rantsintechnicolor
Rants in Tchnclr
a slow drip blend of fiction, poetry, and memoir. there be queer themes here.
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the haunted mummy... episode 16
The tea concluded and the party exited the parlor into the gallery. The gentlemen lingered there to open and inspect crates while the ladies meandered into the library.
As soon as Rebecca’s mother shut the door, she leaned against it and exclaimed, “What has happened to Henry? He is much changed. Rebecca, what did he say to you?”
Rebecca clasped her hands in front of her, the force of her mother’s interrogation bringing the uncomfortable memory back into her body. “He said something about us being married.”
“Is that all? What else?” Alice’s head was on a swivel between the two women.
“That he couldn’t wait. But it felt…” Rebecca grimaced while trying to find the right words to communicate how wrong it felt. The only word she could come up with that wasn’t too shocking and sensational was, “inappropriate,” she finished.
“Ah.” Her mother said. Within seconds she was tucked into her mother’s shoulder and comforted. “My dear, do you want to marry him?”
Rebecca had not actually thought of it before. She had loved him, to be sure. He had always been there to mop up her tears when John would be horrible to her. She felt gratitude toward him and he was also family. But now she suddenly did not feel safe with him. If there was any person she wanted to tie her life to, it was Eva.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, darling, even if you did, I think you had better try not to be alone with Henry while he is here. He is a man now, with the appetites of a man. What did the girls say about venereal disease when you were in school?” Her voice was gentle and warm.
Rebecca blushed and stammered. Of course her mother had been young once and talked about the same things with her own peers. While embarrassed, she felt strangely relieved to hear her mother be so direct in her questions. “That it comes from husbands visiting brothels and that when we get married we need to keep them,” she gulped, “happy or they will bring it home and give it to us.”
Her mother nodded as she spoke. “Well, men may shame us for gossip but let no one let you think that it isn’t sometimes useful,” her mother mumbled ruefully. “There are more ways to get it than brothels. They can get the disease before they are married. They can give it to you before you get married, too.” Rebecca’s mother spoke slowly and carefully watching how each word landed on her child to make sure she understood.
“Oh!” Rebecca replied. Her eyes felt impossibly wide as the realization dawned. She put a hand over her mouth and took it away. “Do you think Henry might have a pox?”
Her mother raised her eyebrows and inclined her head. “It is possible. We cannot be too careful. And you must be careful.” She rubbed her daughter's shoulder. “Don’t be frightened, my dear. I can’t protect you all the time but I can make sure you have as much information to protect yourself. Ask me anything. I won’t hide things from you. Alice, come here. Same for you.” Alice entered their embrace. “It’s about time I came out of the green study and spent more time with my girls, especially while there are so many strange men in the house. And we shall lock our chamber doors tonight.”
Rebecca was relieved and yet afraid. Suddenly, the world was much more dangerous. Her thoughts landed on George and the unchaperoned walk they had shared, that she had actually enjoyed. She felt none of the wrongness from that half hour alone that she had felt two minutes with Henry surrounded by people. She felt torn between wanting to walk with him again and obeying her mother.
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the haunted mummy... episode 15
Her mother took a cue from the awkward silence to change the subject. “And what about demons or curses? Have you had any experience of those?”
Her father guffawed. “Pure drivel from the Loudon woman’s book!” His wife colored a little, her smile brittle. Her husband didn’t like that she read gothic horror that her lover Winthrop had shared with her, even though he himself had read them. It wasn’t that he disapproved of his wife’s relationship with Winthrop so long as they were both discreet, but he was afraid the substance of the novel might culture hysteria in his wife. He need not have been concerned. His wife was better at seeing the reality of situations than he was, though he often chose not to acknowledge it.
“There was some rumor that the Savants did not only die of the plague,” she continued, undeterred.
“I thought the book was very intriguing,” Lord Albert replied without shame in the hopes that it would mollify Lady Perdeaux’s. “You might think I lower myself to read such popular fiction, but it is important to know how accurately ancient Egypt is being represented. But, no. No curses, no demons. I’m sure when people have an experience attributed to such things that they have had anxious dreams or bad luck or indigestion.”
Alice looked rapt and terrified. Rebecca wondered if Lord Albert really believed that, or if he was just trying to keep from frightening the women and children.
An awkward silence fell on the group. It was as though some were torn between hesitating to agree and agreeing with Lord Albert and his objectivity. The progress of science was so alarming, they feared it might take all magic and wonder out of the world.
Lord Albert looked around expectantly for more questions to come, but the awkward silence persisted, until Rebecca took a deep breath and broke it.
“Lord Albert. There is a crate of new books in the library. I wonder if you can suggest some authors for me to start with first. I would like to read a little more regarding my fathers new antiquities so I might have more informed questions to ask at dinner.”
He beamed at her, his eyes sparkling with the candle light, an expression much like she had seen on George. “Oh, of course…” he began rattling off names, some of which she recognized from the crate and some she remembered vaguely. The titles and authors sparked other conversations that bloomed into arguments and theories around them. Rebecca leaned into her mothers ear and asked to borrow the Loudon woman’s book. “Oh yes,” she smiled, mischief in her whisper. “Let us go to the library after tea.”
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the haunted mummy... episode 14
“How are your parents, Henry? When will they visit us again?” her father asked.
“Oh, they are just as dull and tedious as ever. Directing the modernization of our country estate. Entertaining heads of state in London.”
“And how are your studies at the Academy?” John sat down at Henry’s elbow and rolled his eyes, sipping his tea and nibbling on morsels of rose petal cake.
Henry shrugged. “Father is constantly making a case for my study of history and the natural world, but I am not interested in being one of those stuffy obsessives. I am a student of life. There is so much to learn about the world now than whatever is in those books and lectures.”
