@nothing-ventured / nothing-ventured.tumblr.com
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë (1847)
Carl Larsson
act wholeheartedly and decidedly moral, damning your own chances of happiness in the process
host a ball in the style of Versailles before the revolution, unknowingly giving the servants excellent ideas
The Captain shakes his head. “No need, it is only for security. I would be holding the rope and letting you slowly down. Here!” The man ties the free end of the rope into a loop which he then hands to Miss Pratt. “You put your foot in here and hold tight, and shall take care of the rest.”
And as the man looks at her, for a moment it is as if he truly sees her for the first time.
It has been months, but he remembers her clearly as the day they had parted - her somber dress, her respectable hairdo, decent and wholly unremarkable, at least for those who does not know her as Merivel does. That pantalooned shape before him seems wrong in every respect; and at the same time completely natural, pleasing even. The Captain does not truly consider Anna as a female, partly in order to conserve his own sanity, but also because she is nothing like the ladies he has had the misfortune to encounter before her. That she should not be allowed into trousers seems almost ridiculous; and once she appears before him in a pair, it is as if a piece of the world finally falls into place. “Dear child,” Merivel utters, momentarily losing the urgency of their escape and entirely unable to express the surge of confusion he is experiencing. He leans clumsily to kiss her brow, then clears his throat, embarrassed. “Hurry now, as I showed you.”
“Of course.” He would have thought of that--of course he would have. She takes a deep breath to compose her galloping nervous heart, but to little effect. She will simply have to forge on regardless.
That kiss breaks through her nervousness better than a dozen breaths; it replaces fear with love. She will never be able to repay the captain, but she will not disappoint him, either.
She presses her lips into a tight line and resists the urge to embrace her saviour again, and instead sits up on the open window’s sill and wiggles her boot deep into the loop, lodging it just under her heel as if in a stirrup. It has been a very long time since she last climbed on top of a horse, but she remembers the basic functions, and imagines this cannot be much harder. She swings her legs outside, to dangle over the drop, and hangs on tight, looking silently back to the captain to make sure he is ready before she flings herself down.
Pro: I love pineapple
Con: pineapple is highly acidic
Pro: I have lots of pineapple!
Con: …I have absolutely no (zero) self control.
Pro: the pineapple is really yummy!
Con: I now have citric acid burns on my tongue.
Curse you delicious armor fruit of burning acid. Why must you be delicious?!
"This is why one does not eat the pineapple, one leaves it to rot as a centerpiece at dinners and rents it out to less wealthy friends for the same purpose."
“God, I certainly hope so,” the Captain grins and hooks one leg over the windowsill. “This situation would be prodigious awkward otherwise. Quietly now, but hurry. Put this on.”
The man flings a small bag into the room. Inside he has prepared a coat, a pair of seaman’s canvas trousers and an ugly, shapeless hat - it is all too unsightly and probably too big for Anna, but it would serve as a disguise. The Captain had thought of borrowing something of Mr Drawlight’s, but nothing the small man owns is suitable for climbing or jumping over fences.
“Take what is most dear to you. I doubt you would be coming back.” There is also a length of thin rope in the bag, and after squeezing his entire bulk through the window, Merivel produces it and busies himself with tying the end of it it to the foot of the bed. He does not offer any more explanations - that Anna would have any objections is unthinkable, and her questions can wait for when they are in the hackney.
“I’ve thought every grocer’s boy is you,” Anna hissed in whisper. “I knew you’d come.” It is not entirely true. She hoped, obsessed, but never truly believed. Wickedness like hers-- She strangled that thought before it could take form.
She casts her eye back at the room, but her locket is hung about her neck, and nothing else here belongs to her. She crouches to rummage though the bag. She does not need to ask what the clothes are for, but shimmied out of her outer garments until only her shift and petticoat remained, both light enough to be stuffed inside the canvas trousers. The long sleeves of her petticoat are not unlike a gentleman’s, but would still be far too fine in quality without the coat to hide them. The clothes smell strange and rough, of other people--or perhaps that is only in her mind.
She can climb--or she believes she can. She did as a child, at any rate. "The bed will shift and alert the house,” she whispers as she sees what the captain is doing. “Could we not wedge a chair sideways on the window?”
If anyone had dared suggest that Captain Merivel would ever, under any circumstances consider climbing the bedchamber window of a lady under the cover of darkness, the unfortunate soul would have found himself called to the field of honour.
And yet, there he is - helping himself up the rain-pipe, bare feet seeking purchase in the brickwork of the less-presentable side of the house, overlooking the small inner yard and the servants’ entrance. His goal is a window on the second storey, pointed to him by a reluctant, but fairly bribed servant. It is left unlocked, or it should be, by the terms of their contract; and behind it there is a fair maiden.
