Each night she felt his presence wash over her like a ghost, the embodiment of a concentrated thought. She sensed his bitterness, his jealousy and anger, but knew he loved her still; she felt it still beating somewhere at the center of his heart. She could feel his focus on her - or so her senses told her. But the more she delved into her senses and intuition to inform her, the more they became a swirling mess of confusion and torment; and the more the smallest negative thought was able to send her spiraling into hopelessness; the more her head spun and her emotions turned to choppy waters. Thoughts of his love comforted her, but always returned her to agony in equal measure; bringing her back into the turmoil and pain of loving him, of hoping for his return.
~
Shortly after the catastrophe in the village, she received news of her aunt’s death. It came to her by means of a staunch and strangely disheveled barrister, who arrived on her doorstep one windy Saturday afternoon as leaves blew up around him. His eyes were dull and nearly gray, their outer corners tilted downwards and lids hanging heavily. He looked as if he’d walked some way, perhaps all the way from the village inn. She welcomed him in and ushered him to her father’s study, where he set himself up at the desk. He’d brought documents pertaining to her aunt’s estate, which he was compelled to read to her and collect signatures.
It happened that Aunt Everild had left much of her property to Maryone, since she had no children of her own. Among the estate was a property that struck her - a London house, quite fine and in Portugal Street. Maryone felt a thrill run through her as she realized she might go and inspect it, she might live there if she saw fit! It would be the perfect excuse to be near Ascelin once more, to hear news of him and perhaps even find herself in his presence.
The barrister didn’t depart until the following morning, after taking some of cook’s fine venison and being put to rest in one of the guest rooms. But Maryone began her preparations to depart for London that evening. She had to ask the poor man for advice, since she’d no advisors any longer, and had no experience planning a journey. She packed her fine new clothes, excluding the dresses Guy had already seen, and departed right on the heels of the barrister, accompanied by the only maid she still had, a lowly village girl who wasn’t fit to be let upstairs. But it didn’t matter. There were servants and maids in her aunts - rather, her own - London house.
The journey passed quickly in an anxious, excitable blur. She both longed for and feared what she would find in town after all she’d experienced of late. But she was relieved most of all that she would be escaping the crippling isolation of her father’s house, as well as the hatred and suspicions of the local villagers.
London was a bustle of filth, smoke and colorful faces. But it thrilled her to be in such a metropolis, even though it was hard to see anything at all from the carriage, and what she did see was less than dazzling. The smell was overwhelming for one used to fresh air, but it eased as the carriage rolled into better neighborhoods and eventually the grandeur of Picadilly. When she arrived at her new house, servants were waiting on the steps, standing to attend to her for the first time (and likely curious to see their new mistress). She thought she saw a few dubious looks, but ignored them, telling herself this was a new city, and she could be a new woman.
Inside, the house was grand and made up beautifully, according her her aunt’s tastes. She mourned the woman when she saw it, seeing so much that reminded her of her departed aunt; feeling suddenly sensible of the profound comfort she’d taken from her aunt’s presence. She felt grateful for all her aunt had done, even though she’d disappeared in the face of difficulty.
The kind, aging butler took her from room to room, familiarizing her with her new house while the others brought in her things. After that, a bath was drawn and a fine meal brought to her bedchamber so she could relax after her journey. She could hardly believe her luck, and found herself suspecting such happiness. Finding succor from loneliness, isolation and condemnation all at once seemed too good to be true.
After a meal and bath had been thoroughly indulged in, she inquired of the housekeeper, a particularly stout woman named Mrs. Abney, as to who might be suitable from among the household to serve as a lady’s maid. The young girl she’d brought with her was sadly unsuitable, and must be sent home to tend to the duties of the manor as soon as possible. A young woman named Sarah was recommended, and instructions were given to send the village girl home by post.
“Ah,” Maryone began somewhat awkwardly. “Mrs. Abney?”
“Aye, mistress?” She answered dutifully.
“Do-” Maryone faltered. “Rather, are you averse in, ah, news about town?”
