[Daddy-Long-Legs ficlet] Her Last Letter but Two
My first fill for my hc_bingo card! I was rereading Daddy-Long-Legs over the weekend (thank you, Project Gutenberg), and I remembered that one of my prompts was "orphans," and, there you are. Though I'm not sure if I'm cheating, since it's not the orphan that's getting the comfort (just yet)? ;)
This ficlet does contain major spoilers for the novel, so if you haven't read that yet, you might want to give this fic a pass (and go read canon! -- it's a short epistolary novel about an orphan, circa 1910, who is sent to college by an anonymous benefactor to whom she writes letters that are full of humor and fun details about life in a women's college at the time -- unfortunately, the Gutenberg version doesn't have the cute little sketches that pop up in some of the letters, but you can get the idea).
Her Last Letter but Two
He woke himself coughing again, but it didn’t hurt so much this time, and when the coughing stopped he could actually breathe.
That was certainly an improvement.
Damn Canada, and damn the furious rainstorm that had chilled him to the bone, and damn this pneumonia nonsense.
But most of all, damn the fact that now that he was getting better, his mind wouldn’t stay away from things he’d just rather not think about. The ache that squeezed his chest wasn’t always in his lungs.
It seemed to be morning, judging from the bright shaft of sunlight that had wriggled its way past the heavy curtains. A little disturbing, that sunlight; lower in the sky, and darker gold in color, than it ought to be. The last he had known, it had been September, and he’d been traveling home, resigned to the fact that he had some kind of cold brewing after his rainy misadventure on the hunting trip.
It was October, now. He had lost weeks.
He had lost-
Another fit of coughing shook him. He raised himself on one elbow and reached across for the glass of water that stood on the table by his bed.
A discreet tap sounded at the door.
It opened just far enough for Edwards to put his head inside. “Sir? Are you all right? I heard you coughing.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
Damn his voice, coming out all hoarse and quavery.
Edwards was at his bedside in an instant, supporting his shoulders while he drank long swallows of the cool sweet water, and then taking the glass from his shaky fingers and setting it back safely on the table.
“You had asked, sir,” said Edwards, “to be informed the very instant that a letter came from Miss Abbott. I would not have disturbed your sleep, but I came up to see if you might be awake.”
Damn that ache in his chest, a little too far to the left to be in his lungs.
“Thank you.” Good-his voice was a little firmer that time.
“Would you care for some breakfast?”
The letter sat on the bedspread, mocking him. “No, not now. I’m really not feeling hungry.”
Edwards pressed his lips together in clear disapproval. “I will ask Cook to fix you a soft-boiled egg and some toast. Will that be satisfactory?”
How was he supposed to eat anything, with that damn letter right there-
“That would be fine, Edwards. Thank you.”
The butler paused to straighten a pillow before bowing himself out.
The letter looked the same as always. It was the same simple stationery, the same exuberant handwriting-or, were the words scrawled across the envelope a little more subdued than usual?
Judy needed his help. She had no one else. He had all but ordered her to write and tell him (well, not him, but-) her troubles.
He had to read the letter. For Judy.
It started out well enough. He could hear her dear sweet voice behind the words, the way he always had, ever since the first time he met her at college and took her for tea at the inn-
The check made him pause-what did she think she was doing, wasting the well-deserved money from her first real book (her book! she had done it!) on trying to pay back philanthropy?-but he didn’t have the strength to think about that now.
Not when he was anticipating words that would land like a kick in the gut.
You know, she wrote, that I've always had a very special feeling towards you; you sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if I tell you that I have a very much more special feeling for another man? You can probably guess without much trouble who he is.
The words blurred.
It was only his damn headache, of course.
He shut his eyes and let his hand drop, but the letter crinkled. Taunting him. That damn boy, Jimmie McBride-he might be older than Judy according to the calendar, but he was such a puppy-Judy could dance circles around him-she would be sick to death of him in weeks if she-if she actually-
Oh, God.
His fingers clenched, and the letter crinkled again.
Reproaching him.
His Judy needed him-well, not him, of course (damn it all to hell), but the Daddy-Long-Legs that she’d built up in her mind as some sort of uncle, or (good God) father-figure.
He took a nearly-deep breath, forced his eyes open, and returned to the fray.
I suspect that my letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a very long time.
What?
Good God, what?
He kept reading, faster and faster now, both hands clutching the plain cream-colored paper.
Suppose I go to him and explain that the trouble isn't Jimmie, but is the John Grier Home...
His head fell back against the pillow. He’d been forgetting to breathe, and his lungs weren’t very happy with him about that, and-his eyes weren’t wet, not really, that was just from the coughing-
Another knock. “Sir? Your breakfast.”
“Yes, Edwards,” he called. His voice was shaking again.
Edwards backed carefully in with the tray until he was through the door. He turned around, and stopped. And stared.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine.” Absolutely, perfectly, wonderful. “Just fine. But, Edwards-”
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring me a pen and some paper.” Breakfast be damned. “I have to answer Miss Abbott. Right now.”
