Small flakes excitedly nest in the fibres of my trench as if they have found a new home. Not wanting to disrupt the natural tranquillity in which I am so awfully inspired, I am careful not to move.
I notice myself nodding to sleep, yet make no attempt to prevent it. Knowing my slumber will be graced with dreams of Charlotte, I slightly readjust, turning my head to rest in the natural crevice of the stump and quietly fall to peace.
***
As predicted, my dreams were christened with the presence of Charlotte. Various flashbacks struck as my mind tried to process the innocence I had just robbed of the young girl. The soft touch of her white satin underwear feeling almost as real in my dreams as it did at the time. I see her hair, now less perfectly curled seeped into the grass, slithering as she moved. I admire the small fragments of stray hair that latched the sides of her face and her glistening droplets of adrenalin that leak from her forehead.
A heavy rumble of thunder shocks me back to consciousness and I look around for any indication as per the time. The clouds had further darkened and the lacking sunlight gave the impression it was late afternoon. I hitch myself using a sprouting branch and ignore the cracking damage I leave. Assuming the crowd has dispersed during my absence, I turn to walk back to the church. I make the better of 20 paces before noticing a dark pair of eyes emerging from the shadows, their beastly glimmer catching my attention. His greyish white beard matches that of the looming clouds. I watch him stumble into full view, his figure more noticeably rounded and exceeded. I crease my forehead and squint in an attempt to better focus his hunchbacked figure.
“Byron?” he creaks. His voice weak and hoarse.
He begins to approach me and again I politely duck my head, nodding as I pass. I can hear his mumbling following me and remain cautious not to draw attention.
Lightning strikes and suddenly he stands before me. My back arches as I retract in fear. His glossy eyes now stare directly down mine. He brings forth his pruned and lankish hands, still muttering under his devilish glance.
“Oh sweet guest of the wedding, hear my plea,
Hear my story and set me free.”
He takes my hand into his ignoring my defensive body language. I quickly pull my hand from his, folding my arms as they were. Remaining silent and keeping my distance, I motion him to continue.
“My soul hath been lone in thah depth of ta sea,
So lone that God, not even he could rescue thah pitied mi.
None could be more sweetah than the companee of such witted men.
He here today, thah wedding so,
Confused to whare precious Charlie would go.
Yer secret mine is to keep,
Good heavens hide before eye, she weeps.”
I take a step back, horrified by the man’s short tale. He follows me again, his crusty lips part once more. In a move of defence, I aggressively push him to the ground and run towards to the church. I slide back into the room I sat before, again seeking a single sheet and ink. I scribe the words the dazed man spoke and breathing heavily, sink back into the old chair.
Question upon question rises. Never before have I spotted such an unsightly creature. I wonder if he lurked in the yard during my time with Charlotte. At the realisation that someone may have witnessed my robbery, a sense of sheer terror and anguish I had not expected to feel arises. I fear for the safety of Charlotte, as her whereabouts remain a mystery. I escape the church, this time unnoticed and venture outside to scope the remaining guests. Soft murmurs travel the small area. Some guests noticeably frazzled, however, most quietly sit making idle conversation.
I spot George. His head hung low, surrounded by family. Arms wrapped by his mother, he turns to her and leaves a small kiss on her forehead and walks away.
It becomes clear to me that Charlotte is yet to return. I disappear into the shadows, still in awe at the strangest of all men I met.
Dusk settles.
Surrendering, I make my way home, embracing today’s events.
I feel her soft leg rub against mine as I slowly reach up under her dress. A sea of white fabric spawns as her dress finds itself alone in the grass and dirt. Gently caressing her face, I bring mine closer and kiss her with such passion and emotion that even I was taken aback. She tastes sweet like the wine that lingers on her breath. Her pale face flushed as if she were embarrassed.
After making gentle love, signals of defeat escape her. She lies, panting heavily. Her pupils dilating as she wipes her brow line with her forearm.
‘Byron,’ she whispers.
I press my index finger to her pulsing lips, hushing her.
I gather my items and leave her with a steaming touch of the lips.
Charlotte, sitting gracefully on the small, iron framed bench lightly hiccups as a sea of tears stream down her face. I catch a glimpse of her quivering bottom lip where her salty tears meet and guiltily duck my head, preparing to flee the scene. An overwhelming sense of accomplishment engulfs me as I parade away.
I decide to walk north, away from the church and away from the prying eyes to celebrate my victory. I take a moment to reflect and praise the mortal sin that I had not only witnessed, but encouraged to the point where I gained pleasure and satisfaction.
The image of Charlotte with her head hung back in ecstasy and shoulders pressed in the fresh grass as she quivered at my touch has firmly planted itself at the forefront of my consciousness. Accepting that it wouldn’t be fading anytime soon, I settle down against a large tree trunk where the dirt forms a surprisingly comfortable cushion for my young and rounded toosh. I close my eyes and let the rough wind disrupt the soft dirt that surrounds me. Small flakes excitedly nest in the fibres of my trench as if they have found a new home. Not wanting to disrupt the natural tranquillity in which I am so awfully inspired, I am careful not to move.
