~ July 13th, 1949 ~
Across the room,
I see him move
my breath leaves me away.
His eyes a'glitter like a forbidden moon
across the silver bay.
When he leaves, it's all to soon;
his face has gone away.
My heart cries out like the lonely loon
on the darkened, moonless bay...
When he is here
standing so near
but not noticing what I say...
I hardly care,
my heart's aware
Of every word he'd say.
I love him dear
While I stand near
he never hears
a single sigh astray.
But when he's gone
I can't move on,
the dark of a sunless day...
Across the room,
I saw him move.
I fell in love today...
~ Ispin Hearthidge
The pencil drops from my cold, clenched fingers, and my eyes snap dutifully open. I am quite painfully awake. I stare for a moment in the weak light at the crumpled page before me. Thirteen tries; exactly how long it took for the words in my mind to make it out onto the page. With a heavy sigh, I stare at the flickering candle before me. Its flame whispers and dives as it cuts a soft triangle of light through the dark. My head slumps wearily onto my palm and I turn to gaze out the window. A few stars prick the midnight sky, although most of the light is attributed to the moon. It's silvery light touches my face through the window and I close my eyes, the lines of my poem ringing through my head:
His eyes a'glitter like a forbidden moon
across the silver bay.
Turning away from the window, I grab the stub of a candle that remains on the desk and head quietly out into the hall. The cool slats of the smooth, wood floor, slide intriguingly beneath my bare feet. I have walked this walk in the dark many times before, and so I know the way. My feet move silently down the stairs and tiptoe quietly to the door of the drawing room. Easing open the door, my feet sink into the soft strands of the carpet. My toes curl reverently into it, feeling its strange comfort the same as the times before. Still moving on muted footsteps, I walk to the sofa and curl my body, tucking my feet beneath me and slumping my head to the side. My eyes are directly in the line of the window and some of the moons' light seeps in. I close my eyes, greeting the dark of my eyelids with silent relief. It's terrible, I realize, loving someone who you know will never return the sentiment.
With a soft sigh, I sink slowly into a deep, dreamless, moonless sleep.
~
A cool breeze ruffled Andrew Collin Fairbank's hair. It tickled the nape of his neck and he complacently drew a hand to cover the spot where it whispered along his skin, raising goosebumps. His mind was decidedly elsewhere as he gazed at the brilliant moon. It reflected large spheres of brilliant light in his eyes. With a sigh, he turned slowly away. His mind was with her; the girl from across the room. He had thought of her every moment since she disapeared from the ballroom earlier this evening. He had thought of her, and yet he didn't even know her name... or her face, he realized. He could look her in the eye and not know it was her.
No matter, he thought; for in this small moment... thinking of her, everything was just right.
~ July 14th, 1949 ~
My teeth unknowingly worry the blunt edge of my pencil as my mind wanders in search of the right words. I have nothing to write. At least... nothing that will do these thoughts justice. My fingers move in a scrawling slant, and I listen to the etching sound of two words being written in my hand:
The Dream.
I pause. What else can I say? I simply cannot put words to this fantastically vivid and remarkable dream. Whatever. My fingers tighten around the smooth, wood writing piece, and I carve a charcoal trail along the paper as the words flow from my mind to reality.
My fingers wander along the hitched bark of a tree. My breath flows evenly in and out of me, my chest rising and falling in a steady motion. The air is calm, heavy with night. Glancing behind me, I see the lights of the manor. The heady rush of freedom engulfs me as I hear the babbling noise of gossip behind me, and know that I am not a part of it. For a moment I close my eyes and simply feel the rush of the night air as it whispers coolly across my skin. A single voice shatters my calm, and I am surprised by how near it sounds.
"Getting away from that..." he motions back toward the lights of the manor, "madhouse... too, I suppose?" The silhouette of a man stares at me through the shadows. The inflection of his voice has a jovial lilting to it that--though I can't make out the features of his face through the dark--makes me imagine he is smiling. I nod.