She wasn’t adept at questioning servants about gossip, for there’d never been any need in the country, nor had she ever really cared before. The old housekeeper’s brow furrowed in confusion as she waited for Maryone to spit her question out.
“Somewhat, mistress,” she said.
“Have you, ah,” Maryone fumbled. “That is, heard tell of any... foreign gentlemen recently come to town?”
Mrs. Abney took a moment, her eyes shooting off to the side, as if to reference a library of gossip logged behind her forehead.
“I should think there are several,” she said, “As I assume thou meant foreign men of good society, there are some that come specifically to mind.”
“Yes?”
Mrs. Abney adjusted her weight onto her left foot, clearly tired from standing all day.
“Please,” Maryone offered. “Do sit.”
Mrs. Abney’s face lit up with a dubious gratitude, as if unused to kindnesses from her mistress and somewhat suspicious of them.
“There are a few as come to mind,” she said, once she’d positioned her generous posterior on a nearby ottoman. “But I should think mistress to be most intrigued by the younger of the bunch. A certain young man has come lately to town that is apparently all the rage among the ladies. I believe he’s of italian stock.”
Maryone’s heart shuddered painfully at the thought of Ascelin keeping company with other ladies and investing himself in their amusement.
“Yes?” Maryone listened with baited breath, the oily swirls of the bathwater unfolding around her.
“They say,” She continued, “That he lately escaped from a most unsuitable young woman. They say he was engaged to the young thing, but found her intwined in the immoral act with another man.”
Maryone’s blood ran cold at this. Not only was word circulating about their botched betrothal, but false reports of what she’d done. By this account she was the lewdest of women. Perhaps everyone already knew, even the servants in this very house. But she must not jump to conclusions. She tried to calm herself, for the heat was entering her body again - the shaking that made her lose control. She lay back and dipped down into the water, until the warmth was up to her ears, calming the fire within.
“And, does anyone know,” she asked, “Who this young woman was?”
Mrs. Abney sighed wearily, her body sinking into a deep slump.
“Not I,” she said. “But I take it she was a fine young thing. The man in question now keeps intimate company with the Foleys, who live just across the avenue. ‘Ave him in mind for their daughter, I expect.”
Maryone felt a coldness shudder through her, a piercing shock of devastation. It was Miss Katherine Foley, the young chit who’d had a hard time keeping her eyes off of Ascelin at her own engagement celebrations. She tried not to let herself spiral into upset, regulating her breathing beneath the steaming waters. She reminded herself that Ascelin was an intelligent and discerning man, that their connection had meant so much more than such a shallow acquaintance ever could; and that he wouldn’t fall for the fleeting charms of such a creature, never truly.
She stood up, exiting the bath in a splash of water on hardwood. Wrapping her robe about her, she went to the window and asked Mrs. Abney to point out the Foley residence to her. Through the thin, billowing curtains, Mrs. Abney’s finger directed her
eye across the way. A fine house stood, well lit as if full of company, and she wondered if Ascelin was present right now. No - no he was not. She could tell there were people there, but not him. He was somewhere tucked away in this foggy metropolis, hidden with his spiraling thoughts. She was struck suddenly by the existence of him, like a focussing of thought, feeling herself instantly aware of his presence and he of hers. She felt a small shock at her feet where they stood in a small puddle against the hardwood. The shock distracted her focus, and she turned away from the window, dipping back down into the soothing bath water.
That night, she felt his presence fall over her as she lay her head down on the soft, fine pillows of her aunt’s bed; as all the cares of the day and of company melted away. It was electric, so focused that she felt a beam was traveling straight from his mind to her own, filling her body with a vibrating heat. It seemed to observe her, survey her; to take in her deepest parts with a merciless perception. She felt she was looking straight into his eyes, though she lay facing the ceiling, staring into the empty darkness. She felt he saw her, not just her face, but her mind; and the state of her emotions. He knew she had arrived. Of that much she was certain.
