I plan on posting a chapter or two a week, and if you think of anything--and I mean anything--I beg you to post it in the comments. You hate a sentence? Copy and paste it into the comments so I can fix it. Something is unclear? Tell me so I can fix it. You like something? Please tell me so I don't feel completely like a hack writer who is imposing on her friends.
And I have one other request, and it is a very very odd one. I mean it, it's really really odd. So odd I'm not sure whether or not you'll understand, but if you do, bless you for being as odd as me, and please tell me whether or not it tastes like pie.
Thank you.
Chapter 1
Tabitha Gets Rid of All of Her Teachers, Except One
It took her several years to realize what was wrong.
It wasn’t anything so easy to recognize as being hungry or thirsty—those were niggling bits of wrongness that were easily righted. Nor was it wrong like when she learned to walk, wobbling back and forth in an attempt to defy gravity (she had just learned of gravity, you see, and she thought it marvelous to have a name to put to the reason she kept tumbling over). It felt wrong, she realized, in the way shoes could feel too tight as they pinched her toes.
It was exactly this sort of wrongness, she determined, and now that she knew what was wrong, she could fix it.
So at the age of four she decided to change her real name—which was Lori Pleasant Bushfield—to the much more fitting Tabitha Anne King.
But although it was only now at the age of four that she finally felt right inside her own skin, her parents didn’t seem to understand the reason behind her name change and kept calling her Lori. Not that her father ever actually called her by name, but Tabitha was sure he still thought of her as Lori. Her mother on the other hand kept calling her Lori because she was unable to imagine why anyone would dislike such a pretty name. For was it not nice to have the middle name of Pleasant? And was it not also nice to have a family name that stretched back, oh, seven generations now? For the land had been well-domesticated to the point that there were very few bushes and many more fields than there had been in Great Great Great Great Grandfather’s time. The poor man had had to farm the land himself, for heaven’s sake. Thank goodness for progress that allowed for the Bushfields to enjoy the fruits of labor without ever having to have done the latter themselves.
It should come as no surprise that Tabitha and her mother found very few things to agree with. To give a few examples:
When she was ten her mother told her that she was to start taking dance lessons. An appropriate dancing master was found and showed up at their house promptly on Wednesday the 16th, 9:00 in the morning. Tabitha was shown into the second best parlor which had been cleared down to the wood floor for the dance lessons.
The Master gave her a florid bow (imagine a windmill wearing a short fashionable cape bending at its middle while brandishing said cape in many small circles). “Ah, what have we here? You are charming, so very charming! I am Monsieur Luc Le Fondant, and I will lead you through the delightful discovery of the wonders of graceful movement. Ma petite cherie, you were made for the ballroom! It will be my extreme honor to teach you how to curtsey grandly, dance like an angel, and float over the dance floor as if magic had given you grace!
Tabitha did not want to be an angel, nor did she appreciate the mention of magic. It had been a great disappointment to her that magic did not exist, as her mother had carefully explained when she was three and wanted to know where the faeries lived. She had been so disillusioned by the topic that any mention of the word ‘magic’ was to earn her immediate disapproval.
And besides, his French accent was horribly fake.
Poor Dancing Master. He left the Bushfield’s home at exactly 9:25 in the morning on Wednesday the 16th with a broken ankle.
The next dancing master suffered the same fate, only quicker. The third dancing master was only in the house for five minutes before Tabitha broke both his legs. She was very apologetic: she had only meant to trip him and sprain his ankle, but her sense of timing was off (possibly due to the lack of dancing lessons) and the poor man fell down the stairs.
The household was appropriately horrified at all the accidents, but soon discovered that word had got about and there were no dancing masters available when the Bushfields came to call.
It took the Bushfields (namely the mother) a full year to recover from the debacle of the dancing masters. But one bright morning in the spring Vera Radiance Bushfield declared to her husband Thomas Prudence Bushfield,
“We must do something with our daughter. She has run the maids quite ragged and I fear she is taking far too much interest in her school lessons. Have you not noticed, dear, that lately she has been carrying around a book wherever she goes?” Vera Radiance Bushfield was scandalized at the mere thought.
Her husband merely folded back another leaf of his morning paper and mumbled something indistinct. Lady Bushfield smiled in pleasant agreement.