I notice myself nodding to sleep, yet make no attempt to prevent it. Knowing my slumber will be graced with dreams of Charlotte, I slightly readjust, turning my head to rest in the natural crevice of the stump and quietly fall to peace.
***
As predicted, my dreams were christened with the presence of Charlotte. Various flashbacks struck as my mind tried to process the innocence I had just robbed of the young girl. The soft touch of her white satin underwear feeling almost as real in my dreams as it did at the time. I see her hair, now less perfectly curled seeped into the grass, slithering as she moved. I admire the small fragments of stray hair that latched the sides of her face and her glistening droplets of adrenalin that leak from her forehead.
A heavy rumble of thunder shocks me back to consciousness and I look around for any indication as per the time. The clouds had further darkened and the lacking sunlight gave the impression it was late afternoon. I hitch myself using a sprouting branch and ignore the cracking damage I leave. Assuming the crowd has dispersed during my absence, I turn to walk back to the church. I make the better of 20 paces before noticing a dark pair of eyes emerging from the shadows, their beastly glimmer catching my attention. His greyish white beard matches that of the looming clouds. I watch him stumble into full view, his figure more noticeably rounded and exceeded. I crease my forehead and squint in an attempt to better focus his hunchbacked figure.
“Byron?” he creaks. His voice weak and hoarse.
He begins to approach me and again I politely duck my head, nodding as I pass. I can hear his mumbling following me and remain cautious not to draw attention.
Lightning strikes and suddenly he stands before me. My back arches as I retract in fear. His glossy eyes now stare directly down mine. He brings forth his pruned and lankish hands, still muttering under his devilish glance.
“Oh sweet guest of the wedding, hear my plea,
Hear my story and set me free.”
He takes my hand into his ignoring my defensive body language. I quickly pull my hand from his, folding my arms as they were. Remaining silent and keeping my distance, I motion him to continue.
“My soul hath been lone in thah depth of ta sea,
So lone that God, not even he could rescue thah pitied mi.
None could be more sweetah than the companee of such witted men.
He here today, thah wedding so,
Confused to whare precious Charlie would go.
Yer secret mine is to keep,
Good heavens hide before eye, she weeps.”
I take a step back, horrified by the man’s short tale. He follows me again, his crusty lips part once more. In a move of defence, I aggressively push him to the ground and run towards to the church. I slide back into the room I sat before, again seeking a single sheet and ink. I scribe the words the dazed man spoke and breathing heavily, sink back into the old chair.
Question upon question rises. Never before have I spotted such an unsightly creature. I wonder if he lurked in the yard during my time with Charlotte. At the realisation that someone may have witnessed my robbery, a sense of sheer terror and anguish I had not expected to feel arises. I fear for the safety of Charlotte, as her whereabouts remain a mystery. I escape the church, this time unnoticed and venture outside to scope the remaining guests. Soft murmurs travel the small area. Some guests noticeably frazzled, however, most quietly sit making idle conversation.
I spot George. His head hung low, surrounded by family. Arms wrapped by his mother, he turns to her and leaves a small kiss on her forehead and walks away.
It becomes clear to me that Charlotte is yet to return. I disappear into the shadows, still in awe at the strangest of all men I met.
Dusk settles.
Surrendering, I make my way home, embracing today’s events.
chapter 10
The sound of bells tolling breaks us from silence. The air that was holding my lungs locked tight escapes my lips; the movement seems to be involuntary. I feel out of breath, as if i had not drawn breath the entire time we spoke. The nature of his tale drowning out the sound of muffled conversations and my mouth begins to water as the salt air dances on my tongue. I cannot think of a way to show my appreciation for his precious words. As i reach out to graze his hand with my own, i thank him so for saying all the things i needed to hear, before i knew i needed them.
With his eyes alone, the ghostly sailor touches my heart and thanks me for keeping him company. I can tell that not many passers-by give him the time of day; how glad I am to have stopped to hear him speak. In the time it takes me to pull a stray hair from my cheekbone, he disappears into the murky grey matter that forms the cliffs edge.
My head leaves my heart behind as i draw my attention to the crowd beside the chapel. It takes me a short while to realize that their now piercing eyes are focused on where i stand, and the priest himself points in my direction. No words will ever suffice in describing the look of sheer devastation that dominates his face.
I step towards the dishevelled clusters of people to make sense of their mumbles and whispers. I piece together the problem at hand. Charlotte is nowhere to be found. Accusations are being thrown at an old wretched man with black and wicked and sinful eyes. I know now they mean the old mariner. Such a saint you’d hope would find some pity, instead he blackens his heart; the hideous notion of this accusation weighs down my lifted spirits.
My head begins to pound out of fear for this poor man who knows no such act of crime, I know cannot prove his innocence other than my word. Just as i begin to open my mouth in defence of the seemingly chaotic situation, charlotte emerges from a nearby tree line in the company of my mother, Esther. The look of utter satisfaction on my mother’s face causes me to enter a state of shock. I assess the impurities on Charlotte’s once spotless gown and notice her perfect curls ruffled beyond a tasteful fashion. My jaw begins to drop at the possibility of what has happened. The bride has clearly rolled in a garden bed, with someone... someone other than my brother George.
