Waistcoats and Pocket Watches

I am doing my very best imitation of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland today - I'm late! I'm late!

This has been a day where I woke up and struggled to get up. Got to work reasonably on time and settled in, but the fact that this wasn't already done and posted has been bugging me. So, here I am, on my lunch hour, typing away with no clue. Of course, that is my normal state, so status quo.

Had a good weekend with the review / comment process. Spent quality time with a number of different things across a variety of sites. I even had time to work on my story and got a couple of chapters done. Naturally, though, the well is now dry, so I'm going to "cheat" and paste the flash stories I came up with and mentioned in yesterday's post. I'll let you decide if I'm wicked, evil or simply sick and demented. Or, perfectly normal.

* * * *

Light and Shadow (Posted on the FFF thread in response to the prompt "Torchlight")

July, 1992.

Outside the canvas walls, the night was soft with dew and crickets whispered. Warm light still glowed from the windows, and the faint murmur of the television washed the yard.

Inside the tent, it was dark. Sandy and Matthew had been given permission to ‘go camping’. Even though it was past her bedtime, Sandy snuggled inside the sleeping roll.

“Come on,” she sneered at her brother, older by three years, “I’m not afraid.”

“No. Mom’ll get mad if you wet your bed or run crying into the house.” He slid down and pulled the covering up.

“You’re a chicken, that’s what, but I’m not.”

They had argued for almost twenty minutes and Matt was tired of it. He hated being called a chicken. Sometimes his friends said it, and it stung. Having his little sister say it stung more.

“All right.” He grabbed the torch and flicked the switch, moving it up and holding it under his chin so that the wash of light changed his face into something new. His voice was low, menacing and he leaned forward.

“Once, not too far from here…”

Sandy slid up to listen, made uncomfortable by the change the angles of light made to Matt’s face, but not willing to whine or show it.

“…he had a golden arm…”

Outside, there was a sharp rustle followed by the crack of a breaking branch and the neighbor’s dog began to bark. Sandy skittered out of the sleeping bag, darted between the canvas flaps, and threw herself in the direction of the warm lights.

* * * *

November, 2014

“Damn.” Sandy stepped inside to flick the switch from a different angle. The lights still didn’t come on. After dropping her purse and coat onto the sofa, she headed for the kitchen to get the candles.

The house, built in the 1950’s, had wiring that seemed to supply power only when it felt like it. Rain or shine it didn’t matter.

“I should just leave these out,” she muttered as she opened the cabinet door.

There was a sound from the doorway into the dining room. Whirling, she saw the bulk of a figure. Her lips tightened in irritation. It had been one solid bitch of a day and she was in no mood for her brother’s antics. When the torch flicked on, casting light and shadow, she’d had enough.

“I warned you!” She crossed the floor in three quick steps, balanced, and flung her foot upward, into the channel between his legs and wham, caught him as hard as she could.

With a shriek, he collapsed, curling into a fetal position, gasping and clutching himself. At the same instant, something clattered to the floor and the finicky lights flickered to life.

She stepped back. Shock became horror as she realized it wasn’t Matt. She didn’t know who it was – she had never seen him before. Next to him lay a knife, not one of hers. She stepped back, again, turned, ran through the family room, down the short hall and out the front door.

Matt was coming up the street with Jess and Dave when his little sister came tearing out of the house.

“What is it?” He lurched forward to grab her, seeing the shock and fear in her staring eyes.

When she pointed, he let her go and raced to the house, closely followed by his friends.

WEST SIDE RAPIST FELLED IN ONE BLOW

Sandy McLaine arrived home at eleven o’clock last night where she found an intruder she mistook for her brother, Matthew. An altercation ensued…

* * * * *

An Unexpected Assailant

(Posted on WriteOn in response to the Weekend Write-In prompt of "Falsetto")

It sounded like the high-pitched whine of a teakettle on the boil, a hoarse and muffled shriek of pain. He lay on his side, curled in a fetal position, his cheeks wet with tears while his hands clutched his crotch, not yet rocking to comfort himself.

Kelly stepped back, the adrenaline still pounding through her body in a flood that stiffened her spine even though her nerves were waiting to collapse. The knife, blood tipped, glinted eerily in the shadow cast by his body. A step forward and she scooped it up, gingerly, and then paused, debating. Sounds from the street, just thirty feet away, intruded on them.

I could. No one would know. The chill night breathed on her neck, raising goose-pimples and a shiver. No. I would know and he’s not worth that.

