My second post. This post is simply the first couple pages of a novel I started a while back. I hope you enjoy it!
(
Note to my readers: I apologize in advance if the customs, clothes, culture, etc. don't match up with the era I'm writing about. This post (ummm...actually, most of them) are simply a result of my imagination and instrumental music...which means I don't do a lot of research.)
The flowers were
falling. They crowded the streets with fragrance and color and
crowned the bonnets of the young girls who drifted by. The streets
were wet with the last rain. The dark earth, the bright
flowers....the blue sky faded into the green mountains and weaved
into pale darkness.
~ ~ ~
Mabel stooped to pick up
a faded flower from the street. The young girl's hair precariously
teetered from its meticulous position on top of her head. A small
wisp of hair had escaped, and her governess reached an ungracious
hand and swiped it back into her bonnet. Mabel disliked the hard knot
under the tight bonnet, but did not see the need to disagree with
Miss Pratt.
“Mabel. Put the flower
down.”
Mabel pretended to throw
it down, but secretly slipped it into her large dress pocket while
keeping her mouth shut. Miss Pratt was not to be fooled. She drew the
flower out of her pocket and threw it to the ground. Mabel walked on.
Miss Pratt saw an acquaintance and waved. Her sour face twisted into
a large sort of smile, half grimace, half grin, the result of
unpracticed happiness. She hauled Mabel along and caught up to her
friend, Miss Mart, a pretty, middle-aged woman who was known for her
gossiping tongue.
“Indeed, I saw him
myself. And says I to myself, 'What can a young man like him want?'
But indeed, I have found that indeed he can want much. See, my dear
Miss Pratt...”
Miss Mart did not wait for any introductions, and
her speech was carefully loaded with “indeeds” which she did not
seem to mind in the least. Apparently Miss Pratt did not object to
the word either, as evidenced by the fact that she let go of her
charge's hand and laughed a rusty laugh at Miss Mart's harmless
information and conjectures.
Mabel made sure Miss
Pratt was completely oblivious of her by taking a step or two away. A
movement to her left made her turn. A boy, nine or ten years old, was
held tightly by the hand by a middle-aged man, neat in appearance.
They had stopped at the post office.
“Any letters for me,
miss?”
The “miss” was
evidently familiar with the gentleman, for she giggled nervously and
shifted some papers on her desk. She handed out a thin envelope and
looked at it a little jealously. Obviously she did not favor the idea
that young widower Andrew Bradrick might possibly have another
admirer. Mr. Bradrick, however, tipped his hat pleasantly, tossed a
goodbye her way, and left the post office, leaving Marie to wonder
why on earth she could not find a husband. She turned away,
disappointed, to her newest romance.
Mr. Bradrick swung his
son to the back of a wagon and opened the letter eagerly. It was, in
all truth, a letter from his sister. The young boy swung his feet and
waited for his father to open it. His father read it slowly, from
time to time reading a little out loud. He smiled every so often, and
Mabel felt the love in the way his face was turned to his son. Mabel
felt the tears rush to her eyes. No, she would not dwell on this. She
wrestled with the thoughts of her father for a few seconds, and when
she turned to look at them again, they were again walking hand in
hand.
Miss Pratt turned and
walked the few steps to where Mabel stood.
“You ungrateful wretch.
Can't e'en have a harmless gossip with an old friend without you
running off.”
Mabel sighed and turned
towards her governess. Miss Pratt was continuously unnerved by Mabel,
but she did her best to stay in charge. Though only seven, Mabel
seemed to understand every shallow part of Miss Pratt. Probably it
was the effect of her large hazel eyes, quick brain, and a gentle
voice that rarely spoke.
“T'aint natural,”
Miss Pratt was liable to say to Miss Mart. “The child just looks,
and her look is enough to unnerve a blessed saint. It's like her eyes
understand. And she never speaks of what she is thinking. Enough to
unnerve a blessed saint, I tell you.”
“Indeed,” would then
voice Miss Mart.
“Come along, Mabel.”
The way she said “Mabel”
seemed to indicate that Mabel was an ugly creature. It came out of
her mouth “Mibble” and drowned before it could reach any
gentleness. Miss Pratt dragged the little girl along quickly. Mabel
looked around carefully. She did want to see that man and his son
again. There was stability there, and it attracted her. Fortunately,
the quickness of Miss Pratt was not limited to her tongue, and Mabel
soon saw the two directly in front of her. They were strolling along
slowly, and the boy was talking eagerly to the man. Though they were
walking slowly, there was a firmness in the man's step that could
also be identified in the boy's.
“MISS PRATT!!!” a
shrill voice was heard behind them. Miss Pratt turned, her nervous
smile again making her face grotesque. Miss Mart scurried toward
them. Meanwhile, at the sound of the near scream narrowly identified
as Miss Pratt's name, the man and boy turned. The man turned back
around quickly, hoping neither of the spinsters had seen him. As a
matter of fact, both had as pointedly pursued him as poor Marie of
the post office.
But the boy's eyes had
found Mabel's. There was something there, something flowing between
their minds, a sort of communication that worked outside of time and
space. He seemed to intuitively understand her hunger for a friend.
He stepped forward, then reached down gracefully and picked up a
flower off the street. A few steps, and he was standing close enough
to touch her hand, if he had wished to do so. Mabel's childish face
was half fear, half happiness. He held his hand out. The flower. She
reached shyly forward, and took it from him. The young boy smiled
companionably.
“What is your name?”
“Mabel.”
“Ah. Mabel.” The way
he said it made it sound beautiful. For the first time in her life
since her father's death, Mabel felt comforted.
The boy stuck out his
hand. “I'm Ernest.”
Miss Pratt turned away at
Miss Mart's last “indeed,” and caught Mabel's hand. Mabel quickly
put the flower in her large dress pocket. The little boy watched her
thoughtfully as she walked away.
~ ~ ~
The large two story of
Miss Pratt and Mabel's residence was made of brick, and covered with
ivy. Eventually, the house and its grounds would belong to Mabel, but
until her eighteenth birthday, Miss Pratt was going to take advantage
of the fact that Mabel needed a guardian. Mabel's father had not
wanted things this way. But Mr. Nabor's last wishes had been
misinterpreted by Miss Pratt, and so, as the master had had few
friends and less legal knowledge, Miss Pratt, in addition to all the
rest of the servants, virtually ruled the house.
Mabel's consolations and
comforts were few. There was the library, though she was too young to
read many books, and there was her father's chair, and now, there was
a little purple flower.
Miss Pratt peeled
Mabel's bonnet off and threw it on a chair.
“Needs to be washed,”
she said crossly to Mabel's questioning look. Mabel stood
uncertainly, not knowing if she was still wanted. Miss Pratt pushed
her away rudely.
“Go find something to
do. And don't get dirty.” Miss Pratt knew perfectly well that Mabel
never got dirty. Nevertheless, the child had the form of a child, and
so Miss Pratt somehow convinced herself that without her advice,
Mabel would inevitably turn a street urchin.
Mabel did not need a
second prodding. With relief, she walked primly out a side door into
the garden. She stood indecisively, then pulled out the flower. She
looked at it, the only evidence she had of goodness in the world. She
had to hold onto it. She must keep it forever. Without it, the world
was darker and without hope. It represented sympathy, understanding,
and above all, love.
~ ~ ~
