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{ psl: the storm }
[ The countryside around Meryton can be a delightful sight to take in on a mild day where white clouds glide slowly across the sky to far off places. This, however, is not one of those days. It had started out overcast and gray, and ordinarily Mary Bennet would have lit a candle in her room and read the day away, but today such an arrangement is not meant to be. Today her mother has been yelling all morning and has been in the most foul of moods that Mary cannot recall having ever witnessed its equal.
Today is the servants' floor washing day and that has sent Mrs. Bennet off on a tirade about that man and how he has ruined her floors with his blatant unconcern and cavalier attitude. Mr. Bennet escaped the breakfast room soon after realizing that his teasing was merely adding to the powder keg that was his wife's mood and Mary quietly excused herself to her studies. Studies which she simply could not focus on due to the yelling. And so she had done something that had truly been a last resort. She had put on her walking boots, spencer, bonnet, and picked up her reticule. With the housemaids so busy, she had decided to walk to Meryton alone to pick up the daily post. Perhaps when she returned the yelling would have stopped.
Naturally her plans were thwarted by her Aunt Phillips spotting her through her parlor window and uncouthly shouting down for Mary to come visit. Mary had been obliged to go, hearing the latest gossip about that mysterious Mr. Cartwright, of course, and after fifteen minutes Mary made her excuses and left. By now the sky was turning very dark indeed, but she decided to risk a little rain rather than spend more time in her Aunt's company.
And that is how Mary has come to find herself completely soaked as the heavens have opened up over her head as she travels the lane back home. She's miserable, with mud splattered across her dress and petticoat's hem, and the rain is coming down in sheets that are blinding. The only reason she is not completely lost is due to the ditch beside the lane keeping her on course. She's adopted somewhat of a jog in hopes of reaching home faster and that's lead to blisters forming from her not oft worn boots. Such a storm must not have been seen in England in an age. And suddenly the ditch veers and she follows it in confusion until a gate appears before her. Exhausted, she leans against it to catch her breath, trying to see what lies beyond. Whose house lies there? Surely she has not reached the village of Longbourn yet? Sneezing twice in a row, Mary places a hand to her nose and then her forehead. She's overheated from the exertion of jogging and is starting to feel a little faint. ]
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meanwhile, in hertfordshire, his mind barely concerns itself with even trivialities. his days while away walking the countryside, reading, and laying on the grass in naught but his skin. the social gaieties of meryton held no fascination to him. indeed, even if they had, he doubt he'd be invited anyways. any small worry that his lodgings would be assaulted by calls to assemblies and gatherings were instantly erased the day he first appeared in meryton, dishevelled, mud-footed, and carrying his dog like a babe. in a former life, this shameful incident would have plagued atticus for several weeks. so attached and aware of social decorum was he that he would've allowed it to beset him. but, with meryton at his back, dustros up front, and a canopy of trees overhead, a flutter of spirits seized him and he had little recourse but to laugh. this did not endear atticus to the community but it made it so his solitude was never interrupted unless by his choosing.
and so his days quietly pass, broken neither by socialisation or complaint. the perfect atmosphere for reflection and composition. hertfordshire is virgin country for him so every difference in weather was a new experience. today is the first thunderstorm of autumn and it's an omen for the cold winter that will follow. thankfully, before atticus committed to the place, old tom macmurray plugged and fortified any cracks in the cottage's structure, in addition to installing a great cast iron stove in the kitchen and a rumford fireplace in the sitting room. with the improvements done to the place and a well-stocked pantry, atticus could survive the winter without needing to travel to town.
the rain falls heavy and without pause for nearly a quarter of an hour. he intends to have an early supper so he can dedicate the remainder of the evening to meditation as nature provides the sweet melody of rain tapping at the windows. as atticus reads near the fireplace, dustros, resting on his red pillow at his feet, lifts his head up and growls. it amazes him that, though they are indoors and the wind is howling, a dog can sense when an intruder is near. but surely not a deer or rabbit. with the abundance of wildlife in the area, dustros possesses enough sense to not terrorize every animal that passes. except rats, which aside from companionship is the primary reason atticus bought him.
dustros jumps down from his bed and his nails tap against the wooden floorboards as he trots to the front door. he paces, sniffing at the door. over the top of his book, atticus watches him but decides to return to his reading when no further incident occurs. although two months have passed in these woods, dustros is still a city dog at heart and is still becoming acquainted with the sounds and smells of the country. )
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Along the way, the shapes of trees enter her vision amidst the driving rain and by the time she reaches the door, she thinks she knows where she is. Her heart sinks. But on the other side of the door she can just make out the sound of a dog snuffling at the crack between wood and floor. She gives a sharp rap on the door with her knuckles and rests a hand against the door frame as she tries to catch her breath. Perhaps all the rumors spreading about him aren't true and he has a kindly old housekeeper who will let Mary sit with her in front of the fire and there won't be anything seen as improper occurring here. Because if there isn't and he lives here alone... oh dear. Mary never considered she could do anything as bad as Lydia had done, but this seems a very wrong thing to do indeed. Yet what choice has she as the rain plummets down against her? If only she had been able to endure her mother's shouting this morning and had not left the house! It's almost as if this is the Lord trying to find a way to drown out Mrs. Bennet's voice. Unfortunately, it appears as though Mary Bennet will drown in this deluge instead. ]
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( he doesn't wait for her response before he steps aside, signaling for her to enter. no matter the reason why she was out, she needs help.
