Few Valient Women thus far, all

A FEW VALIANT WOMEN

Prequel  

I dug my bare toes deeper into the dirt, hating my family more with each toe I managed to submerge. I hated how they screamed at each other; I hated the emaciated girl with the dirty tear streaked face who clung onto my mother’s leg. Happy to escape the tension of my Uncle’s mansion, I plunked myself down onto the ground, and lay back to bask in the moon’s clean light. I found a subtle joy in knowing my mother would have been angry when the maid told her how I had ruined another one of my white petticoats. I would probably be beat for my carelessness but, at least for tonight, I did not care; I had run away. I could barely tolerate the mundane days in that house, nonetheless tonight’s events. It was not every night a policeman showed up with a girl and a sad expression. Yet, even more remarkable was seeing my Uncle bent over in sobs as he clutched a small golden box, while my mother remained detached, knuckles white, gripping onto the frightened girl’s arm.

Still confused at the events which had only recently unfolded I gazed up at the moon through the tree’s branches and felt a warming sensation start at the tips of my toes and move towards my chest. Even though I could feel late autumn’s chill upon my skin I felt strangely safe. The warming feeling of safety could not make me forget the girl’s haunting expression. Her large brown eyes had seemed void of any emotion and if it wasn’t for the tear streaks I would have thought her incapable of crying. I yawned, exhausted and decided instead to focus my thoughts on my eventful day with my Uncle. I imagined his face when I displayed my abilities to shoot his favorite pistol, killing a rabbit. I recollected the enthusiasm in his voice as he said, “I will make a delicate huntress out of you yet Felicity Gardner.”

I awoke some time later shivering from the cold. I sat up quickly and wrapped my arms around me. My teeth chattered. The moon looked down at me from the center of the sky.  I had been here for awhile, but my need for warmth took precedence over the need to return home. Dazed, still craving sleep, I rubbed my eyes and began to look around for a warmer location. Then, as in those frivolous stories the maids read, I saw in the distance a light coming from a fire. Surely, I thought, a traveler would not mind sharing the warmth with a child.

As I approached the fire I noticed that the traveler was nowhere in sight. For a moment I considered turning back and attempting to find my way back, then I heard a voice whisper from the trees.

“What brings you here child,” the raspy voice asked.

Startled I turned, examining the trees ahead of me until I found a dark hooded figure leaning on one tree. My knees started to tremble. I would not be deterred; I was a huntress after all.

“I am lost and cold,” I replied as bravely as I could muster.

     The cloaked figure nodded and pointed to the fire.

“Sit,” the voice said pointing to the fire.

I obeyed. As I watched the shadow move within the darkness I began to dread him less. I wanted to know who he was and why he stood so far away from the warmth of the fire.

At last he spoke again, “Do you fear me child?”

“No,” I replied.

“Brave thing,” the shadow said as he fiddled with an object he had placed at the bottom of a tree.

“You are not lost, are you.”

The statement was more a comment than a question.

     “No,” I said boldly, “I am not, I’ve run away.”

     “Me too,” the voice said, “would you like to run away with me?”

     “Maybe,” I said decisively, “I want to see your face first before I decide, you could be a criminal.”

The thing in the darkness sneered, “you can tell by looking at me?” I nodded.

“Then come see.”   

Enchanted I drew closer to him, as I did so the alluring blackness of the night encompassed me.  For a moment I glanced behind me, looking for a light, only to be met with the moon’s pure gleam and the fire’s.  It reflected off me forming a shadow upon the hallowed ground, lighting my way toward the voice. When I was almost close enough to see his face the cloaked figure began to speak.   

     “And lo,” said the voice, “I will make you a fisher of men, whereupon a precedent shall be built for future generations.  And it is upon such a precedent a vast empire will be built to change the fate of kings, establishing a new reign of authority.   Come to me now my daughter; allow me to bestow my blessing of knighthood unto thee. Come hither child to gain a divine father’s blessing.  I bestow the power freely- fortify and conquer come- Come! sweet Caesar of virile desires, partake of the fruit.”  

      At last I realized my grave mistake; this man was undeniably mad. Any foolish bravery in my being left and I turned to run.  But the realization came too late, the figure snatched up the object he had placed at the base of the tree and lunged at me. He pushed me toward the fire and I tripped backwards. With one hand still grasping the object, he pinned me to the ground. His face still concealed by his cloak, his skeleton fingers held my arms back as he kneeled over my small figure. From behind his back the shadow pulled his other arm out, revealing the object in his hand to be a branding iron. I started to scream and writhe harder. The shadow remained unalarmed and switched positions, using his knees to hold my arms down while he began to warm the iron in the fire.

     “I am Felicity Gardner, daughter of one of the richest families in England and I demand you release me,” I screamed.  The shadow-figure did not respond. As I watched the branding head turn from cool metallic steel to an orange-red my cries became more and more desperate.

     “Please,” I sobbed as I stared into the cloaked figure, “I beg of you, don’t do this.”

     Instead of listening to the pleas of a desperate child the shadow tore at my clothes, pulling the left sleeve off my petticoat. I screamed and the shadow sunk the hot branding iron into my shoulder.

     The smell of my burning flesh was nauseating. The pain almost made me faint. Never before in my young aristocratic life had I ever felt true pain, pain which enveloped my whole frame and seared. Desperate, I thrashed about more, kicking my legs into the ground. The cloaked man leaned back a little to place the branding iron back into the flames. I could not endure more pain like this. Somehow, the change of his weight distribution allowed me to wriggle free. I ran into the forest as fast as I could toward my Uncle’s home. The shadow cursed and ran after me. His feet crushed the fallen leaves as he closed the gap between us. I leaped over fallen logs and branches as I tried to avoid capture. Still he came closer. The sun was rising and the light seemed to follow our path, illuminating the dense ground beneath my feet. I could feel his cloaked hand reach out, his bony fingers coil as he tried to grab at me. The fact that the man was still completely cloaked only added to my terror. I ran faster, using the sunlight to guide my course.  With every step we neared the “tree line”, the line of trees dividing the forest from my Uncle’s property. I was so close to protection, I just needed to cross the boundary.  

