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jomiddlemarch · 1 month

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haste away

“How can there be a cherry without a stone?” John sang, letting the melody strengthen the words, memories of singing on the ship when they’d left harbor, of singing courting Mary with a nosegay of pink blossoms, of singing when his mother and grandam spun wool after the evening meal had been cleared, rising up with each note. The sand in front of his feet had been raked an hour earlier, each grain mimicking some perfection the Japans sought in the littlest things.

“How can there be a chicken without a bone?” he went on, John again and not Anjin, not barbarian or stinking dog, the slurs they’d thought him too stupid to learn.

They bathed overmuch and he’d never met a dog who wasn’t a canny beast, most loyal, a true companion.

He wasn’t offended.

“You have a fine voice,” Mariko-sama said. She’d come into the courtyard without his notice, her gait silent, her grace making her one with the air. She had the ease of water, the subtlety of shadow.

“I don’t deserve such praise,” he said. William Blunt, that great ruddy ox of a man, had sung them all half-way round the world, and young Hal Moody had lifted such a voice as would make a man weep and fall to his knees in prayer. Both had died during the Erasmus’s voyage. His own voice was full and deep, but of no particularly notable timbre, a baritone that might dip into bass, capable of carrying the tune but of no other talent.

“I’ve never heard a hatamoto sing,” she said.

“I beg pardon if I’ve brought dishonor to my lord Toranaga,” he said. It was so easy to be found in error. He consoled himself even the Queen’s most accomplished courtier could not do better and would likely have had his head lopped off much sooner, too prideful to admit any mistake.

“It is not condemnation I offer,” she said. “Among your people, this is common?”

“Yes. Man and woman, boy and girl, servant and lord. As you may surmise, we amuse ourselves with simple songs and the best musicians entertain the Queen. Many demonstrate their devotion in hymns offered to God’s glory,” he said.

“And what you were singing, that was a hymn?” she said. He’d sung in English, so she would not have understood the words. He smiled instead of laughing.

“No, it’s only an old song, from the countryside,” he said. “I learnt it as a child.”

“Will you tell me what the words are?” she asked.

“It’s a riddle song,” he said.

“A riddle?”

“Mayhap I’ve chosen the wrong word in Portuguese. It plays with words, some trickery…It asks, how can there be a cherry without a stone and the answer is when the cherry is in flower,” he said, taking his time and trying to think how she would hear what he said. Her gaze was steady on him but there was a slight furrow on her brow and she pursed her lips fleetingly, an unremarkable shift for any woman John could think of in England; for Mariko, it suggested she grappled with a tremendous conundrum, yet one that intrigued rather than distressed her. He shoved aside the sudden urge to kiss that sweet mouth, a desire unworthy of her though he could not scold himself overmuch for the impulse.

“Are all the answers similar?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, recalling the lyrics, how he’d struggled as a boy to construe them. How the wind had taken them from his lips as the ship’s bow leaned into the waves’ crest. He’d been dreaming less of England but the dreams that came were more vivid. His life in the Japans seemed like the only real one except for moments when he was John Blackthorne of London, the taste of a roasted chestnut burning his tongue, the sharp cry of his son in his cradle, wanting his mother’s breast. That was the riddle now, what was real, where he belonged if he was not going back out onto the sea’s billow.

“They are about time, then. About how the past lurks and the future beckons. How we may be deceived by the present,” she said.

“I hadn’t thought of it so before,” he said.

“Another revelation for you,” she said, her tone very tranquil but still he heard the faint hint of mirth.

“You find me the greatest fool,” he said, shrugging, feeling the smooth weave of the robe he wore against his shoulders. He hadn’t had a garment made of such exquisite material before he’d been cast up on these shores. It was a riddle how he had come up and down in the world all at once, one that would make his head ache if he tried to solve it.

“That is not how I would put it, Anjin,” she said.

“A fool can be wise. Can speak truly when other men must hold their tongues or lie to save their necks,” he said.

