Of Hats and Hemlines [1/?]
Hi there, and welcome to my journal! I'm Trinity, one of the two gals who write here- it's awesome to meet you. If you're reading this, I've gotta say thanks, and I really hope you enjoy it! Long time reader, first time writer, that whole lovely deal. I don't know what got me interested in the idea of writing this- it was probably this awesome piece I saw, or the fic "Who Wear Different Hats" by rhap_chan. Seriously, it was awesome, you should go read it! The title's kind of a tribute to that.
Anyway, I'll stop being annoying and rambly when I finally say thank you to my lovely, lovely beta and best friend, and once again thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy!
-Trin
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At nine years old, she had been described as a problem child to just about everyone her mother met. It wasn’t that she was intentionally bad, heavens no! It was just that she simply preferred not to have her hand kissed by every man they passed on the street, and she certainly did NOT want to curtsey to him, either. It was stupid and it didn’t feel right, she told the women who ran her school once. Very quickly, be it from continuous detentions or bruised knuckles, Lucy learned not to speak out on her opinions of men, or any of the other standards that had been so kindly drilled into her mind.
At ten, she had not grown any more elegant, as her mother’s friends had promised she would. Young Lucy still saw it fit to go about chasing and playing with boys as though it were ordinary, dirtying her school skirts and loafers on an almost daily basis. The other mothers were starting to fear Lucy would corrupt their daughters, as well, and it became well-spread around school that “Loopy Lucy” was not to be associated with unless absolutely necessary. Any teacher who knew of this rule pretended not to notice, or simply did not care.
The day things changed was some dull, bleary day in November- some insignificant date she couldn’t quite put her finger on, no matter how much honest thinking she attempted to put into it. She did remember, however, that her knuckles had been particularly swollen and bruised, and her mother was terribly unhappy when she came home that afternoon. The girls at school had fought like girls that day, with gossip and stares, saying things that honestly made poor Lucy dreadfully uncomfortable. So she had remained calm and collected, and retaliated in the best way possible.
Her mother hadn’t agreed that mud down the backs of their shirts was a good choice.
"It’s how the boys settle things, and it works out just fine for them!" She had protested.
That didn’t score many points with the woman either.
When she had looked to her father for emotional support- or support of any kind, really- he had simply looked up, puffed twice on his pipe, and returned to the daily paper muttering about the youth of today. Her mother had then shrieked for her to return to the kitchen, and Lucy was once more facing her mother alone.
She wanted to believe her mother loved her- somewhere, beyond the constant sighs and disgusted looks, Lucy was sure that she did. It was times like these, however, that made her severely question that supposedly “given” fact. She sat in a chair at the table, listening to the woman’s stern lecturing with the added effect of a pointing wooden spoon. Do this, Lucinda, do that, Lucinda, uncross your ankles and sit like a proper young woman! It was taking all of her mental willpower not to simply lay her head on the table and fall asleep.
“..And her daughter, down the street, isn’t doing this kind of thing- she’s off playing with dolls, and learning etiquette, and cooking, and… Lucinda! Are you even listening to me anymore?” She snapped harshly, taking enough time from her cooking to grab Lucy by the ear and pull. Squealing horribly, Lucy stammered out her best apology, instantaneously correcting her posture and becoming as ladylike as possible in the span of five seconds. Satisfied, her mother let go.
“That’s better. Now honestly, Lucinda dear, look at yourself. Your shoes are muddy, your skirts are torn… do you even appreciate the responsibility of being a woman?” It was stern and demanding, and despite Lucy’s opinion on the matter, she bowed her head and mumbled quietly,
“Yes mother.”
“Good,” the other woman spoke, resuming her rightful place over the stove. “You know I have your best interests at heart, dear, which is why I’ve arranged for you to have a personal tutor. She’s a very intelligent and kind woman, from what I’ve heard of her, and I’m sure the two of you will get along swimmingly!”
Lucy, however, had tuned out at the word tutor. She had felt her stomach turn, and was quite honestly feeling ill at the moment. A personal tutor? This was dreadful! Her afternoons would be spent with some horrible, awful old crone, learning how to act like a proper young lady! Lucy nearly gagged at this, but by some higher power’s kindness, managed somehow not to. Mumbling a quick ‘excuse me,’ she headed up the stairs and rounded the corner, heading for the safety of her bedroom.