The Captain resents the thought and prefers to imagine himself infiltrating an enemy fort for the purpose of extracting a captured comrade. It is hard however to keep that pretence when he looks through the glass into Anna’s room. It is not lavishly furnished or inviting romantic thoughts of any kind, but it is not a dank cell either. There is a light, which means that the girl is inside, and awake too - he could not think of Anna as someone who would waste candles. He risks a soft knock. She is not expecting him, as he has decided against passing a message, far too risky, so he needs to attract her attention without alerting the entire household.
Anna is startled from her reading by the knock. Reading has been a labour, with the light low and her French only passable, so she had been much absorbed, but even so she knows that knock did not come from the door.
Merivel! That is her first thought. She has thought of little else in the days since their last correspondence. Her habit of hanging about the curtains looking at the street has been commented on more than once. She has lurked at the top of the stairs to see who has come in the servants’ entrance. She has listened for every knock at the door and looked hungrily upon the letters as they were distributed in the drawing room. Her genteel prison has no locks, except at night--Mrs Grantham has eyes and a mind, after all--but it would be impossible for her to get within five steps of either exit, so she has not tried. All she has done is wait.
Anna shuts her book and tiptoes across the floor in her slippers, leaving her all-too-conspicuous candle at the small desk. She is in her night-dress, with a heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders. Even in spring, this shaded house is cool at night. There is a shape outside her window, far too solid for a shadow. She unlocks the window without hesitation and reaches out to steady her visitor. “Captain,” she whispers, her eyes misting; that horrible habit of snivelling is reinstating itself at last, it seems. And she had been doing so well. “It is you, isn’t it?”
Little solo again.
Funny thing, innit? Alfie’s brushed the perfume out of his hair, wiped the rouge off his face and put on a clean coat and breeches like a real gentleman, and now he feels like he’s wearing a costume. He was a faun again last night, a queen the night before, and all sorts of slatterns and creatures down the years, anything to catch the eye of someone willing to spend money on him. But a regular gentleman on the street, off to a discreet interview? It’s as false and prevaricating as he’s ever felt. You won’t be able to tell, though, from the lift of his chin or the casual roll in his step. Nobody gets the drop on Alfie Candle. You won’t ever see him waver or doubt. He does what he’s always done, get paid, get out, and get by. A real gentleman’s just another costume, after all.
How does your OC react to getting a gift they do not want from someone they like?
The picture Mr Thomas describes is in such contrast with the image in the Captain’s mind that Merivel blinks and stares at the painter for a few moments.
“What a gentle ghost you would make, Mr Thomas,” he says finally, half-affectionate, half-mocking. It is certainly a ghost whose company the Captain would not mind in the slightest; he reflects however that it is uncertain how much of that gentleness would remain after death. In the all-seeing wisdom of the afterlife Mr Thomas is sure to discover how cruelly he had been played with. Would he be forgiving then?
“So you agree that in many ways it is a fate worse than death. You are not judging me for shooting those men?”
“Judging? No, no.” He shook his head. It had not occurred to Mr Thomas to question the captain’s actions. If he performed them, they must have been the right thing to do. “It isn’t the sort of thing one does unless it is absolutely necessary. I am aware that... that not every man holds life sacred, but... it would be mad to shoot your own men for no good reason. Sir. So there must have been a good reason. And if they had gone to join the drownies, we would have had even more enemies in our hands, more loss of life, if not now then perhaps later, if we pass through these waters again. They are truly dead now, then, I suppose-- for good? At peace?”
Have a whirlwind romance with a penniless artist
Marry a multi-millionaire, but commission your lover to paint your portrait as an excuse to keep them close
“If you wish it delivered, madam, you would have to give it to me.”
Magda looks at the expectant hand extended towards her. She hesitates still, she suspects some cruel trickery, but it is too late now. The Captain might burn or throw away her letter, or worse, read it. He had not allowed her much time, and her writing is sluggish and laborious; it is possible that she has let something slip, something that would anger him and provoke his revenge. She clutches at the letter, she would rather not have it delivered at all.
But the Captain is waiting, and she can see his patience wearing thin. She hands over the folded piece of paper without looking up at him, her face burning with shame and guilt even though she has done nothing to wrong him.
“Well then.” The man shoves her letter into the depths of his coat and Magda sighs with relief. Whatever he means to do, he does not mean to do it now.
Her son is picked up into an embrace, but to Magda’s satisfaction the child lets go easily this time. There are no tears of separation, no demands or begging. It is a relief, even though she knows Newton would be running off to the woods as soon as the Captain turns his back; at least he won’t be taken away from her again.
“Bring me some magic from Mr Lascelles!” Newton demands and Merivel laughs in response. He does not refuse, but promises nothing either.