Extracting her cell phone from her pocket she stood over him while she dialed. Guess all those hours working with my sensei paid off after all. Bastard never stood a…

“911. What is your emergency?”

* * * *

“We met in a bar earlier tonight.” God, she was tired, particularly in the aftermath. “He offered to walk me home because it was late. I live close by, so didn’t think about it.”

* * * *

In a room down the hall, Drake held the ice bag between his legs. The need to throw up had passed, but he knew he was going to be in a world of hurt for at least a few days.

“She came on to me, I swear. I thought she’d like it.”

The cop’s eyes were blank and jaded. He’d heard it all before, a million times, and he was bored. “So you shoved her into the alley without asking.”

“Yes… I mean, no. I…” Drake shook his head. It was so fucked up. The pretty blonde babe, slender at the waist with a nice rack and hips that… well, they made him hard just thinking about her, and that hurt. He shifted, clearing his throat, hoping the squeaky girl sound in his voice wasn’t going to be permanent. “We were kidding around, joking, and I grabbed her and pulled her along. She didn’t resist. Well, not much.”

The cop nodded, wrote and looked up, “What do you do for a living?”

Drake looked up with a smile, straightened on the chair and began to sing – a bouncy rendition of “I Feel Pretty”.

The cop stared, his jaw dropped in surprise and, a few bars into it, burst into laughter, collapsing against the hard plastic chair while Drake continued to belt out the lines in the falsetto created by his balls having been kicked into his throat.

“I’m a singer in a drag revue.”

* * * * *

Have a lovely (entirely pain-free) day!

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Groan... I Can't Complain, But I Will Comment

A day of obligation, which is a good thing because it means I've gotten something.

It's been a busy week, trying to keep up with four writer's websites along with trying to keep pace with life.

I'm still peeking in on Authonomy, dropping my observations about the other sites that I've checked out. I never did cancel my membership on Scribophile. I thought about it, but left it standing. As for Book Country, I did hit the delete button on that. Not being able to upload anything was frustrating - even though... Well, enough. It was frustrating so I gave up. If they fix it, I may go back, but I have no interest in retyping 60,000+ words so I can put up a story - and that's what seems to be needed based on my experience.

Scribblers is a writer's site set up by some of the clever people from Authonomy, and it's great to be able to go and visit with the people I've come to know. I submitted to the Flash Fiction thread and spent an hour this morning reading and voting, but after posting there yesterday... Honestly? I do not know what's come into me this week.

There, the prompt there was torchlight. My story was about a woman whose older brother is a tease. One night when they're kids, they're "camping" in their backyard and she eggs him into telling her the story 'The Man With The Golden Arm' - that classic tale of murder that frightened many of my generation when told by the the light of the moon. Years later, all grown up, she gets home late. She's already irritated by a 'bitch' of a day, and is further angered by the fact that the faulty wiring is out. Again. She's getting the candles out when she's surprised by her brother coming into the room behind her, holding his torch under his chin to highlight his face in that odd and eerie way. Angry at her day, furious with her brother because he just won't stop doing crap like that, she steps forward and wham - right between the legs. He goes down and that's when the finicky lights come on. And she discovers it's not her brother and he, whoever he is, was carrying a knife.

Over on WriteOn the Weekend Write-In prompt was falsetto with a five-hundred word limit that had to address someone breaking into song an an inopportune moment. In that, my story was about a young woman who's being walked home by someone she met in a bar. Along the way, he drags her off the street, into an alley, not knowing she studies mixed martial arts. Story opens with him on the ground, wheezing and shrieking through his teeth while clutching himself - there. It's actually quite funny, because I end with them at the police station giving their statements. He bursts into song when asked what he does for a living. The song? 'I Feel Pretty' because his job is acting in a drag revue.

Variations on a theme... Nonetheless, those plus the WEbook Monthly competition are calling my attention because for the comments I receive, I must return - so it's time consuming, although entertaining. Another four or five on WEbook, and then I have to turn my attention to WriteOn. There, I have a number of entries in their writing competition, and then I have a book to read and comment upon, and then, maybe, I'll have a little time to work on mine? If I'm not exhausted and burned out.

The hardest part about commenting, for me, is saying what I think in such a way that it's understandable - I have to explain what I found and then explain what could be improved. For instance, I read one piece yesterday where there are a lot of 'I' driven actions. I did this, and I did that and I did the other. After complaining about the driver, I rewrote the paragraph to eliminate them - so it's not only a reading exercise, it's a composition exercise that takes time and energy. But it's what I hope to get so that I can improve, too. Quid pro quo goes a long way in the writing world.