She wasn’t sure how long she cried for. They were quiet, muffled sobs, hidden under the safety of several pillows pressed to her face. It wasn’t as though she tried to cause trouble, it simply found her more easily than other girls. And so she cried until mother called her for dinner that evening, then dried her eyes, and proceeded to spend the rest of the night as a proper lady ought to- locking away any thoughts of hope or freedom, and accepting that some things were simply meant to happen.
Or so she tried to convince herself.
“Bollocks! I… I’ve got to get to tutoring now! Just you wait, George, I’ll get you back for this one!” While the exclamation was far too severe for a proper woman, the attached threat was made in jest, with young Lucy shaking a fist at a few of the local boys. Slipping her loafers- now mud-caked and reeking of creekwater- back on, she hurried in the direction of the tutor’s house, desperately trying not to be later than she already was.
Honestly, she was going to be good and go! It had just… slipped her mind, really. She’d been told a week ago and not reminded since, and honestly, it wasn’t her fault! If ‘proper young women’ were expected to stay true to dates and times, they should at least be reminded of them in the morning or something of the sort! Making a mad dash through town, she barely managed to dodge a group of girls she particularly disliked, swinging through a back alley and making it to her tutor’s street. Not even bothering to check her appearance, she pulled the sheet of paper from the spot where it’d been tucked into her bra- (drat! Her mother had warned her, then. There went that excuse.)-, checked the address once more, and full-out sprinted to get to the door. Just as she was bounding up the stairway to reach the knocker, the door was pulled open and Lucy found herself face-to-face (well, rather bosom, she would reflect with great embarrassment) with who she assumed would be her tutor.
Pressed firmly against the other, not moving purely out of shock and confusion, it took Lucy a good moment to process how terribly improper this entire situation was. When it finally did register, she stumbled back with a beet red face and mumbled her apologies, instantly looking down to her shoes.
…Which, upon further inspection, were much worse for the wear than she’d thought. Wincing slightly, she simply waited to be reprimanded by the woman.
And was, to say the least, shocked when she heard the sound of faint chuckling. Glancing up, Lucy looked at the woman for the first time and was admittedly surprised by the appearance she gave off. She was young- well, compared to most of her teachers, anyway- and had a very soft, kind face, shadowed by the brim of a very large hat. From what Lucy could tell she was not particularly curvy or anything, and didn’t seem to be the sort that got stares when she strolled down the street. No, all in all, the woman seemed very plain to her- plain, but kind.
About this time, Lucy realized the mistake in her staring and stammered out another apology. Still smiling, the woman folded her arms, glancing over Lucy in return.
“Let me see here…” Her voice, for some reason, seemed exceptionally comforting- probably because it was so sweet compared to the women Lucy was used to. “Muddied shoes, torn skirt, rumpled blouse, oddly short hair and thirty minutes late. Miss Lucinda Triton, I presume?”
Instantly running a hand to her hair in nervousness, Lucy managed a small nod to the woman, still horrifically embarrassed and unable to make eye contact. Was she really that recognizable…?
“Your mother phoned this afternoon,” the woman continued, a hint of sympathy present in her voice. Lucy, still partially in shock, was awed by the apparent lack of anger in her tutor. Managing a weak smile in return, Lucy straightened herself up.
“I… I apologize for that. Forgot the time when I was on my walk here,” she lied seamlessly. The woman raised an eyebrow at this, though was still seemingly amused.
“A walk through the creek, Lucinda? What a strange path you took.” Turning at this, the woman headed inside. “It’s your decision, and I’ve done my share of odd things, so I honestly have no room to judge you. I can, however, ask you to step inside, as we’ve wasted enough time out here dilly-dallying. Come along now.”
Squeaking out a reply, Lucy quickly followed after the woman, shutting the door behind her as they stepped inside. Entranced by the dimly lit hallway of the woman’s home, Lucy barely realized she was speaking until the question reached her ears.
“M-may I ask you a question?”
The woman stopped, turning to face Lucy with a smile once more. “You just did, Lucinda, but I suppose one more won’t hurt. I’ve never been one to silence an inquisitive mind.” Nodding at this, Lucy went on.
“What should I call you, and… how did you know I’ve been in the creek?” Alright, so technically it was two questions, but Lucy was simply dying to know. At this, the woman smiled once more.
“A simple solution, Lucinda my dear; the mud on your shoes has the distinctive smell of the creek, and where else would you have water deep enough to ruin your socks? It’s a simple solution, really.” She paused after this, and seemed to brighten considerably.
“And as for my name, my dear, you may call me Miss Layton.”