“Not here,” she said. It was a warning, one he hadn’t needed.

“I hadn’t thought so. I haven’t seen much proof any lord would find a jest to their liking,” he said.

“You are the most curious man I’ve ever met,” she said. She dropped her eyes, focused not on some distant point as she withdrew within herself, but looked to her feet, peeping out from her silk skirts. It was a shy gesture, as if she had found herself coquetting within meaning to, younger than he’d ever believed possible.

“Do you sing, Mariko-sama?” he asked.

“Only to my son when he was small,” she said. She knew he’d seen the boy when they left, a stripling, soon to sprout his first beard. It had been years, then, since she had sung.

“I won’t ask you to sing for me,” John said. “But you may ask me. Or tell me to be quiet.”

“This is your household,” she said. “You are allowed more eccentricity within its walls.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said.

“I play the koto. Not as beautifully as I should,” she said.

“I should like to hear you one day,” he replied, inclining his head, glancing at her to gauge her reaction. She accepted what he’d said, liked that he’d made the gesture. He could live a dozen lifetimes and still count himself barely cognizant of her mysteries.

“Perhaps. Perhaps when the cherries bloom again. You might sing your song then, with the petals falling,” she said, offering up the vision to him. She would be sitting nearby and the rosy petals would drift around her, only one daring to land on her black hair. Another springtime, the yearning he felt for her would be transformed into a longing that was like the tide’s need for the shore, his affection encompassing as the delicate fragrance of the flowering trees, around, drawn deep within, sustaining. He would sing and hear his voice as the Lord might, all dross cast away, time and Mariko’s eyes his crucible. He would sing and when he finished, she would smile in welcome.

He would take that one petal from her hair.

She would not play her koto for him.

He would not be disappointed.

#shogun 2024 #john x mariko #john blackthorne #toda mariko #John POV #singing #romance #parents #cultural differences #pining #lost in translation #john blackthorne sings #decided against a sea shanty

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hopepaigeturner · 11 months

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An Offer From an Avid Reader: The Sofa Scene Part 2.

Posted as part of #benophie week 2023

Prompt: "You're much better off without me." "You're not the judge of that."

(Vibes rather than direct quote)

✨The Context✨

See Part 1 here.

Prior to this scene we have had Grandam Alexandra’s will scene. The start of this written here and overview written here.

By the end of this scene, Anthony, Violet and Kate have agreed (not amicably or happily I must say) that Benophie cannot be together. Benedict needs distance to forget this little love. The family cannot be ruined by this scandal. And so, a solution is found–Francesca. Sophie can become Francesca’s ladies maid, Francesca who is about to marry an Earl and move to Scotland.

The scene ends with Anthony doing a “Are we in agreement” and Kate and Violet agreeing begrudgingly.

Now! Back to the happy couple…

✨The Scene✨

Scene cuts to the studio with Benophie enwrapped on the sofa. Benedict is awake and lovingly staring down at Sophie, a hand caressing her back as she presses close to him. He kisses her temple lightly and whispers,

“This is where I belong.”

The clock strikes the hour and Benedict knows Sophie needs to return, so he gently coaxes her awake even though she protests and snuggles even closer to him.

“Sophie, we need to get up, and we need to talk…”

Sophie finally opens her eyes and smiles up at him. Then the reality of the situation settles on her and she jerks away.

“Oh my Lord!” She clutches her discarded stays to her.

“Sophie, wait—”

“What have I done?” she cries.

“I think more accurate would be what have we done—”

“No, no, no—this was a mistake.”

“Sophie, take a breath—” Benedict reaches out to soothe her again but she hits his hands away.

“Get away! Just…” Sophie holds her hand out. Benedict nods and turns around. Sophie quickly dresses, muttering to herself. “Foolish, stupid girl…I cannot believe you would…”

“Sophie, we need to talk.”

