Post by J.Hollick on Nov 26, 2012 9:58:11 GMT -9
The house was in complete disarray. Clothes lay about the bedrooms, down the stairs and out into the entry hall. Jasmine could be so dramatic sometimes, prone to fits of melodrama as she fainted and moaned her way around the house.
“Whatever am I to wear to the ball?” She proclaimed loudly, putting the back of her hand to her forehead, her face pouting deeply as she tried to stir pity from her older sister. But Theresa was not listening. She was too busy reading the morning paper.
“Oh do stop being so unlady-like” Charles said, sipping his tea by the fire out of a dainty white cup. His legs crossed, his raggedy top hat perched on his head and holes in his suit.
“What is so ‘unlady-like’ about wanting to keep up with the comings and goings of the world?” Theresa asked as she flipped to the next page and shook the paper to get the creases out, “I do say dear brother that if you spent even a quarter of your time keeping up with the outside world as you do prancing around in your head we might find ourselves in better fortunes.”
“There is nothing wrong with our current one, dear sister.” As he said the last part his voice dribbled with sarcasm, his yellowing teeth showing themselves through his thin lipped smile.
“Nothing wrong with our current one?” Theresa said exasperated, rising from her stool in the kitchen, “Nothing wrong?” Charles was almost knocked back off his stool into the fire as his sister bore down on him. Later, when retelling this to friends down at the pub he would swear he saw smoke floating out of his sisters ears from between her brown curled locks.
“Please sister, calm yourself. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Jasmine.” He indicated towards his youngest sister who was off in the corner weeping, though both of them knew it had nothing to do with their swapping of insults and more to do with the fact that she had now gone through every single dress in her closet and could find nothing that was the exact shade of blue she had had in mind when she first set about getting dressed this morning.
Theresa rounded back on her brother, “Imbecile, why father left you in charge of his estate I will never know.” She stalked back to her chair and threw the newspaper across the table. Sulkily she began munching on a plain piece of bread.
“I think we are both aware of why father left everything to me to manage. He very well couldn’t have left it to a woman, even if you had married when you had the chance it would all be in your husbands name anyways. So don’t blame me for our misfortune, it’s not as if I’m the one responsible for setting you to the old age of twenty-eight and not a marriage proposal in sight. I’m his only living son, the only one he could have left it to.”
“Yes I know, Papa reminded us of that often enough,” She said, squishing the bread in her clenched fist and gazing upwards at the wall, “My word Theresa, if only you had been the boy I wanted, with your sharp wit and aptitude for money, I daresay those Bastard Balstons would soon find themselves working for you and I would find myself retired to the country cottage.” She said, mimicking her father’s deep jovial voice. This was usually the place where their Mama would cuff their Papa roughly up side the head for swearing in front of her children, “Maybe if you would devote a little more time to running that business of yours and less time to the pub those Balstons would be working for you and I would be retired in the country side,” she would exclaim, usually hugging a load of laundry to her hip or sweeping the kitchen floor, “Or at the very least maybe we could afford a maid, I’m getting sick and tired of cleaning up after you.”
Both brother and sister had found themselves lost in the reverie of a childhood long gone, not a particularly happy childhood but a childhood all the same. Now the siblings found themselves in charge of their own finances and household and the money quickly disappearing.
“Oh Charles, what are we going to do. You know Monsieur Charbonne wants Papa’s loan paid off, we cannot keep coming up with excuses. He will be here any day now and it would not surprise me if he brings his own renegade band of debt collectors with him.”
“Hush Theresa, all will be well. Let us instead focus on enjoying ourselves at the ball tonight. Tomorrow we will figure out a plan. I promise.” Charles had set his tea down and risen off the stool. He was now holding his sister gently, reassuring her as silent tears streamed down her freckled cheeks.
Evening had fallen and the streets of London were lit up with torches, carriages rumbled past the humble manor of the Godhold siblings, already men were making their way to the bars.
“Charles, where are you going? Our carriage will be here any minute.” Charles was in the midst of throwing on his coat when Theresa had spied him from the top of the stairs.
“Just heading out for a quick drink. I’ll meet you there,” The door was open and his front foot was out on the porch when he stopped, spun around tipped his hat and added, “Promise.” Then the door was shut and Theresa found herself left alone with her younger, plumper sister who had at last managed to find something suitable to wear.