the cottage is as miss bennet sees: small, cramped, and cluttered. the main room is roughly the size of mr. bennet's library and the two rooms to the left are hardly bigger than a typical scullery. a screen partition separates the cooking area from the rest of the room, but the stove is still visible from the sofa. so, even if he had a desire for a housekeeper, there would be no need for one. the place is simply too small. he is the master, the mistress, the housekeeper, the stablemaster, the gardener, the cook, and now the nurse of avalon. he directs her to the fire and excuses himself from the room to prepare a change of clothing and the water basin for her. fortunately, a kettle is already on the stove for tea so there shan't be a long wait for hot water. unfortunately, the change of clothing comes from his wardrobe: a linen shirt (freshly laundered this week), wool socks, and a wadmal robe, a souvenir from when he visited the northern countries last winter. he lays these items on his bed.
as miss bennet warms herself next to the fire, she can take this time to properly appraise mr. cartwright's humble abode to gain an insight into his true character. although bookshelves line most of the white plaster walls in the sitting area, many unfiled books remain stacked on and under the oval table. millefleur tapestries and bundles of dried flowers fill in any wall space not covered by books. next to the old queen anne sofa, a violin and bow rest atop the open case with sheet music brimming from underneath like flowers in a vase. hanging on the wall above the fireplace is a painting in the neoclassic style of a scene of a nude woman reclined on a bed of clouds while holding up the sun in her hand. every space available is occupied by books or decoration. the cottage is cluttered, but tidy, and unlike the carefully designed and arranged rooms of longbourn.
he returns and beckons her to his room. )
Miss Bennet, if you please... ? ( clearly this isn't a comfortable situation for either of them but atticus is willing to ignore it and act as if nothing is amiss. )
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While he does something in the other room, she finds herself peeking over at the music sheets to see what the arrangement is, but she cannot tell from the way they are tucked under everything. She then turns her attention to the books, carefully peeling off her wet gloves and drawing a fingertip along the cover of the topmost book in a pile. When he returns it completely catches her off guard and she whirls to face him, face flushing at the simple sound of her own name. ]
Yes, of course.
[ It feels awkward to move her own feet, but she forces herself to move towards the other room, again trying to come up with something sensible to say. Had she not been in such dire circumstances she would have practiced a speech. Really, she should have used her time alone by the fire to do that. As it stands, she must improvise. ]
I am sorry to impose upon you, sir. The situation in which I found myself was of a most abrupt nature, and were it not so dreadful out, I would have carried on home.
[ Her eyes now fall upon the clothes laid out for her and her stomach seems to drop to the floor. This predicament is bad enough, but now she must undress in his home? Mary feels as though she'd rather crawl into a hole and wither away. Her eyes dart to him, to the clothes, and then to her own drenched dress. Naturally she must put on warm, dry things if she doesn't want to catch cold. After all, did not Jane experience something similar when Mrs. Bennet made her ride to dinner at Netherfield on horseback? Of course things were respectable there with a married woman staying in the house. Here it is just Mr. Cartwright. ]
I suppose I should...
[ She trails off, gesturing weakly to the apparel. ]
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his mouth twists into a grimace and, unconsciously, he steps inside the bedroom. ) I beg you, please do not make yourself uneasy. If Poseidon's breath hadn't turned cold, I may have taken a turn outside as well. ( a rainstorm is exceedingly more satisfying when one is outdoors to experience it firsthand. rain brings with it a freshness to the land, like blowing dust off a well-loved book, and it's a sensation that never ceases to daze him. perhaps even with the sharp chilliness, he may still have gone outside to feel the rain and smell the petrichor heavy in the air. just another one of his habits that stir disapproval and gossip in town.
it's evident from miss bennet's body language that she's uncomfortable by the idea of changing in a bachelor's home. naturally and unsurprisingly. basic etiquette discourages even smoking in front of a lady, even with her permission. thus a question is presented: which would be a more dignified and socially accepted method of death, from embarrassment or a cold? if the sullen gauntness of miss bennet's features are taken seriously, she may take her chances and return outside. then, at least, the bennets could take a small comfort in knowing that their daughter died from the elements with her chastity intact. a slight jest but atticus has met mrs. bennet. he dreads to even imagine the brewing storm over longbourn once it's revealed where miss bennet spent the night.
atticus clears his throat, hand reaching for the doorknob. ) I was just about to have supper when you arrived. You're welcome to join me in the sitting room but, if you'd prefer privacy, you can remain in here. Meals are not designated to a time or location.