~
It was unpleasant, but she must do it. She must make an attempt, though she despised them so much that she felt a flame tingle in her fingers when she recalled their faces. She must send a note to Lady Foley, informing her of her arrival in the neighborhood and offering tea. If Ascelin was keeping company with them, it was the best way to cross paths with him; though she hated the thought of it. When she thought of the opportunistic way in which they’d sprung upon him like vultures, taking advantage of her shame - it made her nearly livid. But she must be calm. She could write under the pretense of informing Lady Foley of her aunt’s death. This would keep the communication from seeming out-of-place, and would open the door for invitations.
She feared that putting herself in company with the Foleys might expose her part in the scandal with Ascelin. But she cared little compared to the possibility of reconciliation with him. He was everything to her, the air she breathed. The more time passed, the more he consumed her, his soul haunting hers. The more time passed, the more she realized that one cannot control what’s in their heart. One may mask it, or deny it, or try to reason their way out of it. But when all their strength has worn thin and the delusions are come to nothing, there it remains - the object of their desire - beating steadily beneath the rubble. This drove her love for Ascelin - her realization of this truth. Knowing that she couldn’t escape him, even if she married and loved. Anything besides would be a lesser love, a poorer love; a farce. And ten years from now, when she awoke with children and a tired husband of her own, her delusions would topple; and there would be this haunting truth beating silently within her, a long-passed death sentence making all of her efforts since worth nothing.
She received a note in reply, and a nervous-looking Lady Foley entered her parlor the following day, peering about apprehensively as if she were descended into a pit of snakes. They sat together and chatted lightly, Maryone emitting her kindest, sincerest smiles. It concerned her that the woman seemed to fear her so. What could be the cause of all this? She’d become a woman of property, yes. But she possessed no political or social power. She held no stock in Lord Foley’s affairs. Why this anxiety from a woman who was above common superstition and by no means unprotected?
Maryone was offered an invitation to dinner on Saturday next, and accepted most graciously. She spent all week pretending not to, but preparing vigorously for the dinner. She arrived in the highest of fashion, having visited the dressmaker more than once to procure items of the finest quality, taste and vogue. But when she arrived, she found only the Foley family, and a spattering of random individuals in company. No Ascelin.
She went home broken-hearted and doubtful, wondering if his omission from the party had been of the Foley’s devising or his own - perhaps both. She longed, more than anything, to see him. But for now, she would have to satisfy herself with whatever gossip was available.
Two weeks after her arrival, she’d seen nothing of him. No opportunities had presented themselves for her to find herself in his society indirectly. She realized she was going to have to take a direct approach. She had her footman find the address of his lodgings. She would try once more to send him a note, telling him she was in town and wished to meet. Perhaps she would be extremely lucky and he would come to her here, where they might have privacy, and she would be spared a public reunion.
She sent the note and waited with baited breath. Her heart raced every moment, wondering if he was reading it just then and how he might be reacting. She reached out with her feelings. She waited and waited. Evening came, and she sat anxiously at her dinner, thinking it quite normal that he might wait until tomorrow to return a message. She lay awake late into the night, her thoughts racing and her heart searching out some intuition. But she felt nothing. She was bereft of his presence, of the true sense of him; and it made her feel destitute and agitated.
In the morning, the sun shone in brightly through the windows. It was a new day, the day she would hear from him. She took breakfast in her room, her mind unable to focus as she poured over berries and pastries. She dressed cheerfully, feeling quite smart and attractive, hoping to be seen by her beloved. She decided it would bode well for her mood to go out and engage herself in some way. Then she might come back to the good news of his note. She decided to walk the park with her recently-promoted maid, taking advantage of the sun, even though there was a chill in the air.
The day was boisterous and bright, or perhaps merely she was. But the faces she saw in the park looked strained. She was fearful to admit it, but she knew that feeling, for she’d felt it crawling at her back and rising up in extreme forms before - suspicion. Condemnation. Judgement. It was haunting her steps. She could taste a scandal brewing with her as the centerpiece, it was written in the coldness of their faces. She finished her walk with a head held high, determined to be respectable. But a cloud had fallen over her mood and her entire day. She returned home to find the dish in the foyer empty of letters. After inquiring of Mrs. Abney, she learned that nothing had arrived, though it was late afternoon.