~ fin ~
.
This ficlet does contain major spoilers for the novel, so if you haven't read that yet, you might want to give this fic a pass (and go read canon! -- it's a short epistolary novel about an orphan, circa 1910, who is sent to college by an anonymous benefactor to whom she writes letters that are full of humor and fun details about life in a women's college at the time -- unfortunately, the Gutenberg version doesn't have the cute little sketches that pop up in some of the letters, but you can get the idea).
- Her Last Letter but Two (830 words | PG, mild profanity)
A certain convalescent gets a letter from Miss Judy Abbott. The contents aren't quite what he was expecting to have to force himself to read.
Her Last Letter but Two
He woke himself coughing again, but it didn’t hurt so much this time, and when the coughing stopped he could actually breathe.
That was certainly an improvement.
Damn Canada, and damn the furious rainstorm that had chilled him to the bone, and damn this pneumonia nonsense.
But most of all, damn the fact that now that he was getting better, his mind wouldn’t stay away from things he’d just rather not think about. The ache that squeezed his chest wasn’t always in his lungs.
It seemed to be morning, judging from the bright shaft of sunlight that had wriggled its way past the heavy curtains. A little disturbing, that sunlight; lower in the sky, and darker gold in color, than it ought to be. The last he had known, it had been September, and he’d been traveling home, resigned to the fact that he had some kind of cold brewing after his rainy misadventure on the hunting trip.
It was October, now. He had lost weeks.
He had lost-
Another fit of coughing shook him. He raised himself on one elbow and reached across for the glass of water that stood on the table by his bed.
A discreet tap sounded at the door.
It opened just far enough for Edwards to put his head inside. “Sir? Are you all right? I heard you coughing.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
Damn his voice, coming out all hoarse and quavery.
Edwards was at his bedside in an instant, supporting his shoulders while he drank long swallows of the cool sweet water, and then taking the glass from his shaky fingers and setting it back safely on the table.
“You had asked, sir,” said Edwards, “to be informed the very instant that a letter came from Miss Abbott. I would not have disturbed your sleep, but I came up to see if you might be awake.”
Damn that ache in his chest, a little too far to the left to be in his lungs.
“Thank you.” Good-his voice was a little firmer that time.
“Would you care for some breakfast?”
The letter sat on the bedspread, mocking him. “No, not now. I’m really not feeling hungry.”
Edwards pressed his lips together in clear disapproval. “I will ask Cook to fix you a soft-boiled egg and some toast. Will that be satisfactory?”
How was he supposed to eat anything, with that damn letter right there-
“That would be fine, Edwards. Thank you.”
The butler paused to straighten a pillow before bowing himself out.
The letter looked the same as always. It was the same simple stationery, the same exuberant handwriting-or, were the words scrawled across the envelope a little more subdued than usual?
Judy needed his help. She had no one else. He had all but ordered her to write and tell him (well, not him, but-) her troubles.
He had to read the letter. For Judy.
It started out well enough. He could hear her dear sweet voice behind the words, the way he always had, ever since the first time he met her at college and took her for tea at the inn-
The check made him pause-what did she think she was doing, wasting the well-deserved money from her first real book (her book! she had done it!) on trying to pay back philanthropy?-but he didn’t have the strength to think about that now.
Not when he was anticipating words that would land like a kick in the gut.
You know, she wrote, that I've always had a very special feeling towards you; you sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if I tell you that I have a very much more special feeling for another man? You can probably guess without much trouble who he is.
The words blurred.
It was only his damn headache, of course.
He shut his eyes and let his hand drop, but the letter crinkled. Taunting him. That damn boy, Jimmie McBride-he might be older than Judy according to the calendar, but he was such a puppy-Judy could dance circles around him-she would be sick to death of him in weeks if she-if she actually-
Oh, God.
His fingers clenched, and the letter crinkled again.
Reproaching him.
His Judy needed him-well, not him, of course (damn it all to hell), but the Daddy-Long-Legs that she’d built up in her mind as some sort of uncle, or (good God) father-figure.
He took a nearly-deep breath, forced his eyes open, and returned to the fray.
I suspect that my letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a very long time.
What?
Good God, what?
He kept reading, faster and faster now, both hands clutching the plain cream-colored paper.
Suppose I go to him and explain that the trouble isn't Jimmie, but is the John Grier Home...
His head fell back against the pillow. He’d been forgetting to breathe, and his lungs weren’t very happy with him about that, and-his eyes weren’t wet, not really, that was just from the coughing-
Another knock. “Sir? Your breakfast.”
“Yes, Edwards,” he called. His voice was shaking again.
Edwards backed carefully in with the tray until he was through the door. He turned around, and stopped. And stared.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine.” Absolutely, perfectly, wonderful. “Just fine. But, Edwards-”
“Yes, sir?”
“Bring me a pen and some paper.” Breakfast be damned. “I have to answer Miss Abbott. Right now.”
~ fin ~
.