Poetry Train Monday - 55 - Excerpt From My Culloden Story

Here's a second excerpt from my Culloden story. This takes place shortly after this excerpt:

Culloden excerpt 1

Jock MacKeigan is lucky to be alive. He's somehow managed to survive the Battle of Culloden and made his way into the hills, where he's found by Emma MacBean and her family. He's gravely injured, however, and needs his broken leg set and multiple stab wounds stitched up. We join the story as Emma's mother finishes the first gruesome task in the safety of their cavern hideout.

I've modelled Jock MacKeigan after Scottish actor Robert Carlyle, and Emma MacBean after English actress Emma Samms.

Excerpt


Near Drumossie Moor, in the hills outside Inverness, April 1746

Mother pulled, groaning herself with the effort of righting bones in a swollen cage of damaged muscle. Jock screamed again, a sound so laden with suffering that Emma shook to hear it. She held tight to him, focusing intently on his good eye which stayed squeezed shut. God help him. God help him.

Then suddenly it was over. Mother straightened. Jock sagged against Emma.

“Get the plank, Thomas,” Mother said, her voice breathless. “We’ll lash it to the leg. Enid, fetch me the linen.”

Murray knelt beside Emma. “How is he?”

She slipped the leather from Jock’s mouth. He let his head fall forward onto her breast and she cradled him protectively.

Jock tried to speak.


“Hush, now,” Emma said, a bit of her mother’s no-arguments tone entering her voice.

Jock pulled away from her and fell back onto the pallet. Emma saw a bright new stain at his shoulder. Then noticed a red smear on her own frock.

Murray stood. “I’ll tell her,” he said, moving quickly across the cave.

Emma sat on her hip, reached quickly under her skirts and took hold of her right stocking. Pulling it off, she folded it down and pressed it against Jock’s shoulder. He gazed at her, smiling a distant smile that made her slightly uneasy.

“You’ll be fine, Jock. Just keep on! You’ve come so far already,” she said, unhappy with how quickly the stocking was reddening.

Mother returned, lifting Emma’s hands away. “Just keep holding it like that, Emma. We’ll get his leg trussed up and then we’ll stop that shoulder from giving him any more troubles.”

Emma glanced back at Jock, who’d closed his eye and seemed so awfully pale. She felt a stab of dread. His lid fluttered open, his unfocused gaze roaming before his good eye found her.

Her heart surged with relief even as her fingers slickened with his blood. The stocking soaked through, but she held it there anyway as Mother had bid her.

“Talk to me,” the clansman said again, smiling a faint smile.

“I’m so glad you found us, Jock. So very glad. I want to hear all about you. How you came to be in the Scots Royal. Murray recognized your colours. My future husband is in the Scots Royal.”

Pain registered on his face as the linen strips were tightened about his leg, securing the plank.

“Future husband...” he whispered.

“Douglas Montford.”

Jock’s expression changed. He sized her up now and she could feel him retreat from her. “Lieutenant-Colonel Montford,” he said, verifying.

“Yes.”

Mother and Enid joined her. Emma removed the stocking and Mother peered closer at his wounds. Reaching out carefully, she touched a spot here or there until Jock twitched.

“Wash him down, Enid,” Mother said. “We’ll get started once we can see what’s what. Tell me, young sir,” she addressed her patient. “Do you remember how you came by these?”

Jock nodded weakly. “English bayonet, Madam.”

Emma felt queasy.

“You’re an extremely lucky man, Mr. MacKeigan,” Mother explained. “That steel missed your lungs and heart both.”

“Just stubborn, I imagine,” he smiled, swallowing dryly.

“Shall I fetch the ladle, Mother?” Emma asked.

“Well, he’s kept the rest of it down, even after all that. But see if you can get Thomas to part with more whisky. There’s more to be done and though you’re a brave man, Mr. MacKeigan, you’ll do as I ask and take another dram.”

His smile got wider. “A man knows when he’s beat, Madam.”

“From the looks of you, I’d like to see the man could do that,” Mother said.

“I’m at your mercy, ladies,” he said softly. “That should be answer enough.”

“Come now, Emma,” Mother said. “Fetch the flask and let’s patch him up.”

Emma rose and saw how Jock’s gaze followed her every move. As she turned to find Thomas she knew tonight would be just as sleepless as last night had been.

Best get the whisky. There was more agony to inflict before the clansman got his rest.

***

The MacBean’s daughter wiped the stale sweat from his face.

“All over now,” she said.

The mother rose and stepped away with the servant, murmuring in the background.

“You must rest,” the young lady said. Her fingertips brushed away the sticky strands of hair from his forehead.

“Don’t leave me,” he said suddenly.

“Hush, now. We’ve no more to do, Mr. MacKeigan. All over now.”

His vision was blurry and he shook his head to clear it.

“Lay down! You musn’t try to get up.” Her voice was conspiritorial, as though she tried to guard him from detection.

But Jock had taken too much whisky, had gone through too much to let sense get between himself and what he desired. He craned his head, blinking hard until her face took shape before him.

Such a sweet thing. Look at the way she gazed down at him. Had God truly chosen him above other men, sending an angel to watch over him?

“Why to me?” he whispered.

The angel hovered closer. Jock shook his head back and forth, unwilling to accept it. “What do you want of me?”

“Mr. MacKeigan,” she said, laying her hand on his good arm.

Jock felt a cool calmness settle over him. The MacBean’s daughter. Yes. All stitched up now. He could rest then, couldn’t he?

“You musn’t try to speak,” she cautioned. “Close your eyes. Hush. Time to rest.”

Those lovely fingertips stroked his forehead. Jock let his eyelid droop, his chin dropping onto his chest.

Twisted limbs blown off by cannon fire.

Unearthly shrieks.

Howls of frustration as men begged for the order to charge.

Jock started awake.

Two blue eyes gazed into his, steadied him, stopped him from leaping off the pallet away from the guns. Two firm hands pressed him down though his heart beat like a drummer calling the advance.

“You’re safe, Mr. MacKeigan. You’re here with all of us. The soldiers can’t get to us.”

Jock panted for breath, listening carefully just to be sure.

MacBean’s daughter again took his face in her hands. He was forced to look into those eyes.

“I’ll stay with you. Now lay back. You must get some rest.”

Jock nodded and sagged back on the pallet.

Had he...had he really seen an angel just then? No...the whisky. Hadn’t slept...marched all night...Lieutenant-Colonel Montford called the men back to the field. No time to rest. God, he was tired.

“You’ll take first watch over him, Emma. He seems to settle with you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

A plaid pulled up over him and he sighed. He remembered now. The MacBean’s daughter tended him. That’s where he was. Safe to sleep. All over now.

Cpoyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 53 - An Excerpt From My Gamekeeper Story

Here's another excerpt, this one from my Scottish gamekeeper story. This excerpt precedes the one I posted previously:



Scottish gamekeeper excerpt 2

This story is set in Scotland in the early 1820's. Lady Jocelyne Moncrieffe hides from her dangerous nephew in the highlands. Guthrie Carmichael, her gamekeeper, takes her to stay with his family, only to discover his sister - who raised her brothers from the age of twelve - is gravely ill. I've modelled Jocelyne after Neve Campbell, while Guthrie is modelled after Sean Bean.