(( Last minute note: Just for kicks and what-not, I'll post what song/s majorly contributed to writing each chapter.
For this one, god knows why, it was I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie. I don't know either, man, it just happened.
Anyway, thanks for reading! I'll try to update again soon! ))
Anyway, I'll stop being annoying and rambly when I finally say thank you to my lovely, lovely beta and best friend, and once again thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy!
-Trin
****************************************************************************************************************
At nine years old, she had been described as a problem child to just about everyone her mother met. It wasn’t that she was intentionally bad, heavens no! It was just that she simply preferred not to have her hand kissed by every man they passed on the street, and she certainly did NOT want to curtsey to him, either. It was stupid and it didn’t feel right, she told the women who ran her school once. Very quickly, be it from continuous detentions or bruised knuckles, Lucy learned not to speak out on her opinions of men, or any of the other standards that had been so kindly drilled into her mind.
At ten, she had not grown any more elegant, as her mother’s friends had promised she would. Young Lucy still saw it fit to go about chasing and playing with boys as though it were ordinary, dirtying her school skirts and loafers on an almost daily basis. The other mothers were starting to fear Lucy would corrupt their daughters, as well, and it became well-spread around school that “Loopy Lucy” was not to be associated with unless absolutely necessary. Any teacher who knew of this rule pretended not to notice, or simply did not care.
The day things changed was some dull, bleary day in November- some insignificant date she couldn’t quite put her finger on, no matter how much honest thinking she attempted to put into it. She did remember, however, that her knuckles had been particularly swollen and bruised, and her mother was terribly unhappy when she came home that afternoon. The girls at school had fought like girls that day, with gossip and stares, saying things that honestly made poor Lucy dreadfully uncomfortable. So she had remained calm and collected, and retaliated in the best way possible.
Her mother hadn’t agreed that mud down the backs of their shirts was a good choice.
"It’s how the boys settle things, and it works out just fine for them!" She had protested.
That didn’t score many points with the woman either.
When she had looked to her father for emotional support- or support of any kind, really- he had simply looked up, puffed twice on his pipe, and returned to the daily paper muttering about the youth of today. Her mother had then shrieked for her to return to the kitchen, and Lucy was once more facing her mother alone.
She wanted to believe her mother loved her- somewhere, beyond the constant sighs and disgusted looks, Lucy was sure that she did. It was times like these, however, that made her severely question that supposedly “given” fact. She sat in a chair at the table, listening to the woman’s stern lecturing with the added effect of a pointing wooden spoon. Do this, Lucinda, do that, Lucinda, uncross your ankles and sit like a proper young woman! It was taking all of her mental willpower not to simply lay her head on the table and fall asleep.
“..And her daughter, down the street, isn’t doing this kind of thing- she’s off playing with dolls, and learning etiquette, and cooking, and… Lucinda! Are you even listening to me anymore?” She snapped harshly, taking enough time from her cooking to grab Lucy by the ear and pull. Squealing horribly, Lucy stammered out her best apology, instantaneously correcting her posture and becoming as ladylike as possible in the span of five seconds. Satisfied, her mother let go.
“That’s better. Now honestly, Lucinda dear, look at yourself. Your shoes are muddy, your skirts are torn… do you even appreciate the responsibility of being a woman?” It was stern and demanding, and despite Lucy’s opinion on the matter, she bowed her head and mumbled quietly,
“Yes mother.”
“Good,” the other woman spoke, resuming her rightful place over the stove. “You know I have your best interests at heart, dear, which is why I’ve arranged for you to have a personal tutor. She’s a very intelligent and kind woman, from what I’ve heard of her, and I’m sure the two of you will get along swimmingly!”
Lucy, however, had tuned out at the word tutor. She had felt her stomach turn, and was quite honestly feeling ill at the moment. A personal tutor? This was dreadful! Her afternoons would be spent with some horrible, awful old crone, learning how to act like a proper young lady! Lucy nearly gagged at this, but by some higher power’s kindness, managed somehow not to. Mumbling a quick ‘excuse me,’ she headed up the stairs and rounded the corner, heading for the safety of her bedroom.
She wasn’t sure how long she cried for. They were quiet, muffled sobs, hidden under the safety of several pillows pressed to her face. It wasn’t as though she tried to cause trouble, it simply found her more easily than other girls. And so she cried until mother called her for dinner that evening, then dried her eyes, and proceeded to spend the rest of the night as a proper lady ought to- locking away any thoughts of hope or freedom, and accepting that some things were simply meant to happen.