( he smiles, and even in the dim light from the fireplace behind him, it's obviously easy and friendly. this is a bad circumstance for sure, but they can still make this time as pleasant as possible. after all, one's situation is only as meaningful as one makes it. without expecting or waiting for her response, he shuts the door behind him so she can change in peace. )
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Putting on his things should be easy but she finds herself staring at the articles and his bed for far too long. Such an invasion as this is so utterly foreign to her that when she does gingerly sit upon the bed her heart starts racing. Pulling on the wool socks immediately sends images of him wearing them through her head and she swears she breaks out into a sweat. His shirt and robe are put on and she sits with hands tightly clenched together in her lap. She's alone in a bachelor's home wearing his things. How did it come to this? Why couldn't she have just tried to endure her mother's fits as she'd always done?
While she'd rather sit in here and wait out the storm — because she truly believes it will let up soon and she can return home before dark — her stomach yearns for a meal and soon enough she's getting up, carefully checking that the robe covers her and checks her hair which she hasn't unpinned for fallen strands. Once that's done she gathers her wet things and heads back out into the main room. Her face is flushed with embarrassment to be seen in his clothes, but she takes a steadying breath and tries for civility. ]
I am most grateful to you, sir. I will be gone as soon as the rain stops, for I am most anxious to avoid anyone knowing I was ever here. Might I set my clothes by the fire?
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it would be false to say that miss bennet's presence in his home isn't an irritant for him. but the annoyance does not stem from her personally but more that he hates anyone, friend or foe, intruding on his private space. atticus came to meryton for privacy and solitude. indeed he hasn't fully formed an opinion of miss bennet yet to know if the source of the irritant is her presence itself or simply the burden of hosting an unexpected guest. but from their brief interactions thus far, he's observed that her disposition is akin more to her father's rather than her mother's. if true, it will make the night more bearable and pass more pleasantly.
the creaking of the bedroom door opening signals miss bennet's return before he spots her thin, robed figure in the slit of the verdant partition. the room is lit only by the warm light of fireplace, creating the effect that the sitting room is smaller than it actually is. from her insistence on leaving as soon as the rain stopped, atticus almost rolls his eyes but stops himself. even in an intimate setting such as this and camouflaged behind the screen partition, his civility suppresses the rude gesture. his posture stooped, he steps out from the kitchen, balancing a bowl of stew with a piece of bread resting atop in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. in anticipation that she would need to dry her clothing, he already prepared a line in front of the fireplace for her to hang. he gestures to it with a tilt of his chin. )
There. But, Miss Bennet, I strongly advise delaying your departure until morning. Even if the rain stopped this instant, it's dark, the air is cold and damp, and the roads are surely hazardous. In the morning, I will ride to Longbourn myself to fetch your father and I will do so with alacrity.
( it's a scant fifteen minute walk to longbourn from avalon and even shorter on horseback. an easy trek for his horse in normal conditions and perhaps manageable even in this condition, but still not a task he wants to undertake if it can be avoided. after all, why take it? they are both safe and warm here. and while the surrounding terrain doesn't appear to lend itself to intense flooding or sliding, this is his first storm here so he isn't yet acquainted of the land and its tempers. why tempt peril when this is an adequate enough place for miss bennet to bivouac until morning? however, if she feels so strongly on the matter, he couldn't and wouldn't prevent her from leaving. he isn't yet acquainted of miss bennet and her tempers. but he has enough of an acquaintance with storms both on land and sea to know when to enjoy the rain and when to secure the ship's hatch-tarpaulins.
he holds out the bowl of stew to her and raises a single, expectant brow. maybe after a hearty meal, miss bennet will be replete and weary enough that she will reconsider her decision. ) If you are not accustomed to the texture of salt pork, do avoid it.
( outside, the rain continues to pound against the modest cottage, surrounded by swaying trees. )
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For a moment she forgets the speech she's been practicing and rushes forward to take the bowl in an effort to appease her stomach and prevent it from humiliating her further. Clearing her throat, she then inclines her head slightly, trying for an aloof air. ]
Yes, thank you. I see the logic to your argument. I am most uneasy at this situation, but that will not do any good so I must set such emotions aside and use reason. [ Her stomach momentarily twists at the thought of what her father will say tomorrow when he learns of this; not to mention her mother. For a moment her eyes go unfocused as she runs through scenarios and when she next speaks, it's partially to herself and partially to him. ] With three sisters married and one far away in Derbyshire, I feel this could bring little shame to my family anymore. And my father's opinion of me is so low already that I do not think this situation will tarnish it any further.