Excerpt


In this murky gloom, Jean’s pale wasting body sent his thoughts back to the cell on the far side of town, to that day twenty-seven years past, when he’d run from his father’s bony grasp.

Guthrie’s stomach lurched and his chest suddenly hollowed, filled by a sickening weight that pressed on him.

His father had asked for them, for his children, for he’d known he hadn’t much time left. And as it turned out, he’d lasted only another four days.

Jean had taken them to the prison, had carried three-year-old Guthrie past the gargoyle faces hovering over the entrance and had pulled him, unwilling, through the dark passages, following the warden with his great jangling keys that had opened their father’s cell door.

The other boys were quiet and compliant, somehow sensing the serious nature of this visit. They followed Jean to the prison without any trouble, had filed past the monstrous stone faces without a shiver or complaint. It was only Guthrie who’d pulled back on Jean’s hand, afraid to go in, afraid of the stone walls and the timbered doors four inches thick. It had been Jean’s father as well, hadn’t it, dying there, and perhaps she too had been afraid to go in. Had wished for a hand to hold that wasn’t Guthrie’s tiny resisting one.


Jean tried to go to Father, struggling to rise on his filthy cot. But Guthrie clung to her, his arms and legs clamping around her body in a desperate grip. He wailed piteously, the pitch of it rising as she attempted to go near Father again.

Motioning Alastair to approach in her stead, Jean stood impatiently with the others, hiking Guthrie’s weight up when he began to sag down her undeveloped hips. And Guthrie, afraid of being set down, clamped on all the tighter, choking her neck in his desperation.

In the dim light through the rusted grating over the window, Guthrie saw Craig’s little face staring over at Father. Eyes round as boiled eggs and little fingers pulling absently at his lips.

Behind him, Guthrie heard low whispering as Alastair spoke with Father. Guthrie didn’t like Father's wheezy breath, the coughing. He didn't want to speak to this father. He wanted his old father, the laughing father. He longed to be scooped up and tossed into the air by strong hands, embraced by arms alive and filled with love. But all Guthrie felt in that dark cell was clutching, fearful desperation.

Father’s tone deepened, thickened. Not only babies cried, but men could, as well. Guthrie went very still from the shock of it, laying his cheek against Jean’s shoulder, relaxing his grip on her. She’d rocked him back and forth, turning to urge Lewis to go to Father next, and then Taggart.

Sniffles permeated the cell. Father spoke to each boy, his voice trembling. Craig grabbed onto Jean’s skirts, and Guthrie tensed once more as Jean reached down to take Craig by the shoulder, to nudge him gently forward. Guthrie whimpered as she took a step towards the cot.

“Hush now!” she hissed in his ear. Guthrie stilled abruptly. He pressed his face into Jean’s neck. Craig cried quietly at Father’s soft words.

Jean began to kneel, bringing Guthrie down to where Father could touch him. Guthrie didn’t remember much of what happened then.

Now in Jean’s room, he felt that same horror building in his chest, overflowing his gut. It never failed him with these memories. Perhaps his distress showed on his face, for wasn’t Lady Moncrieffe awake now, peering at him through the dark, her eyes glinting with concern?

Jerking her head to look at Jean, his mistress rose from her chair and attended to his sister. A few cursory checks and it was clear that Jean was sleeping undisturbed by any bad turn.

Rising, she asked, “Have you come to sit with her awhile?”

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Only locked his gaze on hers.

“What is it, Mr. Carmichael?”

For some reason he couldn’t understand, that question, her voice, the expression in her eyes - a furious yearning rolled like a wave through his body, and Guthrie blinked at the tears burning his eyes and choking his throat.

Footsteps crept into the room behind him and Lady Moncrieffe glanced over his shoulder.

“D’ye need some sleep, then, or is Guthrie taking the watch?” Craig asked softly.

“I believe he was intending to give me some rest, but he looks much more tired than I am,” Lady Moncrieffe spoke up.

“I’ll take the next watch with her,” Craig said, heading past the others for the chair.

Before he really knew how it happened, Guthrie stood outside the door of the worn-out house, Lady Moncrieffe closing it behind them. He stared at her, watching her pull one of Jean’s threadbare shawls tighter about her shoulders.

“You looked as though you could use some air,” she said. A slender but determined arm slipped through his. She led him forward, their path easy to find in the grey dawn.

Where was she taking them? he wondered. She didn’t know the area at all.

Not far, it seemed. She stopped at a shelf of black basalt rock creeping up beside the path. When he continued to stand, as if bewildered, she all but pushed him down so that he sat on the ledge.

Her giggling roused him from his stupor.

“Was I this lively when I was the sleepwalker?” she asked, smiling.

He smiled back, though his stomach churned like rapids foaming over rocks. He remembered another doorway, a grander door than his sister’s. A door much like the one that kept the Inverness prison locked tight against the daylight.

His lady had turned in that doorway. Had kissed him and said, “I’ll be waiting.”

“What is it, Mr. Carmichael?” she asked again, her voice tinged with longing.

He looked at her, his heart beating at the sight of her. The faint grey light cast a bluish tint to her skin.

“Ye really don’t recall it, then? What ye did when I found ye wandering around in the night?”

He watched her recoil, as if his very words were noxious.

“No.” Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pressed together, as if she feared words that had already been spoken and too late to change them.

“I ought to tell ye, then. Should have done, before...” But he lost his way, in her brown eyes so filled with dread.

Her fingers closed around his arm. “Don’t feel that...you...oh...” Her voice trailed off and she turned her head, staring at the rock ledge and waiting for the blow to land. Guthrie felt her nearness, as if those inches didn't separate them. And suddenly they didn’t.

He pressed her against his body, covering her lips with his mouth.

All the moments of his life led to this one. Guthrie's senses screamed back to life with the taste of her. Opening his eyes, he found Lady Moncrieffe returning his gaze with naked fear. He released her.


“That’s something ye wouldna remember.” His words tumbled into the morning only to hang there, idiotic and humiliating to them both. Guthrie sat, staring at his feet. Wishing he’d never got up from his bed, had not lit the candle, not entered Jean’s room to find Lady Moncrieffe watching over his sister.

But angels could be swift with righteous anger. This one swung her slender arm with all the force of her injured pride. Her hand struck his face with a loud crack. Guthrie’s cheek flared with pain.

“You forget yourself, sir!”

“No. But I wish I could.”

“What was the meaning of that? Tell me plainly!”

“Ye said ye didna remember what ye did or said when I found ye sleepwalking. So I just showed ye.”

His mistress trembled with outrage. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes darkened with anger.

“When I brought ye back to Kinnoull,” he went on, “the second time - ye never woke. And we walked back, the whole way. Ye spoke with me and I answered ye. Ye took me by the arm and walked with me, up to the castle door. As if we were sweet on each other. And then ye turned, and ye did to me what I just did to ye.”

His mistress looked at him in raw dismay. Guthrie dropped his gaze, unwilling to see her at such a loss.