So, I'll wrap this up, go get some sustenance for the writerly journey, and get to work. Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

What's the Problem? The Meaning is Clear, Instantly Recognizable

It flabbergasts me. All of this discussion about the offensiveness of the term “Anchor Baby” and so on during which one bright mind suggested we say “American-born child of an undocumented worker”. Really? I mean, really? Is that brain trust serious that every time the subject of children born here to an illegal immigrant mother comes up we’re supposed to say, “American-born child of an undocumented worker”?

How stupid is that!?

Say it like it is. Stop the politically correct bullshit, stop the nonsense and just be honest for a change. Who doesn't understand what's meant when that term is used? It's not ambiguous. It's not vague. It's clear, concise and accurate. In short, it is precisely what language is intended for: to communicate what's meant.

Just for the sake of crystal clarity, let’s posit a probable, or at least a realistically possible scenario.

“M” doesn’t know she’s pregnant when “E” comes home after losing his job somewhere in Mexico or Honduras or Guatemala or wherever they live. There’s no money, no hope, but “E” or “M” or maybe both have family that crossed the border ten years ago without benefit of documentation. “J” and “A” have been asking “E” and “M” or “M” and “E” to come north for years.

What the heck? Why not? There’s nothing here, right now. Maybe the grass is greener, so let’s go. They get what money they can, get their stuff together, and head off.

Somewhere along the way “M” realizes she’s knocked up… sorry, that’s offensive. She’s with child. (Better?)

They make it into Arizona or California or Texas or New Mexico, whatever. A few months later, wherever they’ve ended up, she goes into labor and boom there’s a new baby.

According to current precedent, that baby is an American citizen, which means that that baby, just 30 seconds old, has all of the rights and prerequisites other American citizens have. The right to collect welfare benefits and all the rest of it.

Not one member of that family has contributed a single penny to the welfare system, but Mom is entitled to child support, a child tax credit if she files for taxes, food stamps, housing benefits and everything else – all because she has a 30 second old child. When it's old enough to start school, it will get a free education - all of it - benefits and education - at the expense of the American taxpayer.

What other country in the world does that? Name one, just one that gives automatic citizenship to the child of someone in the country illegally. I mean, we are not even talking about someone who came here legally on a visa. If she had been here on a work visa, the child does not qualify. If she's here on a student visa, the child does not qualify. But! Because the mother is here illegally – against the law – her child is a citizen.

How does that work?

Oh, yeah. There’s a lot of chatter about the Fourteenth Amendment right now. Well, just what does that Amendment say? Let’s look…

Amendment XIV

Section 1.

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, Okay, so far, so good. It’s clear. and subject to the jurisdiction thereof Now, this for me, is where it breaks down. ‘Subject to the jurisdiction thereof’. If the parents aren’t American citizens, they are not subject to the U.S. Constitution – unless they commit a felony. For misdemeanors, like being here without a visa, they get rounded up and deported. They have no more rights than that. The parents aren’t subject to the jurisdiction of the U.S. As a minor, that child has no rights except those given to the parents. So how does that child suddenly become a U.S. citizen? are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

Section 2.

Representatives shall be apportioned among the several states according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each state, excluding Indians not taxed. But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for President and Vice President of the United States, Representatives in Congress, the executive and judicial officers of a state, or the members of the legislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such state, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such state. Straight boilerplate in this section that just benefits the politicians, as everything always seems to do. The more people in the state – legally or not – the more seats in the House of Representatives.

Section 3.

No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice President, or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any state, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any state legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any state, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability. Again, boilerplate that doesn’t mean a whole lot.

Section 4.

The validity of the public debt of the United States, authorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions and bounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shall not be questioned. But neither the United States nor any state shall assume or pay any debt or obligation incurred in aid of insurrection or rebellion against the United States, or any claim for the loss or emancipation of any slave; but all such debts, obligations and claims shall be held illegal and void. This comes straight from the time this Amendment was drafted – following the end of the Civil War when the question of the freed slaves and their rights to citizenship were being addressed and discussed.

Now, that said, those people or their forebears were forcibly brought here. They didn’t raise their hands and volunteer. Big difference in that. Some redress, for being kidnapped, stolen, whatever you want to call it isn’t unreasonable in that case. But when an individual makes a conscious choice to break another country’s law… No. You don’t reward them – whether or not they drop their anchor baby… Oops, sorry. That’s harsh so let’s call it what it really is: “Child born in the United States to an undocumented female worker in the country without permission from the Federal Government because she couldn’t be arsed to follow the law and get in line behind everyone else who is trying to work through the process honorably.”