The first two days since sending her note passed in a sense of plummeting between hope and despair. As the fourth day came, she began to feel desperate. A week later, nothing had arrived and she’d seen no trace of Ascelin, and there weren’t words for her feelings. The sense of cemented melancholy she’d felt at the manor, in which she was unable to rise from her bed, returned to her. Even after dressing, she inevitably returned to her bed where she lay staring, unable to face the day. She’d faced hardships in her life, and found that giving oneself a moment to release the pain was sometimes helpful. Also, a little optimism and treating oneself nearly always did the trick to lift low spirits. But none of these suited. The lack of him made her lose all hope. She felt bereft of all that mattered. It was not a hopeless thought she focused on, nor an attitude she stubbornly stuck to. There was simply a lack inside of her, a void that spread out with the searing knowledge of his loss. She felt unable and uninterested in finding anything to cheer her.
And it became increasingly apparent with each passing day that scandal was brewing around her. The looks she received in the streets, and even from servants in her own home, were indicative of that. Invitations dried up completely. But it wasn’t until speaking to the blunt, matter-of-fact Mrs. Abney again that her suspicions were confirmed absolutely. In their conversation, Mrs. Abney made it clear that gossip was circulating about her respectability, that word was going around London that she was both a mistress of the black arts and a lewd woman of immoral character. And apparently, word of the strange and horrible incident in the village had reached London. It was, as most gossip, foggy and unclear. But it brought with it a strong sense of dread and darkness that fed suspicion in the minds of London society, and caused hands of friendship to recoil in self-preserving
dread.
~
She didn’t know what to do anymore. She was innocent of betraying him, but Ascelin wouldn’t believe her. He didn’t seem to care. He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t give her a chance. She felt like a corpse, dried up and scarcely able to take breath. For all she had riches and servants and finery, she cared nothing for her life, and found it difficult to face each day.
Ten days after sending the note to Ascelin, she was walking through town on a small errand. She’d found it absolutely necessary to leave the house that day, even if only on a pretense, for the air and company at home had turned stifling again. She wished to free herself of her thoughts, and so made her way out to the apothecary in search of a distraction. Walking along the street, dressed smartly, she avoided the eyes of those she passed by, for too often they gazed back with scandalized, appraising expressions. But suddenly, as if tapped on the shoulder, she felt a presence alight within her. She knew it well, for she searched for it each moment during the day and each wakeful night as she lay in her bed. It washed away the filth and horror of recent days, their fear and degradation; redeeming her and bringing her back to the time before any of this.
Shuddering beneath it’s influence, she looked up, and across the street, saw Ascelin walking. He made his way alone, a tall, fine gentleman. She couldn’t help but stop in her tracks and stare. His presence intoxicated her. In all the world there was nothing like him. The eyes whose memory had kept her company so many nights, whose look she’d strained to remember in so many moments alone; she had not betrayed them, she would never. The thought of his belief in her unfaithfulness caused every cell in her body to revolt and cringe in misery. She wished to scream her justification, to scream of her faithfulness to him.
Just before entering a door across the street, he turned and looked directly into her eyes; and she felt the same piercing cord that she’d sensed sometimes at night, connecting them directly, bright and vibrant between their hearts. Everything seemed to swirl and vibrate around her. She gasped a little, and clutched her stomach, which was turning in knots. But though he looked at her, and his discerning eyes widened slightly, he made no gesture of acknowledgement. He continued on, turning away. She watched as he disappeared through the doorway, his back fading as the door swayed, closing behind him. And at this she was hit, in a very concrete sense, with their estrangement. It became real. And it was too much. The world around her began to swirl and decay, and all to turn to an agony and ugliness that gripped her physically.
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