“What more is there?” Her voice thickened with shame.

Without raising his head, he replied, “Ye said to me, ‘I’ll be waiting.’ And then ye went into the castle. And I stood there, wondering if ye meant fer me to follow.”

He peered at her, but she could not meet that look. She shut her eyes against the sight of him.

“And I wished that ye did mean fer me to follow," he said. "But I knew ye were dreaming. That ye thought I were someone else - yer husband, I figured. In yer dream, ye were trying to meet up with someone. That’s who I figured it were. Who else would ye be kissin’?”

“Not my lover, surely!”

Guthrie’s heart squeezed painfully. “I told ye - I knew ye didna mean me. But it didna stop me from standing there in an empty doorway, wondering what it would be like if ye had meant me.”

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 46 - The Penitent

Before I went to Ryerson for film, I'd already been writing screenplays. During first year, when I heard that we'd eventually be doing a special project with the theatre department in third year, I knew what story I would use.

I developed a scene from the full-length screenplay treatment to use as a short film. I wanted it to feel as if it had been plucked from a full-length screenplay, however. And I was very pleased with how it turned out.

It was a joy to work with trained actors from Ryerson's theatre school. I was lucky because my husband went to The New School of Drama in Toronto, and my sister was a veteran of high school and community theatre. So I had a pair of actors I could count on, while using non-actors for everything else. Meaning my friends and co-workers from the theatre where I worked. Luckily, most of my friends there were creative types and willing to expand their skill level through acting in a couple of my films.

But for The Pentitent I got a taste of the talent search. The film students got to meet the acting students in a huge group meeting, then we submitted requests for whom we'd like for our roles. We had to pick 1st, 2nd and 3rd - and lucky me, I got all my first choices!

For the scary step father, Luther, I got Ted Ludzik. For Kate I got Linda Ballantyne. And for Arlen I got Andrew Croft, whom I can't find on the net other than through an academic theatre group from Toronto called Handmade Performance.

Here is the script for my third year film, with the addition of stills which I photographed off my TV. Keep in mind that Blogger won't allow center spacing - everything here is aligned left, but all dialogue should appear in the center.
















EXT. – SNOWED-IN ANIMAL SHED – 1830’s NEW BRUNSWICK –DAY

Luther drags Arlen along the tunneled path to the door, opening it. Arlen struggles, trying desperately to stay outside. But Luther yanks him along with no trouble.















INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Luther dumps Arlen onto the hay-covered floor. He pulls his coat off, heading across the small space to grab a strap from a peg on a post.

LUTHER

Take your coat off.

Arlen gets as far as hands and knees, wiping the blood from his nose. Luther strides over to him, yanks the coat from Arlen and kicks him down again. Arlen covers his head with his hands as the blows begin.

INT. – CABIN – DAY

Kate cracks an egg into a bowl and stirs the mixture. She hears Arlen’s cries from outside and stops mixing.















INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Luther holds nothing back as he rains the blows on Arlen. Though seventeen, Arlen cries like a terrified child.
















INT. – CABIN – DAY

Kate tries to carry on with the cooking, but puts her bowl down as her son’s cries fill her ears. She pulls her rosary out from beneath her shawl and prays.

INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Arlen puts a hand back to shield himself. Luther stops just long enough to kneel beside Arlen, forcing the boy’s hand away. He swings the strap again and Arlen’s cries are filled with hopelessness.

INT. – CABIN – DAY

Kate flees the cabin.

INT. – ANIMAL SHED – DAY

Kate arrives at the shed door, taking in the scene between her husband and son. She runs forward.















KATE

Luther, no!















Kate flings herself at Luther, but he easily tosses her aside. He continues the beating, so Kate hurls herself between Arlen and the strap. When it strikes her, Luther pulls back, as if suddenly realizing she’s there.















LUTHER

Kate.

KATE

What has he done?

Luther tosses the strap aside, lunging for Arlen. He picks Arlen up by the front of his shirt, shaking him back and forth.

LUTHER

Tell her. Tell her!















ARLEN

Wolves got into the food.

Luther throws Arlen down into the hay and backs away from them, gaining his feet.

LUTHER

He didn’t secure the food store! The wolves got everything. Meat. Grain. Everything.















Kate looks at her son. Arlen hangs his head, shivering and crying. Luther stoops and retrieves his coat, putting it on.

LUTHER

I’m going to head out. See if I can get anything. Deer. Rabbit, maybe.

He exits the shed. Kate looks at Arlen, then reaches for him, but he pulls away from her.

KATE

Why would you..? Why didn’t he do it?

ARLEN

When we got back from the traplines, the storm… It was already blowing, and he… He went for the animals. The snow was blowing. I couldn’t see. My hands were freezing.

Kate takes one of his hands in hers. She sees an ugly red welt on it. Arlen moves closer to her, but Kate bursts into tears.

KATE

Luther!















She dashes after her husband. Arlen huddles on the floor of the shed. After a few moments, he rises painfully to his feet. He picks up the strap and carries it back to the peg, where he hangs it.















He makes his way to his coat and puts it on, then leaves the shed.

















Copyright - Julia Smith - 1994

Poetry Train Monday - 36 - Excerpt From My Scottish Gamekeeper Story

In honor of Valentine's Day this week, my offering for the Poetry Train is an excerpt from the very first manuscript I wrote. I figured some romantic tension might be just the thing.


To introduce you to the characters, this is the story of Guthrie Carmichael, a gamekeeper on a Scottish castle estate in 1822. Because I cast all my characters, which makes it easier for me to write them, Guthrie looks like English actor Sean Bean, whom you may know from the Richard Sharpe series or as Boromir from The Lord of the Rings films.




Guthrie is employed by Jocelyne, Lady Moncrieffe who recently lost her husband the earl and is trying to sort out who legally inherits the earldom. Jocelyne looks like actress Neve Campbell from Party of Five and Scream.

Jocelyne's nephew has arrived and seems rather eager to take over the reins, but a new development suddenly puts her life in danger. She flees to Guthrie's modest highland home until another innocent's life hangs in the balance. As we pick up the story, the two of them stay at the home of the Duke and Duchess of Knoxworth as they travel south to stop her nephew.

Jocelyne lived with the family of her servant in the highlands, and now Guthrie must pretend to be her cousin and act the gentleman to stay with the Knoxworths. Accompanying them is Guthrie's best friend Ronald Lundy, the coachman back at the castle, the one who sent word that they must return. Lundy poses as Guthrie's servant, which makes for awkwardness between the two friends.


Excerpt from my Scottish Gamekeeper Story


Lundy woke him in time to dress for dinner. Guthrie shaved at the mirrored wash stand in his room, then freshened up before climbing into his fancy new rigging.

He reddened in discomfort that his friend should shine his shoes even as he plunged his limbs into this foreign territory. There were fawn-colored trousers, a white linen shirt with tiny pearl buttons that took an age to do up. Then a striped satin waistcoat, gold and tan, and a chocolate brown cravat. Lundy struggled to tie it at his friend’s throat amidst more snickering. Overtop of all this, a burgundy evening jacket ending smartly at the waist in front, and sporting medium-length tails behind.