“Very well, dear. I will send for a Painting Master. Our little Lori will never be accomplished if she cannot paint prettily.” Tabitha’s mother chose to ignore the fact that her daughter would never be accomplished if she could not dance.
The Painting Master went the way of the Dancing Masters and for much of the same reasons, although it took a bit more time to arrange. He had never had such a young pupil before, and unsure of how to cultivate interest in his subject, he suggested that she learn to paint faeries, thinking that all young girls adored faeries. He was greatly surprised a few minutes later when somehow, through a strange set of circumstances involving a duck flying near the window and Tabitha’s seemingly accidental but uncanny aim, the Painting Master found himself choking on a paintbrush that had flown halfway down his throat, and it was only through the timely intervention of a passing footman that he did not die; his shock was so great that it did not even occur to him to take the paintbrush out of his own throat.
The Bushfields willingly let him retire early that day, Lady Bushfield all aflutter at the near-miss of tragedy.
When the Painting Master returned two days later, he unwisely sought to continue the first lesson on painting faeries. They made it halfway through the hour lesson before the Painting Master himself accidentally spilled his water bucket and Tabitha, in a paroxysm of startlement, dropped her paintbrush (fully loaded with apple green) right behind his shoe. Unthinkingly taking a step backwards, the Painting Master slipped, one leg going straight into the air and pushing down the rest of him at such a speed the Master hit his head and saw stars (There might be some questions on whether he saw faeries playing catch and tag with the stars, but it does no good to speculate). Tabitha immediately screamed and brought the entire household—three maids, three undermaids, the Housekeeper, the cook and her three helpers, the Butler, the three footmen, and Tabitha’s parents—running to see what had caused such a terrible shriek. The Painting Master was gently picked up and deposited on a nearby divan, his paint-covered shoe leaving such a green smear that Lady Bushfield had hysterics and had to be given smelling salts.
Once it was discovered that the Painting Master was all right if slightly injured, he was sent home with one of the footmen as he was barely able to stand up without falling over, and he seemed to be in some confusion as he kept calling everyone ‘Matilda.’
This time it took the Painting Master four days to return, but the poor fellow was really in for it today. Wheels of all sorts and sizes had been turning in Tabitha’s head since the Painting Master had hit his head (accidentally, of course) and she had decided on a plan of action that would have made any General in the Queen’s army throw up his hands in delight. The day went like this:
The Painting Master arrived exactly at 9 o’clock, although his eyes still seemed to be having trouble focusing. He and Tabitha entered the second best parlor (having been converted from a dancing room to a painting room) at 9:02. At 9:15, exactly thirteen minutes later, The Painting Master ran out of the room screaming and holding his head as if he feared it would explode. The Butler attempted to delay him at the front door, but only succeeded in catching him for a moment, during which the poor man babbled;
“Hoist the frogs any higher and we’ll all be done for! No! My Aunt Dimity never eats petunias—“ and then he pushed past the stunned Butler and sprinted down the street as if all the demons in hell were after him. (He ran so fast, in fact, that he even outraced the Melitapol’s new steam-powered mechanical carriage, much to the affront of Mr. Melitapol who had been assured of the latest model’s speed)
When the Housekeeper sent a maid to check on Tabitha, the young maid found the girl carefully cleaning all the brushes and tidying up the painting kit that the Painting Master had brought on his first day. She looked up at the maid while continuing to pack the kit.
“Please have one of the footmen send this to the Painting Master’s residence, as I do believe he will not be coming back for it.”
The maid flustered. “I’m sorry miss, I don’t know where to instruct the footman to send it to.”
Tabitha’s eyes widened minutely with well-bred surprise. “The Painting Master lives on St. Jaque’s street in Upperdome. A rather dingy inn called the Third Piglet.”
The maid bobbed a curtsey as Tabitha calmly left the room.
(If you are at all interested in what happened to the Painting Master, as soon as he was able to order a carriage he fled the city to go to his sister’s house in the country. He was much happier in the country painting landscapes and he did very well for himself teaching the youngsters of the neighborhood to paint everything but faeries. And on one day when a lisping girl of seven asked him to paint her a faerie, he broke out into a sweat and started muttering indistinctly about frogs and had to go have a lie down before he felt better)
When her parents (mostly just her mother, her father being more interested in his glass of port) questioned her at dinner regarding what had happened to make the former Painting Master leave the house in such a state, Tabitha would not say what had happened during those thirteen minutes. In fact, she never in her whole life breathed a word of what happened except to one person, and that was many years later.