Rebecca’s mother looked alarmed and her father narrowed his eyes knowingly. Henry’s expressed desire had the barely concealed meaning that he meant not to study at all, but drink, carouse, and visit opium dens and brothels. It explained the droop and darkness around his eyes. Further appraisal did not reveal if Henry was the type to squander the family fortune, but it was doubtful if Rebecca’s uncle would have allowed that.
“But the context of how we got here is important.” Rebecca’s father tried to reason with him about the noble pursuit of said stuffy education. The discussion continued and began to feel tense, bordering on family squabble.
Lord Robert and Henry argued, quite forgetting about their guests, who politely turned so as not to witness any potential embarrassment of their new acquaintances. George and his father took seats near the ladies and Rebecca’s mother began to ask about the journey. Lord Albert regaled them with the vignettes of their adventure, making eye contact with all the ladies and prompting George to add his thoughts. Mostly, George looked at whoever was speaking, glancing now and then at Rebecca. When he spoke, he looked at everyone in turn like his father. Did he flush a little when he met Rebecca’s eyes?
“Pardon me, Lord Albert. What is your main interest in antiquities?” her mother asked.
“I… Well… I daresay, I am drawn to the art and the exotic beauty of it. I’m interested in how and why they lived. We see so much is similar about London and our British society and aristocracy, the industry and art and science. I’m very interested in those parallels and even where there is divergence.”
“So, Albert,” Rebecca’s father began. He and Henry had ended their uncomfortable discussion. “What side of the debate are you on: were the ancient Egyptians caucasian or negroid?”
Rebecca suppressed a small sigh and dropped her eyes. She knew what was coming, having heard this argument many times as the debate raged about ending slavery in the New World. While England had abolished the practice and ended the trade on a technicality, Africans were still considered inferior to Western people. She definitely had some thoughts on the matter, and in a more intimate gathering she might have voiced them. Her views might embarrass her father and bring ridicule from her brother. She didn’t wish to invite either.
“I think they were both. I wonder if perhaps it looked like the colonies today, with light skinned folk organizing the labor of darker skinned workers.”
Rebecca bit the inside of her cheek. His words seemed non-committal, and frankly it was the echo of a lazy opinion she had read from an opinion piece by a self important newspaperman. George’s face looked a little tight. She wondered if he was similarly distressed by the subject.
#a series of awkward conversations#victorian opinions#i do not agree with popular victorian opinions on race#not all characters have this popular opinion at least#historical fiction#victorian fiction#victorian education
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the haunted mummy... episode 13
Rebecca and Alice kissed their parents, and introduced Alice to the Mayweathers. When George offered Rebecca tea, she felt rather than saw her mother and father’s head swivel in their direction. It made Rebecca blush. George’s father did not look too surprised. She felt his eyes linger on her appraisingly before he politely looked away. Rebecca accepted after a heartbeat of hesitation.
They were just about to sit down when Henry and John burst into the room, rosy cheeked and carrying an air of conspiracy. She wondered if they had a tryst before coming down. She didn’t mind what Henry and John got up to. The girls at school whispered about such things as commonplace and expected; men got more experience before marriage than women, and some men got that experience with each other. The knowledge was a tacit permission for more curious girls to explore, with the understanding such things were to be kept more secret than the liaisons of men.
Henry looked different. He had grown a little broader in his face and body. He had always carried himself confidently and the change had just made him more magnificent, but for all this his energy seemed to cover a fragility. His smile was the same, but it seemed to have a tension to it and darkness clung to the skin under his eyes. They all kissed hello and when Henry got to Rebecca, he whispered in her ear, “I hear we are getting married. I tell you, I can’t wait.”
She didn’t mistake his prurient tone. It felt wrong, not like something you would say to a betrothed or a family member you respected. The way he said it and the way he squeezed and moved his hand on her arm felt dangerous. He drew back still smiling and she blinked at him, incredulous, her brows drawing together. It seemed like the stupidity of an adolescent testing a boundary, but she was too surprised to form the words to draw that line for him.
Her mother noticed the shift in Rebecca’s mood and called to her.
“Rebecca, daughter, come sit with me and Alice.” She was happy to obey. Rebecca excused herself from Henry and certainly felt safer by her mother’s side. Her thoughts lingered darkly over their exchange. He had changed. What happened to him?
“You and Alice looked so pale when you walked in,” her mother said in a low voice, under the voices of them men speaking jovially to each other. “Are you all right?”
Rebecca nodded.
Alice whispered excitedly and with some horror. “There are coffins in the gallery!”
“Oh!” she exclaimed quietly. Her eyes then returned to a normal shape as she realized what they were. “Mummies,” she said as though that should explain everything to Alice. “Your father has been collecting mummies, dear.” She sighed. Alice looked stricken, perhaps wondering why her father would purposely bring dead people into the house. Hadn’t he heard of ghosts?
“Drink your tea,” she said, grabbing Alice’s cheek gently. “Put the bloom back in your cheeks.” Alice grimaced and sipped her tea, closing her eyes tightly as she burned her lips and her tongue on the hot drink.
#victorian gays#history is gay#gay victorian fiction#writing#historical fiction#victorian fiction#mummies#wtf henry#henry is in a bad place y'all
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the haunted mummy... episode 12
The clouds continued to darken outside and the wind hurled large drops of rain against the great library window. Alice and Rebecca started and then giggled at their reactions to powerful strikes of lightning and deafening thunder as the storm grew with intensity. Agnes came to light lamps, releasing all but one curtain to fall over the big window, so they could be mesmerized by the clouds and the rain when they looked up from their books.
The clock chimed four o’clock. Though Rebecca loathed to leave and close the book, her stomach grumbled and she did want to see Henry. She found herself hoping George had rested enough to join them as well. She pulled a feather out of a vase on her desk, laid it in the book she left on her desk, and collected the reluctant Alice.