[ Convincing herself of that, she nods absently and moves to find a place to sit and eat. Really, the only negative outcome of this is that the town itself will be against her. They won't wish to see her exhibit her musical talents anymore. And that is a bit of a blow, but she knows now that nothing can be done. She is trapped here and tomorrow her mother will know, which means everyone in Meryton will know. Glumly, she begins to eat her stew. ]
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( very obviously, a lie. half lie, at least. a report like this shouldn't interest or faze mr bennet, he'd think. but, from their interactions, brief as they have been, atticus knows that mrs. bennet will be more concerned about where her daughter stayed rather than how she is. such are the troubles of socially conscious (painfully so) and socially greedy (abhorrently so) folk. atticus knows the kind — those were his old worries, old fears once upon a time. for mrs. bennet's part, he can understand her unease about the entailment of her beloved home to a distant relative. yet, with two daughters most advantageously married and the third married, shouldn't she now be content and satisfied with her position and prospects, at the very least?
but these are tales and problems which atticus is determined to remain detached and indifferent about. stand apathetic to the town, its people, and their opinions of him. after all, why cause unneeded stress and vexations thinking of the townspeople who spend most of their days gossiping and judging others. they behold the mote in others' eyes but not the beam that is in their own. of course, this originates from a place of privilege and aplomb, and the fact is plain as day to atticus. he can afford to be ignorant and disinterested of the rumours surrounding him. it doesn't affect him in a business sense and, although his presence isn't welcomed in the stores, his money still is. furthermore, atticus is certainly not endeavoring to gain a state of union with any of the young eligible women in the village. he'll ignore everything in town that doesn't pertain immediately to him. just for another several months...
until then, he intends to perform the duty of a good host and interlocutor and make miss bennet as comfortable as possible. he casts a furtive glance at his guest. is it from dim lighting of the fireplace, the current circumstances, or has miss bennet always been afflicted with a permanent rueful look? he sits up in his chair. ) Are you warm enough, Miss Bennet? Comfortable enough? You can sit here if you need to be closer to the fire.
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Oh, no. I thank you, sir. I am well here.
[ It's far easier to eat her stew at the table and she doesn't want to spill any of it on his clothes. Plus from this position she can spy on what books he owns. Her eyes gaze over the cover of one close at hand before moving on to some others nearby. When her search leads her gaze back over to him, she wonders at how he can slouch so in front of a guest. Is this treatment he would give any who visit, or is it because she is Mary that she is not thought deserving of manners? Naturally that latter thought lingers, left to crawl around in her mind as similar thoughts so often do. But rather than let them consume her now, she chooses to ignore them. ]
You have a great collection of books. Is there a particular subject that interests you, or are your interests varied and therefore your library is as well?
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( he turns his gaze from his half-empty teacup to, briefly, miss bennet before turning to regard the size of his library. just below the gentle baritone of mr. cartwright's voice in his response, the pounding of the rain outside finally relents and softens to a murmur. ) Precisely. My interests are eclectic and numerous and so must be my library. And like my interests and library so are my foibles. Among them, the propensity of nimiety. ( in the chiaroscuro of the fire, he grins, mostly to himself. ) I fear my living space will become rather limited soon due to the accretion of books if I don't cease. But I suppose that is one failing which can be excused.
( but a failing all the same and one that he knows must be amended before he departs from meryton. it was troublesome enough storing and transporting his library from london to here. it'll be impossible as it is impractical to attempt to ship even a small fraction of his books when he leaves. the general plan of him quitting england have already been fixed, but the minute details — such as the items he cannot take with him — haven't been fully laid out yet. in this moment, as his green eyes sweep across the shelves and floor inundated with books and being in the presence of miss mary bennet, a fellow reader, atticus decides that the most sensible solution is to leave them here in the cabin, hope the elements will be kind to them, and retrieve them when he returns. whenever that may be.
he looks over at miss bennet, twisting in his chair towards her to get a better view of her and to act the proper and attentive host. ) I understand you're an avid reader as well. Do you have a favourite author?
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Oh. [ She grows slightly flustered at the sudden attention. ] I find it hard to choose among them all. I suppose I must mention Cowper and Pope. Thomas Gray, of course, and Samuel Johnson too. You see, it cannot be just one, but a collective.
[ Her eyes return to an examination of his own books, marveling at the sheer amount. Her father's library is well kept, and she has a small collection in her apartment from her saved pin money, but the chaos of this room makes this collection seem all the larger. ]
And you? Do you have a favorite? Or a number of them?
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despite his father's obvious disapproval of books, atticus has always been very fond of reading, which was perhaps strengthened because of lord stuart. the clusters of books surrounding them in the sitting room is only a fraction of the collection he once amassed before joining the navy. unfortunately, when atticus gave up his apartment, he also gave up his library, save for a few books nearest and dearest. he couldn't take it with him on the ship and, as he had no intentions to return to the west end, london, or even his father, he left instructions to bestow it to borough road college. his library was the cost for unfettered freedom and unsullied experiences. for him, it was right and necessary. better to start anew.
the mention of pope and other well-beloved authors is euphony to his ears and his spirits rise. books was always a cherished topic of discussion for him and one rarely spoken about with others nowadays, except with mr. bennet. now that miss bennet's chosen authors are apparent and approved, atticus may call on her to act as a mediator at the times his and mr. bennet's opinions differ.
his eyes linger on miss benett and he sighs, inching his head slightly downwards to view the books obscured by the leaves of a ponytail palm. ) It varies depending on the day, mood, and company. But perhaps — ( a line appears between his brows before a languid smile softens his features. ) Mr. William Blake. Content in this moment and your company, he is my favourite.