“Lori, the Painting Master left here in such a state, today. Do you know what might have provoked such an excessive response?”
“I’m sure I could not say, Mother.”
“Oh come, my little Lori, I’m sure you must know something?”
“Knowledge, Mother, is a precarious thing to admit to.”
“What utter nonsense you speak.”
“But Mother, you said that to me last week—“
“Nonsense!” Lady Bushfield snapped, quite positive that she had never said such a thing in her life. (at the time of last week however, she had found it a useful thing to say when her precocious daughter had corrected her in front of two society friends on the topic of the Royal Succession. Lady Bushfield had angrily blurted out that phrase at her daughter, and her two society friends had nodded sagely).
Tabitha inwardly smirked.
Her mother tried another tack. “Lori, you really cannot persist in claiming no idea of what happened at today’s painting lesson. If you do not tell me at once, I shall banish you to your room for the next week! And you shall not be allowed out even for tea!”
This attempt only made Tabitha want to giggle, the possible punishment of being banished to her room would be much better than the ‘treat’ of dancing or painting lessons: all her books were there, and Tabitha could never be lonely or bored when she had a book in her hands. Tabitha mastered the impulse to laugh in her Mother’s face, however, as she much desired to see how long it would take her Mother to have hysterics on the subject.
“Even for tea, Mother? How dreadful.”
“Yes! Yes it is. But it need not be like that, Lori.” Lady Bushfield wheedled. “I’m sure that Cook has several extra jam tarts that I could send for, and I could make sure to have Housekeeper send a girl for some chocolate tomorrow. Would you like that?”
“Very much, Mother.”
“Well then! Just tell me what happened that made the Painting Master run out of here in such a state.” Lady Bushfield waited in a semblance of patience.
Tabitha seemed to consider this wonderful offer (she had years ago threatened the maids into bringing up extra sweets from the kitchen, and if she wanted chocolate, she only had to raid her mother’s supply). She tilted her head, kicked her heels, and even went so far as to lay a finger on her lips. But after a long moment she looked at Lady Bushfield and said in a bewildered tone, “But nothing happened.”
“But—you—he—“
This was too much for Lady Bushfield. She collapsed exhausted on a couch, weary beyond all bounds by the exertion of being a parent. Tabitha gave her mother a cup of tea and then went back to her room to read a particularly thrilling gothic novel where the heroine had just been trapped by the horrifying Baron de Ballas, a notorious lecher. (Tabitha had been unsure of the meaning of the word ‘lecher’ but she believed it had something to do with lichen, as one of the Natural History books in her Father’s library had mentioned a name that sounded extremely similar) She had been able to read much of the book after the abortive painting lesson, and she was eager to see what would happen next. Would the heroine remain trapped by the Baron? Would she escape using her own wits and daring? (although Tabitha thought that highly unlikely as the heroine seemed to have trouble thinking of anything more complicated than two syllable words) Or would her childhood sweetheart hear of her terrible situation and come to rescue her? Tabitha was very eager to find out. For although her parents had managed to squash any belief in magic, Tabitha was a highly imaginative child who still firmly believed in adventures and highly improbable situations. How could she not, since they seemed intent on happening to her?
It was another year until her mother felt up to the task of finding a new instructor for her rapidly aging daughter. Why, she was twelve now, and if she did not start learning the proper skills, she would never be accomplished! Lady Bushfield was finding it harder to ignore the impossibility of her daughter ever being seen as accomplished if she could not dance and paint prettily, but she managed it just the same with a willful belief that would have done Attila the Hun proud. Although Attila had never had to contend with Tabitha.
Lady Bushfield decided that Tabitha should learn embroidery, for if a girl could at least sew a rosebud on a handkerchief then it might be seen that she has some useful skills to bring to a marriage, and Lady Bushfield was determined that Tabitha should marry well, as she was determined about few other things (namely stopping her husband’s deplorable habit of scratching his nose in public).
