I wrote this a long, long time ago. I forgot about it and went on to work on other ideas. But I recently decided to come back to it, and I need to know whether or not it's worth continuing. I realize that it needs a TON of work to even be decent, but I need some opinions as to what I should change.
Questions:
1. Is it too melodramatic?
2. Do my characters feel real?
3. Is it too confusing for a Prologue?
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1879
I stroke my daughter’s hair, so light and like my own. Her small face has lines a child her age should not have. Despite them, her face has a peace found only in her sleep I am unable to find. She does not dread the end of this new adventure as I do.
The carriage we started the journey out with slowly climbs up, and up. The closer we get to our destination the more tense I become. Sweat builds on my hands.
I close my eyes and try not to worry about what may or may not come. My heart picks up speed as I picture the people I will soon face. I open my eyes and look out the small window, desperate for any sort of comfort. The warmth of Christine in my arms does not soothe me as it so often does. My ears find the comfort available to me.
The horses’ hooves clip clop on the stone. The rain outside patters as it lands upon the unforgiving ground. It all creates an odd sort of harmony. I listen to the sounds; anything to distract me from my own thoughts.
The driver coughs. I would feel pity for him, being in the rain all this long while, but his jeer when I hailed him and the scan he gave my body gives me only contempt for the man.
I stare out the window into the dark night. There are no stars, and I cannot see the moon through the falling rain. Perhaps it is a sign, or a confirmation, of the foreboding I feel.
Christine shifts and I carefully move into a more comfortable position. A smile curves her sweet lips, and I wonder what her dreams are about. I am glad she is able to smile at all.
I squeeze my eyes shut to shove away the memories trying to invade my mind. Memories of circumstances thrust upon my undeserving child. Images of her playing in the muddy streets of Cheapside, while I remained up in our room, earning what little we could to survive in the only way I had thought left. Images of her, in rags and her precious little face covered in dirt. Images of her leaving out a small pile of crackers for the rats. And the memories of my daughter asking me if she was to do what I did one day.
I grit my teeth until my jaw hurts, and turn to stare out the window. Thunder rumbles the ground, and a horse neighs as if it feels my fear. Perhaps it can.
We are nearing the Inn. The Inn that fate is to decide what the rest of my life will be like. My sister’s hatred-filled face comes to my mind. I shove it away and gently shake Christine awake.
“Wake up, Christine,” I say quietly, “It is time to face the storm.” I am talking more to myself than to my daughter. I speak of an entirely different storm than the one outside… I speak of the storm I am not eager to face and would hide from, if I could find another way.
I know that there is indeed a storm to come. Life has mocked me, is mocking me, and has hidden any other option from me that I could take. Christine yawns sleepily.
Once again pushing my thoughts away, I tenderly sit her upright. She only blinks. No sound comes from her lips. She gazes around. I had been sure she was asleep before we began our ride, for fear she would object to leaving her rodent friends she has, so this is all new to her. I watch her carefully for any sign of confusion or unrest. But she merely sighs, lifting her little shoulders, and stares straight ahead.
“George will miss me. Mother, who will feed him?” she mumbles.
I do not answer as she speaks of her rat friend. She sighs again, and keeps her gaze glued to the wall. I bite my lip, troubled. Is it right for a child to be so detached?
I do not have time to worry or ponder. The carriage halts. I hear the driver heavily step down and suddenly pull the door open. Rain runs off the end of his large nose.
“End o’ the line,” he states. I gingerly step out first, holding my light shawl over my head as an inadequate protection from the rain. I turn back to take Christine’s hand as she comes out to be beside me. I pull her close to be under the shawl, but she does not seem to mind the wetness. She lifts her hand to feel it upon her hardened skin.
The driver takes our one small trunk from behind his perch and throws it down without ceremony. I wince at the thud as it lands.
He puts out his hand. “Best be on me way,” he grunts.
I silently reach into my small worn purse and pull out the meager savings I had managed to make in preparation of our journey. He grins at me. I avoid looking at his yellowed teeth.
“Wont to make a bit o’ mo’ money tonight?” he asks, leaning in close to me, and daring to reach up one dirty finger to run along the side of my face. I calmly step away in disgust.
“I would rather rot on the side of the road,” I say.
He laughs and clenches the money in his beefy fist and hauls his bulk back into the seat.
“It isn’t too late fo’ that, Miss!” He smacks the reins against his horses. “Come on Bernie!” He shouts, “Go on, Nate!” He smacks the reins against the old horses’ backs again. They both wearily lift their hooves and begin their long journey back to their, no doubt, quite shabby stables.
We watch him drive away back down the road, our last link to our last life. I am not distressed to see it go. We stand for a few more moments as I stare at the carriage descending the road.