Then Lundy fussed over his hair like a maid. Splashing hair tonic onto his palms, Lundy ran his hands through Guthrie’s wayward hair, smoothing it down, parting it to the side with a comb, and arranged it till he was bang up.

“How do they get it to go all in curls?” Lundy muttered.

Launched off to the dining hall, Lundy gave him instructions on how to address the servants in the event that he should get lost.

Dinner was nearly enjoyable. He knew by now to encourage the duchess to begin a story as a means of buying time, so he’d not be at risk of exposing his own inadequacies of manner. He remembered to lag behind everyone else, never to be the first to reach for a utensil or a glass, so he could copy their movements without showing too much of a delay about it.

He took pains to ignore the meal itself - no matter how mysterious the dish was, whether or not he could identify the substance as meat, fish or fowl. All of it hid beneath equally curious sauces and jellies. He transformed any shock that came over his face into an unexpected delight at the talents of their cook. And though he’d rather have washed everything down with a great jar of ale, the wine was an acceptable alternative.


It seemed no time at all before Lady Moncrieffe had slipped her arm through his, and they were bidding their goodnights to the Duke and Duchess of Knoxworth. Turning from the dining hall, they strolled down the corridor and headed up the staircase, under the playful gaze of the cherubim tumbling from the gallery ceiling.

“Indeed, Mr. Carmichael,” his mistress said. “I’ve never seen the duchess so taken with anyone, aside from the duke himself, that is.”

Guthrie chuckled, embarrassed.

“You’re doing a remarkable turn,” she continued. “Even I’m beginning to think we’re related.”

“Lundy must have known best, after all,” said Guthrie.

“I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “Never underestimate a man from Moray.”

Guthrie looked at her. She walked beside him, sparkling in colored gemstones at her throat, her wrist, within the loops of her dark hair. She’d flashed him such a smile, those lips sliding back down to hide her teeth. Those lips -

He took a deep breath.

“Ye slept well last night, then?” he stammered.

They were nearing her door. “Yes, thank you. I knew that I would.”

She stopped, and they lingered, their arms still entwined.

“Ye looked so peaceful,” he whispered. “I couldna think what might drive ye from that peace.”

Her gaze took him in. Those brown eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, till there was nothing but her eyes, nothing but himself looking into them.

“Ye’ve got a maid to see to ye?” His voice was throaty with the need of her.

“I’m to ring for her - ”

“Don’t.” He lurched forward, jerked the doorhandle and pushed wide the door. With a sure hand, he grasped her forearm, tugging her into the room with him.

“Secure that,” he said, nodding his head toward the door even as he strode across the room for the one that led into his own.

His mistress, startled into silence, walked to the door and locked it. Guthrie swiftly made his way through the connecting doors and burst in on Lundy, who sat lounging by the fire. Before Lundy could open his mouth, Guthrie said, “I’m with her ladyship. Got everything ye need?”

Lundy raised a dish of clean-picked bones with one hand, hidden till now by his chair. His other hand nursed a steaming cup of tea.

Guthrie grinned and nodded. His friend raised the tea cup in salute, settling back in the chair. Turning, Guthrie looked at the door that led to his mistress.

What was he doing? He should tell Lundy.

Lundy would talk him out of it. ‘Ye daft ignoramus,’ he’d say. ‘Those sparkish clothes aren’t yers and don’t be gettin’ used to them. Ye’re lucky for a position at Kinnoull. Even if the new laird’s a murderin’ bastard...’

Guthrie stood at the threshold of his lady’s chamber. He spied her, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bent, her hands in her lap.

No.

But his hand pushed open the door. She turned to look at him, her face a confusion of relief and uncertainty. Guthrie crossed the floor to stand before his mistress – until the scent of her, the warmth of her pushed him to his knees. He sank willingly to the floor before he lost himself to the force of her.

“Mr. Carmichael,” she said, alarmed.


“Ye have no maid to help ye. So I shall do it.” His fingers wrapped around the heel of one slipper, easing it from her foot. Her breath drew sharply. The other slipper, gone. He held those silky feet in his hands, that gossamer feel of the stockings as he slid his palms along her calves, along the pale whiteness of her thighs beneath those rustling skirts. She trembled.

The tips of his fingers found the garters holding them in place. With a mere tug, they gave in to him. He slid the silk loose, her skin even softer. She made sounds that stirred him with furious intention.

He looked up past the tumble of her petticoats, her evening frock cascading every which way. Her eyes closed, her mouth open in a suspended oh. When he stopped, her lashes fluttered open. Her gaze travelled drunkenly downwards, till she found him looking at her. A surge of power coursed through him.

She was his. Whatever he desired, she would give it to him.

“Milady,” he said, “when we get ourselves back to the castle, whatever happens with it, wherever ye may end up, I shall serve ye. Not because ye’re my mistress. Because I love ye.”

She looked at him as though he’d struck her. Every nerve in his body prickled with that admission. He loved her. It was simple.

The great, divine comedy of it made him want to roar - with laughter, with sobbing, with rage that it should be so. He would risk everything, every ridiculous dream of a life where he would be his own man. He would be nothing if he was asked to trade his lady for that.

“God help me,” he said. “But I must have ye.” And he bent his head, touching his lips to the inside of her knee, his forehead brushing the tousled creamy satin of her gown.

Her fingers found their way into his hair, squeezing rough handfulls of it. Suddenly she tugged at him, so he was forced to look at her.

“You shall not have me.” Her brown eyes were blazing, daring him to contest her.

“I must.” He brought his hands up to cover hers, pulling them free, turning the palms so that he buried his face in her grasp.

“You don’t want me,” she persisted, her breathing growing heavier.

“I do want ye,” he said, pressing her palms to his lips, grasping her wrists and pulling her face closer to his.

Lady Moncrieffe’s expression darkened, her anger swift, so that she yanked her arms free of him. “You can’t even see me, for this!” She held the glittering bracelet poised between them like an accusation.

Guthrie grabbed at her arm and held her fast. He could see that it was a little too tight, that she bit back a comment. He unfastened the clasp and freed the bracelet from her wrist.

He let her go, meeting her gaze as she gasped at his rude treatment. Dropping the bracelet on one of the stockings beside him on the carpet, he rose to his feet. He circled around the bed, climbing upon it to kneel behind her and unclasp the necklace in silence. Grasping her shoulders, he leaned forward, tossing the string of jewels past her legs, to land next to the bracelet on the silky nest.

His lips nuzzled her ear as he whispered, “I am yer servant, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I shall help ye to undress. I’m yer servant, because I love ye. I shall undress ye, to love ye. Ye’re my lady.”

Burying his face into the curve of her neck, Guthrie’s heartbeat quickened as he heard her sigh. He set to work on the colored strands of jewels entwined in her hair. As the tresses loosened, a dizzying aroma of spices wafted from the coils and braids that his fingers set free. Bending his head to plunge his face into the soft thickness of her dark hair, he groaned his pleasure as she whispered, “Guthrie.”