To that end, a Sewing Mistress was hired, although it had been rather difficult to find one who was willing, as rumors had been flying around the city about just why the Dancing Masters and the Painting Master had had to leave so suddenly. The rumors ranged from Tabitha being quite mad and gnawing on the furniture, to a poltergeist inhabiting the house, to a secret society of pygmies living in the basement who crept around the house doing mischief. Had Tabitha ever heard this last rumor, she would have immediately mounted an expedition to the wine cellars just in case there were pygmies living there. It is perhaps a good thing that she never heard the rumor as the chaos she would have caused in her search might have thrown Housekeeper into early retirement.
On the first and only day of lessons, the Sewing Mistress entered the Bushfield’s house in a medley of sounds. Her heavy legs and large feet formed a counter-beat with the various bell-tones of swinging charms and metal trinkets draped all over her body—it can be assumed, although not verified, that the Sewing Mistress had heard the rumor about the poltergeist and was attempting to ward it off.
“Lori Bushfield? Lori? Where is my student?” Her voice was loud, shrill, and nasally, and it made the Butler—well-bred and well-trained as the best Butlers always are—fight mightily to hold back a wince. For Butlers must never show any emotion no matter the provocation (rule three in the Butler’s Guide to Butlery, coming in after ‘never correct your Master even when he is wrong’—rule number two, and ‘all Master’s are idiots’—rule number one. But if the authors of this esteemed book had been around to hear the Sewing Mistress’ voice, I am sure they would have been willing to make an exception for it).
“Here, Sewing Mistress.” Tabitha appeared by the Sewing Mistress’ side, her eyes opened wide with innocence, although anyone who knew her well could see the calculation sliding behind her pupils and doing a small jig in the corners of her brain. (Tabitha was partial to the Highland Fling). Alas, the Sewing Mistress did not know Tabitha well at all, and she would never be given the opportunity to.
“At last! I thought I would have to wait all day. I believe in promptness, child, promptness! You can never expect to master the discipline of sewing if you do not have a care for promptness!”
Ignoring the fact that this last statement made no sense, Tabitha politely led the Sewing Mistress to the second-best parlor which had been restored to its former state as a parlor. The Sewing Mistress peered around the door cautiously before she entered.
“Ah, this is a most agreeable room. Your Mother is to be commended.” Tabitha made no reply, and the Sewing Mistress gave her a saccharine smile. “But what are such things to you? Such a small young thing has no cares at all for matters of adult importance. Sit there.” She pointed Tabitha to the paisley divan, while she sat on a blue striped couch. She gave a small wriggle to settle herself, pleased at the well-cushioned nature of the couch.
Being talked down to was Tabitha’s second least favorite thing in the world (after faeries and magic) and she was resolved that this would be the last day she ever saw the Sewing Mistress.
Now, ever since Tabitha had heard she was to take sewing lessons, she started practicing several methods for getting rid of troublesome teachers, just so she could have some options for when the day arrived. Seeing how nervous the Mistress was, and how draped with charms that made a horrible clatter whenever she moved, Tabitha decided on her second plan. (The other fourteen were highly fascinating, but there isn’t time to list them all here. It can be said though that each one was an individual work of art and that Tabitha was ready to execute each flawlessly. It should be noted that one of the few things she had ever heard her father say was while he was in a business meeting in his library and since the door had been left ajar she could hear every word. He said, ‘Good planning is the only guarantee of success.’ Tabitha had thought this uncommonly good advice, and had made it a personal motto).
Plan number two involved a complicated system of strings and miniature bellows that were stuffed with needles (Tabitha had raided Lady Bushfield’s collection which might have caused some confusion later on except that the last time Lady Bushfield had touched her sewing basket had been five years ago when a disagreeable old friend had come to visit). Tabitha waited until the Sewing Mistress’ eyes were no longer following her every move with a needle (Tabitha was actually quite competent despite never having sewn before. Since the Sewing Mistress’ only experience with children as young as Tabitha was that they were lazy and inclined to stupidity, she was secretly pleased that Tabitha was proving so easy to teach) and then she slowly slipped one shoe off and began to conduct an orchestra of stringed instruments under her divan. She pulled on one string, releasing a suspended weight to drop on top of one of the small bellows where it puffed out needles into the Sewing Mistress’s neck. One or two stuck.
“Ouch!”
The Sewing Mistress jerked into the air—the motion shaking the needles loose—and grabbed at the back of her neck to find nothing there. Tabitha looked up from her industrious sewing to give the Sewing Mistress a look of concern.