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His pick has her lifting her brow in surprise, but after a moment's thought, she realizes it really should be no surprise at all. Blake is a bit radical, but is not also Mr. Cartwright? ]
Well, I admit I know more of Mr. Blake than know his works. [ Wait. ] Are you really content in my company? I wish to be as little a burden as possible.
[ But if he really means it, than that pleases her greatly. ]
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the abruptness and awkwardness of her question jolts a hearty laugh from him. he drops his head against his palm and rubs his fingers across his brow as if to rub the mirth into his skull and ease the weight that sometimes presses there. laughter is a rare commodity around here. )
The validity of my statement could be challenged in the morning, but, for now, it's sincere: I am not discontent.
( miss bennet doesn't criticize the state of his home nor does she complain about his rough cooking more suited to sailors drifting on a ship in the mediterranean. if she has any disapproval of him, she keeps them to herself. of the small fraction of the bennet clan that atticus has met, miss mary bennet is perhaps the least burdensome. she is a shadow — silent, unseen, but ever present. mrs bennet, on the other hand, is a rockslide. if she had sought refuge at his home during a storm, atticus hesitates to believe he would've been so hospitable and willing to allow her to stay the night. after several minutes, he would've suggested that perhaps the rain isn't as hard as it seems and that she could easily make it home on pilot. for the price of mrs bennet's absence, he would sacrifice his horse. )
I hope you too are not discontent. Despite the circumstances. I must think this is your first time away from home without a chaperone.
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For a moment she fears he's mocking her and immediately regrets that she allowed herself that moment of vulnerability. People never seem content in her company no matter what topic she tries to discuss. They always seem to want to move away to talk to others as quickly as they may. She should not have asked; it was ill-judged. His reply leaves her puzzled a moment longer as she contemplates what she could even do between now and the morning to cause him to revise his statement. If she had been better educated, perhaps not everything would seem like a vexing puzzle to her. The way she has navigated life has been to try to sound as sensible as possible while not knowing exactly how to do that. ]
Oh. No, I— I admit that I am troubled at what the future might hold, but I also know that no good comes from making assumptions about it. And yes; this is my first time away with no chaperone, but I have rarely traveled. I have been to London a few times to stay with my aunt and uncle when I was younger, but I am like my father in disliking town. Three of my sisters now live in the north and I have been invited, but it seems such a long journey to make that I would really rather not go.
[ Well, Lizzy and Jane have both invited her. Lydia only writes to ask their mother for money and Mary would never go visit her and Mr. Wickham. As for her other sisters, she does not see what benefit there would be to traveling so far to see sisters who never seemed to desire her presence before when they lived together. ]
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given the current miss bennet's choices of destinations, it's not unsurprising she decides to stay at longbourn. but, as a great and enthusiastic pilgrim, atticus is compelled to put forth a case for travel in order to change her mind or, alternatively, placate himself of miss bennet's true feelings. he sips his tea. )
I trust that your disinclination is due to the undesirable destinations, not the act of traveling itself, for you are wise not to be intransigent against an entire discipline. If you'd pardon the misattribution by Mr. Feltham to St. Augustine, "The world is a great book, and none study this book so much as a traveler. They that never stir from their home read only one page of this book." ( as the words spill from his grinning mouth, his face begins to glow in the dim light and his fingers drum against his knee. )
Alas, young women rarely have the luxury to read that book freely and aimlessly. I won't pretend that I don't behold immense privilege and freedom only afforded to a minority. Tis a shame for I believe many prejudice and ignorance among our compatriots would be expelled just from a change in scenery and society. In your case, perhaps a desirable location or reason for you hasn't appeared yet. Then again, you may just not possess the tolerance or partiality for traveling, and I should not censure you for it. After all ( — sighing, his shoulder lifts up in a slight shrug as his green eyes lose its excited luster — ) someone needs to stay home to tend the hearths.