     Feet away from safety, I could see my Uncle’s garden when I felt a cold hand seize the back of my neck. I jolted backwards, losing momentum. Seizing the opportunity the shadow pinned me against a nearby tree. I yelped in frustration; knowing my young life would soon come to an abrupt end.

     Satisfied, the shadow leaned closer to my small frame and inhaled deeply, smelling my long dark brown hair.

     “I haven’t gotten a brunette in a while,” he said, pushing his face further into my thick mass of hair while his hands slid upwards towards my throat. The shadow pulled away from my hair to face me and began to drive his hands downward, blocking my airway. As my body began to feel limp, I twisted my head from him. I did not want the last image I saw to be the blackness concealing the face within the hood. I choose to look at the sun rising in front of me, I wanted my mind to be flooded with the feelings of daybreak, not the cold clutches of Death. My mind woozy, my heart pounding, and my eyes fixated on the light, I watched the sun rise on the horizon. I felt the warm sensation of sunlight stroke my skin when I closed my eyes, wanting this moment to block out the darkness. Without warning, I heard a high-pitched screech and the release of the pressure on my neck. I jolted open my eyes to see my attacker thrashing about at my feet in pain.

     Seizing the moment I dashed toward the tree line. The cloaked figure, staggered after me, avoiding the direct sunlight. I was so close to home, so close to life.

The shadow screamed out as my legs crossed the boundary. Still running, I turned to see my attacker angrily clutching to one of the trees on the borderline, his pale hand outstretched toward me as the sun came up.

     Not wanting to wake anyone in the house I crept into the mansion through the cook’s quarters. My shoulder throbbed and clear liquid oozed down my skin. However, I had not examined the wound yet and I did not want to. I did not want to have to see the tangible evidence of my stupidity.

    I slithered up the marble stairs, wincing at every move my body made. I reached my room at the end of the corridor; gently I pulled the oak door open and walked inside.

     When I finally felt safe I ventured toward my mirror to examine the wound. The burn was worse than I could have ever imagined. The skin was charred black having a leathery texture in some areas and blistering in others. Yet, the wound’s appearance and throbbing pain was not the part that made me want to be sick. This wound was not any ordinary branding mark comprised of letters and symbols. Even through the blistering and blackened skin I could tell my attacker had been successful. There on my shoulder was a charred, unmistakable image of a hissing snake wrapped around an apple. I wanted to cry out in frustration and pain, but the footsteps coming up the corridor prevent my tears. My mother would be waking soon and requesting to see me; I could not let her see the mark. I could only imagine her reaction to the blackened skin, a mark on the ivory skin of her only, perfect daughter. She would be furious.

     One handed and with all remaining fortitude I had left, I tore the petticoat off my body and stashed it underneath my bed. The wound continued to hurt, the pain made me dizzy. Somehow I managed to put another nightgown on. The soft fabric against my skin made my branding hurt worse. Sweat dripped off my forehead as I climbed into bed. Every movement required so much effort. All I wanted was sleep, but a knock at my door prevented me from obtaining the rest I needed most.

     “Come in,” I said feebly. My mother entered clutching the brown eyed sad creature from the night previous. The girl had been bathed and dressed, but the vacant stare remained.

     “Felicity,” my mother started in her usual demanding way as she thrust the girl forward toward my bed, “I want you to meet your cousin Isabella, she will be living with us from now on.”

###

Chapter 1:

They say that in order to become a proper English woman one must go through a cleansing process. One should cast off their crusty shell of incivility and instead take up all which is deemed proper in society, the beauty, impeccable manners which must coincide with the lady’s innocent demeanor. My mother says that these are the qualities desired if a woman is to be considered at all to be a true woman. A woman is required to have her hair neatly combed in place, affable personality, and dressed in the latest fashion, ready to entertain at any moment.  Indeed, it is only a baptism a woman must participate in, a baptism where she is submersed in delicate lace covered silk, instead of water. I fear I never received such a baptism.  Rather, I had a baptism of a very different kind, even perhaps a foreordination.

I was five years of age when I was branded by a complete lunatic in a forest and seventeen when I received a letter from my mother announcing that I would be "coming out into society" at the end of this year. If given the choice between the two, I would have much rather preferred to undergo the branding again. The burn eventually scarred. And despite how awful the mark looked, I had learned to cover up the blemish on my ivory skin. I feigned modesty, insisting on shawls, dresses that covered my shoulders, and insisted on putting on most of my underclothes myself. My mother approved of such demands, citing modesty as "one of a young lady's finest qualities". But after a snake mark was permanently branded onto my skin, I never again considered myself a lady. Instead of having the delicate skin of lady, I was branded like a farm-animal.

I am anything except modest and my mother did anything else except heal. She hated Isabella because people questioned her about my cousin's origins, she loathed how Uncle Charles loved me more than she could ever force herself to, and mostly my mother detested how Isabella could be viewed as "competition" for her only daughter and child. Indeed my mother, Lady Daphne, could delicately complete any feminine task as long as it did not involve forgiveness.