“There was—did you see? I know there was something…” she trailed off, unable to explain her actions. She abruptly sat back down on the couch, rubbing the back of her neck and staring around as if she could spot what did it.
Alas, the bellows had been concealed behind a tall vase of flowers and she didn’t see it.
Tabitha used her toes to pull on another string, this time sending the pointy missiles into the Sewing Mistress’ legs.
“Eeek!”
This bellows was under the couch, but when she again looked for what had jabbed her, another string pull elevated it so that she could not find it. By this time Tabitha had elevated her expression to a commentary on the dubious nature of the Sewing Mistress’ sanity. The Sewing Mistress was now hunting the room for the evil horde of flies that was tormenting her, the poltergeist that her charms were apparently not protecting her from, or the evil pygmies that were stabbing her with their tiny spears (for she had heard that rumor as well, but had dismissed it as rubbish.)
It is hard to say poor Sewing Mistress, for she was not the most pleasant of ladies and even her own mother found her company difficult to handle (that voice!) but what Tabitha did next is enough to inspire pity for the worst of society. While the Sewing Mistress had her back to Tabitha, Tabitha simultaneously pulled on two strings with her toes and used her hands to puff a small bellows she had stuffed between the divan’s cushions, aiming the needles directly at the Sewing Mistress,’ ahem, posterior.
“OOOHHH!!!”
Attacked from three sides at once the woman let out her loudest yelp yet and waving her hands in front of her face as if shooing off invisible insects (or poltergeists or pygmies) she scuttled from the room. Racketing down the stairs she approached the Butler as some speed.
“I cannot stay in this house another moment! It would be heartless treason to keep me here! I don’t know how any of you stand it, I really don’t, because I am leaving right now, and none of you will stop me!” Her voice was so shrill you almost couldn’t hear it. Some of the nearby window glass started humming. (it is a fact that none of the servants even attempted to stop her, not so much as moving a foot or putting out an arm)
“There is something terribly wrong with this house, with that child, and you could not get me to stay for all the money of China! And I shall tell every other instructor that I know to steer clear of the Bushfields, for you are a menace, and deserve to be shunned by all polite society!”
The Butler promptly opened the door for her and shut it with a satisfaction he knew to be terribly improper but he just couldn’t help. And although her mother was at a loss for why the Dancing Master and the Painting Master and now the Sewing Mistress had all left, the servants had a much better handle on the matter and knew that it had to do with Tabitha, although they weren’t always sure how. But in this case, the servants were entirely grateful to Tabitha for saving them all from the horrors of the Sewing Mistress’ voice. Although they never spoke of it, they all conspired to help Tabitha find time and space to read undisturbed, even going on special errands to obscure bookshops for her (for while she was reading, Tabitha was the quietest and easiest of responsibilities). And even the Butler—in secret, however—left a copy of The Butler’s Guide to Butlery for the girl to find. She found it greatly amusing and it became one of her favorite books to read when her Mother was being unreasonable (which was often).
Now, it has been mentioned that Lady Bushfield believed that her daughter was taking far too much interest in her studies, and that was completely correct. In fact, Tabitha’s tutor (although heretofore unmentioned) was the only teacher she had not driven away, and in fact enjoyed—although she much preferred reading whatever she chose. Part of the reason for that had to do with the Tutor’s wonderful habit of falling asleep in the middle of lessons (for he was an old man) and his similarly wonderful habit of always answering Tabitha’s questions when he was awake.
As an interesting note, by the age of twelve and a half Tabitha was nearly fluent in both French and German, the only ‘accomplishment’ she had to her name, although she was only fluent in both languages because the most interesting books were sometimes not in English and Tabitha was not the type of girl to—number one, miss out entirely on what she wanted to read—or number two, have someone read and translate a book for her—then she would be at their mercy of whatever they chose to tell her, editing out the best parts.
The Tutor’s name was Arthur Valiant Stone, and he said to her at their first lesson (with a twinkle in his faded green eyes):
“I do believe that my parents were overzealous in their naming of me, hoping I would grow up to embody the strength and history of such a name; but if given a choice, I would have much preferred to be named Earnest.” This had endeared him to the little girl in no small measure since Tabitha herself held a great disliking for her given name of Lori, and she decided that Arthur and she would get along famously. And so Arthur the Tutor was the only teacher that managed to stay around Tabitha longer than a week.