To read the full short novel visit:
iTunes: itunes.apple.com/us/book/frying-pan-fire-poker-fisticuffs/id638474619?ls=1
or Amazon for Kindle: www.amazon.ca/dp/B00CA296AQ
“Whatever am I to wear to the ball?” She proclaimed loudly, putting the back of her hand to her forehead, her face pouting deeply as she tried to stir pity from her older sister. But Theresa was not listening. She was too busy reading the morning paper.
“Oh do stop being so unlady-like” Charles said, sipping his tea by the fire out of a dainty white cup. His legs crossed, his raggedy top hat perched on his head and holes in his suit.
“What is so ‘unlady-like’ about wanting to keep up with the comings and goings of the world?” Theresa asked as she flipped to the next page and shook the paper to get the creases out, “I do say dear brother that if you spent even a quarter of your time keeping up with the outside world as you do prancing around in your head we might find ourselves in better fortunes.”
“There is nothing wrong with our current one, dear sister.” As he said the last part his voice dribbled with sarcasm, his yellowing teeth showing themselves through his thin lipped smile.
“Nothing wrong with our current one?” Theresa said exasperated, rising from her stool in the kitchen, “Nothing wrong?” Charles was almost knocked back off his stool into the fire as his sister bore down on him. Later, when retelling this to friends down at the pub he would swear he saw smoke floating out of his sisters ears from between her brown curled locks.
“Please sister, calm yourself. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Jasmine.” He indicated towards his youngest sister who was off in the corner weeping, though both of them knew it had nothing to do with their swapping of insults and more to do with the fact that she had now gone through every single dress in her closet and could find nothing that was the exact shade of blue she had had in mind when she first set about getting dressed this morning.
Theresa rounded back on her brother, “Imbecile, why father left you in charge of his estate I will never know.” She stalked back to her chair and threw the newspaper across the table. Sulkily she began munching on a plain piece of bread.
“I think we are both aware of why father left everything to me to manage. He very well couldn’t have left it to a woman, even if you had married when you had the chance it would all be in your husbands name anyways. So don’t blame me for our misfortune, it’s not as if I’m the one responsible for setting you to the old age of twenty-eight and not a marriage proposal in sight. I’m his only living son, the only one he could have left it to.”
“Yes I know, Papa reminded us of that often enough,” She said, squishing the bread in her clenched fist and gazing upwards at the wall, “My word Theresa, if only you had been the boy I wanted, with your sharp wit and aptitude for money, I daresay those Bastard Balstons would soon find themselves working for you and I would find myself retired to the country cottage.” She said, mimicking her father’s deep jovial voice. This was usually the place where their Mama would cuff their Papa roughly up side the head for swearing in front of her children, “Maybe if you would devote a little more time to running that business of yours and less time to the pub those Balstons would be working for you and I would be retired in the country side,” she would exclaim, usually hugging a load of laundry to her hip or sweeping the kitchen floor, “Or at the very least maybe we could afford a maid, I’m getting sick and tired of cleaning up after you.”
Both brother and sister had found themselves lost in the reverie of a childhood long gone, not a particularly happy childhood but a childhood all the same. Now the siblings found themselves in charge of their own finances and household and the money quickly disappearing.
“Oh Charles, what are we going to do. You know Monsieur Charbonne wants Papa’s loan paid off, we cannot keep coming up with excuses. He will be here any day now and it would not surprise me if he brings his own renegade band of debt collectors with him.”
“Hush Theresa, all will be well. Let us instead focus on enjoying ourselves at the ball tonight. Tomorrow we will figure out a plan. I promise.” Charles had set his tea down and risen off the stool. He was now holding his sister gently, reassuring her as silent tears streamed down her freckled cheeks.
Evening had fallen and the streets of London were lit up with torches, carriages rumbled past the humble manor of the Godhold siblings, already men were making their way to the bars.
“Charles, where are you going? Our carriage will be here any minute.” Charles was in the midst of throwing on his coat when Theresa had spied him from the top of the stairs.
“Just heading out for a quick drink. I’ll meet you there,” The door was open and his front foot was out on the porch when he stopped, spun around tipped his hat and added, “Promise.” Then the door was shut and Theresa found herself left alone with her younger, plumper sister who had at last managed to find something suitable to wear.
To read the full short novel visit:
iTunes: itunes.apple.com/us/book/frying-pan-fire-poker-fisticuffs/id638474619?ls=1
or Amazon for Kindle: www.amazon.ca/dp/B00CA296AQ