They walked through the gallery to the salon in the dimness that was barely countered by the candles in their sconces. They wandered from crate to crate in the eerie stillness while the wind howled around the windows. They didn’t touch anything, only peered into crates that were open. The large portraits of their dead relatives tracked their progress and looked as if they might be just as curious to see into the crates as she and Alice, but their expressions seemed to become foreboding and concerned when they were lit by the occasional lightning. Most of the crates were squared and filled with statues and vases. They approached a long crate with an anthropomorphic shape, brightly colored with a face where the head should be, and painted folds of clothing, jewelry, and the curious writing that they had seen in the books they had just been reading.
“Is that a…” Alice began, eyes wide.
“Oh. I-- I think it is a coffin,” Rebecca answered, feeling an icy coolness at the base of her skull. She had briefly flipped through the Pettigrew book while sorting the books in the library and lingered on the page about mummies. She remembered thinking how different the outer coffins of ancient Egypt were to the one she remembered from when they had buried her grandmother before Alice was born.
Alice gripped her hand tightly, and though Rebecca didn’t show it, she was comforted and grounded by the touch of another warm being. Suddenly the storm felt more ominous to the sisters as they stood over a dead stranger from a distant land and time.
One might have said the coffin had a pox; it was pitted as though it had open sores with little flecks of gold remaining around the edges, as though the gold was hastily gouged out a very long time ago. Rebecca looked at the face in the dim light. The artist rendering was clearly human, though less realistic than the ones that hung above them. It depicted a beatific youth with dark eyes heavily outlined and bright round cheeks. She’d heard of dark-skinned Africans of the continent though this person was painted with fair skin. Male or female, she couldn’t tell, but if she had to guess they were similar to her own age. Had they died young of injury or of plague like some of Napoleon's savants?
They moved to another crate with another coffin. Alice gasped. The face that stared back at them was distinctly female with a powerfully malevolent gaze. It seemed older than the first, and it did not suffer the same pox as the youth. Perhaps this disapproving expression kept her coffin from being molested. She was painted with light brown skin and luminous green eyes heavily outlined, and crowned with a strange bonnet shaped like bird wings with a vulture's head above her brow. Though they were looking down at her beautiful face she seemed to be looking down at them and finding them unworthy of her presence.
Another chill rippled across Rebecca’s neck and shoulders, a tension clenching tight in her breast.
“Can we go?” Alice was whispering with urgency bordering on panic, holding tightly to Rebecca’s arm with both hands and leaning away from the coffin.
“Of course,” Rebecca whispered, too. Alice hugged her whole arm as she dragged her sister away at almost a run to the bright salon where they would feel warm and safe. They tumbled into the room. Their mother gave them a pointed look and they composed themselves quickly.
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the mummy... episode 11
It wasn’t the biggest private library in England, but her father and grandfather did try to make it impressive in its presentation and diverse in its collection. It spanned two stories with a gallery and shelves all the way to the ceiling. It was easily the size of a small country hall or ballroom. The wood was finished to a warm medium hue so small statues, vases and other curiosities the family collected on their travels would not be lost in too light or too dark a background. Some of these shelves were still waiting for books and artifacts.
The gallery, held up by carved, wooden beams darker than the shelves, could be accessed by a door in the second floor hallway and by spiral staircases on the east and west walls. Where the gallery crossed the floor-to-ceiling windows on the south wall, there were a few upholstered wingback chairs and a table where one could enjoy a view of the edge fo the labyrinth, a wooded park, and a portion of the coastline. The ceiling was painted a light blue with floral motifs that glinted with a tasteful amount of gold leaf. The ceiling, the darker blue carpet, great window bordered by gold velvet curtains, and the large fireplace on the western wall helped to keep the room bright, cheerful, and inviting. On the floor of the library was a great table just across from the main entrance. There was a small desk for each child beyond the table, where they could concentrate their individual studies, and a few cozy chairs in front of the fireplace.
Two small open crates had been deposited by the long table, the cloth lining the crates peeled back to reveal their contents. One was, predictably, full of books. The second one looked to contain artifacts. Four urns peered out of the packing material in the crate. Gently with both hands she lifted one with the head of a falcon and set it down in the middle of the table. It was made of a light stone or very fine pottery. Against the dark clouds dominating the window and the dim light it cast in the library, the urn seemed to glow like the moon. She stared at it for a moment, taking in the curves and the haughty expression of the bird, thinking about the words she would write about it to Eva. The other urns had heads of what could have been a dog or a fox, a strange creature with a wide face and large, broad snout, and the head of a man or a woman, though probably a woman, she decided. She left the other urns where they were and turned to the crate of books.
A small voice made her jump.
“Hullo Rebecca.” Her sister Alice peered at her from behind the wing of a large chair near the fireplace, swathed in shawls. She had abandoned an atlas on the floor to hide from anyone she didn’t want to see. Her governess was away attending a family matter for a few weeks, and left Alice with daily practice in arithmetic, French, and geography, while allowing her to explore whatever historical subjects that interested her that could be found in the library.
“Is it too much excitement today, Alice?” who grumbled in response.
Alice slid off her chair and came to peer around her Rebecca’s elbow as she pulled each book out of the crate, inspecting the leather and linen spines before setting them on the table, sorting the books by subject as best she could and making and additional pile with the books she wanted to read first. They were scholarly books describing and rendering antiquities for a new science of archaeology. Samuel Birch of the British Museum. David Roberts of the Royal Academy. Her eyes widened at the entire collection of Description de l’Égypte compiled by Napolean’s savants, each installment bound in richly polished red calfskin by Jean-Joseph Tessier of Paris. To own a set without an interest in Egypt was to gloat about England’s victory over Napolean and France, though England may not have given the plague enough credit for its help in their success.