It was also the fault of Arthur the Tutor that Tabitha was rarely to be seen without a book in hand. He had never bothered with dull child-like tales while teaching Tabitha to read, for he saw very quickly that she was an extremely bright child who would only be bored by the mundane adventures of Jack the dog and Steward the monkey. So instead he read to her from Marco Polo’s tales from the Orient and other such real life adventurers. Needless to say Tabitha was greatly interested in learning to read so that she may see first-hand these wonderful tales.
Arthur the Tutor was also a bit luckier than any of the other Masters, as he very soon upon his entering the household overheard a conversation between two maids about Tabitha’s extreme dislike of all things magical. So although he knew she might have otherwise enjoyed the dark tales of the Brothers Grimm as they were intended to be read, he knew she would not tolerate them. So Arthur the Tutor was saved from an unpleasant fate.
And since she loved reading stories of Foreign places, Tabitha learned to be interested in strange botany and fauna that populated everywhere else but here. She could be found perusing Encyclopedias even at the age of six, her small body nearly dwarfed by the large pages of the books, her bright eyes darting back and forth like a hawk after a mouse.
So Tabitha learned to love reading.
But this was not to Lady Bushfield’s liking.
Although each time before it had taken a year for Lady Bushfield to recover from the disruptive loss of yet another instructor, this time she managed it in record time: three months. (although the strain of doing so exhausted her to the point that she could barely get out of bed in the mornings, which hardly discomfited Lord Bushfield as it left him to read his morning paper in peace and quiet). It was the despair that her daughter would never be accomplished that drove Lady Bushfield to the drastic awareness that something must be done, and done soon, or else her Lori would not have even one skill to her name (for even if Lady Bushfield was aware that Tabitha read and spoke both French and German, she did not consider those useful skills, hardly accomplishments at all, really. The French and the Germans spoke French and German all the time. What was the difficulty in that?)
To that end she decided to send Tabitha away to live with her Aunt Hilsida in the country (Lady Bushfield’s Aunt, and Tabitha’s Great-Aunt) where perhaps if she was away from all her familiar books and places and under the harridan eye of Aunt Hilsida—Lady Bushfield shuddered, memories of her own stay at the house as a child reaching up to run cold fingers down her spine—would teach her the proper lessons as her doting parents could not. No one could ever accuse Aunt Hilsida of being doting. You couldn’t even accuse her of being caring, and that was a near cousin to the emotion, let alone even being interested, which was such a far off relation you never even sent them cards at Christmas time.
Aunt Hilsida’s would be the perfect place for Tabitha to grow up and become a proper lady.
It might have surprised Lady Bushfield to know that Tabitha did not object to growing up. It was one of those things that happen to everyone, after all, and adults had much more control over their lives than children, so Tabitha thought being grown-up would be quite nice. But being a proper lady—that she did object to. If being Grown Up gave you more control, being a proper lady was like being tall enough to reach the top shelf of a cabinet but never doing so because you were only supposed to sit in short chairs. Just ridiculous.
So when Tabitha heard that she was being sent to Aunt Hilsida to learn how to be a proper lady, she did not like the idea. She had never met Aunt Hilsida, but she had never heard the name spoken without a queer sort of shudder that glazed over the eyes of the speaker and the listeners—if they too knew Aunt Hilsida—and really, even the name Aunt Hilsida was a warning in and of itself. It was as if Aunt Hilsida’s parents had known at the moment of her birth what sort of person she would turn out to be, and had given her the name of Hilsida as a warning to everyone she would meet in her life.
It might have occurred to Tabitha to be sorry for someone who even at birth inspired a sort of terror that causes parents to give them a horrible name, perhaps they wouldn’t have been awful at all if they had been give a name like Bluebell or Rachel. It might indeed have occurred to Tabitha to feel sorry for Aunt Hilsida—if only she weren’t being sentenced to live with her for an unstated period of time. It’s a lot easier to feel pity for a horrible relative when they’re far away, and you may even love them in a strange familial fashion, but that doesn’t mean you want to spend time with them, for heaven’s sake, up to and including vacations where they manage to ruin the fun for everyone else just by being who they are. Aunt Hilsida, if the rumors were to be believed, was enough to spoil a score of people’s vacations, even if they weren’t related to her. And even if they weren’t in the same area as Aunt Hilsida on vacation, they would still feel the effects of it like an earthquake from far away rattling the cups in your cupboard and shaking your lamps and maybe even causing a very nice vase to fall over and shatter. Aunt Hilsida on vacation was enough to discomfit small armies and large generals, or so the rumors would say.