I received the letter on cold autumn day in October while I sat, attempting to cross-stitch. As soon as I could I hurried out of the drawing room. I paused to read the letter in the courtyard.  Even the letter reflected my mother's cold, dainty demeanor as my mother detailed how wonderful my future would be once I would be eligible for marriage:

    

Felicity,

I am pleased to announce that soon you will be "coming out into society", a moment which may become one of the most memorable moments of your life as you attend parties and soon become a wife. As this will be your last year at Ashmore finishing school, I encourage you to take advantage of all your teachers' lessons, you will need the practice. 

                                  Affectionately yours, 

                                  Lady* Daphne Gardner

I raced toward the trees with my mother’s letter in hand as Isabella chased after me.

“Felicity,” she whined, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I did not bother to turn around, I knew Isabella well enough to realize she would follow me wherever I went. I ran faster, half wanting to run fast enough to lose her,  but still enjoying that while Isabella could beat me in everything else considered proper, she could not outrun me. Effortlessly, I graced over stones, ducked under tree branches, edged around the various foliage that stood in my way. My lungs burned and my legs hurt, but I had no desire to stop.

“Fe-li-ci-ty!” Isabella yowled. I could tell she was becoming increasingly frustrated by the way she was over pronouncing the syllables in my name. Complacently smiling at once again beating her, I stopped and waited for her to catch up.

“Felicity Gardner,” she said as she staggered up the hill, taking care not to step in any mud puddles, “what in heaven’s holy name has gotten into you?”

I did not have to say anything, I simply handed the letter to her. She took it from my hand, pushed her mass of blonde curls away from her face, and began to read.

“Felicity,” my cousin said enthusiastically gripping my arm, “this is wonderful—oh can you imagine? The parties, the dances, the men…”

My cousin continued talking, while I ceased to listen, wishing instead that I would have continued running. Yet I could hardly be cross with her; I could not expect Isabella to understand what such a letter meant. Isabella was too cheerful, too vain, and too naïve to comprehend the meaning of what “coming out into society” would mean for me. While Isabella envisioned the loud parties and pink-satin gowns, I saw the end result: marriage. To be married would mean relinquishing my limited freedom. I would have to marry otherwise I would have to face the consequences. While I would be privy to an extraordinarily large dowry, that appeal to me only hid the true nature of the situation. My father was dying; stricken with consumption and left to die in a sanatorium, to not marry would mean destitution because my fortune would be given to the male next of kin.

     “Well will you?” Isabella asked, her eager gray eyes shining up at me.

     “Will I what?” I replied, suddenly realizing she was asking me a question.

     “Let me be one of your bridesmaids,” Isabella said happily.   “Of course I will,” I said.

     “You will?” Isabella repeated excitedly.

     “Yes, yes,” I replied turning back toward the school and leaning forward into a racing position, “now come on, we’re going to be late for evening prayer.” Without hesitation, I took off back toward the school, running as fast as my legs could push me.

     ###

     I suppose I have never truly stopped running. Branded like a fine thoroughbred, I learned to act like one. I paraded around society, my head held high, while inwardly I grew tiresome of the charade, craving instead the freedom to run-free. Unlike my cousin I did not care for the parties, the gossip, or the ribbons. Inside of me a spot of black rebellion grew on what society considered a white soul, reflecting the sinister nature of the black mark on my shoulder. And it was that night, the night after I received the letter from my mother where my little dark spot of rebellion grew. It was All Hallow’s Eve and like every year since coming to Ashmore at thirteen, my friends and I gathered in the forest to complete a task, we had come to call “The Hallowed Ritual.” Together, we planned to call back the ghost of Lusty Lizzie Kingsly.

     After individually sneaking out of Ashmore, we met in the same place we had as girls, a small space hidden away from the school and below the safe leafless tree branches. I, as usual, was the first to arrive. While I waited for my cousin and my best friend, Mary, to arrive I ventured deeper into the forest to gather dried branches and kindling for our fire.

     The full moon’s light created a way to maneuver through the trees. As I trod looking for firewood, the fallen autumn leaves crunched underneath my boots. When I found the pieces of dried wood, I kneeled, picked them up, and placed them in my folded up petticoat. From behind me and owl, hooted and swooped low behind me. In a fright, I almost dropped the firewood I carried. Alone in the opaque forest, my consciousness drifted back to the night so many years ago where I encountered a being that left me scarred. “It’s only an owl,” I thought. An owl, I could handle. I sighed, stabled myself as well as my nerves and continued my task.

When my petticoat felt full I returned to the meeting spot. In the dark I placed the sticks together to form a decent triangular shape. I pulled the match I had placed behind my ear before I left and stuck it on a nearby rock. The match lit, its light illuminating the shadowy forest around me. I moved quickly, not wanting to waste my only match, and leaned forward, catching the kindling on fire then I adding the larger pieces of wood. With my fire lit, I sat and waited for my friends to arrive.

 Both Mary and Isabella arrived together. From a distance I could see Mary’s medusa curls bob and Isabella’s graceful, dainty stride.

     “I can’t believe you convince me to participate in this every year,” Mary said as she forcefully pushed the item into my abdomen. “It is sacrilegious, you know, to use this.” I laughed as I pulled the Communion Wine from my lap to examine it in the firelight.

     “I trust you did not just procure an empty bottle and fill it with water, like you tried to last year,” I replied, biting my tongue to keep a serious face.

     “No, it’s all there, the entire representative blood of Christ.” Mary put her hand on her forehead. “We are going to hell for using this.”

     “It’s not the wine we’re going to hell for Mary,” Isabella chirped, “it’s the running naked through the forest that will condemn us.”

     Mary’s amber eyes widened and her red coiled curls seemed to rise higher than they normally did. Like a tabby cat, she seemed ready to pounce at any moment. 

     “Shall we begin?” I asked.

