Dewdrops Shattering Into Pieces
The following is the story that I wrote for my English Extension 1 HSC exam. Our module thingy is Texts and Ways of Thinking, and within that, we did Individual and Society, which focuses on the scientific, economic, religious and philosophical paradigms of the 19th century. So, really, it was half a history course and half a regular english course. Lots of blabbering about traditions and values and principles therefore in it, and stuff about women's rights, and society's restriction of them...
And, I suppose, technically, this is Pride and Prejudice (the BBC miniseries (because we studied the miniseries, not the book, score! *Perves*)) fanfiction, since it's based on the character of Lady Catherine de Burgh, and the events in P+P...but I'm calling it an appropriation.
But you can ignore all that! Really, it's just a love story. Rather different to my other stuff, though.
Title: Dewdrops shattering into pieces
Summary: Lady Augusta Leight sat alone, the poem running through her head, breathlessly.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1563
Lady Augusta Leigh sat alone in the drawing room, watching the tassels on the brocade curtains shiver slightly in the draught that snuck in through the crack around the door. She sat still, apart from the tapping of her fingers, beating out the metre of the poem running through her head, breathlessly.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
She had first bitten her lip, and blushed slightly, from reading that poem, at her mother’s funeral. She should have been mourning, listening to the minister’s sombre words and clutching tight her handkerchief in her hand, in case the tears spilled out of her eyes in an outpouring of grief; she should have been the dutiful daughter, distraught at her mother’s funeral.
But Edward had come to her, and pressed her hand in sympathy and condolences, while her father had his back turned to them. And just as soon as he had come, he was gone, but left her with a scrap of folded paper in her hand. It was written out in his quick hand - “She Walks in Beauty, George Byron.”
Augusta shut her eyes, and breathed in deeply, smelling the musty, stale air that filled the room, with all its thick ornaments and accruements that sang out her late husband’s wealth. That stale air filled her, seeping into every crack and crevice of herself, so that she felt as old, as useless and anachronistic, as Great Aunt Hilda’s candelabra. They really weren’t the fashion anymore…they hadn’t been for a long time…
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
And as she sat there, alone, in a room that with its obsolete finery reminded her of all the pride and values that her father, her husband, and as their appendage, she, had clung to, she thought of her son, marrying on this day in some far off little church, in a town she had never heard of. He had sent her a letter, telling her of his decision and of the time and place of his nuptials, and asking for her blessing.
She had never replied, and instead of attending her son’s wedding, she was sitting there, reciting silently the poem she had first read when she was seventeen, thirty-four years ago. She was never meant to have read the poem, or known of Byron, or any of the Romantics; every time her father had caught her haunting the library, leafing through the books, he would shoo her out, telling her to get her mother to find her some ‘proper’ work to do.
By the time she met Edward, she was sick and tired of lace, and tapestry, and that piano that was never tuned properly, but instead sent out tones of discordance and wrongness each time middle C was pressed. She just wanted to run out, without any of the bindings of her dresses holding in her breath, and scream until the birds were shaken out of the trees. But then, she would have been a laughing stock, and sent to some asylum most likely, as her Great Aunt Hilda eventually had been.
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenly sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And when that tall, thin dark boy had started watching her, and smiled at her even though he shouldn’t have, didn’t he know she was above him? When Edward smiled at her, and one day, as she had been walking through the woods in a rare moment of freedom, with the dewdrops falling and shattering into pieces on the wet ground, came up to her, and started talking as if he had known her all his life…really, it was no surprise that she became completely besotted and infatuated with him.
Well, maybe a little in love, too.
And he had given her poetry, always by Byron, or Coleridge, or Keats, those poets that had led her to think of great empires and delicate flowers, of the winds that tore through the sky, and through her. Her father hadn’t known - his daughter was never of very much consequence to him - and with her mother ill, and the servants indifferent, there wasn’t anyone who actively tried to set her right, right her actions and her thoughts and the rush of emotions that so very nearly led her to cast off the hundreds of years of subversiveness and docility and endless, soft pink boredom.
But that was no excuse for her dalliance, for her almost-crime of contemplation of breaking the traditions and principles that had made her family great for all these years…her brother was the heir, the young Lord, and her home, those trees and rocks and muddy, brown hills that she ran blindly, breathlessly down…they weren’t hers, really, and this was made clear to her in no uncertain terms, especially when she turned 17 and she had been let out into the pack of wolves that wanted her for their next brood of pups…and her father, of course, was only letting the handpicked few come close enough to smile and bow over her hand.