She selected the large book of lithographs by David Roberts and a small book from the volumes of Description. Alice followed her to the couch near the window and peered at the lithographs over her shoulder. They turned the pages of lithographs together, pointing to the interesting and curious things they saw. She imagined her father and her wilting flower of a brother walking around these places in their white linens, fanning themselves and sneering, while George and his father looked around wide-eyed and smiling with delight.
“Have you met the Mayweather’s yet?”
“No,” Alice answered. “I don’t want to meet any of John’s friends. I already saw cousin Henry, and, well, he is much the same.” Alice didn’t like him much. At the mention of his name Rebecca’s heart fluttered.
“I think you will like them. George is not like John’s other friends. They will come to tea, I’m sure. Are you coming to tea?” Alice made a face. “You know you are getting too old to run away from social duties. Those days are coming when you too will have to pinch your cheeks and put on a mask for them. It takes practice.”
“I shall use my weak constitution to excuse myself as long as I can.”
Rebecca chuckled. She gave Alice the lithographs to finish with and opened the smaller book. She had absorbed enough French to be completely transported by the authors.
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 10
The sound of porters shifting items in the gallery floated up the north stair. She didn’t feel like being seen and she would have another chance to look at the crates, so she turned toward the south stair and the library. She knocked softly on the door to the green study and cracked the door. Her mother greeted her with a face stuck between a grimace and a smile. She had clearly been weeping over letters open on her desk. Her pale face and her pail dressing gown made her seem frail in the vibrancy of the green room.
“You should see the commotion,” Rebecca said gently. “The excitement and the air would do you good.”
She held out her hand to Rebecca who closed the distance to take it. “My beautiful daughter,” her voice full of grief and appreciation, blinking around the tears in her eyes. It seemed to Rebecca that her mother was finally looking at something else through her haze of grief and saw a similar grief in the younger woman, but also the strength with which she bore it. It was a strength the older woman had, but had not accessed. In looking at her daughter, she seemed to realize the world was indeed not falling apart. “Are you worried about me?”
“Yes.” They squeezed each other’s hands. “Come see what Papa brought back.”
She chuckled weakly. “Like this?” she said, indicating her inappropriate costume. “Dear child. I promise I’ll be ready by tea time.” She rose from her carved wooden chair upholstered with green velvet, a shade slightly lighter than the emerald damask wallpapers. Standing next to each other, they were clearly mother and daughter. Same dark hair, though her mother had been lightly touched with gray at her right temple, same heart shaped face, angled cheekbones, chin, and jaw. Only Rebecca’s dark eyes were like her fathers, but also his straight nose which though larger than her mother’s still fit her face attractively, giving her a look like a curious doe rather than the aloof rabbit like her mother. Rebecca was as yet half a head shorter than her mother, who planted a kiss on her forehead and led them out of the room.
As her mother closed her bedroom door, Rebecca continued down the hall. She could have entered the library by the door next to her father’s study, but she moved toward the south stair instead. She descended to the hallway that led back towards the library at the south end of the gallery. The sound of low voices made her slow her steps to approach the corner as quietly as possible to peek around it. She had grown out of wanting to play hide-and-seek and she was too old to be forgiven for being shy around adults, but she did not wish to be seen, hoping to save her social energy for the mandatory social interactions like tea time and supper. Caution would also help to avoid John if he was lingering in the area, though she heard the sound of balls clicking as she passed the billiard room and thought perhaps her brother might be sulking in there.
Her father and Lord Albert had shed their overcoats and hats. They were leaning over a few open crates to inspect how the contents had shifted during the journey. She waited for her father and his guest to turn away before she sprinted across the carpet to the library. She grasped the handle and spun quickly behind the door. She peeked around it to take one last look in the gallery full of crates. Her father may have seen her, for he was just turning his face away. As Lord Albert looked toward her, she closed the door softly.
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I see you, flower seller. Tired of the abuse, you decide to send a message. For the customer that wants to grope and sexually harass you, remove a skull from under your flowers. It is a very thinly veiled threat. If they choose to harass you, they also choose to die. Sometimes people need to be scared into good behavior.
The Flower Vendor by Victor Prouvé (1882)
#art interpretation#art that tells a story#i love art#i'm sure this is not what victor was going for
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 9
From her room she could faintly hear the crunch of wheels and feet on gravel, and voices of the porters still unloading carts outside. Agnes had built a fire. She laid aside her wet clothes and leaned on the mantle, baking her naked skin in front of the hearth. She replayed moments with George in her head, remembering the warmth of his arm as they walked, the feeling of his lips on her knuckles, the light in his eyes when he looked at her. She found herself admitting to herself his virtues were more than a pretty face and a warm body to stand next to at the edge of a storm.
And that trill she had felt. What did it mean? Was it love? It felt silly for her to even think it. She couldn’t be sure it was love. She hadn’t been immediately sure with Eva, and now she wasn’t sure at all and wondered if it had even been real. No, it had been real. It had happened.
Perhaps with George it was nothing, though she felt the weight of guilt pull at her shoulders and her eyes, as though her body betrayed her devotion to Eva. Did it mean you could love more than one person at the same time? And where was Eva? What was she doing right now? Why didn’t she write back?
A sweat broke out on her brow. She had stood too long in front of the fire. She pushed herself irritably away from the mantle and dressed for tea then sat at her writing desk. She told herself this would be the last letter she penned to Eva. Then reconsidered that she wouldn’t send another letter for a fortnight. Let Eva wait, maybe even worry. Even though she hadn’t answered any of Rebecca’s letters, they hadn’t been returned, and Rebecca still hoped she would eventually get a reply.
She kept her tone friendly and chaste, devoid of the passion they had shared in private though Rebecca longed to be romantic, to remind Eva that they once had something special.