Whatever the difference between fact and fiction, it seemed that Tabitha would very shortly find out.
She protested, of course. You didn’t read as many books as Tabitha had without acquiring a very large vocabulary for someone who hadn’t even turned thirteen.
“Mother, I protest this intolerable indignity and I refuse to acquiesce to your ill-conceived scheme of sending me half-way around our country just so your blithering society friends will stop gossiping about how I cannot even dance the gavotte or paint a table or sew initials on a handkerchief in order that they may tell their blithering sons that I am a good match to have their blithering children with—“
And so on. (Tabitha had recently encountered the word blithering and was quite taken with it, enough so that she was willing to reuse it several times in an argument, despite her belief that to do so was a sign of a lack of intelligence and creative vocabulary. But the word blithering was just so descriptive!)
But her vocabulary was so large, in fact—leaving aside the word blithering—that her arguments went completely over her mother’s head until Lady Bushfield had hysterics. And even as impassioned as the normally calm girl had become about this subject, she was no match for her mother in hysterics. In fact, her mother continued to have hysterics until Tabitha was forced to give up the plan of convincing her mother of anything. Lady Bushfield may not have one of the best minds in the country, or be able to make decisions harder than the options of clothing (and she still caused her dress-maker havoc by always wanting to change the color of this, and take the trim off, but oh, it looked so good on so could you please put it back?) but one thing she could do was have hysterics loud enough and long enough to end any argument. Tabitha beat a strategic retreat, hoping to find a different field to engage a different opposing force.
But the only other person she could think of who could possibly stop this tragedy from occurring, was her father.
Tabitha had never spoken to her father. Nor had her father ever spoken to her. Now, this might seem strange to most people, but really it was a quite common state of affairs. Tabitha almost never saw her father except at meal times, and then but rarely for he was often at his club or at a dinner-party etc. And when her father was dining in, Lady Bushfield was always there to fill the silence, for Tabitha was never allowed to speak during a meal for she was a child and couldn’t possibly have anything important to add to any conversation. It wasn’t that her father didn’t care for her in his own absent minded way, but she was a girl, after all, and a young one at that, and he was busy with his own busyness that left no time for young girls, even if they were his daughter. Maybe he’d talk to her when she was older and was looking for a young man to settle down with, just to make sure she was all right.
Even though Tabitha was vaguely aware of all of this, she decided anyway that she must talk to her father. Something had to be done, and if she could not do it, maybe he could.
It took three days for Tabitha to find her father. Lord Bushfield as it has been said was a busy man, and on occasion he seemed to completely disappear. This was one of those times. If the servants said he was in the library, as soon as Tabitha got there he was gone to his club. If he was expected back for dinner, he would most certainly be too late for Tabitha to even see him, let alone talk to him away from Lady Bushfield (who was still having hysterics whenever Tabitha opened her mouth). And if she saw him striding down the hall to his study, he would invariably lock it as soon as he shut it behind him. Tabitha might have been given cause to wonder if he was deliberately avoiding her, but to her mind it seemed as if he was more intent on avoiding everyone, including the servants and especially his wife. Tabitha was more of a by-product of avoidance than the cause, really.
And even though her mind was nearly completely consumed by her own extremely large trouble, there was one small (very small) corner left to wonder if her father was all right, and if there wasn’t some larger trouble than hers (however unlikely) at work. That small bit of worry tried to assert itself every so often, but truth be told it failed miserably to even distract Tabitha from her goal of speaking to her father and convincing him not to send her away. She was very determined, as determined as any Bushfield ever was about anything, even Great Great Great Great Grandfather Bushfield who was utterly convinced that if he just cleared his bushy land the fields would make him famous and rich. Of course his whole family thought him crazy, but that seems to be the lot of most truly determined people. Everyone else can barely stand to look at them because true determination is not very comfortable to live with, kind of like sitting on what looks to be a comfy sofa only to find it has been upholstered in the most appallingly scratchy fabric. It just doesn’t work.