He slid off the bed to kneel once more before his love. For a breathless moment he stayed immobile at her feet, looking up at an image so beautiful it threatened to choke him. He swallowed against it as his hands moved of their own accord. He took hold of her foot and kissed it, rubbing his face along the curve of her instep.
His hands skimmed the elegance of her legs, his lips brushing the contours of her knee. Her hands lunged for his hair once more, holding him in place.

Guthrie slipped his hands around to her bottom, and the shock released him from her grip. He rose, swept her legs up with one arm and eased her onto the bed. Her gaze locked with his, full of the anchoring steadiness which saved him so many months ago in the Tower Room.

Her features were gravely serious.

“You are truly mine, then?” she said, her voice thick with desire.

Guthrie swallowed. “Aye,” he said.


She seemed to take in his features like a map reader, the ridge of his eyebrows telling her one thing, the slope of his cheeks another. When she was done surveying him, she looked deeply into his eyes.

“I have never had anything of my own before,” she said. Her voice was awed and delighted at once.

Guthrie didn’t know what to say to that.

He pulled her close to him, burying his face in those dark tangles. And when she sought out his lips, her kisses were the reprieve he sought. For he had never given himself to anyone before, and he didn’t know whether he would regret it when he put his feet back on the duke’s floor and made his way back to his room in the morning.

Copyright - Julia Smith - 2008

Poetry Train Monday - 22 - Third Gardener Story Installment

Happy Thanksgiving, Canadian bloggers! Hope you had a delicious turkey dinner yesterday, or will be having one today. My husband and I had a wonderful time at my cousin's last night.















For this week's Poetry Train, I'm picking up the story of Robbie and Helen, not long after we left them out on the snowy grounds of an English country house.


Cheltenham, England - Winter of 1844


Trailing behind the younger laundry maids on her way back to the servants’ entrance, Helen didn’t notice the man on horseback following behind her until the horse gave a shrill whinny.

She turned and saw Mr. Zackary Chase pulling the horse back into a walk, though it obviously strained to bound ahead. Helen looked toward the two girls, heads together chatting as they neared the great house. Behind her, the little stone laundry seemed just as far.

Her heart thumped with alarm.

Another part of her saw the fine way he sat his mount, the way his blue eyes twinkled as he looked down at her. He didn’t seem anything like the man she’d been warned against so often.

“Good afternoon,” he said, touching the brim of his hat in greeting.

Helen blushed. Mr. Chase dismounted as she bobbed quickly in a curtsey.
He held the horse steady by the reins, though for a moment the animal side-stepped and swished its tail as though frustrated.

“She gets jealous when I stop to talk,” Mr. Chase said, his voice filled with the promise of laughter.

Helen smiled, unable to stop herself.

“Do you ride?” he asked, his eyes inviting her to move closer.

She shook her head, looking at the shining golden mare with pale blonde mane and tail, at the way it pulled playfully against the reins in Chase’s hands.

“I’ve nearly grown up on a horse,” he said. “I ride every day. Weather permitting.”

Helen was certain she was not to speak to her betters unless answering a question, yet he just stood there, waiting for her to say something.

“I suppose we ought to introduce ourselves,” he said, suppressing a grin. “I'm Zackary Chase. You've heard of my father, of course - Brigadier-General Josiah Chase, retired. Late of the 13th, Madras. India.”

The young gentleman was coming closer, the now docile mare following behind. “Until I went to school, of course,” he continued, his gloved hand reaching for hers. Helen had to fight the urge to snatch it away from him. What could he be thinking?

“Then I returned to England,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. He held it tenderly in both of his, the soft grey doeskin caressing her like velvet. His blue eyes filled with confusion. “But where are your gloves?”

Helen couldn’t bear it any longer. She pulled against his grip until he allowed her to slip free. “I don’t have any, sir,” she replied, her tone flustered.

“Sir...” he echoed, and he cocked his head slightly.

“You’ve mistaken me, surely. My name is Helen Slaunwhite. I’m the new laundry maid.” Her words seemed to hang there between them. A raven’s irritated caw punctuated the silence.

Then he laughed. A marvelous, infectious laugh that smoothed the furrow from Helen’s brow. “I’m afraid I did take you for someone else,” he said, eyes alight with amusement. “I was certain you were a visitor from the neighboring estate. I feared you’d become seperated from your party somehow and got lost.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot. “Just dawdlin’ behind, is all.” The way his eyes took her in - the flush on her cheeks spread into her chest, making her stomach flutter.

Mr. Chase stroked the mare’s face with affection. “Would you like to meet Miss Slaunwhite?” he asked the horse, whose ears pricked forward.

The master's son looked at Helen and flicked his head toward the mare. “Come and meet Madhu.” Helen took a step forward, hardly believing a beautiful, regal animal such as this really existed.

“This is Miss Slaunwhite,” he said to the mare, nodding encouragement as Helen stretched out her hand. “Let her find your scent, first,” he advised Helen. “That’s it.”

Helen began to softly stroke the darker brown muzzle when Madhu shook her head and blew sharply through her nose. Helen swallowed the squeal that lodged in her throat.
A chuckle erupted beside her. Helen smiled at her own foolishness and resumed stroking the mare’s golden face.

“That’s it,” Mr. Chase assured. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes,” Helen whispered.

Suddenly she felt him standing very near, his face brushing her ear. “I was talking about you.”

Helen’s breath caught in her throat. She twisted away, but he was already swinging up into the saddle and Madhu was tossing her head, impatient to be off.

Mr. Chase again touched the brim of his hat. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said, his face serious. Then he turned Madhu, cantering off in a spray of snow and a sweep of that glorious blonde tail.

Helen stood and watched him disappear into the trees. She was humming inside with a secret joy. It radiated outward, leaving her trembling with the force of it.

Slowly she walked back toward the house and the servants’ entrance. When she’d left the flat back in town, she’d simply had no idea how much would be left behind. At home, Helen Slaunwhite was little more than a problem to be solved - a mouth to feed, a back to clothe. But here, at Ashbury Downs, Helen Slaunwhite was fussed over, worried about, talked to, smiled upon.

It made her feel like someone who mattered.

***

(the next scene does not follow directly afterward, but for the Poetry Train I'm telescoping them to stay with the storyline)


Robbie pushed through the bracken, snapping twigs in his wake. He was looking for picturesque branches laden with bright red berries.

Sollows needed them for several large floral arrangements requested by Mrs. Chase for her dinner party tomorrow.
He spied a number of them. Rosehips they looked to be, but they'd do. Pulling out his pocketknife, he cut the branch with practised ease, taking care with the thorns. When he had several, he closed up the knife and dropped it in his pocket.

A laugh floated through the trees. Rob looked up from tying the branches into a bundle.

The wind stirred the tree tops, and for a moment Rob thought he surely imagined it.
But there it came again. Crystalline laughter that floated on the breeze.

He peered between the trees, looking for its source. To the west he could make out two people and a golden horse. Only one man owned an animal with such unmistakable coloring. Young Mr. Chase at his favorite sport again.

Rob bent to his work, fighting the urge to see which poor maid was at the young gentleman’s mercy. It was one thing to know it was a common occurrence. But after those excruciating moments spent witnessing poor Lucy’s torment - well, it was hard to look her in the face, was all.