     It seemed difficult to believe that only four years prior Isabella and I had come to Ashmore. We were young then, and as my mother said, “unaccustomed to the rules of society, nevertheless ready to learn.” In actuality, we, or rather I had taken it upon myself to torture every governess who made the misfortunate decision to take the position. My mother, at last, resolved to send Isabella and me to Ashmore Finishing School for Young Ladies, after I scattered my governess’ “unmentionables” on our front yard while Isabella distracted her with questions. While my Uncle Warren thought my antics were comical, my mother was not amused. I received a whipping, the governess gathered the items not scattered on our front lawn then left, and Isabella and I were sent to finishing school. Nevertheless my little stunt proved victorious, Uncle Warren tells me that the Governess’ undergarments were found in the most obscure places months after my departure.  

      

     To start the ceremony I raised my arms up toward the night-sky. Against the fire’s light, I created a fearsome shadow. My curvy figure along with my long chestnut hair, gave my shadow a six- armed goddess ethereal appeal.

     “Oh spirits of the heaven and hell,” I began, “hear us this hallowed night. Tonight, beseech us with thy presence and bring back Lusty Lizzie Kingsely. Come back to us Lizzie.” I finished and lowered my arms. To my left, Isabella stood to continue the rest of the speech.

     “Lizzie Kingsely, we know your story. As a young girl you fell in love with a clergy, who could not love you back. Distraught and heartbroken you succumb to the advances of a persistent nobleman. But on your wedding night, you discovered too late that the clergyman had given up his vows for you. You were sharing a bed with the wrong man. Caught between two lovers, your hope gone, you were ruined. Distraught you threw yourself into a lake to hide your shame, vowing one day to return.” Isabella finished her part and looked to Mary to complete the last portion.

     Still indignant Mary protested, “Really must we do this, it’s not right. God cannot approve of such...such riotous behavior.”

     I raised my eyebrow. “Please, Mary” I said.

     Mary sighed, “Very well.”

     “Lizze Kinsely, tonight we come prepared to perform the profane ritual. Please accept these tokens as proof of our sincerity.”

     Mary was speaking in a far too monotone voice for my liking, so I interrupted.

“The first item please,” I commanded.

     Isabella stepped forward and pulled out a pair of scissors. Adroitly her long pale finger slid into her mass of blonde curls and selected a perfectly formed spiral at the nape of her neck. Without hesitation she cut the piece of hair off, dropping the lock into the fire. The golden piece of hair shriveled as the flames engulfed it. Satisfied, Isabella smiled.  

     “Next comes the blood,” I said. Isabella passed me the scissors. I went first. I bent my fingers backward with my other hand. I traced the scissors’ blade across the middle of my palms, leaving a clear line of trickling blood. While the blood dripped I held my hand over the fire. The blood oozed down into the hot flames. Mary followed my lead. Without wincing she took the scissors, running their blade across her hand. I could tell Isabella was not especially excited about this part, but she complied. Isabella, squirmed, making a small mark across her hand. Once a bit of blood trickled down her hand, she too held it over the fire.   

     “Now for the wine,” I declared.

     “May God forgive us,” Mary muttered.

Mary, evidently, would not be willing to assist in this part. I uncorked the bottle with my teeth. I poured the contents over the fire.

“Lizzie Kingsely, Lizzie Kingsely,” we began chanting. Isabella danced as we chanted, her lithe shadow bended and twisted in the light.

The red wine drained out of the container quickly. As the alcohol splashed against the flames, the fire billowed and crackled. Within a matter of moments in an explosion of orange flames the wine, the blood of Christ, was gone.

“Lusty Lizzie Kingely, please accept these tokens of our devotion, and show us this night your true form.” Isabella said.

I continued, “To further show our dedication, tonight we run naked”—Isabella giggled “through the forest to emphasize our earnest desires. Manifest yourself to us, Lusty Lizzie and grant one of us her heart’s desire.”

I licked my lips with anticipation. We had come to my favorite part of the séance, the running. I loved the way the cold felt on my bare skin.

“Must we do this?” Mary asked again, more agitated than before.

“You do not have to if you do not want to,” I replied. “Isabella and I will continue with the ritual as planned.” Isabella was already removing her nightshirt. Her slender pale body was hardly visible underneath her white petticoat.

Mary furrowed her eyebrows and sucked her cheeks inward. Torn between God’s will and her own desire to be accepted, I knew all Mary needed was a bit of convincing.

“It will be fun,” I said, “and after all I was the one who poured the wine, God cannot blame you for something I did.”

Mary grinned, for the first time all night, and in an instance my best companion returned to me.

“Very well,” Mary said, “but as usual, we must make sure to go in separate directions, so we do not see each other’s …”

“Nakedness,” I stated without hesitation. I rather enjoyed this rule. While I adored my friends, I did not want them to see the sinister mark I hid underneath my sleeve. I felt no desire to explain to them the story of how I received the branding.

We each turned around and faced different ways. I started pulling off my linen nightgown. I removed my boots and took off my chemise and drawers. The only item I left on was my silver heart-shaped locket. My body had changed so much in the last four years. I was no longer especially thin, but had grown muscular and voluptuous, qualities that were considered undesirable. Women were supposed to look the way my cousin did, slender and innocent, not exhibiting any sensual characteristics.

“We ready?” Isabella asked, the eager anticipation rose in her voice.

“Yes,” Mary replied, her voice trembling from the cold and nervousness.

“Good,” I said, “each of us will run straight until we cannot see the fire’s light, then we will meet back here.”

“Together three, then” Isabella interjected, “One...two… three.”