“What is there to talk about!” she cries, buttoning up her dress, eyes to the ceiling to stop the tears from flowing. “It is not as if there is some future to be had here. It is not as if we can stride into your brother’s study and he will be overjoyed that you befouled yourself with a maid!. And even if I were not a maid, no illegitimate child would be allowed even close to your ivory gates. The only way that would occur was if Araminta formally legitimised me, which I can assure you will never happen because Araminta would rather be six feet under than do such a thing—"

As she has been speaking, the viewer sees Benedict still on the sofa, his hands running over the cushion that Sophie’s head had occupied mere moments earlier.

“So, marry me.”

“What?”

Sophie swivels around. Benedict stands up and says again,

“Marry me.”

“Benedict you are—”

“Do you love me?”

Sophie struggles—but she cannot lie about her heart.

“Yes…yes I do.”

“And I love you. I loved you in a silver dress. I loved you in breeches and in a servant’s uniform. I do not care whether you are descended from a maid or the King of England himself. I love you, Sophie. And you were right, it was wrong of me to expect you to be my mistress, to treat you like a secret, like something that is a mere shadow of my true feelings. So do not be my mistress.” He gets down on one knee. “Become my wife, Sophie.”

Sophie stares.

“You are out of your mind.”

“I disagree. It is very simple. I love you and you love me.”

Sophie stares–then steps away.

“Simple? Simple!? Benedict, if I married you, we would be ostracised from society, forced to flee into the country.”

Benedict is obvisouly disappointed but not disheartened. He stands up.

“Good, I find the entire ton pointless and petty. I would rather have a quiet life with you than an empty one in public.”

“But your paintings! You have such talent Benedict, such wonderful talent that deserves to be honoured in galleries. That could never happen if you married me.”

“It would not happen without my muse either. And a lifetime of moments with you is worth infinitely more than a couple framed moments in a gallery.”

His sincerity is at once soul-gratifying and infuriating. Why does he not understand?

“If I married you, you would have to give up most of your luxuries. You would not have the generous allowance from your brother.”

“No. But I know that I will receive my grandmother’s ring, which, when sold along with other frivolous possessions of mine, would be enough to buy a small cottage in the country. You could work as a governess, or in the village.” Benedict smiles to himself, already picturing it. “ I could sell paintings or find a job.”

“A job?” Sophie scoffs. But Benedict does not laugh, instead his eyes are intent. He takes her hands and brings them to his heart, so she has no choice but to look into his eyes.

“If it meant I could wake up every day with you in my arms , then I would work until my hands were raw.” Sophie's breath hitches, then he smirks. “And, you must admit, I make quite a good, cooked breakfast.”

Sophie is scrmbbling, old taunts muddying the waters of her heart. For it is ridiculous. He could not want a life with her? Who would want a life with her? She needs something, anything, any little piece--

“And your family?”

For the first time, Benedict hesitates. Sophie latches onto it.

“You would willingly thrust your family into a scandal? Tarnish your sisters’ reputations?”

“Francesca is to be married to an Earl. Eloise would most probably appreciate a couple years without suitors and all whispers will have dissipated by the time Hyacinth debuts.

“You think your family will just welcome us with open arms—welcome me?”

“My family adore you.”

“They adore me as a maid. You truly think such sentiment will continue when I ensnare and run off with their favourite brother.”

“I am not their—”

“Yes, you are!” Sophei cries. “Your entire family adores you, Benedict, your entire family relies on you, cares for you, needs you.”

As she says the words her yearning tone increases. What she would not give to have grown up with Violet as a mother, or Eloise as a sister. What she would give up to experience such love.

“At some point I need to lead my own life…”

“They love you, Benedict. They love you, so very much.”

Benedict pulls her closer, holding her by the arms, voice gentle.

“And that love will mean that they will not ostracise us. It might take time, some more than others, but we would not be estranged.”

“You would risk that love? You would willingly give up that love? A love that is so rare, and so precious?”

“Sophie—”

“No. No. You are being delusional.”

