honeydew and vanilla with malt
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Miss Hawes
Rating: PG
Challenge: Honeydew #17: reservations, Vanilla #9: mother used to say
Toppings/Extras: malt (advent calendar, day 1)
Wordcount: 868
Summary: There is an intruder in his home, one that Edward Ashdown is very aware of.
Notes: This storyline is the first time I ever wrote about the Ashdowns and Isaac Prowse, before time-travel had even crossed my mind. I’ll probably keep it as canon, pre-Timeless. Very grim for a Christmas prompt piece, haha.
A worn-down, colourless figure she was; with a tight, chinless jaw. Her irises were like discs of glass, devoid of verve. Her hair flopped as though the idea of life was simply too much effort for it. She was a miserably insane wretch that moved and looked like a ghoul, with her rick-bone wrists and blank, predatory stare, daisy-white knuckles clenched into hard fists at her side. Of course, Lord Edward Ashdown could not see all of this from where he was: she was simply a blurred, hunched figure in the gloom of the night out near the forest surrounding the country manor. His breath fogged up the window and he stepped away from it, dropping the curtain.
“I am not ashamed to admit it, Mr Prowse: she frightens seven kinds of ordure out of me.” Ashdown strode away from the window, flinching prettily. “I think it is high time she was exterminated.”
Prowse had been standing idly by another window, staring hard at the figure through the dark. They had left London for one of Ashdown’s many holiday homes in Somerset, they had sent false carriages in several directions, they had done everything to put her off the trail, and yet here she was. It had only been a delay of two nights before she had arrived.
He blinked.
“Pardon, sir?”
“She’s a madwoman,” Ashdown said slowly, wrinkling his nose as though Prowse were completely simple. “In short, kill her.”
“Are you sure?”
“What do you mean, Are you sure? Why would I not be sure? In what world would I not be sure about this, of all things? What does my degree of sureness have to do with my order? How is it relevant whether I am sure or not?”
“I’ve never... killed a woman before...”
“Oh, bloody hell...” Ashdown walked back to the window. “That’s no woman, that’s... a thing. She’s like a corpse, only nobody thought to inform her of her death. May I remind you that she cut Mrs Higgins in half? Not to mention Verity’s little slave girl. And-oh, need I go on...?”
One look at Prowse told him that, despite everything, it was not going to work.
“You are useless,” Ashdown sighed. “What is your job again, Mr Prowse? I believe there is a clue in the name. A bodyguard: one which guards a body. My body, not the body of some emaciated madwoman with a raving obsession...” He flinched. “She came into our home in the night! And she...” Ashdown’s mouth suddenly clamped shut. “Well, never mind about that. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“With all due respect, sir, I think it is possible to detain her without killing her.”
“You can try if you like,” Ashdown snorted. “Have fun. I suppose I should begin searching for your replacement when the morning comes, because Miss Hawes will feed you to the pigs.”
“I don’t see you doing anything about it,” Prowse said with a scowl. He was not commonly this rude to his master, but on occasion he became sick of Ashdown’s demands-besides which he was frustrated with himself for his inherent weakness when it came to killing women. He had met many a female criminal that thought it ridiculous to the point of insulting. But rules were rules: and his mother had always said to never hurt girls...
Lips tight, Ashdown drew the curtain slightly. He paled, nearly staggered.
“Sir?”
“She’s not there,” Ashdown said in a faint voice. “She’s gone. Where is she? Can you see her? Where did she...?”
Suddenly, his country manor seemed very large and dark. There were constant creaks in the oppressive darkness and there were already three corpses that they knew of littering the place, mingling blood with the dust. His home was as vainglorious as always, all arching stonework and expanses of marble, with a million decorative nooks and alcoves at every turn. Ashdown bit his lip and thought about it.
“Why did she go out by the woods?” he asked. Prowse didn’t reply: he knew his master was merely thinking aloud. “She was looking for something. Obviously.” Ashdown turned to face Prowse. “She was looking right at us! That’s it, we’re leaving...”
“Well, sir, the horses are all...” Prowse winced. “Indisposed.”
“Even Verity’s prized thoroughbred...? Oh, goodness. Verity.” Ashdown suddenly strode across the room quicker than Prowse had ever seen him move and threw open the door. Prowse hurried over with the lamp. “Do you think she wants to kill Verity?”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Prowse said reluctantly.
“Listen... you listen... if you see Miss Hawes and she is threatening my wife in any way... you are to kill her, do you understand?”
“Yes... sir.”
“If I ever discover that Verity was in any way harmed because of you behaving like a mincing old woman, you will find yourself back on the streets of London in an instant.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Prowse replied miserably. He didn’t think that Ashdown would actually throw him back out onto the streets, but then again, he never could tell. Ashdown had never seemed fond of his wife, but the moment there was a homicidal psychopath in the house, everything changed.
Typical.