On ‘three’ I rushed into the dark woods, not taking any notice to my nakedness. My unbound hair brushed against my back as I ran while my silver locket pounded against my ribs. I felt every muscle in my thighs quiver in the chill. I felt my bare feet strike the crunchy underbrush. Around me the tree seemed to fly by in a whirl. My mind, both numbed by the cold and awakened by the throbbing pain in my muscles, became dizzy. The feeling was intoxicating. Within this dark realm of trees my fear of the forest counteracted with the delirious feeling of freedom. In this moment, no one, I thought could hurt me, I was invincible.

In a bloodcurdling scream my moment of ecstasy was interrupted. I stopped, hoping that it was my imagination playing tricks on me. I heard it again, louder this time, more desperate. Mary.

Fear took hold. I turned around, realizing too late that I had run too far. I could no longer see the safe flames.

“Mary!” I yelled back. No reply.

“Mary” I screeched again. My only reply was my own voice echoing of the trees.

I sprinted toward the location I thought the fire to be in. I ran faster this time, leaping over any potential hazards. No longer free or ecstatic my mind wandered back to that night. My branding scar seemed to burn. When I thought I was closer to where I heard the scream come from, I stopped.

“Mary!” I called again. I waited, listening.

From behind me I heard a twig break. I spun around.

“Mary?” I said again, a sense of relief started to calm me. No answer. Another twig snapped. Mary is not here. I tried to convince myself that the noises were coming from an animal. More branches broke; I continued to stand there, shivering, wondering where to go next. Then I heard it, a resonating hiss. I was not alone. Sheer terror flooded through my veins. I wasn’t cold anymore; I could not feel anything except my heart throbbing in my chest, ready to explode through my rib-cage at any moment.

I did not hesitate this time, nor did I call Mary’s name. Instincts took control. Faster than a gunshot, I bolted into the distance, my only thought being that I had to escape. Reaching the fire did not matter anymore, nor did the fact that I was not decent. The only clear thought I could deceiver from my brain consumed by fear was “escape”.

I darted to the left, knocking down something my heighted senses did not anticipate: a man. I could tell by his shocked expression that he was, indeed, not my attacker. He seemed more surprised to see me than I was to see him.

“Pardon…” the man began to say, pulling himself up from the ground, but his apologies stopped short when he noticed my nakedness. His eyes widened. Dumbfounded he stopped trying to stand.

I, still terrified, made no motion to cover myself. I did not care who saw me at this moment, I wanted to escape my pursuer. For a second, our eyes made contact. In the moonlight he appeared handsome, with strong facial features, but with sad eyes. Suddenly, the fact that I was standing, clothes-less, in front of a strange man came to the forefront of my consciousness. I paused only for a moment to evaluate my situation, and continued to run.

It was not long before I saw the fire’s light in the distant. Isabella was already dressed, waiting impatiently. I slowed my speed and placed one of my hands over my marked shoulder.

“Isabella,” I called, “turn around.” Even in my half dazed state, I did not want her knowing about the egregious mark on my shoulder. I snatched my clothes and began putting them on me.

     “We need to go find Mary,” I said.

     “Why?” Isabella asked as she twisted her hair around her fingers.

     “Something went wrong...” I said out-of breath.

     Isabella turned and faced me. She grabbed my hand.

     “What?”  But Isabella knew perfectly well what I had said. Still grasping my hand, she pulled me toward the direction Mary had gone.

     “Mary,” Isabella cried. “Mary.”

     “Yes,” replied a voice behind us.  

     “Mary, oh thank Heaven, your safe,” Isabella said relived, running up to embrace her friend. Yet I could tell that Mary was anything except safe. Mary’s eyes were wider than normal, her pupils were dilated, dirt was smudged on her ivory cheeks, and twigs jutted out from her red curls.

     “Is everything alright?” I asked.

     “I told you this wasn’t a good idea,” Mary said coldly as she looked over Isabella’s shoulder.

     I refrained from responding, instead deciding to look at the dirt; Mary was right, nevertheless, I did not want to admit it. Within one night I had heard Mary scream, managed to be chased by someone or something in the forest, and naked, run straight into a man in the forest. I just was thankful that I probably would never have to see or hear from that man ever again.  

     “Come on, let us go back,” Mary instructed pushing away from Isabella’s embrace.

     I nodded and subserviently followed Mary back into the dark forest, homeward.

     When we reached Ashmore, we quietly entered through an outside cellar door that lead back into the kitchens. Silently we crept up the winding staircase to our rooms. When we reached the hallway, Isabella gave us an acknowledging wave, and diverted southward. Mary and I continued northward; as roommates we did not have to worry about awaking others.

     We entered our room, a small space, with two beds covered in white linen that were in the middle. Mary pulled off her shoes, still not speaking to me, and climbed into bed without even washing her face. I followed, but I could not ignore what my mind knew to be reality; I knew I had heard her scream. I could hear Mary praying, “Father forgive…” Not wanting interrupt, I stared at my ceiling. The crisp clean sheets made my legs itch. At last, I could not ignore the one unspoken thought between us.

     “Mary,” I said gently, “I...I heard you scream.”

     Mary did not, at first answer. I sat up. Her back was turned toward me, her frame was shaking. It looked like she was crying; her hair was a matted mess behind her and the side of her face was splotchy.

     “Please don’t ever make me do that again,” she whimpered.

     I reached out, placing my fingertips on her slender shoulders.

     “I won’t,” I replied then quieter, “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

     Mary nodded. I knew she was still angry; but; feeling confident in her forgiveness, I withdrew my hand. I cuddled back into my sheets and drew the blankets over me. I was wet, cold, hungry, and exhausted, yet my mind continued to wander. Mentally I visualized all the events from the night over again, trying to understand what had happened to Mary that she refused to talk about. However, I could not, despite my best efforts, come to a conclusion. As my eyes began to droop my last thoughts drifted to the man. I could not help but wonder at who he was or what he was doing out in the forest on Hollow’s eve. Before I could contemplate these questions my exhausted body overpowered my mind, dragging me into the deep realms of sleep.     