Section 5.

The Congress shall have power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article. So here’s the rest of it. This doesn’t have to go to the Supreme Court. This can be dealt with by Congress – HOPEFULLY, after we get some real, honest to God ball-bearing conservatives in there.

In the meantime, I guess we’ll have to come up with some pronounceable acronym for these children. One that’s acceptable to the left who sees no problem with people breaking the laws of this country. Unfortunately, “ABCUW” doesn’t flow smoothly whereas “anchor baby” does, which is the purpose of language – to communicate meaning. Say it, everyone gets it.

Which raises another question: how many of these liberal lefties who lift their nose at the nation’s laws call the cops every year? Since these scofflaws see no problem with lawbreakers, maybe they shouldn’t be allowed to call the cops. Just think how much money that would save.

So – use the term as you will. Don’t get your knickers knotted over it because it is, just as bullshit is, offensive to some but instantly recognizable in its meaning.

Have a linguistic day.

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Ohhh... So That's What Happened.

Yesterday, I was stunned and I posted my surprise at finding 285 views of my blog, up astronomically from thirty views just the day before. I mean, that’s a 950% increase, for God’s sake! Now I didn’t dwell on that. I commented, as I do, wondering WTF. A few hours later, I checked back in, thinking it might have been a computer glitch that was fixed. Nope - up to 371 views which made me scratch my head harder.

A couple of days ago, and not long ago before that, I posted my thoughts and observations about the stock and commodities markets. Hey, I’m an economic junkie. I find the markets and market-makers, the manipulations and prestidigitation of the Central Banks fascinating, scary and amusing. Kind of like a horror show being played out in real life that means, when the thing crashes as it eventually will, the entire world’s wealth will be wiped out and we, the people, will be left standing butt naked and broke.

So, I commented on it. There's no sense worrying because when it happens, and it will happen, there's damn all I can do about it. In the meantime, I'll just sit by, watch it play out, comment and wait - just like a lot of other people.

I also wrote about the effects of Asian pollution and the Fukushima mess, the effects on North America. Maybe that’s what it is. The Greenies don’t like the fact that I think their swill is just that - the liquid found in a milking barn during post-milking wash down. Sorry (not really, that’s the British all-purpose sorry), but I don’t.

This planet has been a whole lot warmer than it is now - which explains why there are trees under the snowpack on Greenland and signs of the ocean in the California Central Valley and fossils of seashells found in Utah. And it’s been a whole heck of a lot colder. Ever hear of the Ice Age? It’s what carved Yosemite Valley, along with a lot of other places.

Then, while I was going through a pile of papers yesterday, sorting them out and trying to puzzle out the relationships, it struck me. Gol' durn - right there on Twitter. I had posted a link to Zero Hedge following my market-related drivel and, it seems, some people got curious about li'l ol' me and came to look in. That makes me smile. Both in pleasure - since a few, it seems, poked around a bit and looked at some of my other posts (and I hope they'll come back and visit, at least occasionally) - and in consternation.

I mean as much as I enjoy doing this little writing exercise every day, it isn't Earth shattering. It's not important to anyone but me, really, but the fact that I've had a few extra callers (like about 950% worth of extra callers!) makes me feel good.

So there goes my theory that I had struck a nerve with someone. Shrug and shake my head is all I can do but, for those new visitors, here's my approach to what I do here:

If you like what I say, thank you. I'm pleased and gratified.

If you don’t like what I say, okay, you’re entitled. No hard feelings.

If you’re not sure what to make of it, that’s okay. I understand because, sometimes, I just get silly and blather on without any real purpose.

So, come on, baby! Keep reading and, hopefully, leave a comment - a little nudge to let me know you’re there.

Best~

Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Mouth Agape (Not Pretty, But Honest)

What the HELL just happened here?

I opened this up, planning to post a couple of flash pieces because I haven't a clue what to write, again, and discovered that I seem to have been 'discovered'.

From 12.5 views per post on average yesterday, I'm suddenly "popular" with almost 15 views per post, average.

I'm thrilled - I think. I'm delighted and gratified and humbled, but it's strange.

Between yesterday, when I was getting around 15 or 18 views per day, up from 10 or 12 a week or two ago, I suddenly have 285! Quite a jump, isn't it? And a surprise - pleasant, I hope.