Edward most defiantly was not one of those handpicked few, and what he did to her hand was not something that would be approved of. And she had loved him, and it was so tempting to throw away everything. But then her mother had died, and her father had decided, suddenly, that she needed to be taken in hand and married off to whoever had the best standing and property and titles…because, of course, it was all about social standing, and the amount of windows and manservants one could pay the taxes for…and one was never to suggest that all the new money that was flowing down from the northern factories which Augusta was only allowed to gain the barest understanding of, was anywhere near as golden as that which was pulled out of the old land that him and his fellow peers had squatted for ages.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
Augusta’s hand clenched the pillow it was resting on, and her old, swollen joints creaked and ached in protest. No money in the world could give her back the hands that Edward had so lovingly pressed…but she had abandoned that a long time ago. It had been her choice, just as it had been her choice to start the romance, and let it continue to such a dangerous level. She had almost run away with him, eloped…almost brought discredit, dishonour to the family…she would have been ruined, and ruined her family’s reputation. She couldn’t do it, in the end. All those things that weighed on her, that made her want to scream out and run…they had been too heavy, and had held her shackled down while the suitors, and eventually the fiancé, had smiled so sweetly and emptily at her. Lord Rodney Leigh was twelve years older, but very distinguished, very rich. And her father had smiled at her, looked at her with soft, happy, proud eyes, and had said, for the first time in her life how much she meant to him.
She had been able to wander over her (her father’s, her brother’s) home, with its hills and swaying trees, safe in the knowledge that she would be welcome to come back and visit, to be an occasional guest in this place that she had grown up in, lived and loved in…which was more than she would have if she had gone with Edward. And, eventually, in her new home, with a husband who was not cruel and a house and grounds that were grand and perfectly pleasant, she had a son, who gave her life joy again. Her little Edward…and he had grown up so straight, and tall, and handsome, and so much braver than she ever was.
When she had first heard tell of the dalliance between her Edward and the Thompson girl, she had played her expected part with great alacrity. She had berated her son, warning him of the dangers that would come of consorting with such lower classes, and the great shame and dishonour that would be brought to his family. She had moaned, and cried, and when no change of mind was forthcoming, had driven out to the home of the girl, and face to face demanded she drop the alliance. And, oh, what a mistake that was. With that proud head, and sharp words, and the torrent of freedom and independence that had swept off Bess Thompson; well, Augusta could not help but think of the girl who, thirty four years ago, had almost been as brave. But that girl had made her choice, and she was not about to betray that now.
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
Aheart whose love is innocent!
And so now Lady Augusta Leigh sat alone in the drawing room, with the love poem from a lost youth circling through her head.
And, I suppose, technically, this is Pride and Prejudice (the BBC miniseries (because we studied the miniseries, not the book, score! *Perves*)) fanfiction, since it's based on the character of Lady Catherine de Burgh, and the events in P+P...but I'm calling it an appropriation.
But you can ignore all that! Really, it's just a love story. Rather different to my other stuff, though.
Title: Dewdrops shattering into pieces
Summary: Lady Augusta Leight sat alone, the poem running through her head, breathlessly.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1563
Lady Augusta Leigh sat alone in the drawing room, watching the tassels on the brocade curtains shiver slightly in the draught that snuck in through the crack around the door. She sat still, apart from the tapping of her fingers, beating out the metre of the poem running through her head, breathlessly.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
She had first bitten her lip, and blushed slightly, from reading that poem, at her mother’s funeral. She should have been mourning, listening to the minister’s sombre words and clutching tight her handkerchief in her hand, in case the tears spilled out of her eyes in an outpouring of grief; she should have been the dutiful daughter, distraught at her mother’s funeral.
But Edward had come to her, and pressed her hand in sympathy and condolences, while her father had his back turned to them. And just as soon as he had come, he was gone, but left her with a scrap of folded paper in her hand. It was written out in his quick hand - “She Walks in Beauty, George Byron.”
Augusta shut her eyes, and breathed in deeply, smelling the musty, stale air that filled the room, with all its thick ornaments and accruements that sang out her late husband’s wealth. That stale air filled her, seeping into every crack and crevice of herself, so that she felt as old, as useless and anachronistic, as Great Aunt Hilda’s candelabra. They really weren’t the fashion anymore…they hadn’t been for a long time…
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
And as she sat there, alone, in a room that with its obsolete finery reminded her of all the pride and values that her father, her husband, and as their appendage, she, had clung to, she thought of her son, marrying on this day in some far off little church, in a town she had never heard of. He had sent her a letter, telling her of his decision and of the time and place of his nuptials, and asking for her blessing.