"It is... rather, hectic in there to be sure..." my voice trails off and my lips curve into a slight smile.
"To say the least!" He mutters. A laugh escapes my lips and I see him turn toward me in the darkness, a bemused smile playing at the corners of his lips and shining in his eyes.
His eyes!
I let out a startled squeak as the thought registers. His eyes... I can see his eyes! I take a step back just as he steps forward, a concerned look on his face. "What's wrong?" He asks, his eyes and voice thick with worry. I cannot muster words for reply. I simply shake my head frantically as horror rises in my throat, cutting off my ability to speak. "What's wrong?" He repeats. I shake my head again, and this time despair replaces the horror. Despair over knowing how close he is to me, and knowing that this is the man I love.
I stare at the page for a moment longer, my hand suspended in the air as I search for more words. I have already become resubmersed in the dream and I can barely pull myself out. My heart aches, knowing what is coming next, and also knowing that it never happened and never will. With a sigh I place my pencil to the paper one last time.
He moves slowly toward me, coming softly through the darkness like an angel on wings. For that is what he is to me; an angel, and he will never know it. He is clueless. I long to move, to flee... to run away, but as he slowly advances; my limbs are frozen with fear. Not fear of him, but fear of myself. What might happen when he gets close enough that I could simply reach out and touch... I shut my mind down. I will not allow myself to get lost in foolish fantasies. He is only a few small feet away from me now, and his eyes watch me, concerned.
Slowly, his hand reaches out; softly strokes the side of my face. My eyes widen in disbelief. "What's wrong?" He asks gently again. I can barely move my lips at the present moment, let alone actually speak! A small smile that is completely out of place, tugs my lips upward. "What's funny?" He whispers, tracing the curve of my lips. My body freezes once more. I shake my head "no". He frowns and his hand falls. My eyes shut and unbidden tears well in the corners of them. Tears of longing, tears of rejection... tears of what never will. "Ispin." He murmurs my name and my eyes flutter open with shock. His face is inches from mine and he is staring into my startled eyes most intensely. Yes? My mind responds automatically when my lips do not move in reply. And then he utters the two words that I believed no man (let alone him...) would ever say:
"Kiss me."
~ December 15th, 1949 ~
My brain is in turmoil.
My heart is constricting
while my stomach is doing flip-flops.
I may see him soon.
Possibly today.
But he can't know I love him.
He won't ever now that
I love him.
~ Ispin.
I cut out my traditional signing and write a simple name. Who needs to know my last name anyway? And it's not like anyone will ever be reading this in the first place...
Shrugging on my coat, I close the tiny book and hide it in it's usual spot beneath my pillow. Then, in slippered feet, I hurry down the stairs; taking them two at a time and nearly falling flat on my face. I swing open the front door and step out into the fading light of evening, London society. The streetlamps are just flickering to life. I'm dressed well, but not in the extravagant fashions of the rich. Without looking down, I know that the slippers I am wearing are highly inappropriate, considering there are large mudpuddles at the edges of the cobbled streets. However-- I concede, as I pull myself into the waiting carriage-- I should consider myself lucky that I do not have to wear the high heeled monstrosities that many girls my age do. My age... I think with a wry smile. Sixteen: the age of marriage marketability. Thankfully enough, I got to wait a year for my season. I am now seventeen. The woman seated across from me in the carriage glances at me as I step in and position myself on the cushioned seat. Her eyes rove over me in appraisal. After a moment, she looks away. I smile to myself. My aunt approves of my dressing.
In a vague motion, I smooth the sea-green satin out in waves beside me on the seat. I marvel at the cloth's smoothness. It feels almost like...