( atticus is of the strong conviction that everyone should travel — if not for the adventure, but for exposure to different communities and a resistance to ossification. but he cannot condemn someone for so innocuous an opinion. was he not of the similar mind over a decade ago? he cannot expect for someone to change their mind so quickly. but she may never change her mind. his use of flattery is perhaps instead a misunderstanding of miss bennet by assuming she's not the intransigent type. her mother certainly appears to be of the ilk, especially against him. it is presumption and inappropriate of him to impose traits onto miss bennet that she may not possess. that is very unkind of him. )
Now, if you'll excuse me, that is the end of my sermon. ( laying back on his chair, he finishes his tea. )
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Now, however, she wonders if perhaps she could learn more by seeing places rather than simply reading about them. It's truly a fancy, for traveling requires money and the act itself is often not worth the trouble. Hard carriage seats, bumpy roads, and hours in a confined space seem more a torment than a necessity on the road to a pleasurable experience. And yet his words: After all, someone needs to stay home to tend the hearths, causes a twist to her insides. Why does it seem so bleak when he says it? Is it because of the way the brightness of his eyes fades, or the tone in which he says it? For the first time in her life, Mary — who has always preferred being alone in her apartment to read or play music — feels as though she is missing out on something more. ]
Perhaps it is wholly dependent on a well-cushioned seat and smooth roads. My experience has been very little as I have said, but should I be invited somewhere than sounds like it would be an experience I should wish to have, I will make the journey and report back on my findings.
[ Is it likely she would be invited on such a trip at someone else's expense? Most likely not. Her new brothers are wealthy but they probably would not invite a sister that has not taken strides to meet with them. Such ideas Mr. Cartwright puts in her head! She returns to her stew, biting down on the salted pork and very quickly realizing her mistake. He had warned her. Covertly, she looks over at him to see he has leaned back in his chair to attend to his tea. Carefully, she slips the bite out of her mouth, holds it down low, and tries to grab the attention of his dog. The creature will surely like it better. ]
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( then his expression turns acerbic from the realization of his empty teacup. in his past life, as a member of the peerage, many great privileges were rendered onto him. among them were a vast staff of servants willing and ready to wait on him. from the time of his infancy until the age of four and twenty, he wanted for naught; anything he desired could and would be immediately granted. however, that nimiety of helpfulness became overbearing, stifling, too much. he never had a moment of true privacy to himself. not until he joined the navy, that is. even with the ever-present threat of death, rats, and stockfish, the first several months at sea for atticus was liberating, freeing. it was a reprieve from the constraints of his life, duty, and father.
but, at this moment, in his heart of hearts, atticus admits the one aspect of the cage that he does miss is summoning a servant to replenish tea with the correct amount of sugar and at the correct temperature so as to not burn his noble lips or tongue. for lo! the saucer with cup and spoon is bare of grateful liquor, which many deem as ichor. now he must rise, trek to the kitchen, pour china's earth himself, and await for the perfect temperature, lest he suffers injury. and, doubtless, the speed and easiness of this expedition is contingent on if tea still remains in the kettle. otherwise, his absence from his chair will stretch to an indeterminate time as he stands there awkwardly under miss bennet's perspicacious gaze until the tea finishes steeping.
atticus directs his grimace to the crackling fire, placing his cheek, rough with a day's old stubble, on his palm, quiescent in both action and mind. next to him, dustros hops off his pillow and scampers away to the general direction of the kitchen. he leaves the comfort of his plush pillow and fire for rare occasions, one being the appearance of food, or a rat, which, to him, is also regarded as food. the presence of other humans holds no interest to him. he and atticus are alike in that regard — they do not seek out human contact, instead keeping to themselves and their joie de vivre.
aside from the soft taps of the dog's feet on wooden planks and the crackling from the fire, it's silent in the cottage. no minacious behavior from dustros or squeaking so it's very unlikely a rat has surfaced. which probably means that miss bennet has encountered the salt pork. dustros wouldn't leave the comfort of his seat for anything less. )
Temperance, Miss Bennet ( , he chides her. ) You feed Dustros too much and he's liable to think you're now his owner.
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I would hope the loyalty of a dog to be more than a few salted pork could turn. But I will refrain from indulging him anymore, on his master's wishes.
[ And since the bowl is left with nothing but salted pork and gravy, she finds herself done with it. She pushes it back from her by a few inches, unsure what to do with it now. Like him, Mary is used to servants controlling so much of daily life so she does not have to. Without a silent hand there to remove the dish, to help her undress, to unpin her hair, how is she to know what to do? It seems almost cruel to be raised to be so hopeless on one's own. Of course, no one assumes such an occasion would arise where one would be without servants, but here she is in this odd man's home. She studies his profile a moment, realizing that this is a perfect opportunity to uncover more of his history. ]
Have you traveled much yourself, Mr. Cartwright?
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I wear red heeled shoes. ( the smile dissolves as an acute awareness that miss bennet may not understand the context of that statement dawns on him. the sensation of neglect and involuntary ignorance foisted upon one by another is a woeful experience. one which is familiar to him and one he refuses to impose. atticus clarifies himself, ) Which means, yes. I've traveled quite extensively. ( how insensitive and presumptuous it was of him to assume she knows the meaning and story behind his reference. it's been near twenty years since that trend was popular among young men returning from their grand tour of europe. certainly miss bennet isn't familiar with the concept, based on her young age and her presumed disinterest in such baubles.
brimming with repentance and in a low voice, atticus apologies. ) I apologize. My words and their subtleties ought to be... more apparent so as to avoid further confusion and discomfiture. Or ah — ( his eyes screw up and he drops his head against his palm, rubbing his fingers across his brow. ) — perhaps being mindful of my words overall is the best solution. If I am to reengage in society, I should understand that genteel ladies such as yourself may not appreciate my teasing.