Chewing my lower lip, I debate on what to do with our trunk. I grasp one end of it and drag it up to the door, trying to get it as much out of the rain as possible. Perhaps a servant will come for it later. I then take a deep breath and turn to the door. It looms before me, looking larger than the Inn itself. What will happen once I cross this threshold?
“Don’t worry, Christine,” I say, “Everything will be all right.” She looks up at me with her blue eyes.
“Yes, mother,” she says. Through the rain I can see a look in her eyes I never have before. She senses something, this odd child of mine. Her eyes hold a sort of resignation. Frightened, I quickly lean down and peck her cheek. I hold up my fist and knock solidly on the wood. My breathing is louder than I have ever heard it before.
A few breathless moments pass. Tears start to build up in my eyes in fear. My hands sweat some more, but the rain washes it way.
Nothing. The knob remains still.
I raise my fist and knock again, harder this time. I can hear nothing through the unyielding wood.
I want to sob as the cold seeps into my weary bones. My humiliation is complete. I am no longer the grand woman I once was, and now here I am begging to the one person I had vowed to hate for the rest of my life. What a picture I must make. I am drenched, my threadbare clothing hangs on my thin form, and I have a child at my side. We have nothing but one small, pitiful trunk. How life can change so swiftly.
I straighten and clear my head of all thoughts when I hear a creak. The door opens slowly. I hold my breath, my heart thudding in my ears… and release it when I see who has opened it. A small girl peeks out, perhaps about six or seven.
“Can I ’elp ye?” she asks, dark eyes large and round. I swallow, my relief profound. I do not have to face the sister I so despise yet need now more than ever yet.
“Yes…I need to see Naomi—I mean, Mrs. Hospeck,” I amend breathlessly. The little girl hesitates.
“Are ye a guest?” she asks. I know her words are recited by obligation. Naomi is wary of beggars or people in need of shelter, no matter how dismal their circumstances, I remember. I debate. I am planning on asking for work, but for now I suppose I am a guest. It would not be dishonest to say I am.
“Yes,” I say finally. “Is she available? May I see her?” I ask again.
The girl opens the door wider. She holds a small candle in her hand. Naomi must be trying to save money by not purchasing lanterns.
“This way, if ye please,” the girl says. I gratefully get out of the rain, holding Christine’s hand tightly. We step into the dark room. The girl closes the door behind me, and it closes loudly with a creak.
“Oh, is there anyone who can carry our trunk up to our room?” I ask uncertainly.
The girl shrugs. “I’ll ask Bessie,” she says, and turns away. She scurries off. taking the candle with her, and I cannot see her anymore.
I uncomfortably realize I am standing in the dark; the only brightness is a small beam of light coming from down a hall to my right and the weak light from the flame. The room consists of two doors, one to the right and one to the left, and a large staircase right in front of us.
The little girl reappears. She starts in the direction of the hallway to our right, the one with the beam of light. “Follow me,” she says in a tired voice.
Frightened of what lies ahead, I grip Christine’s hand even tighter. She follows me dutifully. The black around us makes me more aware of Christine’s breathing.
Gentle, and slow. Mine is quick and labored.
Our footsteps echo eerily in the room. I had forgotten how Naomi loves the dark. The light gives her headaches… how could I have forgotten that? Too much time has passed since I have faced her. My sister. The traitor.
I keep my eyes glued to the girls back as she approaches what looks to be a kitchen. We enter. It is indeed a kitchen. A large woman works at the stove. An apron is tied around her bulky waist and her brown hair is falling out of its messy bun. She turns at the sound of our footsteps, wooden spoon in hand, and what looks like broth dripping off of it. My stomach rumbles. The cook’s eyes widen. The little girl stops.
“We ’ave some new guests, Bessie,” she says in a droning voice, “Wha’ room should they ’ave?” The woman called Bessie drops her spoon, and snatches up a loaf of bread from the table. I can see the steam rising from it and my stomach growls once more.
“Why, I did no’ ’ear a knock a’ the door! Oh, ye poor things! Soaked to the bone!” Bessie presses the bread into my hand. I savor its warmth against my palm.
I do not have a chance to thank her, for she opens her mouth and speaks again, “Mary, get them a room. The east corner one, on the second floor. Tha’ll do,” She clucks her tongue, and pats Christine’s cheek. Christine stares up at her with curious eyes.
“There, now,” Bessie says, “Off to bed wit ye. Breakfast is served a’ eight o’ clock.” She smiles at me as a mother would and grasps my hand briefly, comfortingly, and lets it go. Perhaps it is our ragged clothes that gives us her pity. Or the unhidden sorrow in our expressions. Whichever, I am grateful for it.
I remember our luggage. “Pray, can one of your servants receive our trunk? It is outside in the rain.” I say. Bessie nods.