"Ispin Pernelia Hearthidge!" My aunt's voice crossly scolds me. "Pull your skirts back down at once!" I hadn't noticed that my distracted smoothing was slowly inching my skirts up along my legs. Looking down, I notice that my knobby knees are actually showing. My stockings have managed to slip down slightly and the smooth patch of skin just above my right knee is barely visible. I blush. Oops. We may be in a carriage, but bare skin showing at any moment in London society is highly frowned upon. Especially, it seems, in the case of being in a carriage and shown to one's aunt. With a slightly bashful smile, I tug my skirts back down and cross my ankles. My aunt heaves a disgusted sigh and turns her head away. It doesn't bother me. I simply turn my head and gaze out the window at the scenery rushing by.
When we finally pull to a stop, I gather my skirts to step out onto the street. The sky is dark. However, the area is lit by an assortment of lights. The house rises to meet my gaze. It is huge; a mansion. I know who it belongs to and I know there will be many a viscount and possibly duke in attendance. I shiver. I'm on the market; I realize. Even though I don't want it, I'm on the market to be married. And so I must present myself. I must dance. I must smile. I must... (I cringe, thinking the word) flirt.
With a sigh, I step out, closely followed by my aunt. Carriages are all around me and others are doing the same, clutching their skirts or helping ladies from carriages. If I had it my way, I would never marry. I know that there is no man in this vicinity who would offer to marry me, that I'd actually want to marry. I don't count him among that number, because after all; by simply seeing him across the room I could deduce by his dress that he was not within the category of men who would ever stoop low enough to consider me as a possible bride prospect. I climb the steps slowly, already dreading the evening. He won't be here. And even if he is, what difference would it make? I wonder. He will never notice me.
~
Andrew's eyes scanned the large gathering from a distance. He told himself he was only looking to fulfill his father's wishes and report on the "coming alongs of the party", but he knew he was lying to himself. Secretly he was looking for her.
His eyes still wide and searching, he began to weave his way through the encroaching crowd. When people noticed him, they tipped their hats and curtsied. He waved them off with a somewhat forced smile. The mothers were the worst; coming up to him with their daughters in tow and tittering on about nothing in particular...
Every cell of his body ached to run away. He did not want to be subject to this never ending torrent of "marry my daughter, she's the most amazing thing." Frankly Andrew didn't care. Half of him was tempted to lie and say that he was already married, but he knew that his lie would be easily caught since everyone in the ton would know if he were to be married. Things were like that when you were the inheriting son of the late Duke.
"My Francesca here," the large woman beside him was saying. Andrew's gaze stopped sweeping the room for a brief moment and turned unwillingly to the woman. She was motioning to a timid girl beside her with short, blond locks. Andrew couldn't help but point out to himself that he preferred brunettes. His fingers itched to shove people aside and continue in his search for the mystery woman he had spotted before. However, he could not blame the blond girl before him of course, she looked absolutely miserable. The mother however...
Before his thoughts could get to carried away, Andrew made a deep bow and thanked the ladies for their time, insisting that he had "urgent matters to attend to". Then, flashing his trademark, debonair smile; he strode briskly off, leaving the mother calling after him about her other daughter "Felicity". Andrew shuddered. The only people who perhaps had it worse off than he did would likely be the daughters. Especially the shy type, he concluded. Not that she would have any problem with shy, he decided. No, she would be the center of attention, with a commanding presence and bold confidence. He smiled. No doubt she would not have to deal with these torrents of men and mothers. Such a woman as her would surely be married.
Whistling a tune to himself, Andrew hurried into the crowds, his eyes desperately searching for the girl he could not find.
~
It is hot in here. The closeness of all our bodies makes the air uncomfortably thick to breathe, and scalding against the skin. My own skin now, is sticky with the dew of perspiration. I sigh, fanning my hand in front of my face, and thankful that the air in the shade against the far wall where I stand, hidden, is cooler. I turn away from the music and wild throngs of people. I've done my part. I've laughed, I've danced, and have even made a miserable attempt at flirting. It's all a show. None of it is me. Intelligence has no place on the society's ball front.
The cool stone of the wall feels good against my skin and for a moment I close my eyes, basking in its cool relief. A masculine voice startles me out of my peace, and my eyes open wide with shock. It couldn't be...
