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feng_shui_houseAs a NYR treat for carmilla on AOOO Here
"Oh, yes, I have my chickens," Miss Twitterton said brightly, too brightly perhaps, but then it wasn't every day a reporter comes to interview one about one's fiancé's hanging. "And choir practice and my snug little cottage. Yes, so really, while it was quite upsetting about Frank..." She fluttered her hands. "With the brass cactus pot... Frank was always clever. But not a kind man, not at all." Her lips tightened. "And how Uncle could have sold the house without a word to me and never repaying what I'd lent him-- but, as I said, I am not dependent on any man."
The reporter nodded. "Good for you, Agnes." Her voice was deep, with sharp city tones that oddly enough, Miss Twitterton found interesting rather than annoying. Of course, since this woman was the only one who'd bothered to ask about her feelings, she was inclined to like her. And admire her. The mannish suit and short hair cut made her look no-nonsense, a woman to be taken into consideration, not tossed aside after lies and promises and cheating and...Miss Twitterton drew in a sharp breath to keep back tears. She had made enough of a public fool of herself already. She would never live down the scene she had created in front of his Lordship. They were so happy, Lord Peter and his wife. So happy, and she was... so alone. The reporter reached a hand across the tea table and laid her warm, firmly muscled hand on Miss Twitterton's. "You'll be all right, Agnes. You're a strong woman."
Miss Twitterton felt herself blush. She was so unused to praise she always wondered if it was mockery and she simply didn't see it. "Yes, well, one must be, to live in the country, particularly in an isolated cottage such as mine. In the city, there are people to hear when..." She frowned, not wanting to think of her father, how often he beat her mother, and sometimes her, for the crime of being clever, and wanting things said and done properly. And no one ever cared. Not the constable who would pause in his bicycling past then shake his head and continue on his way, or the doctor who never asked how one could possibly run into so many doors, or the neighbors who never inquired as to the cause of screams and weeping. Father and husband, he had the right, they belonged to him to abuse at will. But she'd survived him, and she would survive this, survive the eyes that follow her with pity or scorn or even censure, as though she'd driven Frank to murder, as though it was her fault for not being whatever it was Frank needed. They always talked about Frank. What a pity that he'd gone wrong. What a shame that he'd somehow got poor Polly Mason in trouble-- in trouble while he was affianced to her! And was it really not possible that Miss Twitterton had tricked Frank into getting rid of her uncle so she could inherit? She shook herself mentally. People could think what they liked. She just wouldn't listen to the whispers behind her back. "My mother taught me. She taught me how you can really stand anything, and do what's right." She looked up brightly. "Would you care for some more parsnip wine?"
"It needs aging," the reporter said bluntly. "It never does to take a wine too young." She squeezed Miss Twitterton's hand. "Sometimes things need to be bottled up a long time before they sweeten, Agnes."
Miss Twitterton looked down, surprised to see that her fingers were entwined with the reporter's. It felt right, not the way Frank's rough clasp, bruising hard, suffocating and really, almost cruel, had always felt. She swallowed. "I do not think I quite understand you, Miss Ridley. Could you perhaps speak more plainly?"
"My newspaper could use an advice columnist. They want a woman who knows etiquette and homemaking. And it helps if she knows how to spell." Miss Ridley smiled.
Miss Twitterton's mouth dropped open. "Me? I couldn't possibly work for a newspaper! How...vulgar!"
Miss Ridley threw her head back and laughed. "Yes! But it's great fun! Come on, Agnes, do you want to spend the rest of your life in this boring little village? Do you really?"
Miss Twitterton thought about it, about the sameness of the days, the lack of companionship, the suspicion that if she were to be murdered, people would be inclined to say it was all her fault. "No. I don't. But I don't know how to leave. Where should I live? What should I do? And what if your newspaper decides it doesn't like what I write?"
"You could sell your cottage and your blasted chickens. Put the money in the bank to tide you over until you find your feet. And, until you find a place you like better, you could stay with me. I have a large flat." She smiled again, looking for the first time unsure of herself. "It could use a woman's touch." She rubbed a finger across Miss Twitterton's lips. "So could I, my dear Agnes."
Miss Twitterton blinked, and her brows drew together. "Do you mean that we should be --" She searched for the term. "Sapphic lovers, as on the ancient island of Lesbos?"
"Yes, Agnes." Miss Ridley grinned. "I love how serious you are."
Miss Twitterton... no, Agnes, stood up, and drew Miss Ridley up beside her. "I am rather tired of chickens." Hesitantly, she leaned forward to kiss... "Excuse me," she said, stopping when their lips were several inches apart. "I fear I am most rude. I don't recall your first name."
"It's Rose."
"Rose." Agnes smiled. "I do love roses." She moved that last little inch and discovered that Rose was nothing like Frank. Strong, but kind. And oh, so very sweet. She closed her eyes, trusting, hoping, hoping to trust that the affection she felt was real. After a long moment she murmured, "Parsnip wine travels well."