“Behave yourselves now. And do not enter into arguments with anyone; I’d rather the house is not burned to the ground when I return.”
Gracious Lady,
The Captain has generously offered to bring my letter to you.
I am writing to tell you that all is well. It is still very cold but I can feel change in the air. I very much hope I would see the green come soon, there was no such desolation back home.
We have two dogs now. They are so very small, but the Captain says they will grow big and ferocious and this saddens me. But maybe it is for the best, for there are wild beasts in the woods. I could not bear it should something happen to them, and my Newton loves them so very much.
I miss your company and I wish you could come visit us again. Maybe if I am good the Captain would allow it. He is not an unreasonable man.
Yours affectionately,
Magda
A reply is sent immediately, the delivery boy asked to wait and plied with buns while her ladyship's pen flies across the paper.
My dear, good Madam,
How I wish you were by my side! It is ever so difficult to work for the benefit of one who is so far away, whose heart, thoughts, opinions one can only guess at based upon an all-too brief acquaintance.
It has been pointed out to me that one must not meddle in the affairs of a family--this is very much so, and cannot be refuted. I do not care. I only wish for your happiness. But how best to achieve it? I confess attempting to consider all possible outcomes is driving me to distraction. Would you like any protector better than the captain? Could the boy get used to calling your new husband, a strange man, his father? What of any vengeance that vexing fellow might wreak? Should I advice you to marry any man who you please--and who pleases you, naturally--at Gretna Green and be done with it? It would afford you its own kind of protection. Men are so much better at fighting other men, even if they are perfectly useless when it comes to the subtle science of influence, society, and reputation. Most of them, at any rate.
I am so very glad to hear from you once again, and to know that there are dogs in your life now. One can never entirely succumb to despair with a furry nose and a pair of loving eyes to gaze upon. Size matters nothing. A dog that is loved, loves in return. If only people were as simple!
I will visit again, I promise it, once my engagements in town are over. I will bring my dressmaker, if you do not mind, and my husband's sister, dear Jane, and many, many treats for your dogs. Do write again! I am afraid I have dashed this off in rather a hurry. Longer letter to follow.
Yours most sincerely,
Phyllida
“Top marks, Mr Thomas,” the Captain nods, evidently pleased with the answer. “Drownies indeed. We do have them in London, but they are not nearly as persistently violent as out in the open zee. They sulk for the most part, and keep to themselves. As to what caused to be the way they are - well, that is a very curious question, but I’m afraid I have no answer for you. Drowning, obviously, but what else?
"You know,” the man continues, “I was told - that was a long time ago, when I first arrived - that they simply choose the life they lead. I am using the term rather loosely, of course. That they come back, the same as any of us might after, say, a bullet, strangling of poisoning; yet they believe themselves to be dead and continue to haunt the particular body of water they have lost their life in.” The Captain pauses and smiles absentmindedly, momentarily amused by the picture of a man diving again and again in an attempt to retrieve a pearl from the depths, only the pearl is not really a pearl but his life, which he has had the misfortune of dropping at the bottom of the pond. “Utter nonsense, if you ask me.”
Thomas had been beginning to believe the theory as it was recounted, imagining the terrible helplessness of the dark waters, watching lights pass above as ships crisscrossed the zee, part of a world they could no longer reach. Who wouldn’t go mad?
He blinks. “W-well, I suppose... No, I don’t suppose it holds up. I imagine if I was drowned, yet all my senses were awake, I would swim towards a light and ask to be picked up. Or, or if the loneliness had driven me mad, and I thought I was a ghost, I would follow a ship from afar to see the people and the life I missed, and not venture near. But I... I don’t think they were asking to be picked up.”
Loneliness has its teeth in Thomas’s belly. He hugs an arm to himself, hoping it was a friend’s, instead. He is used to going without touch, even without smiles, but for how long? He gulps down a large mouthful of his drink instead, taking comfort in its burn.
A little snapshot of June 1799.
“Where does your head go, when you paint?” In English, Christian’s vowels are clipped, his consonants clumsy. Martin appreciates the effort, smiles into Christian’s hair. These Mediterranean afternoons turn both of them lazy and affectionate. “Nowhere. Everywhere. To you.” “Where else?” “Why would my mind go anywhere? It is happy here.” “Yes.” There is a hollowness in Christian’s voice, like a cloud passing across sun. He is like this, sometimes, when he begins to think of the future, or the past. They escaped to Italy, then Naples, then to this cottage, the world growing ever smaller to keep away everything they’d left behind. Martin kisses him to bring him back. “Come on, my love. Everything is all right, right now. We will be fine so long as we’re together.” “So long as we’re together,” Christian agrees, and kisses him back, with enough conviction to banish English ships from the horizon.
The Empty Room, by Mia Bergeron, via Insagram.