My dear Eva,
My brother and father have returned from the Mediterranean ahead of a coming storm. I walked in the light rain that must be its herald. They are still unloading the crates from their expedition, perhaps twenty-five or thirty of them. In addition, they have brought new acquaintances to our humble manor. Lord Albert Mayweather and his son George. They seem to be lovely so far.
My cousin Henry is to arrive later so we shall have a full house and a full table at dinner. I believe I told you about him. It will be good to see him again and hear about his studies. I like when he visits because he will often shield me from John’s abominable behavior.
I shall pause in writing for now, as I should like to look at the crates and describe their contents to you.
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And... what? The outcomes are:
a. you get what you want
b. you don't get what you want
c. you amend what you want
I'd love to see some actual data on this. In my tiny data set; a is 25%, b is 50%, and c is 25%. When option b and c were the result, there were very painful lessons. I can tell you, in 100% of those painful lessons, I wish I had not spent so much time obsessing over those people (NRE, y'all. let's not forget it's chemical). But I guess I learned something... so--fine-- there was some value.
I'm also back to my initial thought which is BEWARE this sentiment. Many an abusive relationship is possible with this mindset. Know when to quit. Look for those red flags. Value yourself and your happiness.
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 8
She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and tamp down the light panic in her chest. She recognized the feeling. It was something like the delicious thrill she had felt with Eva. Yet it confused and frightened her. Had she really just felt something similar with George? And in feeling it, did she betray Eva? But hadn’t Eva abandoned her? No. She didn’t know. And no. George had just been kind to her after her brother had been a monster toward her.
She took another deep breath and shivered. It brought her eyes back into focus. She caught sight of George assisting the porter. She shivered again and walked out of the trees into the drive in time to see him disappearing into the front door on the other side of a crate. On the steps of the house above the bustle, she saw her father controlling the chaos by directing men with crates. She heard him say, “... storage… gallery …the labyrinth…” and thought perhaps a new statue would soon be installed on the last empty plinth. She slowed her walk when she saw her brother next to him, looking after George, his expression miffed, as though jealous of the attention George gave to the porter instead of himself. The man standing next to him she didn’t recognize.
Her father turned to give her brother some direction and John disappeared into the house. She picked up her pace and approached her father. He opened his arms and embraced her.
“Ah, Rebecca. Dearest daughter! It does me good to see your face!” He kissed her head, genuinely pleased to see her. John had learned his superiority from their father, but hadn’t found much use for kindness or loving his family as his father did. “Oh, you are damp and chilled. I shall quickly introduce my friend and then you must go inside and be warm by a fire.” His new acquaintance bore a resemblance to George though the features on his face were sharper and more creased. He was still handsome though his curls were graying and his eyes were dark.
“Allow me to present Lord Albert Mayweather, classics and history professor at Oxford. We met on the journey and I am learning so much. Lord Albert, this is my eldest and very accomplished daughter Rebecca, who is also very hungry for knowledge. Pray do not indulge her curiosity too much. I shall blame you if she runs away to college.” He guffawed heartily at his joke. He didn’t mean it in a cruel way, but it stung Rebecca who dropped her eyes briefly and curtsied. She did want to go to college and her father’s comment reminded her of when John told her nastily that girls don’t go to college. It broke her heart and made her unhappy to be a woman.
Lord Albert touched his hat and bowed, his smile wide and his eyes gleaming. “Miss Perdeaux, I am happy to answer any questions you might have. It would be my pleasure, I assure you.” She liked his manner and sensed his genuine generosity of spirit, similar to the one she was starting to trust in George.
“Thank you, sir. That is very kind of you. Now if you will excuse me, I shall do as my father bade.”
She entered the front hall and untied her bonnet, and a footman stepped forward to take it from her. The gallery to the left and right of the foyer had become crowded with crates and porters speaking in hushed voices. The family portraits appeared to look down on them, supervising or perhaps eager to see what was secreted inside. George and John were chatting at the other end of the hall. She quickly made for the stairs, hoping John wouldn’t see her, but he called her back. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t hear him and it would be rude to ignore him. She took a deep breath, knowing what must be coming. She was ready for him this time.
“My poor sister, looking like a dirty, drowned rat,” he said as she approached him and George. The ringlets around her temples, as was the fashion, had been pulled limp by the damp weather. The hem of her dress did have spatters of mud. George clasped his hands behind his back to keep them still and searched the ceiling for the strength to be polite to his host. She glowered back at John but said nothing. “What do you think, George?”
George tried very hard to look bored. John looked back and forth between them.
“Well, you two are very dull. You don’t like my joke?”
“I don’t agree and it’s hardly funny,” George replied. Their eyes met as she studied the annoyance on his face. His face softened, as if apologizing for not being able to do more. She let herself stare for half a second. He’s just being kind. Isn’t he?
John guffawed loudly. “I know it isn’t to you, but I do so enjoy your discomfort.”
“What can I do for you, brother?” Her tone was clipped and edged in irritation.
“Oh nothing. You have served your purpose as my amusement. You may go.” Rebecca turned on her heel and hurried away before he could think of a reason to call her back. “George, shall we go see my rooms,” she heard him say.
“Actually, I’d like to see my room. I find I’m rather tired after my walk.”
Rebecca knew John would offer his rooms again for George’s rest, but the footman offered to show the way before John could shape the words.
#the crates have arrived#john is still a prick#george is very kind indeed#his dad is handsome#her father is loving#writing#victorian fiction#historical fiction
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 7
After a moment of walking, they both started talking at the same time to fill the silence. They apologized over each other and laughed about it before he invited her to speak first.
“Mr. Mayweather. You are not like my brother’s other school friends,” she prompted him.