Is it my dissertation on the markets and what's happening with China? Was it the post about baseball? The Cubbies fans are all upset with me or something? Is it the NSA or the Central Bank wondering who's saying what? Or is it something else?

I don't know, but it is a little disconcerting.

Oh, well, ho hum, nothing illegal was said, nothing plagiaristic or untoward. Simple facts and opinion so I shan't worry.

Now, back to what I was going to do. Over on WEbook, which I discovered through Twitter, I posted a short piece. It's an excerpt from a book currently hiding on my laptop and, because it was a vignette rather than a story it was received well from the technical standpoint - I write well, according to one commenter, but not from the literary since it didn't really introduce itself before sitting down.

The guideline for this submission is 850 words max, and the prompt is 'Confession'. With that, I'll let you decide which you prefer by posting both versions. And, to help you as I didn't help the readers when I posted this, this is an except from one of my sequels to 'Pride & Prejudice', so it's set in the early 19th century, the scenes involve Lizzy, Darcy and their sisters (in the first, anyway).

Confession

At dinner I was withdrawn and sat, staring at my plate. What my sisters thought I could not tell, because I could not look at them. Rarely, I glanced at Darcy. When I caught his eye, he would smile. Once he reached under the table and found my hand, holding it for several seconds.

Afterward, we retired to the drawing room. There, Kitty came to kneel in front of me, her hand on my knee, a look of worry etched her countenance.

"Lizzy? What is troubling you? Can I help? Please?" Her words were gentle, so soft that, for the first time in months, I could meet her gaze. There was her compassion and her fear.

Without thought, I lifted my hand, laying it against her cheek, unable to speak. So we sat until she turned her head, and brushed my palm with her lips. My reserve broke. Sobbing, I leaned forward, embraced her while my shoulders shook. A small piece of confidence fell into place when her arms enclosed me. Long minutes passed before I calmed. Then, I sat back. Taking her hands, I held them, gathering strength.

"Oh, Kitty." There is another step to take if I will be whole. I must trust. "Do you recall what happened at Jane's?"

She nodded.

"It affected me, far more than I first knew. It was not until Lord Matlock’s ball that I felt the full effect. That night I was frightened. What would people think or say? From almost the first moment, I saw looks of disdain, of disgust. Even, among some of the men, looks of speculation."

At my side, Darcy stiffened. I paid him no attention. This was to answer Kitty's questions, and Georgiana’s.

"That fear had built for months, since the night of Mr. Sheffield’s assault. I was uncertain, unsure of everyone around me and distrusted everyone. I believed that everyone thought ill of me, that no one believed my innocence." My hands tightened on hers. "Before supper that night at Uncle William’s, I overheard Edward say something about it. By then, my confidence was so frail, so undermined that the wound of a friend speaking so struck me deeply.

"Edward, others of the company and I retired to Lord Matlock's library. There, I tried to defend myself." I smiled, bitterly. "Indeed, I was so lost to everything that I spoke plainly, far more than I should have. It shames me now, but then it was strengthening. When I was finished, I was so cold, so sick, and weak that I could not stand it. I thought I would be ill. I left the room, intending to leave the house. But I could not. I could not because of you, Kitty, and because of Georgiana. I did not wish to reduce myself before you as I already had before everyone else whose esteem I valued and had lost." Tears overtopped my lower lids to slip down my cheeks. "Outside, I could not bring myself to walk down the front steps. I stood there, reliving what had been done, and I cried. A crowd gathered, watching me, whispering. Unable to face them, either, I went back inside. I wanted to hide.

"And that was when I was lost, Kitty, that night. I did not realize how deep I had sunk, how far I had fallen.

"The next morning I asked Darcy if I could come here. He agreed and I left. My feeling of isolation strengthened because no one said good-bye or seemed to care." My head dropped and my shoulders shook while fresh tears fell. Despair loomed, the abyss opened, threatening. Arms came up, holding me, preventing me from falling. "I wanted to die. I wished to die. I wished to kill myself and I spent days plotting and planning how and where, convinced no one would care."

I broke down. Leaning forward, my face buried my hands, curling over my unborn child.

Kitty held me, offering strength and compassion while Darcy's hand rested on my back.

I moved. Sitting up, I wiped away my tears. "And that is what has been wrong with me. I have been ill. Indeed, I believe that I have been almost mad. All that kept me from harming myself is this child. I could not condemn myself before God by killing this child, too. But that was all that stayed my hand. That was all." Lifting my eyes, I looked into my sister's.