( neither would general society. that kind of crude, blunt behaviour and language is only appropriate with gens de guerre, active or retired. in society and company like meryton, it's best to speak of jejune and pleasant topics and form superficial connections. for more simulating conversations and kinship, atticus will have to relay on mr. bennet, but even that is unlikely to evolve beyond a shared characteristic of frankness in trivial matters such as books and ripostes. but enough of the jeremiad. he was aware of the isolation he would endure from the world. indeed, the isolation he would bring upon himself by not being true and honest to others. that is the toll
atticus places his empty teacup on the floor under his chair and jumps up, reaching down next to the couch for his violin and bow. ) Some music, Miss Bennet? Taking it into one's soul fosters its growth, wouldn't you say?
( just the idea of playing his violin fosters the growth of his soul. )
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Yet his mind is quick to shift away from the topic at hand. Had she asked something too personal of him, or is he really the type to get distracted so easily? Though it is disappointed to not hear him speak more on his travels, as his guest she thinks it only right to be conciliatory. ]
Yes, if you wish it. What shall you play?
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( his usual spectator, dustros, hasn't grown an appreciation of music as atticus had hoped. no regard for the idiosyncrasies of mozart, the emotion of beethoven, or the sport of rossini. most distressingly are times when the dulcet tones of bach is interrupted by the adenoidal snores of his dog. and so atticus plays mostly for his own pleasure and, if the windows are opened, the birds, the bees, and the wind. a most noble aspiration — to perform for one's own self without thought of others or of glory. however, there are times when it is prudent to perform for others just for the satisfaction and delight of their approval. in order to maintain and quantify a sense of one's self and abilities, they must take into account others' opinions. as a sort of measuring stick, one could say.
merely possessing the violin brings on the straightening of his back; his shoulders, which are normally tucked in as if in an attempt to make himself as small as possible in a crowded and cramped room, lift up and back. a noble mien materializes about atticus, like the unfurling petals of a fresh rose. he places his chin on the chinrest, raises the bow, and slides it across the strings in several smooth motions as a warm-up. then he lifts it up again, taps his stockinged foot to set the brisk tempo of the piece, and begins. in homage to the arrival of the new season, atticus plays the first movement of autumn from signore vivaldi's the four seasons, a scarcely six minute piece which he plays with such celerity and ease that it's finished in under five and a half.
a warmth and richness, both from the piece and the timbre of the violin, permeates the small cottage. the act of playing enlivens atticus as his strikes and sweeps against the violin become animated as if a series of springs replaced his bones. but even with his flourishes, his eyes are shut and his expression calm, almost blank. his countenance is like a breeze against blades of grass: serene and untroubled.
he finishes the piece and the look remains even as his eyes reopen. but it's cracked by a slight smile. ) Perhaps when it's winter, I may play the next concerto of The Four Seasons. Until then, we shall have to content ourselves with L'autunno.
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His eyes close and he seems to be experiencing what he plays in a way Mary never has. The way his body moves suggests a lightness of mood, but the expression on his face seems to war with that notion. There is a calmness there; a satisfaction at what he's doing that Mary only obtains once the last note rings out from the pianoforte and there is polite applause. The whole time she's playing her body is rigid — as tight as his bowstring — while she tells herself to play perfectly without a single mistake. She must be better than all the other ladies in order to be noticed, because this is all she has. This is the only time she's mentioned in conversation or even remembered to exist. This is the only reason people speak to her at dinners and parties: to ask her to play.
Suddenly all the judgment and critique she was prepared to silently have in her head melts away and her shoulders sag. He enjoys the music so much more than she does. It always seems like a challenge to overcome to reap the rewards, but this? This is someone playing music because they enjoy it. It strikes her so suddenly that she feels overwhelmed, but she's trapped here in this chair and cannot simply rush away without notice. Despite her best efforts, tears come to her eyes and she quickly closes them, willing herself to regain her composure before this movement ends. She trembles slightly and clutches her hands together in her lap while the beautiful music washes over her and she allows herself to just listen and appreciate it for once.
When he finishes and speaks, she knows she must open her eyes. She does so, hoping the dim evening light masks the redness of her eyes or the wetness of her lashes. She forces a weak smile and nods her head in acknowledgment. ]
I should like to hear it then.
[ Her voice betrays her, heavy with her tears and she half turns in her seat, embarrassed at her emotions. ]
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becoming and being — a concept atticus could only discover in despair and loss. it is just to spend each day becoming and fostering passion for the health and growth of one's soul. though he may be poor in wealth, he is rich in spirit, which neither moth nor rust doth corrupt. for now, in the presence of others, atticus does not play for them nor indeed even think of them — only of thoughts replete with gratification that his passion and efforts will be rewarded in glorious providence. of his accomplishments, his satisfactions, his joys, and of the sentiment of his late mother's pride in his skills and performance, atticus plays with his entire being. it's his belief that a display of passion such as this will sow seedlings in others. )
Quickly, Miss Bennet. ( his eyes narrows, attempting to discern her expression, obscured by her half-turned position in the dim light, by the softness of her voice. ) For you must be tired, I think.