He raised his eyebrows and then chuckled. “We aren’t exactly school friends, though we are both at Oxford. I only just finished my first year and John is a year ahead of me. We met on a Nile barge. Our fathers were both collecting antiquities for their studies.”
Rebecca nodded and politely looked ahead when he stopped talking. They walked in silence for a moment.
“Miss. Perdeaux. Those flowers you have. Are they for anybody?” he asked.
She glanced up at his apprehensive expression. “The flowers,” and remembering she still clutched them in her hand. “Oh. No.” She explained where they had come from.
“Ah. Good. No one important to you has died then.” His voice hitched around the word “died”.
If they were for anyone, they would be for Eva who’s absence she grieved. “No.” The word came out effused with sadness, and as though another sentence would follow to explain it, but she didn’t feel like telling him about Eva. He didn’t seem to notice. He seemed to be wrestling with his own sad emotions, his face twisted a little in a grimace.
“Good,” he said in a way that made her wonder if someone important to him had died. A tense silence settled between them. He seemed occupied by a troubling thought, and she hesitated to disturb him. She looked down at the dead flowers, now damp with the light rain. She opened her hand and let them be scattered by the wind.
Their reveries were interrupted by shouts and cart wheels in gravel. They had crossed the rolling green sheep pasture in sight of the house and its tree-lined approach. On the graveled drive, they could see a flurry of movement between tree trunks as tarpaulins were pulled off crates that were being unloaded. The cart nearest to them had a young porter struggling to handle a crate on his own.
“Miss Perdeaux, will you pardon me to help that man?” She was struck again by a kindness she had seen in so few men of his class.
“Yes, of course.” He took the hand on his arm in his gloved hand and brought it to his lips. Their eyes met as his lips brushed her bare knuckles and she froze. She noticed his green eyes seemed to glow inside the dark ring of his iris. He looked just as surprised as she felt. She blinked and he was gone before she felt the color rise to her cheeks.
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 6
She turned her face north to find the source of a strange sound on the wind. George was making his way toward her. It had been his deep voice distorted by gusts and tumultuous ocean. She did not hope to like her brother’s new friend any better in this second encounter than she had during the first. She looked around for someone else he could be calling to, but they were the only two standing at the cliffs. Alone in the presence of a man was the situation teachers and family had warned her about ad nauseum since she her breasts began budding from her chest, which was consequently around the time she fell rather hard for her cousin Henry. As George approached, she felt mostly annoyance that he would put her in a situation where she would be scolded for enduring the company of a man, company she doubted she would enjoy.
She turned her head to dab away her tears for Eva with the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve. As she turned back, she squared her shoulders and set her jaw to meet George. He had not yet changed out of his spattered riding clothes. He had replaced his top hat, which he touched in respectful greeting to her, and his curls were blowing around his temples ecstatically in the wind. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were again rosy with their exposure to the weather. He looked like a portrait by a master painter rather than a man of twenty-one.
“Miss Perdeaux. Pardon my intrusion,” when he neared enough to be heard without yelling over the noise of the wind. His face wore an anxious expression.
She indicated it was no intrusion, because, while she did think he was intruding, it would be impertinent to admit so to a guest. He smiled tentatively, sensing she was being polite, but his green eyes sparkled in the last sunlight before the storm.
“Your brother invited me to rest after showing me the house, but I wanted to catch the remainder of this beautiful day. What an exceedingly wild and artistic landscape here.” He gestured vaguely, his voice effusive.
She gave him a tight smile. He was clearly hoping she would continue his efforts at a conversation, but she was disinclined to gratify him. She felt confusion that he would seek her out for any conversation, expecting him very much in her brother’s camp-- and more than likely in his bed-- rather than bother to speak to her.
“I’m very happy to see it,” George continued awkwardly. “Eerm.” He had more to say, but he seemed to be having trouble forming the words, and Rebecca made no effort to rescue him from his discomfort. His effort began to persuade her that his manner was very different from her brother’s other friends. Firstly, none of them cared to walk about the grounds when he brought them, preferring to ride horses, hit balls for sport, drink sherry, take snuff and--well, other things.
“It appears you are as fond of walking a countryside as I am.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we walk together?” She shouldn’t, but she would either be scolded for being rude or scolded for walking alone with a man, so she took his proffered arm to be polite and murmured her thanks. In that awkward moment the clouds covered the sun and Rebecca shivered.
Though the weather was turning rapidly, he set a slow pace. She wished it could be faster so she could be out of the weather and escape him sooner. She wasn’t sure if she quite forgave him for the disgusted look he leveled at her when they were introduced, but his arm was warm, and she would allow that to be a virtue.
“Miss Perdeaux, I dare to say,” he began and hesitated. “I’m very happy to get away from your brother.”
Her eyes widened that he would confess this to her. She wanted to look at him as though that would make her believe what she had just heard. He spoke to her like a confidant, not a recent acquaintance.
He continued. “While I am his guest, I suddenly find he is not the man I thought he was. I have never seen him in his natural environment-- he seems just like everybody else when in society. I could never have imagined he could be so…” He seemed to struggle to find a word to appropriately describe John. She looked up at his face, his brow furrowed as he thought of a way not to insult his host. Rebecca could not land on anything polite either. Perhaps he wasn’t in John’s camp after all. Of course, that did not mean he was in hers.
“Insufferable,” she finished his sentence. She would not shatter his expectations for saying so. He had no reason to think well of her after how John had described her in his presence mere hours before. It felt dangerous to do so, but terribly satisfying when George agreed.
“Much obliged.” He looked down at her and smiled sheepishly. He had a most adorable dimple in his left cheek. She looked away, for the sake of propriety, but she wished she did not have to.
“Not at all," she answered. Then her voice took on a hard edge. “I am spoiled and willful. I am a horrible sister that will say whatever she wants about her insufferable brother.” She felt her cheeks flush with her boldness to remind him of that morning.