###    

     The next morning I awoke to Isabella shaking my shoulder.

     “Felicity, wake up, we have breakfast in an hour.” I rolled over, and pulled the covers over my head. I loathed mornings. Unlike Isabella, I did not enjoy waking up to the morning light, embracing the day with prayers, and listening the endless chatter of ladies during breakfast.

     “Fifteen more minutes,” I begged.

     “Absolutely not,” Isabella said as she tugged at my quilts. “If Mrs. Collingwood discovers you slept through breakfast again, she will make you clean dishes for a week. Besides Mary is already downstairs, waiting for us.”

     On the name Collingwood I sat up and stretched. It was not that I necessarily wanted to avoid cleaning; I feared the head-mistress. She was a short, shrewd woman who walked with a cane. Mrs. Collingwood adored rules and blind obedience. In short, she was not a woman to be trifled with.

     “Come on, Felicity,” Isabella replied, her voice lowering, “I have already lain out a dress for you.”

     I sighed and tossed the covers off me. My skin prickled as it met the frigid autumn weather. I washed my face with the cold water in the basin. Isabella helped hook me into my corset. As I dressed Isabella brushed my uneven, chocolate-colored ringlets in a perfect chignon. It was a routine Isabella and I had completed every morning since childhood. Even though her dormitory was down the hall, Isabella woke early every morning to fix my hair. It was not that I necessarily needed Isabella to tame my hair, on the contrary, I was quite capable of doing so myself. Brushing my hair, for some strange reason calmed my cousin. When Isabella arrived at my family’s estate so many years ago she refused to speak. My mother would threaten her, coherence her, even bribe her, but to no avail; Isabella would not speak. Even as a small child I knew that a girl who just lost her parents did not need to be antagonized, she needed to be loved. It did not take long for me to realize that the young Isabella coveted my long dark hair. Unlike Isabella’s perfect blonde curls, mine were thick, long, and untamed. As a way to show my affection, I would let Isabella brush my curls for hours, or until her tears stopped.

     “There,” Isabella said as she tucked my locket into the collar of my dress, “you’re finished.”

      I turned around to face myself in the mirror. While my body could be covered and molded to suit the Victorian fashions, my face could not be. According to my mother I possessed what she deemed “a haughty countenance.” One of my eyebrows arched higher than the other, permanently imprinting a distrustful look upon my face. It was a look that only intensified when I smiled changing my expression from distrustful to cynical. It was that cynical smile which my mother loathed the most. Young ladies were not supposed to show any signs of cynicism; they were supposed to appeasing, delicate, angels of the home. In vain, my mother used to tell me to relax my eyebrow, until she finally accepted my “wicked smile.” My mother could dress me up to be a Victorian lady; she could clothe me in white lace, corset my curves, tie back my Medusa hair with sharp pins, but she could not hide that eyebrow. My single, disobedient eyebrow would ever be a mark on her reputation as one of my physical characteristics that she did not control.

      “It’s lovely Isabella,” I replied. Today, Isabella had tied a velvet bow in my hair.

     “I thought you would like it,” she said happily, “now we must hurry, breakfast is starting soon.”

####

     The light entering though the large windows in the dining hall burned my still sleepy eyes. The burgundy curtains had been pulled back, letting in the morning sunlight. I squinted and placed my hand in front of my face in an attempt to block the piercing light. It was a futile effort. The light was reflected by the freshly waxed mahogany tables. I sighed for the second time and rubbed my eyes. I was developing a headache.      

The chattering girls arrayed in starched linens did not help my mood much either. Each girl gossiped politely as they sipped out of china teacups. The clattering sounds made my head feel as though someone was beating on it. I massaged my temples, trying to push the throbbing pain away.

“Look,” Isabella said pointing to a table nearby, “Jane and Mary have saved a place for us.”

My lip curled at the mention of Jane’s name.

“Really, must we?” I asked, annoyed. Jane had been a thorn in my side since arriving at Ashmore. The girl, to put it gently, seemed to devote every waking moment to making my life miserable. When I first arrived at Ashmore years ago and possessing little knowledge in French, I was eager to make friends who could assist me in adapting to boarding school life. Jane, initially, seemed to be that person. As a second year, Jane knew the school well and volunteered to show Isabella and I the grounds. Jane showed me the sinews of emerald trees located behind the school. She was the first girl who understood my fascination with the forest. Jane, like me, longed to be free, and the alluring forest provided us cover to be ourselves. During our breaks, Jane and I would creep into the forest, our wooded fortress, to tell stories or eat pastries stolen from the kitchen. Jane was the only person who knew the forest better than I did.

Jane knew every rock and clearing. In her spare time she compulsively studied its flora and fauna. She knew how to walk through the forest without being seen, she could track an animal even with the smallest footprints.
     It was Jane who first told me of the profane ritual. We were lying on our backs staring up at the autumn when suddenly she asked, “Felicity, are you familiar with the legend of, well, Lusty Lizzie?”

The use of the word “lusty” intrigued me. The words itself seemed perverse and forbidden, a word unaccepted in society.

“No,” I said, “tell me.”

Jane inhaled deeply. “Two years ago the school benefactress, Mrs. Kingston, came for her yearly inspection of Ashmore. During her visit she did something quite out of the ordinary, so to speak, and perhaps, even, quite frowned upon.

“What?”

“She told all the older girls the Legend of Lusty Lizzie, of course. While I was not one of the older girls, my friends let me join them. The legend says that once there was a girl at Ashmore who loved two men at once, and well…she did not remain chaste for her one true love, so she killed herself.”