“I am not delusional—”

“Ofcourse you are!” Sophie breaks away. “Or if not then you are being naïve and reckless with the privilege and love that has been handed to you on a silver platter—just like every other gentleman. I know what it is like to not have that love, Benedict.” The tears choke her voice. “And it is a fate I would never wish to inflict on anyone, let alone the man I love. No. I will not let you throw away such a special, wonderful love on someone like me.”

“You are worth it.”

“I am not.”

“Sophie, you do not dictate what or who I value and put worth into. I choose to value you, to love you—”

“You are being ridiculous! Love may have triumphed for your siblings, but their silks match, as do their cravats and pearls. Your siblings’ love is treasured in paintings and poems, looked on with envy but also admiration…But I wear cotton while you wear silk, and my neck is bare. Our love would be discarded in the dusty shadows and treated with disdain until it is disfigured. And we will be disfigured and miserable. No one would ever choose a love like that. No one should choose a love like that.”

Benedict steps towards her as he speaks,

“I would choose a love like that. I will choose a love like that. I am choosing a love like that. A love that is disdained by others but coveted by us. A love that burns too bright to ever submit to the shadows and a love so strong that it heals its wounds and rises after every fall.” He is so close that he can cup her face tenderly, the other hand on her waist. His eyes staring into her soul. “What you say is true, the world can be a cruel place, but I am willing to brave it with you, I am willing to brave it for you. Please.”

A couple beats of shared heartbeats—until Sophie whispers,

“I will not be the one who ruins you.”

She pushes away.

“But you love me and I love you. Why is that not enough?”

“It will never be enough…” Benedict staggers back. “And I will never risk ruining you nor the love you deserve.”

“You are the love I deserve. You are the only love I want.”

He tries to come close and capture her again. But Sophie steps out of reach—always just out of reach.

“I am not. I am just a dream that will one day disappear when you find the lady that is the love of your life.”

“You are—”

“Please. Please, stop.” She sobs. Benedict halts even though all he wants to do is take her in his arms, hold her and kiss her until she understands how much love he has for her, how reverently he holds her in his life.

But Benedict knows that Sophie is a woman of conviction. And since that day at the lake he has learnt the need to respect her even if it wrenches the heart apart. So, with great effort, he says,

“Very well…You have every right to make your own decision and I should respect that. So, goodbye…” his voice chokes and he struggles to swallow. He steps away, unable to look her in the eye. “Goodbye Sophie.”

“Goodbye, Benedict.”

With tears in her eyes Sophie walks to the door, but just as she opens it, Benedict says.

“But you must know, Sophie, that you are breaking my heart once more,” He finally looks up at her, tears running down his face, “and you are condemning me to spend the rest of my life wandering this earth with half a heart and half a soul.”

Sophie tries to hold his stare as her heart rips at the seams. For she wishes she could run into his arms and never let go. In her heart she longs for this man, dreams of a life with him, a life where she would be enough for him.

But such dreams are as fantastical as the stories she makes up. She can only believe in what she knows—that she will make him miserable. Just as she has made everyone miserable: her father, her stepmother, and her step siblings. So, she turns away and says,

“I assure you, Benedict. That fate is far better than the alternative.”

And she leaves.

She shuts the door and rests on it, hand on her stomach, hand over her mouth, tears spilling as she closes her eyes. But after a moment she takes a shaky breath, breaths deep and stands rigidly tall. And then leaves down the corridor.

The camera pans through to the other side of the door to find Benedict resting his forehead on the door.

Waiting, hoping.

But then he hears her footsteps leave and his eyes close in anguish. And he slides to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

*~*~*~*~*

Ah...you smell that? Sweet, sweet angst. 😉

I’d love to hear your ideas/corrections/opinions and always open to chat or requests. So...

Check out the list here, for more of my ideas.

Check out the general arcs of my prospective S4 here.

#an offer from an avid reader #benophie week 2023 #an offer from a gentleman #benophie #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #all the angst #s4 speculation

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