He turned back to the rosehips. Again that laughter rippled past him and he left his work to weave through the trees for a closer look.

The horse tossed its head and whinnied. Chase helped the maid into the saddle, murmuring some encouragement or other.

Robbie’s breath felt knocked from his chest. It was Helen.

It couldn't be - he’d sent word. Through Lucy. Stay away from Zachary Chase he’d said. Lucy had assured him she’d told Helen the other night.

He stared down at the rosehips. Sollows waited for him. Must he court trouble for himself again on account of the new laundry maid? Rob looked to see Chase leaning close against the horse, Helen’s head bent low as she listened to the young master weave his lies.

How quickly Chase had walked out on Lucy once he was done with her. Rob remembered how it felt to look into Helen’s hazel eyes, gazing on him through the conservatory glass that same afternoon. He couldn’t bear to think of the pain that would fill those eyes if Chase got his hands on her.

Dashing back for the bundled branches, Robbie made for the clearing and for Helen.

The horse raised its head. Chase turned. All Robbie saw was Helen and the glow on her face.

“Ah. Flynn, is it?” Chase said.

Robbie took his hat off and nodded, glancing quickly to Helen. Uncertainty clouded her features. Then her expression changed and Rob suddenly felt his swollen lip as if it had grown to cover his head.

“Gardening out here in the wood?” Chase asked, his tone conversational.

Rob raised the rosehip bundle. “Your mother’s dinner party, sir.”

“Ah,” Chase smiled, turning to Helen. “I knew there was some sort of gloom hanging over tomorrow.”

“Has she hurt herself?” Robbie said, nodding up at Helen.

Chase turned back to Robbie, his smile gone.

“A laundry maid should ride the master’s horse, sir?” Rob wondered pointedly.

“Oh, I’m not hurt,” Helen protested, blushing.

“And I am not master here. That would be my father,” Chase said. “And then my brother, in his turn. I am but a guest in this house.”

“You shouldn’t trouble Mr. Chase, miss,” Rob tried again, looking up at Helen and hoping she’d sense his urgency. To her credit, she did seem uncomfortable sitting up there where she had no business being.

“She’s no trouble,” said Chase.

Rob looked towards the house, wondering how he could get Helen away from Chase without losing his livelihood into the bargain. “I could accompany Miss Slaunwhite, sir, if ye’re done with her,” Robbie offered.

“Oh, I’m not done with her,” Chase answered, smiling and leaning into the horse with a hand absently stroking its neck.

“If ye please, sir," Helen said, her voice flustered. "Might be best if I go with Mr. Flynn.”

“Best for whom?” Chase asked, his tone warm and inviting.

Rob saw the glow return to Helen’s face. He flared just as quickly with outrage, marvelling how she was so easily charmed. Why should he stick his neck out for her? If Chase was who she wanted, she’d soon have him.

“I’ll be off, then,” Rob said, unable to look at Helen. He slapped his hat back on and turned.

Chase’s hand grabbed Rob’s shoulder and yanked him to a stop.

“One moment,” Chase admonished.

Rob bristled at such treatment before Helen. It took everything he had not to shrug Chase off.

“As it happens, I feel like a brisk ride just now,” Chase said.

Rob turned to see the young gentleman wrap his hands around her waist, helping her down from the horse. Helen kept her eyes averted, yet Rob could almost feel how much she’d thrilled to Chase’s touch.

“I confess I would like you to walk the little miss across the grounds,” Chase ordered.

“No trouble at all, sir,” Rob said, fighting to keep the edge out of his voice.

Chase stepped up into the stirrup and swung his leg effortlessly over the horse’s back. Catching up the reins in one hand, he turned the suddenly spirited animal in a circle, holding the horse back while he gazed down at Helen.

He smiled a dazzling smile and bounded away in a blur of gold.

Robbie stood with Helen in silence for several moments. He didn’t know if he wanted to shake her or shield her with his embrace. When Helen looked up to meet his gaze, a shiver crawled over his skin.

It felt the same as someone passing over his grave. The urge to shake her grew stronger. Anything to stop this hollowing out of his heart.


Copyright 2007 Julia Smith


You can find out what happens a bit later in the story here.

Poetry Train Monday - 21 - Another Gardener Story Excerpt

I'm immersed in my works in progress at the moment. I should be doing more revisions on my vampire story, but I've had a little flash of brilliance where my gardener story is concerned. So I'm doing a bit of work on Robbie and letting my vampire character, Peredur, take a bit of a break.

For the Poetry Train this week, here's another excerpt from Robbie's story - though the scene is from Helen's point of view. Strangely, although all of my stories give equal time to the male and female characters, in my own mind I always refer to them as the male character's story. Probably because I'm partially in love with my heroes.

This takes place earlier in the story than last week's scene. Helen Slaunwhite is the newest member of the staff of an English country house. She's been warned about the predatory habits of the younger son of the family that employs her, but has not encountered him yet. In this scene, she's at work in the laundry.


Cheltenham, England, the winter of 1844


Helen slapped the wet napkins onto the press, pulling down on the lever in an unseeing cadence. She’d worked past such pain before.

Hours spent hunched over piecework for the seamstress, eyes smarting, her head as though ground by a gristmill - so many times she’d longed to put down her sewing and sleep sitting up.

Every time she’d felt like giving in, Helen had merely looked over at her sisters. If they could go on, she could go on.

Now in the laundry of a country house - imagine - feeling so weak and sore, she determined to go on until the other laundry maids stopped. At least it was light and airy here. How different from her family's dingy flat. As cold as it was outside, the steam from the laundry kettles kept it warm inside, even with all the windows and their drafts. At home, the one window on the far wall had been avoided at all costs, though they'd stuffed old rags and paper into the gaps.

Before too long Helen was done with her basket. She turned to the windows nearest her as Marjorie and Sue lugged it over to the clotheslines. Helen peered out at the frigid landscape between the white window sashes and the frosted panes.

The sky glowed a soothing rosiness. Laceworked barren trees shimmered lavender on the horizon. Snow draped the land as far as she could see. Such open space - then a figure moving across the snow caught her attention.

It was a workman emerging from the trees. Had she ever seen one man alone against such a backdrop? The way he trudged quietly through unmarked snow fascinated her. He carried his tools in mittened hands, his clothing bulky against the cold. The workman slowed, coming to a full stop, turning to regard the stone building housing the laundry. Helen’s breath caught in her chest.

It seemed that he could see her through the frosty window, as though he were looking for her across the grounds. Her heart thudded strangely. Could it be the gardener she’d met yesterday? How she wished he'd spoken to her after dinner.

The figure continued on his unhurried way. And she could hear the girls returning for her final load of linens. Helen turned from the window, her face flushed. Her fatigue had vanished. Blood coursed through her veins, making her feel like she could do an entire day’s work all over again.

“Well, Missy,” Mrs. Greeley said, pushing wayward hair out of her face. “That's a good day’s work. You may go for now. Miss Tattersoll and I will finish this last bit. It’s a very old table linen, very fine and we’ll look after it ourselves. You girls, as well.”