He stopped walking, and turned slightly so they would be looking at each other, putting his hand over her hand on his arm. It felt warm through his soft gloves. He wore an agonized expression. “Miss Perdeaux, I do want to apologize for that unfortunate meeting. I could not control my face. I was so horrified by all the things John said. I do not know that any of those things he said about you are true. Being a party to that disrespect felt so shameful to me. I would never wish to cause you any distress.” He abruptly stopped speaking, as though he thought he was becoming carried away or he had already said too much. She felt this apology explained why he sought her company at the cliffs. He had chosen to be rude about his host rather than be party to the abuse of his sister. Of course he couldn’t say this in front of anyone else but her.
She found it curious. She had not known many men outside her family who would speak with her this honestly, especially a new acquaintance, especially an acquaintance of her brother. Though still incredulous and wary of his behaviour, she took a deep breath and decided to repay his vulnerability with her own.
“That is very kind of you to say, Mr. Mayweather, but the fault is not yours. It is his. He enjoys tormenting me, and making others a party to it as though it were a very fun game. It may be unkind of me to say such things about my blood… and perhaps that makes me unkind… I suppose, after what you have said to me about him, you are the safest person for me to make that admission to.”
He let out a breath of relief. “I completely agree, though it may also make me unkind and a terrible guest. I mean to say, I will keep your confidence, Miss Perdeaux.”
Never had a man offered to keep her confidence. Boys had, but they had turned around and blabbed the secrets minutes after learning it. But George was not a boy. He had demonstrated himself to be completely unlike her brother. There was less reason not to trust such a promise from him, but she was not quite ready to do so. After all, he did approach and accost an unaccompanied lady; she wondered if men were told to avoid this situation as much as women were or if he had forgot the lesson or thought her good opinion of him was worth the risk. She cast a look around to see if John might be lurking behind a tree ready to reveal this conversation as a trap, not quite believing he would let such a beautiful man out of his sight.
“You are very kind,” she replied. He dipped his head and smiled with relief. He raised his eyes and met hers, and then he seemed to be frozen there, caught by her gaze. She felt herself pulled into them and their surroundings melted away for a moment. Then she shivered. Or did she tremble? It had been warm when she had left without her wrap and gloves. He looked like he was about to say something, when she shivered again.
“May we make haste back to the house?” she asked. “The weather seems to be turning rather quickly.”
“Oh yes, of course.” He allowed her to set the pace as a light precipitation had begun to fall.
#the mummy is coming#historical fiction#victorian fiction#young love#unchaperoned#apologies#confidences#writing
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 5
As Rebecca wandered the tall hedges of the labyrinth, the warming, humid air and heat from the sun helped to loosen the tightness in her chest. She took deep breaths of the air while she solved each of the four sections, cursed her brother, counseled herself to ignore him, and berated herself for displaying weakness. As satisfying as it was to think of the barbs she could fling back at him, she knew nothing good would have come of such a verbal spat. It was as Mrs. Chessick and Agnes had said, anyone looking on would have thought her brother’s behaviour reflected badly on him, not on her. Well, almost anyone as she pictured George’s face.
She lingered at the different features at each puzzle’s center. A fountain with fish. A statue her uncle had brought back from Greece that was missing her head and arms. Another statue of a naked youth completely intact from Venice, her brother’s favorite. Her nerves had nearly calmed and even her unshakeable melancholy felt lighter by the time she solved the last section with an empty plinth. She wondered if her father would have found the fourth and final statue for this section on his recent travels. While it was waiting to be filled, she often picked flowers and laid them in the prepared spot. She removed the dried tansy and cornflower from her last visit, replacing them with fresh pennyroyal and chicory. The old flowers she took with her.
The uncharacteristically warm October day meant she had wandered away from the house without a wrap. It wasn’t until she exited the labyrinth, she remembered a storm was on the way, and that its shadows threatened to steal her warmth. She contemplated the immense wall of dark clouds approaching over the ocean. The very tops were bright white and silver, but the sun was powerless to pierce further into the mass of dark gray and blue. The storm seemed foreboding and full of portent. It loomed higher than many towers and made her feel small, but she also felt defiant, still buoyed by the warmth and bathed in brightness. She wondered if this physical storm paralleled a storm in her life. Was it coming with her father? Had it already arrived with her brother and George? Or had she left it behind at school when she parted from Eva? She pictured Eva mimicking one of their teachers, “What a silly, romantic notion. It is just a storm, nothing more. Portents are for charlatans and gothic novels.” She mused it was probably none of those things, and it could be all of them.
She wasn’t ready to return to the house. Though calmed she still felt fragile and did not want to meet John again. She felt rebellion stir in her belly with her desire to strike him back, but she knew fighting with her brother and defying social convention was a battle she could easily lose. Yet for a few moments, she could imagine herself a small warrior against this powerful storm. Her emotions felt just as large and powerful, burning in her chest. She leaned into the wind and strode defiantly toward the clouds to the cliffs, daring the tempest to try and take her.
The wind had begun to churn white caps on the flinty blue surface of the ocean and sent translucent clouds scudding over her head. Near the edge, the salt spray and wind cooled her swollen face and raw eyes, filling her nose with the sharp scent of the ocean. The waves surged higher on cliffs.
She wondered if she could stand spending more than a week with her brother at home. If marriage was to be her method of escape, it could not happen soon. It would be faster to write to her maternal Aunt Lily in London and beg to visit at least a month until John went back to Oxford. She had suggested this plan to Eva before they parted so they would be in the same city. But Eva shook her head. “In London, it will be difficult to be what we are-- what we were. We should both be thinking of how we can marry well. We should put this behind us.”
With tears in her eyes, she had asked, “But won’t we always be friends?”