“O’ course. Mary, find Jennifer an ’ave ’er get Charlie to bring the lady’s trunks up to ’er room.”
Mary stands, unmoving at Bessie’s order.
“The lady’s asked to see the mistress, she ’as,” she says quietly.
The cook stills.
“Mrs. ’Ospeck?” She asks, looking at me. I nod. Bessie’s eyes drill into me, looking for I know not what. Her eyes dart between Christine and me. “May I ask what
fo’?” She asks.
I purse my lips at the suspicious glint in her eyes. “You may not.” I say firmly, offended at the mistrust compared to the grandmotherly attitude of a moment before. Bessie debates a moment.
“She’s probably asleep by now,” Bessie says. I smile bitterly.
“Oh, no. She sits up in her bed reading the bible until her candle is close to burning out.”
Bessie’s eyes narrow at me. “And ’ow would ye be knowin’ tha’?”
The girl called Mary is looking at us with interest. It is probably not often a strange woman and her daughter come in the middle of the night amidst a storm and knows such things about the mistress of the Inn.
Bessie follows my glance to Mary. She sniffs in irritation. “Find Jennifer! And go get their room ready, girl!” she snaps. Mary immediately scurries down the dark hall. I meet Bessie’s probing gaze. I know she will not trust me until I say something that will give her some sort of information.
“My sister will not punish you for allowing me to disturb her,” I finally say wearily. Seconds pass, as the cook digests what I have just uttered. Her eyes widen.
“Ye be Miss—Miss—” she cannot finish. Her eyes betray her shock. I laugh, but as it rings through the small kitchen it is evident it is not a joyful sound.
“So you’ve heard of me, then?” I ask sarcastically, “Pray, from which Hospeck? Do they speak of me in love?”
Bessie opens her mouth, and snaps it shut again. I feel guilty for attacking the old woman so harshly. How God must hate me, to make me such a wretched person. I sigh.
“Excuse my manners,” I say gently, “Yes, I am Miss Helena. I have not gone by that name in six years, now, though. You may call me whatever you like.”
The woman recovers quickly. She fiddles with her apron, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“I am no’ sure the mistress would like to see ye.” She says carefully. I smile.
“No, I know for certain she will not. But she is my last hope.” I lay my hand to rest on Christine’s hair. Bessie looks at my daughter. Her eyes soften. She kneels down in front of her.
“’Ow old ye be, lit’le one?” She asks kindly, once again returning to the grandmotherly manner. Christine looks down at her scuffed shoes.
“Four and one half.” She mumbles. She now looks up at Bessie with pleading eyes.
“George will miss me. There’s no one to feed him.” she says.
I sigh. Bessie appears puzzled. “Who be George?” She asks.
Christine is opening her mouth to reply. I cut her off by saying, “So will you allow me to see Mrs. Hospeck?” I do not want the cook to know the only friends I allowed my daughter to have were the rats that resided in our filthy room in Cheapeside. I would not allow her to play ball in the street with the other boys nor wander around the city with the other women’s girls. Bessie stands back up.
“I suppose it’s no’ me place to say,” she says, “I will tell ’er ye are ’ere.” She walks out of the kitchen and into the dark foyer again. She strides over to the right room, a room with closed doors and absolutely no light coming form beneath it.
“You can wait here while I go tell ’er.” She opens the door and turns to me.
“Could Christine go to the room we are staying in?” I ask hurriedly, “She has no need to come with us, and she is tired from our long ride from London.”
Bessie hesitates, and then nods. I smile my thanks. Another girl, who looks to be the same age as Mary, is standing at the bottom of the steps, waiting for permission to go to bed, perhaps.
As soon as Bessie turns to her she says, “I told Charlie an’ ’ e got the trunk up in the room.”
Bessie nods. “Good. Jennifer, show this lit’le one to ’er room.” She orders. The girl pouts most unservant-like. Bessie scowls at her and the girl drags her feet back up the steps, motioning to Christine. Christine looks up at me uncertainly.
“Go with her, Christine. I will be up in awhile,” I kiss her cheek, “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” She nods and reluctantly follows the older girl.
Bessie leads me to the door to the left in the large room. She opens it and leads me in.
“Wait ’ere while I go get the mistress,” she orders. I nod. Bessie hurries up the stairs after Jennifer and Christine.
I am in a library. Or a study, it is hard to tell. It reminds me of my father’s favorite room. Books align the shelves along all four walls. An old oak desk with paper scattered about on it rests on one side of the room and a small beautiful fireplace adorns the room. There is a comfortable green, velvet chair in the corner that reminds me strongly of home. I go to sit in it.
Time passes, and I grow more nervous. I hear a clock ticking in the room. I search for it and find it on the wall, above the fireplace. It has become later than I thought.