Chastity, death, and love, this was my type of story.

“She now, comes back as a ghost they call Lusty Lizzie. They say that on Hallow’s Eve Lizzie will grant the purest woman her deepest wish, as long as she completes the ritual.” 

“The ritual?” I asked.

“Yes, a ritual” Jane responded, swallowing uncomfortably. She took a deep breath and began to tell me what the ritual entailed.

“Running naked?” I exclaimed. “That’s outrageous. Are you mad? We could get injured…or worse be seen.”

“No, Felicity,” Jane replied, “I am not mad, I simply want my one wish to be granted.”

We completed the ritual that year, Jane, Mary, Isabella and I. Together, we raced through the woods, chasing something I did not know if I even believed existed. For the first time since I was a child I felt terror and excitement combine. I became addicted to the feeling I received every time I ran through the trees. I felt as though I was conquering my fear, like I was once again defeating the fiend who branded me so many years ago. I did not run through the forest in an effort to gain a wish; I darted through the trees like an enraged animal to prove to myself that I could not be defeated by a madman.

For awhile Jane and I remained friends until one day she inquired of my surname. After I told her I was the daughter of Daphne and James Gardner, our relationship changed. Jane became distant and cold.  For awhile she continued to appear cordial and accommodating. When I struggled to understand French, Jane offered her assistance. I started taking lessons from her, or what I thought were lessons. I quickly learned that what Jane taught me were not answers to questions, but French vulgarities. Consequently, the French teacher hit my hands with a switch so hard my knuckles swelled, and I had difficulty writing for days. But Jane could not accept her victory and leave me alone. Jane placed insects in my bed, spread rumors about my legitimacy. The last overt incident occurred when she snuck absinthe in my tea during etiquette lessons. To this day I have no idea where Jane could have possibly gotten such a potent drink-- I can only surmise she had saved it for a ‘special occasion.’ All the same, even a small amount of alcohol, especially absinthe; made my young mind whirl, causing me to be completely drunk within a matter of minutes. I lost the contents of my stomach as well as my reputation all over the tiled floor. It was on this incident that I realized what true disdain meant and that even at thirteen I could have an enemy.  

“She is my roommate, Felicity,” Isabella replied, interrupting my thoughts. “We must be affable.”

“I would rather be genial to Napoleon.”

  ###

There has only been one rule I have learned while growing up in high Victorian society; it is that dignity is paramount. Dignity is what distinguishes a woman as angelic or fallen. Dignity creates the divide between the wealthy and the poor. And most importantly, dignity can differentiate the refined from the coarse. Women are nothing without their dignity. A man will cherish a woman who keeps herself within the standards of correctness: a mistress of the house, adoring, delicate. Society will admire such a women—a woman of dignity, and scorn one who is found lacking. In essence, a woman’s dignity can be the only distinguishing entity which separates her from chattel.

Jane was the only person I have met, who broke this rule. No matter how accomplished Jane became she was still treated like property. The epitome of dignity, Jane ate pastries without dropping a crumb. Jane did not walk; she floated air, all the while keeping her hands at her sides, with her right pinky finger slightly extended. Jane spoke French like a native, accenting the right vowels, never forgetting which consonants were silent. And yet, Jane, had two serious flaws. The first being no one enjoyed Jane’s company. Jane was too pretentious to form relationships with other school girls. The second flaw only added to the first. Jane was ugly. To say Jane was simply unattractive would be a falsehood. Jane possessed a severely elongated face; her eyes reminded me of brown saucers that were far too big for her narrow face and far too unremarkable to be considered beautiful. Nevertheless, these aesthetic offenses seemed minor in comparison to one, gigantic problem, a problem no amount of properly placed curls could conceal. Jane had huge ears. They distracted from any fancy attire Jane could wear. When Jane played the piano the magnificent chords she executed were surpassed by the attention her ears demanded. Even the younger girls placed bets as to whether Jane’s ears flapped when she ran. Jane was hideous, and I took every opportunity to remind her of it. As an adolescent hungry for retribution I gave her a rather unfortunate nickname, which managed not only to spread, but remain.

“Good morning Mule,” I said taking my place at the table. Jane rolled her skinny lips inward, helpless. I had dedicated years to making sure she was socially powerless, a skill I undoubtedly learned from my mother. "Good morning Felicity," she replied taking a sip of her coffee. As she brought her hand to her mouth she left her right pinky gently extended. Jane rolled her skinny lips inward, helpless. I smirked, satisfied. Her decorum could not save her from my vengeance.

     “I hope you slept well,” Jane said. She was still holding her coffee cup to her lips.

     “And you,” I replied as I dug into my breakfast. I felt famished, and despite my pounding headache I was eager to eat; even the tasteless oatmeal looked delicious.

     “Isabella,” Jane said, turning toward my cousin, “I heard you come in dreadfully late last night. Is everything alright?”

Isabella looked up from her breakfast, wide-eyed.

     “Yes, of course everything is alright,” Isabella replied, the words tumbled out of her mouth, “I..I.. just lost track of time. Felicity, Mary, and I were reading… Isn’t the fall weather splendid?”

     I sighed. My cousin was a horrible liar. Her childlike innocence prevented her from doing anything that could be considered remotely convincing.

     “Reading?” Jane questioned, putting her porcelain cup down, “I do love reading, what novel were you reading? I hear Dickens is riveting.”

     “I…I… don’t recall.”

Not only was Isabella a poor liar, she neglected to lie about subjects she knew. The only literature I had seen Isabella read were old vanity catalogs that she kept hidden underneath her mattress. Defeated Isabella’s blue eyes shifted toward my own.