Sue and Marjorie curtsied quickly. “Thank you, Mrs. Greeley,” they said together. Making their way to the hooks by the door, they took up their wraps. Helen followed, swept by urgency. She hoped the gardener was not too far along his way. Sue and Marjorie whispered and giggled, as girls will. They seemed not to notice Helen’s dash out the door.

Helen walked as quickly as she could without running in the direction he’d taken.
The moment she caught sight of him, she knew it was the gardener. He had the same deliberate gait she’d noticed when he left the kitchen yesterday. She closed in on him and he slowed, turned, surprise washing over his face.

Helen stopped, panting so her breath hung in wisps between them.

He looked back at the laundry, then turned his gaze to Helen. “So. Working today, were you?”

Why was she so tongue-tied, and she racing to catch him? “I have a letter for ye,” she blurted out.

“A letter? For me?”

“From home,” she explained.

His green eyes clouded with confusion.

“Yer mum,” she went on. “She sent it through my brother Ned. He used to work fer yer dad at the flower shop.”

Robbie’s eyes widened in recognition. It seemed he saw her now for the first time. His bearing lost some of its stiffness. “Ned Slaunwhite, ye mean?” Rob asked.

“My brother.”

A smile lit the gardener’s face. Helen's stomach lurched, as though she’d jumped from the shed roof into a snowbank.

“Well," he said. "Such a surprise,” and he gave a delighted laugh. “Where is Ned, these days?”

“At home, lookin' after me mum and sisters. And brothers.”

“Yer father’s gone, is he?”

She could only shake her head in answer.

“What’s Ned working at?” Robbie asked, bridging the awkward silence.

“Sellin’ news sheets,” Helen answered, hearing again her dad’s insult that Ned did a boy’s job. “He can read,” she added.

Robbie looked away. Somehow this was all turning out wrong. “I’ll bring yer letter at dinner,” she said, turning suddenly. She didn’t want to see whether the gardener tried to hide his pity.

Robbie Flynn, who delivered flowers with young Ned Slaunwhite when they were both boys. Only, Robbie’s father owned the flower shop - a respected merchant in the spa town of Cheltenham. What was Helen’s father, other than a trial to her mother and a scourge to his children?

If service wasn’t beneath a shopkeeper’s son, was it disgraceful for Helen Slaunwhite to work on an estate as grand as this one? She turned back to find herself staring into the gardener's green eyes again. They were alive with questions.
All he said was, “You must be wanting to wash up for dinner.”

“Oh. Sorry - I'm keepin’ ye. Am I keepin' ye from yer work?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Robbie laughed as Helen hurried to head back for the service door. She hadn't gone far when she risked a look back. The gardener hadn’t moved an inch. Just stood there watching her.

Helen’s heart begin to thump a little stronger than usual. And not just because of the look in the gardener's eyes.

Three men on horseback emerged from the barren grey wood behind Robbie, smooth as rolling fog.

Robbie turned, removing his hat as the riders passed by. He sent Helen a warning look. Thankfully she had enough sense to drop a curtsy before it was too late.
Somehow daring to look up, Helen watched the three gentlemen sway comfortably in their saddles as they rode away from her toward the stables. An older gentleman and two younger ones, all dressed in dark greatcoats draped over the backs of their mounts to be flicked by glossy tails. All three wore tall hats and carried crops in their gloved hands. Shiny boots to the knee poked out from the corners of their coats with the movement of the horses.

Such fine gentlemen. Helen had never seen their like in all her life.

Just as she was about to chide herself for staring, one of the younger men turned in his saddle and looked back at her. He rode a golden horse whose blonde mane and tail nearly glowed in the thin winter light.

The gentleman stared directly at her, his blue eyes icy against the grey sky. His blonde hair lay groomed neatly beneath the brim of his hat. His lips curled slightly in one corner.

The hairs on the back of Helen's neck stood on end.

With a movement as fluid as wine, the gentleman turned away, facing the stables as the other men did.

Helen gasped as Robbie took her by the arm and forced her to look at him. His eyes crackled with alarm. “What on earth were you doing?” he whispered hotly.

“What do ye mean?”

“Has no one told you about that one?”

Helen remembered Bernadette’s words as she led her through the servants’ wing last night. “I didn’t know it were him,” she said.

“Well, who else would look at you like that?” Robbie snapped.

Helen looked down. Robbie was standing very close to her. Her skirts nearly brushed the gardener’s trousers.

A bird called in the moist stillness. Cold crept up her legs and along her spine. Robbie let her go, backing away from her.

“I’ve got to finish my rounds or Sollows will have my head on a platter," he said. "I’m already in it up to my neck from yesterday.” Helen looked at him, afraid it was her arrival yesterday that got him into trouble. The dark impatience she saw in his eyes told her that it was.

“I’ll bring ye the letter. At dinner,” she offered.

He nodded and turned to leave. Helen shut her eyes and sighed. She’d got off to a bad start and was only making it worse.

“Miss Slaunwhite.”

Her eyes opened to see Robbie moving away from her, though he’d twisted around to address her.
“You must take care, now. Promise me.”

She nodded and he turned again, making his way through the wet snow. Helen faced the stables where she could see the gentlemen dismounting in the distance. She fought tears that pulled at her eyes and crushed her throat. When had she ever heard someone asking her to take care?

And how had she managed to live this long without it?


Copyright 2007 Julia Smith

Poetry Train Monday - 20 - Gardener Story Excerpt

Now that I've got all of my WIP's transferred over from my creaky little turtle of an old computer, I'd like to share an excerpt from one of my historicals.

This story takes place in several locations. It starts off in 1840's England, then follows my two main characters across the sea to Van Dieman's Land (now Tasmania.) This scene takes place about a third of the way into the story.

Robbie Flynn is an under gardener on a country house estate in Cheltenham, England. He plans to serve his apprenticeship under well-respected gardeners until he can be the head gardener or even a landscape designer. His attempts to warn new laundrymaid Helen Slaunwhite about the son of their employer have fallen on deaf ears. I've modelled Robbie on Ewan McGregor.

Helen has recently escaped a harsh life of poverty in the slums. Her time as a laundrymaid feels more like a life of ease in comparison. The master's handsome son makes her feel special, and Robbie's warnings about him just make her dislike the gardener. I've modelled Helen on Kerri Russell.

We pick up the story as it takes a violent turn. Zachary, the master's son has seduced Helen in the conservatory. Robbie attempts to diffuse the situation, but it all goes horribly wrong. The two men fight.

Excerpt:


Chase bucked to free himself. Robbie saw a flash of steel and knew he couldn’t move to deflect it. Then he heard a smash and felt Chase go limp beneath him.

Hands too strong to be Helen’s wrenched Robbie off of Chase. A stout boot clipped him in the ribs.

“Mr. Chase, sir! Good God.”

Robbie fought to catch his breath. He was wet. Why was he wet? The hallboy took hold of Helen as Morrison saw to Chase.

“Don’t you touch her!” Robbie cried.

He struggled to his knees, only to get the butler’s Indian army walking stick across the face. He crumpled on the wet marble, head spinning, chin burning.