Or so she tried to convince herself.
“Bollocks! I… I’ve got to get to tutoring now! Just you wait, George, I’ll get you back for this one!” While the exclamation was far too severe for a proper woman, the attached threat was made in jest, with young Lucy shaking a fist at a few of the local boys. Slipping her loafers- now mud-caked and reeking of creekwater- back on, she hurried in the direction of the tutor’s house, desperately trying not to be later than she already was.
Honestly, she was going to be good and go! It had just… slipped her mind, really. She’d been told a week ago and not reminded since, and honestly, it wasn’t her fault! If ‘proper young women’ were expected to stay true to dates and times, they should at least be reminded of them in the morning or something of the sort! Making a mad dash through town, she barely managed to dodge a group of girls she particularly disliked, swinging through a back alley and making it to her tutor’s street. Not even bothering to check her appearance, she pulled the sheet of paper from the spot where it’d been tucked into her bra- (drat! Her mother had warned her, then. There went that excuse.)-, checked the address once more, and full-out sprinted to get to the door. Just as she was bounding up the stairway to reach the knocker, the door was pulled open and Lucy found herself face-to-face (well, rather bosom, she would reflect with great embarrassment) with who she assumed would be her tutor.
Pressed firmly against the other, not moving purely out of shock and confusion, it took Lucy a good moment to process how terribly improper this entire situation was. When it finally did register, she stumbled back with a beet red face and mumbled her apologies, instantly looking down to her shoes.
…Which, upon further inspection, were much worse for the wear than she’d thought. Wincing slightly, she simply waited to be reprimanded by the woman.
And was, to say the least, shocked when she heard the sound of faint chuckling. Glancing up, Lucy looked at the woman for the first time and was admittedly surprised by the appearance she gave off. She was young- well, compared to most of her teachers, anyway- and had a very soft, kind face, shadowed by the brim of a very large hat. From what Lucy could tell she was not particularly curvy or anything, and didn’t seem to be the sort that got stares when she strolled down the street. No, all in all, the woman seemed very plain to her- plain, but kind.
About this time, Lucy realized the mistake in her staring and stammered out another apology. Still smiling, the woman folded her arms, glancing over Lucy in return.
“Let me see here…” Her voice, for some reason, seemed exceptionally comforting- probably because it was so sweet compared to the women Lucy was used to. “Muddied shoes, torn skirt, rumpled blouse, oddly short hair and thirty minutes late. Miss Lucinda Triton, I presume?”
Instantly running a hand to her hair in nervousness, Lucy managed a small nod to the woman, still horrifically embarrassed and unable to make eye contact. Was she really that recognizable…?
“Your mother phoned this afternoon,” the woman continued, a hint of sympathy present in her voice. Lucy, still partially in shock, was awed by the apparent lack of anger in her tutor. Managing a weak smile in return, Lucy straightened herself up.
“I… I apologize for that. Forgot the time when I was on my walk here,” she lied seamlessly. The woman raised an eyebrow at this, though was still seemingly amused.
“A walk through the creek, Lucinda? What a strange path you took.” Turning at this, the woman headed inside. “It’s your decision, and I’ve done my share of odd things, so I honestly have no room to judge you. I can, however, ask you to step inside, as we’ve wasted enough time out here dilly-dallying. Come along now.”
Squeaking out a reply, Lucy quickly followed after the woman, shutting the door behind her as they stepped inside. Entranced by the dimly lit hallway of the woman’s home, Lucy barely realized she was speaking until the question reached her ears.
“M-may I ask you a question?”
The woman stopped, turning to face Lucy with a smile once more. “You just did, Lucinda, but I suppose one more won’t hurt. I’ve never been one to silence an inquisitive mind.” Nodding at this, Lucy went on.
“What should I call you, and… how did you know I’ve been in the creek?” Alright, so technically it was two questions, but Lucy was simply dying to know. At this, the woman smiled once more.
“A simple solution, Lucinda my dear; the mud on your shoes has the distinctive smell of the creek, and where else would you have water deep enough to ruin your socks? It’s a simple solution, really.” She paused after this, and seemed to brighten considerably.
“And as for my name, my dear, you may call me Miss Layton.”
(( Last minute note: Just for kicks and what-not, I'll post what song/s majorly contributed to writing each chapter.
For this one, god knows why, it was I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie. I don't know either, man, it just happened.
Anyway, thanks for reading! I'll try to update again soon! ))