She had never replied, and instead of attending her son’s wedding, she was sitting there, reciting silently the poem she had first read when she was seventeen, thirty-four years ago. She was never meant to have read the poem, or known of Byron, or any of the Romantics; every time her father had caught her haunting the library, leafing through the books, he would shoo her out, telling her to get her mother to find her some ‘proper’ work to do.
By the time she met Edward, she was sick and tired of lace, and tapestry, and that piano that was never tuned properly, but instead sent out tones of discordance and wrongness each time middle C was pressed. She just wanted to run out, without any of the bindings of her dresses holding in her breath, and scream until the birds were shaken out of the trees. But then, she would have been a laughing stock, and sent to some asylum most likely, as her Great Aunt Hilda eventually had been.
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenly sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And when that tall, thin dark boy had started watching her, and smiled at her even though he shouldn’t have, didn’t he know she was above him? When Edward smiled at her, and one day, as she had been walking through the woods in a rare moment of freedom, with the dewdrops falling and shattering into pieces on the wet ground, came up to her, and started talking as if he had known her all his life…really, it was no surprise that she became completely besotted and infatuated with him.
Well, maybe a little in love, too.
And he had given her poetry, always by Byron, or Coleridge, or Keats, those poets that had led her to think of great empires and delicate flowers, of the winds that tore through the sky, and through her. Her father hadn’t known - his daughter was never of very much consequence to him - and with her mother ill, and the servants indifferent, there wasn’t anyone who actively tried to set her right, right her actions and her thoughts and the rush of emotions that so very nearly led her to cast off the hundreds of years of subversiveness and docility and endless, soft pink boredom.
But that was no excuse for her dalliance, for her almost-crime of contemplation of breaking the traditions and principles that had made her family great for all these years…her brother was the heir, the young Lord, and her home, those trees and rocks and muddy, brown hills that she ran blindly, breathlessly down…they weren’t hers, really, and this was made clear to her in no uncertain terms, especially when she turned 17 and she had been let out into the pack of wolves that wanted her for their next brood of pups…and her father, of course, was only letting the handpicked few come close enough to smile and bow over her hand.
Edward most defiantly was not one of those handpicked few, and what he did to her hand was not something that would be approved of. And she had loved him, and it was so tempting to throw away everything. But then her mother had died, and her father had decided, suddenly, that she needed to be taken in hand and married off to whoever had the best standing and property and titles…because, of course, it was all about social standing, and the amount of windows and manservants one could pay the taxes for…and one was never to suggest that all the new money that was flowing down from the northern factories which Augusta was only allowed to gain the barest understanding of, was anywhere near as golden as that which was pulled out of the old land that him and his fellow peers had squatted for ages.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
Augusta’s hand clenched the pillow it was resting on, and her old, swollen joints creaked and ached in protest. No money in the world could give her back the hands that Edward had so lovingly pressed…but she had abandoned that a long time ago. It had been her choice, just as it had been her choice to start the romance, and let it continue to such a dangerous level. She had almost run away with him, eloped…almost brought discredit, dishonour to the family…she would have been ruined, and ruined her family’s reputation. She couldn’t do it, in the end. All those things that weighed on her, that made her want to scream out and run…they had been too heavy, and had held her shackled down while the suitors, and eventually the fiancé, had smiled so sweetly and emptily at her. Lord Rodney Leigh was twelve years older, but very distinguished, very rich. And her father had smiled at her, looked at her with soft, happy, proud eyes, and had said, for the first time in her life how much she meant to him.
She had been able to wander over her (her father’s, her brother’s) home, with its hills and swaying trees, safe in the knowledge that she would be welcome to come back and visit, to be an occasional guest in this place that she had grown up in, lived and loved in…which was more than she would have if she had gone with Edward. And, eventually, in her new home, with a husband who was not cruel and a house and grounds that were grand and perfectly pleasant, she had a son, who gave her life joy again. Her little Edward…and he had grown up so straight, and tall, and handsome, and so much braver than she ever was.
When she had first heard tell of the dalliance between her Edward and the Thompson girl, she had played her expected part with great alacrity. She had berated her son, warning him of the dangers that would come of consorting with such lower classes, and the great shame and dishonour that would be brought to his family. She had moaned, and cried, and when no change of mind was forthcoming, had driven out to the home of the girl, and face to face demanded she drop the alliance. And, oh, what a mistake that was. With that proud head, and sharp words, and the torrent of freedom and independence that had swept off Bess Thompson; well, Augusta could not help but think of the girl who, thirty four years ago, had almost been as brave. But that girl had made her choice, and she was not about to betray that now.
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
Aheart whose love is innocent!
And so now Lady Augusta Leigh sat alone in the drawing room, with the love poem from a lost youth circling through her head.