Eva was also crying. “I hope we will.” Rebecca had believed her, but Eva had yet to reply to her letters. She agonized about the reasons for this silence. Was Eva so busy at home? Was she traveling? Was she sick? Did she lie about still wanting to be friends to spare Rebecca’s feelings? Did she change her mind? All these thoughts tightened in her chest, and she wavered between sadness and anger.
Rebecca felt fresh tears behind her eyes when she remembered their goodbye. Where she thought a future together was possible, perhaps Eva could not imagine it. Maybe she wanted it, but was convinced it wasn’t possible. She looked down at the flowers in her hand, took a few more steps to the edge of the cliff, meaning to throw them. She began to raise her arm and hesitated, realizing the wind would throw the flowers back in her face.
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I wonder what these books are made out of and if the cat brought them to her...
Michael Parkes
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 4
Rebecca bit her lip. Still blinking back tears she returned to the stairwell. She had grown a thicker skin when it came to the cruelty from her peers at school, but it was a flimsy armor when it came to abuse from her brother, it was weak without a friend by her side to be strong for and with, it lacked substance when combined with the sorrow of parting from her dearest friend and soulmate. She took the stairs down slowly to meet Mrs. Chessick who came halfway up, her face drawn in sympathy. Hand in hand, they descended to the bottom, where they embraced. Mrs. Chessick let Rebecca cry.
“Oh my dear. Perhaps we do need to get you married and out of this joyless house.” She rubbed Rebecca’s back until she calmed. Agnes came out of the laundry around the corner with warm wet cloth for her face and a bonnet. Rebecca cleaned her face, took the bonnet, and thanked her, feeling a little embarrassed, but so grateful for their kindness.
“Alright, dear. Go outside and lose yourself in the labyrinth for a bit. Enjoy the sunshine before the storm comes. Smell some flowers. Nevermind that--” she covered a word by clearing her throat, “--of a brother.” She lowered her voice further to a whisper, “He should have been paddled as a child, and perhaps as an adult.” Rebecca chuckled weakly at the image this evoked, her brother screaming in protest across her father’s lap as he pulled back his hand to deliver comical blows to the rump. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose.
“My slippers,” Rebecca began.
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Chessick said affectionately. “Agnes will take them up for you.”
The girl whispered, “I’ve already collected them from the kitchen, Miss. And your dress is perfect. Your brother was just being nasty.” Mrs. Chessick nodded in agreement.
“Now go, child. Get outside.” Mrs. Chessick gave her a gentle push toward the garden door.
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the haunted mummy of perdeaux manor, episode 3
The footman burst through the door, breathless. “Young Mr. Perdeaux is arriving. Lord Perdeaux’s ship is arrived in port. Carts are to arrive ahead of the storm this afternoon.”
Mrs. Chessick turned to flush Rebecca out of the kitchen to greet her brother. But she had already jumped out of her chair. She rushed up the corridor to the stairs. She was reaching for the handle when her brother opened the door.
John looked down on her. He stepped back so she could come out of the stairwell and inspected her appearance. “Sister. Have you been dressing yourself?” he sneered. Their father taught him how to feel superior, but teaching him to hide that feeling was something that did not take. Or perhaps he just liked torturing his sister.
“Yes, John. I’ve been dressing myself for years now. I’m not a child anymore. Good morning to you, too.” Her cheeks colored.
“You always have this rumpled look when you come from below stairs.” His wink was not kind. She was almost sure he had just called her a whore. And maybe she was, though not the way he implied. “We really do need to marry you off. I’ll talk to our cousin Henry and fix it right up. I know you’ve always liked him.”
She didn’t think her cheeks could burn hotter, but they did. She had always felt something for Henry, and hated that her brother used that knowledge to tease her.
He saw her color and laughed at her discomfort. “In other news, this is my friend, George Mayweather.”
Another wave of mortification that made her wish she could melt into the floor like wax swept through her as her brother stepped aside to reveal a man who was witness to the entire exchange and multiple humiliations at the hands of her kin. He was most certainly her brother’s type, and easily one of the most beautiful young men she had ever seen. His dark curls still squashed from his riding hat and his clothes spattered with the road from their ride. Though slightly shorter than her brother, he stood straighter with more poise than she had seen in most men his age. While he had a straight nose and strong jaw, there was a fresh, boyish quality in his face with cheeks made rosy from the crisp morning ride. His green eyes met her gaze with an expression of shock. Was he as disgusted at the sight of her as her brother?
“George, this is my unfortunate sister, Rebecca. She’s completely spoiled and backwards. She doesn’t appreciate her social position and spends too much time below stairs with the servants. We hope to marry her off to one of our cousins. She’ll at least be valuable for keeping our property in the family.” Tears pricked behind Rebecca’s eyes to be thought of as such a tool, but this final statement of her brother’s lit an angry fire in her belly. It gave her the strength to at least meet the gaze of the stranger, though she found his eyes too intense and dropped them instead to his ear.
George attempted a smile when he addressed her. “How do you do, Miss Perdeaux?” he managed to say as he bowed.
She found her voice a few more heart beats later than a normal greeting. “How do you do, Mr. Mayweather?” She mumbled and curtsied.
“Well, that’s done,” said John dismissively. “Rebecca. If you would be so kind as to find Mrs. Chessick and have her get a room ready for George. Oh, and Henry is arriving later in the afternoon. Meanwhile, I’ll show George around the house. Shall we, George.” He spun away from her, throwing out an arm around George’s shoulders and guiding him down the gallery toward the billiards room and the library.
She dropped her head and squeezed her eyes shut to keep from sobbing and screaming. She didn’t see George glance back at her. Nor did she hear him take John to task for the abominable way he treated his sister. John made another disparaging remark about her worth and continued with the tour while George silently considered the character of his new friend.
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