An hour passes. I feel sweat slide out of my hair and down my cheek. I wipe it away with the corner of my gown, the last one I own. I arrange my cloak about me prettily to pass the time. I imagine what Bessie is saying. I imagine what my sister’s expression is when she finds out her little sister is in her Inn.
Finally, after what has stretched out to what feels an eternity, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Slowly, menacingly. I stiffen. I imagine the books looking on, sensing my fear and thinking of this as one grand story among them.
The door slowly opens, and my breathing is coming in short quiet gasps. A man comes through. I recoil in my chair when I realize it is Daniel Hospeck. I have not prepared myself for seeing this man again. Indeed, I did expect it, but not so soon. I’d expected Naomi. Angular, stern, unmoving Naomi. Not this man, whose very presence fills the stifling room. He comes to slowly stand in front of the chair, and stops just short of his feet touching the hem of my dress. I force myself not to jerk my legs to the side, away from him.
“We all thought you were dead.” He says. I stare up into his unchanged face. He stares back down at me. I know the face he gazes into cannot be more changed than from the girl he once knew. I gather my wits and stand. His face is two inches from my own. I step to the side, and try to relax.
“No. I have been in London,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Doing what?” When I remain silent he continues, “Society was buzzing about the scandal between you and Mr. Mitchell. Was it he who sheltered you all these years? Did he just now tire of you and send you here?” There is smugness in his face. I resist the urge to slap him.
“No, Mr. Hospeck,” I say, feeling as if I am dying inside. I will never tell him or my sister how I survived those long years in London. Instead of continuing further with the shameful explanation, I duck my head and look to the floor.
“Look at me!” He orders. I bite my lip and raise my eyes unwillingly to his. He smirks. “What has brought you back to us?”
I fold my hands to stop their trembling.
“I had hoped you and your wife might allow me to stay on here and work.” I whisper. If he refuses me now, I don’t know what I will do. My work before almost finished me. If he denies me now, I will have nowhere else to turn.
Unexpectedly, Daniel Hospeck nods thoughtfully. He doesn’t gloat, as I had pictured him doing. All he says is, “I see.”
So I wait patiently, restraining myself from wringing my hands. He appears to come to some conclusion, and smiles down at me, but I shudder. It is a smile neither warm nor fond.
“I have spoken with my wife and we agreed to let you stay on. I suspected that is why you came, you see. But there are conditions.” Unease lies in my belly. He touches my chin with his finger. I shiver, and he grins wickedly. “One, you may not ever have contact with Naomi’s parents,” he says. Glad his touch is gone, I agree in confusion.
“Father says I am dead to him, anyway. That is why I did not go back.” I say. He stares at me. His face dawns as he realizes something.
“How did you come to hear of my and Naomi’s marriage? And our living here?” He asks. I scramble for a story, for in truth I learned it from a customer while I was working. Through the mens’ gossip in bed, I always knew what was happening in the world.
“I heard it from the baker,” I say, hoping my face does not give me away.
“Ah,” he says, “You worked for the baker, then?”
I stay silent.
He shrugs. “Two, you and you child will be treated as servants. And, like servants, you will do as you’re told, and if not, will be punished as the rest of our staff here.” I bite my lip once more and nod again. He studies my face. “So it’s true. You do have a child. Bessie said as much, but I can not see you as a mother.” Does he mean that as an insult? I again stay silent.
His eyes pierce through me. “Who is the father of your child?” He demands. I back away from him, as his face grows angry. “Whose?” He advances. I gasp as he grasps my arms. His face holds jealousy, and I am just realizing what I have gotten myself into.
“Whose do you think?” I snap bravely. He throws back his head and laughs.
“Mr. Mitchell’s? That spineless weakling who annulled your marriage when his parents threatened to disinherit him?”
I tremble in humiliation. He does not release me.
He leans close. “Three,” he says. I blink. “You will never tell this child of yours who you are, or of your past. It won’t do to have her thinking she’s as good as my children or better.”
I squeeze my eyes shut to blot out the image of his face, and nod, barely hearing his words. His breath is foul, and I will do anything to get him away from me. I picture my beloved Trevor’s face.
Daniel Hospeck laughs, and his hot breath assaults my senses. I cringe.
“Nothing has changed, Helena. For here we are, after all this time.” He leans close, bending until his mouth is next to my ear. “You will always be mine,” he growls, “Do you hear me? You will never belong to another.”
I bite my lip, trying not to cower in fear. He stands up straight once more, and turns and walks to the door. I just watch him, my heart heavier than it ever has been.
His next words make it ache. “It is good to have you back, Helena.” He smiles oddly, and then leaves the room.
I put my hands over my face and cry.