"Oh, yes, I have my chickens," Miss Twitterton said brightly, too brightly perhaps, but then it wasn't every day a reporter comes to interview one about one's fiancé's hanging. "And choir practice and my snug little cottage. Yes, so really, while it was quite upsetting about Frank..." She fluttered her hands. "With the brass cactus pot... Frank was always clever. But not a kind man, not at all." Her lips tightened. "And how Uncle could have sold the house without a word to me and never repaying what I'd lent him-- but, as I said, I am not dependent on any man."
The reporter nodded. "Good for you, Agnes." Her voice was deep, with sharp city tones that oddly enough, Miss Twitterton found interesting rather than annoying. Of course, since this woman was the only one who'd bothered to ask about her feelings, she was inclined to like her. And admire her. The mannish suit and short hair cut made her look no-nonsense, a woman to be taken into consideration, not tossed aside after lies and promises and cheating and...Miss Twitterton drew in a sharp breath to keep back tears. She had made enough of a public fool of herself already. She would never live down the scene she had created in front of his Lordship. They were so happy, Lord Peter and his wife. So happy, and she was... so alone. The reporter reached a hand across the tea table and laid her warm, firmly muscled hand on Miss Twitterton's. "You'll be all right, Agnes. You're a strong woman."
Miss Twitterton felt herself blush. She was so unused to praise she always wondered if it was mockery and she simply didn't see it. "Yes, well, one must be, to live in the country, particularly in an isolated cottage such as mine. In the city, there are people to hear when..." She frowned, not wanting to think of her father, how often he beat her mother, and sometimes her, for the crime of being clever, and wanting things said and done properly. And no one ever cared. Not the constable who would pause in his bicycling past then shake his head and continue on his way, or the doctor who never asked how one could possibly run into so many doors, or the neighbors who never inquired as to the cause of screams and weeping. Father and husband, he had the right, they belonged to him to abuse at will. But she'd survived him, and she would survive this, survive the eyes that follow her with pity or scorn or even censure, as though she'd driven Frank to murder, as though it was her fault for not being whatever it was Frank needed. They always talked about Frank. What a pity that he'd gone wrong. What a shame that he'd somehow got poor Polly Mason in trouble-- in trouble while he was affianced to her! And was it really not possible that Miss Twitterton had tricked Frank into getting rid of her uncle so she could inherit? She shook herself mentally. People could think what they liked. She just wouldn't listen to the whispers behind her back. "My mother taught me. She taught me how you can really stand anything, and do what's right." She looked up brightly. "Would you care for some more parsnip wine?"
"It needs aging," the reporter said bluntly. "It never does to take a wine too young." She squeezed Miss Twitterton's hand. "Sometimes things need to be bottled up a long time before they sweeten, Agnes."
Miss Twitterton looked down, surprised to see that her fingers were entwined with the reporter's. It felt right, not the way Frank's rough clasp, bruising hard, suffocating and really, almost cruel, had always felt. She swallowed. "I do not think I quite understand you, Miss Ridley. Could you perhaps speak more plainly?"
"My newspaper could use an advice columnist. They want a woman who knows etiquette and homemaking. And it helps if she knows how to spell." Miss Ridley smiled.
Miss Twitterton's mouth dropped open. "Me? I couldn't possibly work for a newspaper! How...vulgar!"
Miss Ridley threw her head back and laughed. "Yes! But it's great fun! Come on, Agnes, do you want to spend the rest of your life in this boring little village? Do you really?"
Miss Twitterton thought about it, about the sameness of the days, the lack of companionship, the suspicion that if she were to be murdered, people would be inclined to say it was all her fault. "No. I don't. But I don't know how to leave. Where should I live? What should I do? And what if your newspaper decides it doesn't like what I write?"
"You could sell your cottage and your blasted chickens. Put the money in the bank to tide you over until you find your feet. And, until you find a place you like better, you could stay with me. I have a large flat." She smiled again, looking for the first time unsure of herself. "It could use a woman's touch." She rubbed a finger across Miss Twitterton's lips. "So could I, my dear Agnes."
Miss Twitterton blinked, and her brows drew together. "Do you mean that we should be --" She searched for the term. "Sapphic lovers, as on the ancient island of Lesbos?"
"Yes, Agnes." Miss Ridley grinned. "I love how serious you are."
Miss Twitterton... no, Agnes, stood up, and drew Miss Ridley up beside her. "I am rather tired of chickens." Hesitantly, she leaned forward to kiss... "Excuse me," she said, stopping when their lips were several inches apart. "I fear I am most rude. I don't recall your first name."
"It's Rose."
"Rose." Agnes smiled. "I do love roses." She moved that last little inch and discovered that Rose was nothing like Frank. Strong, but kind. And oh, so very sweet. She closed her eyes, trusting, hoping, hoping to trust that the affection she felt was real. After a long moment she murmured, "Parsnip wine travels well."
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no subject
Date: 2011-01-05 11:52 pm (UTC)I was trying to keep the story about 1000 words so I did kinda compress the romance- I'm thinking that the reporter had visited her several times.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 12:10 am (UTC)If Rose was attracted, she'd probably come back and get to know her better. I imagine she put up at the village pub.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-06 12:16 am (UTC)