"I brought you a drink." In a moment, my body registers the voice. Of course it's not him, not that I would have occasion to know what his voice sounds like, but I do know this voice. And it's not his. My body slumps back against the wall as I cordially take the delicate looking champagne flute and take a tiny sip. The alcohol bubbles and burns at the back of my throat but I manage to choke it down with out coughing or spluttering it back up. Mr. Dennis Redroy: Fourty-two and robustly large. It almost makes me sick, knowing that he may have plans to marry me. Twenty-four years his junior. Isn't there some law against that? I realize that unfortunately the answer is no; not here. Not now.
With a sigh, I hold the cool glass in my hand, my eyes shifting about on the shadowed floor as I continue to feel his eyes burn into me. I begin to wish I had chosen a more modest dress, rather than the low-cut and tight fitting bodice my aunt had insisted on. Had she known? Horror creeps into my mind as I realize that she may have insisted upon this dress for the sole benefit of Mr. Redroy. What if she...
No. My aunt would not betray me like that... would she? Before I can answer my own question, Mr. Redroy whispers silkily in my ear: "Come for a walk with me." I can only nod and force myself not to tremble as his thick arm snakes its way around my waist and hugs my body tightly to his side. He holds out his arm and I take it, afraid of what he might do if I pull away. He leads me out onto the small terrace overlooking the garden. I remember my last vision of a garden and I sigh. If only he were here with me rather than...
"Ispin..." Mr. Redroy whispers my name and he turns me to face him. My heart leaps to my throat at the wild and ravaging look in Mr. Redroy's eyes. No...
Suddenly he turns and looks back at the large crowd of people laughing gaily behind us. A flicker in his eye seems to say "not here".
I tremble at the meaning of his unspoken words as he grasps my arm tightly and begins to tow me down the steps that lead into the garden.
"Mr. Redroy, I--
My voice is tight with fear and comes out as a heady, breathy sound. He cuts me off, holding a beefy finger to my trembling lips. His face is close enough to mine that I can smell the heavy dose of alcohol on his breath when he speaks. "Shhh..." he soothes me, rubbing his thumb in tight circles along my cheek. "Don't worry. Over here..." he attempts to pull me along once more, and too late I realize that he mistook my terror for passion. Despair crashes down on me when I realize that no ammount of struggle I put up will be enough to move this man. I am alone. In a garden, with a man I hardly know. His intentions are clear, and there is nothing I can do to stop him.
As the balcony moves behind our sight, Mr. Redroy relaxes slightly and he reaches for me, holding me out before him for inspection. I shudder when his eyes linger on my breasts and once again he mistakes my fear for something else intirely. A low, guttural moan builds in his throat and he sags against me. His weight is crushing. "Mr... Mr. Redroy?" I manage to squeak out as I attempt to remove his weight from me. He pulls me closer, his thumbs kneeding painful patterns into my shoulders.
"Ispin." He says, his eyes burning. Before I can answer, my whole world blows into oblivion as Mr. Dennis Redroy crushes his lips to mine.
~
Andrew found himself completely bored out of his wits. He was standing on the balcony, surrounded by a small group of giggling females. They were all the same to him. Giggling, gooey-eyed, and overly flirtatious. All the girls around him seemed to think that their bodies were the key to winning his heart, for they were all wearing revealing dresses, and flaunting themselves in his face. He felt sick.
What made it worse was the fact that half these women were already married: the viscount's wife, Helen O'Clare; Duchess of Von'Edinburgh... the list went on and on. As one of the heady females gripped his arm and smiled at him enticingly, (Violetta he thought her name was...) Andrew's control finally broke. These women had the image in their mind that he was the handsome, Duke-to-be, rake; that he went around looking for women to ravish. Just because he was in line to be a duke didn't entitle him to that atrocity. And if in some way it did; he didn't want any part of that at all.