In the distance, I see the reputable Lord Byron, strutting down the grassy Cliffside. He is not alone; I see the mariner at his side. I have no doubt that Byron hears the tale of the storm and the Albatross, and the pain of regretted choices.
Charlotte now a painting of betrayal, a beautiful tragedy left still in her dismissal. Grace, beauty, love, grief; all in one brilliant masterpiece. The ceremony proved to be delightfully chaotic; a splendid mess, while i enjoyed the fruits of a prophetic adventure.
I pity the lime tree that bore witness to such an indiscretion. The branches sigh with guilt as if the ruffled white mocked its innocence. Charlotte and Byron. They played each other’s hearts like well worn strings, until the point of inevitable detachment. Even from outside the chapel, during the ceremony i heard the words of the priest “reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained” I suppose Charlotte disregarded her father’s words the moment they passed his lips.
The crowd will make their judgements and thrust them upon whom they choose, but I would kiss those black and wicked and sinful eyes and even pray that such a wretch as Charlotte should meet this man of wisdom.
As i peer down the lulled beach side, i close my eyes and thank my heart for opening beneath the clouded sky today. As my dearest Wordsworth has said “The ocean is a mighty harmonist”, I cannot agree with him more. As the wind plays my softly pinned hair, I take my notebook, tear out the pages before me, and write my new beginning...
The tide’s going out
Only to come back later
It kissed the sand goodbye
And taken parts too
The moon will bring back the tide and
The tide will bring back the sand
Then the moon will go
Only to come back some other time
And like the tide he slipped away
And stole some parts of me
And left the words that wrapped my ears
I know i will never see him again.
What a pity it is
That our lives aren’t like
The tide -
The sand -
The moon -
Soon they will go
And they will never come back
No longer will i wade in the shallows
I will embrace the waves
Before my tide goes out
With his eyes alone, the ghostly sailor touches my heart and thanks me for keeping him company. I can tell that not many passers-by give him the time of day; how glad I am to have stopped to hear him speak. In the time it takes me to pull a stray hair from my cheekbone, he disappears into the murky grey matter that forms the cliffs edge.
My head leaves my heart behind as i draw my attention to the crowd beside the chapel. It takes me a short while to realize that their now piercing eyes are focused on where i stand, and the priest himself points in my direction. No words will ever suffice in describing the look of sheer devastation that dominates his face.
I step towards the dishevelled clusters of people to make sense of their mumbles and whispers. I piece together the problem at hand. Charlotte is nowhere to be found. Accusations are being thrown at an old wretched man with black and wicked and sinful eyes. I know now they mean the old mariner. Such a saint you’d hope would find some pity, instead he blackens his heart; the hideous notion of this accusation weighs down my lifted spirits.
My head begins to pound out of fear for this poor man who knows no such act of crime, I know cannot prove his innocence other than my word. Just as i begin to open my mouth in defence of the seemingly chaotic situation, charlotte emerges from a nearby tree line in the company of my mother, Esther. The look of utter satisfaction on my mother’s face causes me to enter a state of shock. I assess the impurities on Charlotte’s once spotless gown and notice her perfect curls ruffled beyond a tasteful fashion. My jaw begins to drop at the possibility of what has happened. The bride has clearly rolled in a garden bed, with someone... someone other than my brother George.
In the distance, I see the reputable Lord Byron, strutting down the grassy Cliffside. He is not alone; I see the mariner at his side. I have no doubt that Byron hears the tale of the storm and the Albatross, and the pain of regretted choices.
Charlotte now a painting of betrayal, a beautiful tragedy left still in her dismissal. Grace, beauty, love, grief; all in one brilliant masterpiece. The ceremony proved to be delightfully chaotic; a splendid mess, while i enjoyed the fruits of a prophetic adventure.
I pity the lime tree that bore witness to such an indiscretion. The branches sigh with guilt as if the ruffled white mocked its innocence. Charlotte and Byron. They played each other’s hearts like well worn strings, until the point of inevitable detachment. Even from outside the chapel, during the ceremony i heard the words of the priest “reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained” I suppose Charlotte disregarded her father’s words the moment they passed his lips.
The crowd will make their judgements and thrust them upon whom they choose, but I would kiss those black and wicked and sinful eyes and even pray that such a wretch as Charlotte should meet this man of wisdom.
As i peer down the lulled beach side, i close my eyes and thank my heart for opening beneath the clouded sky today. As my dearest Wordsworth has said “The ocean is a mighty harmonist”, I cannot agree with him more. As the wind plays my softly pinned hair, I take my notebook, tear out the pages before me, and write my new beginning...
The tide’s going out
Only to come back later
It kissed the sand goodbye
And taken parts too
The moon will bring back the tide and
The tide will bring back the sand
Then the moon will go
Only to come back some other time
And like the tide he slipped away
And stole some parts of me
And left the words that wrapped my ears
I know i will never see him again.
What a pity it is
That our lives aren’t like
The tide -
The sand -
The moon -
Soon they will go
And they will never come back
No longer will i wade in the shallows
I will embrace the waves
Before my tide goes out