Tears wetted her cheeks, swam in her eyes. Her mouth worked. "Oh, Lizzy!" She leaned forward, pulling me against her. "Oh, Lizzy!"

I held her while she cried. Then, I lowered my arms, cupped her tear streaked face in my hands. "I am sorry. I am so sorry for the pain I have caused." Raising my eyes to Georgiana, I said, "Georgie, I am sorry."

Her face, too, was pale and stained. She stood. Three steps brought her to where I sat. Kneeling next to our sister, she leaned forward and, with one arm around my shoulders and the other around Kitty, we hugged, our tears mingling.

* * * * *

(Untitled)

I put the last flower in my hair while Bess hovered in the background. “I do not like it, Darcy. The man forced the introduction.”

My husband sat by the fire, his reflection showing me his semi-amusement at my irritation. “He is a friend of Bingley’s, my dear. I am sure he thought it would not be taken amiss…”

“Had you seen the way he spied upon me!”

“Spied upon you?” He unfolded from the chair, “Is that not a bit melodramatic?”

In normal circumstance, I admitted to myself it would be. Not now, however, not when I thought back to that afternoon.

I had been sitting in the sun, enjoying its warmth and musing before the scent of a cigar intruded. Startled, my eyes flew open and there, perhaps ten feet away, stood a man of slender build. His look of self-assurance warned me and I stood.

“I am sorry.” He glided forward. “I did not mean to startle you. I am Sheffield, Stephen Sheffield and I beg your pardon, but I could not help but admire you there.”

Stiff, uncomfortable, I curtseyed. “Elizabeth Darcy. Pray, excuse me.”

Hurrying past I felt his eyes following me. At the steps I turned, confirming the sensation.

Days passed and as time went on, my discomfort around the man increased. The first night I wondered. The third, I suspected. A week later I knew.

“I have been called home, my dear.” Darcy held the paper the servant had delivered just a minute before. “Barnes wrote to me, but I shan’t be gone long. No more than a day or two.”

Fear swept in like a gust of icy wind. “Take me with you, husband.”

He laughed and asked why but took none of my reasons seriously. “I shall be back as quick as I may and this is not worth disrupting Jane’s party over.” I shivered against him as he spoke over my head, “I shall have a word with Bingley and with Blackwell. I shall ask them to keep an eye out. Will that do?”

I wanted to trust, to believe, so I agreed even though fear whispered it was wrong.

By the time Darcy returned all had changed. I was not the woman I had been. Sheffield had caught me in the hall upstairs while the others were downstairs. I fought him. I bore the marks he laid upon me for my fight. There were cuts on my cheek where his fists had landed, the bruises, deep purple and red on my arms and throat. Only by the grace of God was I not changed more than marks and fear. Blackwell had saved me from worse.

The guilt of it remained. I had been caught, through no fault of my own, but the stigma of being seen in such a place – another man’s bed chamber – in such a way – my skirts above my hips, his trousers at his ankles. It was enough to burn, to wither the esteem I had felt for myself, to question my value to my husband and sisters.

Darcy held me no blame. Indeed, he was supportive and loving, taking care of me and assuring me, but assurances were thin. Of course he would not accuse, but I did, and others.

Through the fall and into the winter, wherever we went it followed. Those who were there, those who had seen spoke of it. The whispers circulated and speculation grew, certainty that I had been complicit took root and denial was pointless.

“I wish to go home, Darcy.” Reduced to begging, with no shred of pride remaining, I looked at him through tear-filled eyes. “I cannot stay here, can you not see?”

He assented, the pain in him evident, but we could not reach across to cure the other of us. It was too fresh, too raw and healing had not yet begun.

To Pemberley I returned and sequestered myself from my housemates, existing in the confines of my rooms, not speaking, not seeing, refusing humanity in all of its offers.

Chill January brought storms and, resolve. I would let Fate choose.

The storm was strong, the winds gusting around the compass with abandon while I stood there in its buffeting courses. My toes peeped over the edge of the parapet, nothing between them and the terrace four stories below. The wind caught my skirts, tugging, encouraging me to step forward but I did not.

If Fate would have me fly, it must be decisive and sure, a shove in the back not a child’s play at my knees.

Through the gloom and the swirls of diaphanous white appeared a glow, bobbing along from the corner of the house. Enough! The spell was broken. I stepped back, turned and left Fate alone on the leads. I would live.

* * * * *

So, there you have it, and I'll let you decide which you like. After all, that's only fair.

Have a lovely day!

Best~

Philippa

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