With a withering scowl at the girl clinging to his arm, he sent her scurrying away with a soft yelp. Brushing off the other arms lingering on his skin, he stormed away without a glance back. In moments, he was heading down to the garden and with no real notion of why he was going. What would be wrong with taking one of those girls? He wondered, slowing his pace. They were certainly eager enough, and with him, it's not like it would be frowned too hard upon by society... and it would probably be a good diversion too...
As his mind wandered to a dark and secluded region in his thoughts, he was just about ready to turn back to the small huddle of girls he was sure were still standing where he'd left them. Only one thought kept him where he was. They weren't her. At the thought of her, even faceless and nameless, his skin burst into flame and he could hardly keep from groaning aloud. Moving deeper into the garden, he glowered at the bushes and trees. He hadn't seen her all night, not that he would know her if he saw her. But somehow he knew that his heart would recognize her. Wouldn't it?
Andrew had only rounded the corner of a particularly large bush when he heard a sound that froze him in his tracks. He could see a darkened shape not too far away. A man. A large man. And a women. His mind recognized what was taking place, and knew that he should probably turn away and leave the couple in peace. However, he was tied to the spot.
Perhaps it was only his imagination, but it appeared as if the woman was struggling... he took a small and silent step forward and then stopped; flushing a deep shade of scarlet. Who knew? Perhaps that's what people... uh... do... when... his thought trailed off. Despite common opinion, he would have no cause to know. He was just about to turn and walk away, when he realized he could hear the female's voice.
"Please..." she pleaded. "No..."
She didn't want it, he realized with a jolt, and in a moment he had decided a course of action. Two words; that's all it took, and he was in a rage. Anger traveled in his veins, hungry and controlling. His fingers itched to wrap around the unknown assaulter's neck and choke the life right out of him. Stalking forward on silent feet, he wrenched--with considerable difficulty-- the large man, from on top of her.
Even in the dark, Andrew was startled to recognize Dennis Redroy. He wasn't too high up in rank, but Andrew had deffinitely seen him around his father's manor on plenty an ocassion. He watched Dennis's pupils constrict and then dialate with fear. Grim laghter bubbled in his chest, but anger quickly silenced it and gave way to fury. He held the man by the front of his ruffled collar, his firm grip holding him in place.
"Mr. Fairbank..." Dennis seemed at a loss for words, horror choking off his voice. Andrew realized with a wave of sick nausea that Dennis Redroy was in his forties. This girl-- he looked down at the crumpled heap still trembling in the dark grass-- could not possibly be more than seventeen at the most. "I--I--
His attention whipped back to the gurgling man in his grasp.
"Go." Andrew hissed through his teeth, his voice seething with anger. "Get. Out. Of. Here." The fat man's eyes widened. "I never want to see you again. Am I clear?" His voice was dangerously low. Dennis Redroy shook his head, automatically jerking it wordlessly up and down. Andrew let go of his collar and the panicked man stumbled backward. He watched for a moment as he scrambled away into the darkness, and his rage began to fade; being replaced by creeping concern. Just as he turned back to attend the girl in the grass, a soft voice whispered out from the darkness and held him still:
"Thank you."
~ July 15th, 1949 ~
He must be an angel.
My savior...
I peer out in the dark, trying to find my mystery rescuer's face, but all I can hear is his angered breathing. I finally make out the shape of his form in the dark, and watch as he turns. I drop my eyes. I am a coward. I can't take his anger. I know I shouldn't have come out into the garden with a man I hardly knew, but I really don't think I can endure an angel's scolding. Instead I whisper a quiet "thank you" and wait in the dark. His breathing for a moment stops; disbelieving. After a long moment, I hear his muted footsteps on the grass as he moves slowly toward me. He stops, and I can see the tips of his shoes at the very edge of my vision. I wait for the torrent of his fury. When he opens his lips however, I am unprepared for his concern.
"Are you alright?" My chin jerks up and my eyes meet his. Shock freezes my reply on my lips. Oh my gosh. Is all I can think, because the eyes that curiously meet mine, belong to him.
~