     “Jane, why do you pester us?” I hissed, “Can you not see that my cousin is tired from reading last night?”

     “I was simply attempting to engage in polite conversation.”

     “No, I said, “I am very aware that you do not simply ‘engage in polite conversation’. You are a duplicitous girl who uses people for your own motives, you do not converse nor do you care.”

     “I was simply inquiring as to my roommate’s whereabouts; it could be disastrous if she was found participating in damaging behaviors, such actions could ruin her chances of a suitor…”

     I knew to what Jane was referring to. Entirely dependent on my mother’s waning charity, Isabella was entitled to nothing outside what her original parents gave her. Essentially without a husband Isabella would die destitute. If Jane decided to use her knowledge Isabella’s often reckless behavior or her participation in the Hollow’s Eve rituals, Isabella may never find a proper husband.

     I glanced around me. The younger girls were started to gather around us. They had become familiar with Jane and mine’s open disagreements.

“You will not insult my cousin in such a manner,” I said curtly, “leave us.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jane stammered.

“Barn animals do not breakfast with ladies,” I replied. “Leave.”

“That is such a comment coming from a woman who takes breakfast like a...”

From behind her one of the younger girls brayed like a mule. Jane clenched her jaw, and started to quickly move to another table. I laughed, which only encourage more animal noises.

Jane bowed her head, defeated. She picked up her plate. Neatly she started arranging her sliver-wear neatly on top of the little food that remained.

Mary scowled. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

“She deserved it,” I responded. Isabella nodded her head in agreement.

“Do you not see how your harassment has hurt her?”

I snorted.

Mary continued, “You are Christian women, Felicity. Cruel harassment is not following the example of Christ.”

I smirked, “Neither is lying, I hate her. Besides, everyone dislikes her.”

Mary stared, “And if everyone hated me, would you hate me as well?”

“Mary,” I replied, “you are my best friend, I could never hate you, no matter what you did.”

“You don’t know that.” Mary stood. Her ivory hands smoothed out her dress.

“Yes, I do,” I said standing as well. “Now come along, we need to go to class.”

####

     “Miss. Gardner,” Madam LeReve said tapping her cane on the back of my calves, “pick up your feet when you dance, you are waltzing, not ice skating.”

If there ever was a class more odious than French it was dance. I nodded in supplication and attempted to focus. Mentally I repeated her advice, “raise right, raise left.”

Mary, my unfortunate dance partner, smiled. While she had remained quiet throughout the day, watching me attempt to dance always amused her. While she and Isabella glided, I trampled.

“No, no Miss. Gardner,” Madame LeReve, “your timing is not correct. The waltz is a three count, not a four.” A former ballet instructor, Madame LeReve demanded her pupils’ movement to be exact.

“Count with me,” Madame LeReve continued as she pounded her cane onto the hard floor. “One, two, three, one, two, three.”

I missed another step, trampling on Mary’s feet.

“Count louder.”

“One, two, three,” I repeated my movement falling into rhythm. Attentively I stared into Mary’s face, searching for any indication of where she would lead. Mary understood this, and shifted her eyes to the left, then the right. It was her way of assisting me in what little way she could.

“That’s better, Miss. Gardner.”

 Satisfied, Madame LeReve stopped pounding her cane and went to examine other dancers.

Again I nodded, whispering the count with every step. Mary, still wanting to help me joined in.

“One, two, three,” she said as she led me around the dance floor.

“Mary,” I asked, “are you angry with me?”

“No, two, three,” she replied.

“Then might I inquire as to why you are so aloof today?” Three, one.

Mary broke counting, “The run in the forest last night, frightened me, that’s all. I am not angry with you, I am just a bit shaken up still.”

“I understand,” I said. “We won’t be performing the ritual again, promise.”

“Thank you,” Mary responded quietly, looking down at her dancing feet.

“Miss. Wraith, eyes up, not at your feet,” Madame LeReve instructed.

“We couldn’t even if we wanted to,” I said.

Mary’s brow rose. “What do you mean?”

I lowered my voice, “I received a letter from my mother; I am to be coming out into society at the end of the year.”

     “Oh Felicity, I am so sorry. Why did you not tell me sooner?”

     “There was no need, eventually I must marry, especially if I am to inherit the fortune I am entitled to. My father is dying and I must make sure I and Isabella, if needs be, can be looked after.”

     “I understand,” Mary replied, “but how can you expect me to tell you everything, when you tell me so little.”

     Mary’s cryptic answer startled me. I wanted to inquire further, but Madame LeReve interrupted.

     “Well done today ladies,” she said, you are all dismissed.” “Miss. Gardner,” she continued, “please stay for a moment.  

     The ladies around me dropped their arms and meandered toward the exit, gathering their items for the next class. In an array of linens and lace they slowly dissipated the room.

     A stern woman who valued brevity, Madame LeReve did not waste time with sentiments.

“Felicity,” Madame LeReve began, “you are in need of more practice.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“The Benefactor’s Ball is in two weeks, and as an older girl you will be required to dance the waltz.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“I cannot have you performing the way you are now; if you cannot waltz, it will reflect poorly on me as a teacher and the school.”

“I will practice more Madame.”

Madame LeReve thrummed her fingers on the top of her metal cane.

“Please spare me the pretenses Felicity. We both are aware you will do no such thing.”

Madame LeReve was no fool.

“Therefore, I am insisting you meet with me every evening at seven sharp so we can practice.”

 I curtsied. “Yes Madame.”

 “Very well then, you are dismissed.”

I rose and hurried toward the door. I did not want to have to sit in the back with Jane.

“Oh, and Felicity,” Madame LeReve called. I stopped to face her. “Congratulations on soon to be coming out into society.”

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