( a trek in cold rain can drain the strength from anyone, whether they be a veteran mariner or a demoiselle, so atticus mustn't keep her up any longer. as the second movement is mostly a harpsichord piece and quite restrained in dynamic and notes, he will move on to the last movement, which is a more cheerful piece that should send miss bennet to bed in good spirits. thus, he plays that, lifting the violin, playing with the same feeling and skill, and again becoming. )
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The music is a lively piece, made all the more so by his movements. Once he finishes, she claps politely and smiles ever so faintly since it's not a common expression her face makes. ]
Very beautiful. You take much enjoyment out of the instrument.
[ More than she ever does. No; she must not think on it. ]
Have you played long?
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Long enough to learn a few pieces. ( the response is deliberately vague. as are most of the answers to prying questions regarding his past.
this is no willful cruelty or deception towards his acquaintanceships and certainly no scheme, but rather an abundance of caution. possibly an overabundance of caution at times when it's illogical and unnecessary.
but there's comfort in anonymity. before, he had to operate and live in the narrow confines his father, his family, and society had entrenched him. now, stripped of his titles, wealth, and connections, his person is bare. without anyone's preconceptions, atticus can enter a room and let only his character define others' opinions of him. and the knowledge of whom is his neighbour and whom is merely a sycophant amuses him. on his part, his altruism and courtesy will never at a price. after all, he always was and is the same as everyone else. but neither statements are the creed of all, especially those in meryton. he is still unsure which category miss bennet falls under — either a neighbour or a sycophant — but he will be her neighbour until distance, malice, or fulsomeness arises. )
As soon as I could hold up a violin, I played ( , he admits. )
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As did I. My home has always had a pianoforte, but I was the only one who took an interest and pursued it with vigor.
[ But not with passion. It sinks into her again and she looks away around his room. It's so stuffed full. Surely one can get a sense of who the man is from how he lives alone and keeps his things. He could do with being a little neater but she will never discredit someone with such a collection of books. ]
I suppose I should retire.
[ It's not that she wants the morning to come with what that will mean for her, but she has never excelled at holding successful conversations. ]
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however, he hopes that any turmoil on her mind should be eased by the cosiness of the horsehair mattress, the warmth of the wool blanket, and the perfume of the dried lily of the valley flowers hanging above her head. he hopes the gentle rain tapping on the window lulls her into a restful sleep. tomorrow will be filled with vexation and obstacles, which she may have to face it alone as further interference from him may yield further complications. but that is for tomorrow.
he holds the rushlight out to her to take. ) Before I depart for Longbourn, I shall let you know so you have adequate time to dress and prepare yourself. If you don't mind the company, I will leave Dustros behind. ( he smiles and hopes the gesture will additionally put her at ease. ) He is not inclined to rise before midmorning anyways.
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That would suit me well, sir. Good night.
[ With that she retires to his bedroom for the night, feeling most uncomfortable at having kicked a man from his own bed. After setting the rushlight in a holder, she quickly works on unpinning her hair and braiding it to one side, though she has no ribbon to secure it. Letting it go, it unravels a bit as she sets herself on the bed, looking around the space that seems so much smaller in the low light. How strange that he should use this for light as opposed to a candle. Even one of tallow would make more sense than what the poor farm tenants use. He is such an enigma in that way. Here he has a home full of books which must have cost a fortune, not to mention a violin which also has a great cost. Yet he uses a rushlight, he keeps no servants, no one knows from where exactly he hails. A little shiver passes over her and she slips under the blanket.
He is wholly a mystery and she has never found herself so curious to dig down and see what she might discover. These thoughts preoccupy her mind until she falls asleep. ]
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the news that an unattended woman spent a night at his home will spark outrage, such of the palpable kind which will only be heightened by the fact that she slept in his bed. however, if she had slept on the couch while he slept in his bed, the outrage would remain the same. indeed, none of the circumstances of this situation will attenuate the disgrace they will suffer from the town.
the stew is forgotten. instead, he sits by the fire and smokes a cigar for roughly an hour. what he thinks and mulls over is not worth recalling but, suffice to say, his thoughts are mostly occupied by the memory of a garden in florence, heavy with perfume and spice, and gazing upon the full moon. at this point, dustros is deep in slumber.
afterwards, atticus snuffs out what little remains of his cigar and goes into his writing room, which is next to his chamber. even without miss bennet's presence so nearby, ordinarily he is silent, bar the scratching of his quill pen against parchment. conversation, discourse, and debate occur silently within him. there is no need to articulate what he feels in his soul.
he writes about moonlight. )
part two
part three
part four