“Mind the glass,” Morrison cautioned as it crunched underfoot. “Let’s get him upright.” The crisp instructions of the former sergeant of the 13th Regiment inspired swift obedience even from the young master. He sat with help. More moans from the wanker.

“Don’t try to speak, sir. Your face is a bloody mess.”

Robbie got back to his knees and sat on his heels. No one moved to clobber him just yet. Now he could see what made such a wreck of Chase’s once-fine features. The glass fishbowl that once sat on the table lay in shards on the floor. The goldfish lay still amid a stretch of tiny pebbles and sodden water plants.

Helen stood as still as the little fish. The hallboy held her but she gave him no trouble. She had sealed her fate and Robbie's.

The gash oozed deeply across Chase’s forehead, leading down through his right brow. Robbie and Helen would be up before the Quarter Sessions in short order. The sessions over which retired Brigadier-General Chase, their master, presided. The young master's face was such a gruesome mess it actually made Robbie shudder to see it.

Morrison and the footman settled Chase on the very sofa where that bastard had wrought Helen’s ruination only an hour ago. As foul as that face was now and would be for the remainder of Chase’s days, Robbie knew it would never pay for the tears shed by all the maids whom that pratt had used in here. At least Robbie had given Helen justice of some sort.

Now they would both have to face the wrath of the brigadier-general, whose steps could be heard closing in on the conservatory. Robbie shut his eyes, bowed his head and took a deep breath.

He could do no more for Helen now. He could only face this ordeal with all the character he could muster. Perhaps that would give Helen the courage to do the same.

*

Helen kept her gaze on Robbie as she heard the master approaching. Her chest flushed with cold, fear stopping the breath in her lungs. Robbie still knelt in the wet from the fish bowl. She hoped there were no shards near him that he didn’t see.

Robbie raised his head as the master entered the room. The older Mr. Chase strode over to his son, tipped the younger man’s face forward and had a look at it. Mr. Morrison stepped close and the two men spoke quietly. Then both looked over at Robbie.

The butler motioned to the hallboy holding Helen. “Ask Mrs. Kamala to send for the doctor,” he ordered. The boy let Helen go and dashed off. Helen longed to join Robbie but knew she mustn’t move.

Young Mr. Chase moaned. He seemed in shock. His cut face must feel unbearable.

Just then Mr. Morrison and the master moved towards Robbie with practised ease. They’d served together in India. Their familiarity made them seem to move as one. Before Helen could blink, the butler yanked Robbie to his feet. Old Mr. Chase stood over Robbie by several inches, staring almost calmly into the gardener’s eyes.
Robbie met that gaze defiantly.

“Your handiwork, is it, Flynn?” the master asked in a strangely off-hand manner.

“Your son has wronged many, sir,” Robbie said.

The master looked back at his son. If only Mrs. Kamala would come, Helen thought. It couldn’t be good for the young master to bleed like that.

Old Mr. Chase turned back to Robbie. “Who is the judge of whom?” the master asked. He struck Robbie over and over, coldly and efficiently as Morrison held the gardener in place. Helen surged forward, then checked herself. Tears welled and words tripped over the sobs in her throat.

Finally Robbie hung in Morrison’s grasp. Yet he had barely cried out. The master turned then to look at Helen. That’s when Mrs. Kamala and Bernadette quietly entered the conservatory to see to young Mr. Chase.

How Helen would miss Bernadette. She’d been so kind. The maid stole a glance at Helen just then. Her eyes were shaded with the horror of it all.

Then the master was before Helen. She too looked up into his face as Robbie had done. What she saw was as unexpected as it was unnerving. There was shame in the master’s eyes.

“I trust you’d been warned about him,” he said plainly. Helen saw a string of faces in her mind’s eye – Bernadette, Lucy, Mrs. Tattersoll, Robbie. All had tried to warn her. She’d listened to none of them. Helen nodded, then hung her head.

“You will be out of here in the morning,” Mr. Chase said. Helen felt dizzy. But she nodded.

The master turned and Helen suddenly found her voice. “Please,sir,” she dared.

He stopped.

“What will happen to Robbie, sir?”

“He shall go to gaol to begin with. When the Quarter Sessions begin, we shall see.” Helen darted forward, grabbing at his jacket sleeve.

“Please, sir, you don’t understand!” The master shrugged her off. “It weren’t him, sir! Please, you mustn’t!”

“No Helen!” Robbie called out. Helen shook. But they must know.

“They were fightin’," she said in a rush. "And the young master pulled his pocketknife. He were goin’ to cut Robbie or - or stab him.”

“Sir, she’s just – she’s just trying to…” Robbie blurted out.

“Silence!” the master barked.

Young Mr. Chase protested Mrs. Kamala’s ministrations from the sofa. Helen couldn’t stop her tears. Old Mr. Chase strode back towards Robbie who tried to take a step back but could only press against the butler.

“Who cut my son?” the master demanded. Robbie opened his mouth but shut it again. “When my son recovers himself, he will tell me in his own words. Which of you cut him?”

Helen’s heart crushed inside her chest. Robbie meant to take the brunt of her wrongdoing on his own shoulders. Why? She’d only meant to stop the young master from hurting Robbie with that knife. Now look what she herself had wrought.

Blood mixed with water and coloured pebbles on the white marble floor. Mrs. Kamala and the maid worked swiftly to stop the bleeding, still waiting for the doctor to arrive. All because Helen wouldn’t listen. Her trembling grew worse, but she must get the words out somehow.

“It weren’t Robbie, sir,” she managed. Tears thickened her voice. The master turned. Helen’s gaze locked with Robbie’s.

He shook his head in disbelief. She thought she saw tears starting in those green eyes.

“The fishbowl – I …” she stammered, feeling the weight of it in her hands again. Feeling the water slop over the rim. She looked down and saw the wet splattered over her skirt.

The master took hold of her, dragging her across the floor to the sofa. Mrs. Kamala and Bernadette leaned out of the way, giving her a clear view of the slick red mess of Zachary Chase. Dazed blue eyes looked up at her. How she'd waited through the busy work hours for those eyes to look into hers. Now he seemed a hellish fiend.

“You have made him a monstrosity,” the master growled in her ear. Then he flung Helen to the hard floor. She slid in the wet.

The doctor entered the conservatory, followed moments later by the town constable who arrived with several other men. Helen twisted round and sought Robbie’s gaze once again. The master strode forward. As the way cleared she saw Robbie already looking at her.

His green eyes were charged with anguish. His gaze asked her ‘Why? Why?’ from across the room.

The constable closed in on Robbie. The other men reached for Helen, pulling her roughly to her feet and yanking her arms before her. Helen didn’t look away as Robbie received the same treatment as she. The constable put iron shackles on the gardener’s hands as Helen felt the weight upon her own.

Every last moment her gaze sought Robbie as if she were swept away in a torrent and his image was the last handhold between herself and oblivion.

The pull of his green-eyed gaze pierced through the tumult of their arrest. His gaze never left hers.

Too late, she knew he loved her.


Copyright 2007 Julia Smith