[ Starting over isn't easy when it matters. Not when you've invested your entire life in expectations that never come to pass. Or when you spend so long convincing yourself--and being convinced by others--that what you want is wrong. That happiness, how you define it, is wrong. ]
Shit. [ It's barely a breath of a word, reacting instinctively to the point of the needle in Mary's hand pricking the soft pad of her thumb, but even as she lifts her finger to her mouth, she can feel the weight of Dame Moseby's stare. ]
Mrs. Linton! I had no idea you used such language!
[ It isn't that Moseby, a "Dame" purely by self-proclamation, is a particularly pious woman; she's not slowing her descent into Hades any more than the Mayor of Saint Denis himself. Moseby only wishes she were in such a city, where her pernicious nature would blend in unnoticed. Here, however, in this small town? It comes across pompous. Needlessly judgmental.
It reminds Mary of her father. ]
Only when necessary, [ Mary inspects her thumb, pressing on it to conjure forth a garnet bead, only to swipe it away and return the digit to her lips. Damn needle. Damn hat. Damn daddy. Damn world. ] Sorry.
[ Moseby sighs, setting down the stuffed bird of a hat she was working on. ] Why don't you run off to the post office, see if my parcel has arrived? And stop by Mr. Shipton's to check on those feathers I asked for?
[ Mary breathes out through her nostrils, setting her own hat and needle down with excessive care. She doesn't want to be kind to the thing that just bit her, but she needs to keep her job. Her job. She never thought those words would apply to her, not really.
She stands, brushing her hands on her dark skirt and crossing the room to the door without a word. Out on the street, she walks with her eyes downcast, thinking about the flowers she'd been stitching onto that damn hat.
It's been almost a year since she last saw those flowers. ]
[ A year, and those flowers still bloomed, free and wild and flourishing.
If only the same could be said of them.
Charles had found himself drawn south once more, attempting to eek out a living where possible. One could only exile themselves to a lonely existance in the wilderness before it started to wear on your mind. Physically, survival was not a question.
But loneliness and despair, mixed together, was a slow-acting poison. It sat heavy in the blood and he knew what came of that eventually. He'd seen it work its evil on his father, before him.
Which is how he winds up in a town he knows he won't be welcome in, making his way to the tavern for a quiet drink and the sound of other people. What he wasn't expecting was to see a familiar face crossing the wooden planks and headed in his direction. For a brief moment he pauses, eyes widening slightly in wonder.
Once was coincidence. Twice?
Maybe there was a reason for it. ]
...Mrs. Linton.
[ The words feel dry on his lips, unused to having someone to converse with after many months, but they come all the same. ]
[ She looks up, expecting to see--well, nobody in particular, really. She expected to flash the requisite polite nod, perhaps give a perfunctory "hello," and move on. If unlucky, she might be waylaid by someone actually wanting to speak at length about the weather.
But the first expression to take hold is surprise. Hot on surprise's heels is a genuine smile. ]
Mr. Smith, [ She almost says Charles but as much of her raw emotions he's been witness to, perhaps first names are too familiar yet. Strange, that he should feel much more familiar to her than he is. ] It's good to see you; how are you?
[ Not really, but he's alive. That's something. His head bobs in a nod, a faint greeting. Circumstances being what they were the last time they'd met -- their first actual meeting, in fact -l- he's not quite sure where they stand. Cautious acquaintanceship, perhaps.
But her greeting is warmer than that, and there's some relief to be found in that. ]
What brings you here? I thought you were headed back to the city.
Oh, [ Yes, when they'd parted ways last, she had been on her way back to the city--though what she'd neglected to mention then was that she was on her way to pack her life into a luggage set.
A luggage set she later sold to pay her way. ] It's a long story, and not a very interesting one. But I'm here, for now. Trying my hand at a trade.
[ Said like someone who regrets the decision. Perhaps she does. Regrets not getting married again, having a simple, predictable, safe life with another man she thinks she can grow to love. She gestures in the direction she'd been walking. ] Would you walk with me? If you're not...busy?
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Shit. [ It's barely a breath of a word, reacting instinctively to the point of the needle in Mary's hand pricking the soft pad of her thumb, but even as she lifts her finger to her mouth, she can feel the weight of Dame Moseby's stare. ]
Mrs. Linton! I had no idea you used such language!
[ It isn't that Moseby, a "Dame" purely by self-proclamation, is a particularly pious woman; she's not slowing her descent into Hades any more than the Mayor of Saint Denis himself. Moseby only wishes she were in such a city, where her pernicious nature would blend in unnoticed. Here, however, in this small town? It comes across pompous. Needlessly judgmental.
It reminds Mary of her father. ]
Only when necessary, [ Mary inspects her thumb, pressing on it to conjure forth a garnet bead, only to swipe it away and return the digit to her lips. Damn needle. Damn hat. Damn daddy. Damn world. ] Sorry.
[ Moseby sighs, setting down the stuffed bird of a hat she was working on. ] Why don't you run off to the post office, see if my parcel has arrived? And stop by Mr. Shipton's to check on those feathers I asked for?
[ Mary breathes out through her nostrils, setting her own hat and needle down with excessive care. She doesn't want to be kind to the thing that just bit her, but she needs to keep her job. Her job. She never thought those words would apply to her, not really.
She stands, brushing her hands on her dark skirt and crossing the room to the door without a word. Out on the street, she walks with her eyes downcast, thinking about the flowers she'd been stitching onto that damn hat.
It's been almost a year since she last saw those flowers. ]
no subject
If only the same could be said of them.
Charles had found himself drawn south once more, attempting to eek out a living where possible. One could only exile themselves to a lonely existance in the wilderness before it started to wear on your mind. Physically, survival was not a question.
But loneliness and despair, mixed together, was a slow-acting poison. It sat heavy in the blood and he knew what came of that eventually. He'd seen it work its evil on his father, before him.
Which is how he winds up in a town he knows he won't be welcome in, making his way to the tavern for a quiet drink and the sound of other people. What he wasn't expecting was to see a familiar face crossing the wooden planks and headed in his direction. For a brief moment he pauses, eyes widening slightly in wonder.
Once was coincidence. Twice?
Maybe there was a reason for it. ]
...Mrs. Linton.
[ The words feel dry on his lips, unused to having someone to converse with after many months, but they come all the same. ]
no subject
But the first expression to take hold is surprise. Hot on surprise's heels is a genuine smile. ]
Mr. Smith, [ She almost says Charles but as much of her raw emotions he's been witness to, perhaps first names are too familiar yet. Strange, that he should feel much more familiar to her than he is. ] It's good to see you; how are you?
no subject
[ Not really, but he's alive. That's something. His head bobs in a nod, a faint greeting. Circumstances being what they were the last time they'd met -- their first actual meeting, in fact -l- he's not quite sure where they stand. Cautious acquaintanceship, perhaps.
But her greeting is warmer than that, and there's some relief to be found in that. ]
What brings you here? I thought you were headed back to the city.
no subject
A luggage set she later sold to pay her way. ] It's a long story, and not a very interesting one. But I'm here, for now. Trying my hand at a trade.
[ Said like someone who regrets the decision. Perhaps she does. Regrets not getting married again, having a simple, predictable, safe life with another man she thinks she can grow to love. She gestures in the direction she'd been walking. ] Would you walk with me? If you're not...busy?
[ That's...probably too familiar, Mary. ]