But since Tabitha was well and truly determined, on the night of the third day after she set out on her goal of talking to her father, she did.
Lord Bushfield, in a most proper hurry while getting back from his club, forgot to lock his study door behind him, and in fact left it ajar just the tiniest bit. Tabitha was supposed to be changing into her nightgown when she heard the front door open, so she quickly put her overdress back on and pattered barefooted to the stairs where she watched her father enter and go to his study, but not lock it.
Now was her chance. She’d rehearsed what she would say to her father, and in fact had spent no few hours in front of the mirror practicing appropriate expressions of pleading despair and absolute innocence. Sadly Tabitha was good at neither expression, as pleading despair was something only women like her mother were ever good at mastering, and absolute innocence on Tabitha’s face only looked like she had a stomach ache. The only expression she was much good at was a sort of calm innocence that she had mastered at only two months old when she threw her silver rattle at her mother to stop her from making a series of appalling noises that sounded like ‘goo-goo-gee, a-woo-woo-woo’ etc. Her aim was quite good and the rattle hit her mother right between the eyes. Lady Bushfield was so shocked she stopped blabbering and at that moment she saw the expression that was to fill her life: a calm innocent smile that was so mild you hardly saw it. Unfortunately, the expression had no use in the upcoming discussion, as calm innocence is only truly useful when trying to convince someone else that of course you didn’t eat the last jam tart, or break that ugly vase Great-Grandmama always loved.
Tabitha pattered down the stairs, grabbing the banister at the bottom to swing her around to face the door to her father’s study. Taking a deep breath she walked up to the door and knocked firmly.
“Yes, what is it?” came the reply from inside.
His first words to me, Tabitha thought. It seemed somehow appropriate that the first words he spoke to her were by accident. Tabitha pushed the door open wide enough for her to slip through. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace and the orange light silhouetted her father so that she couldn’t see him clearly. He was bending over his desk and sorting through papers as he said, “Well?” and looked up. Even at a distance and in dim light Tabitha could see the nonplussed expression on his face.
“Hello Father,” she said.
“Hello Lori,” he replied. There was a flustered pause. Neither could seem to say anything to the purpose, Lord Bushfield because he was in a situation he never expected, and Tabitha because even though she had practiced what she wanted to say, it all flew out of her head when she was confronted with the reality of her father. He seemed somehow bigger, in the dim firelight, bigger and more solid, as if his plain nature was always overwhelmed by the flighty filminess of his wife when they were together, but here—here he was wholly himself.
Tabitha swallowed. “Father—“ her voice faltered. She tried again. “Father, Mother is planning on sending me away.” That was much better, much stronger. Her Father said nothing. “Sending me away to stay with Aunt Hilsida.” Her father visibly shuddered. Aunt Hilsida might have been his wife’s relation, but he had met her once or twice at family gatherings, so the mention of her name made him shudder at the memory of it. Tabitha felt heartened by this, as perhaps it meant he would have some sympathy for her fate. But still he said nothing.
“Father, I do not wish to go. In fact, I would far rather be apprenticed to a chimney sweep than go live with Aunt Hilsida. I am sure I would live longer.” (due to the charcoal dust that they inhaled, chimney sweeps were not known for their longevity. Tabitha might have been slightly exaggerating, but only about living longer. She really would rather work as a chimney sweep). In the face of her father’s silence Tabitha soldiered on. “Mother only wants to send me there because there are no dancing masters or painting masters or sewing mistresses that will teach me here, and she wants me to be accomplished. I don’t care about being accomplished, and in any case, I can speak and read both French and German fluently. Although Mother doesn’t think of that as much of an accomplishment, since the French and Germans do it all the time.” Tabitha realized she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop. “All accomplishments are for is catching husbands and if dancing and painting and embroidering are all that husbands want, I don’t want one. I’d much rather have one who appreciates French and German. And perhaps Latin. I’d really like to learn Latin. But can’t you see Father? Living with Aunt Hilsida will be the most awful thing I can even imagine. Could you imagine anything worse than living with Aunt Hilsida? Please Father, please. Don’t send me to live with her. Please!” Tabitha’s voice had been steadily rising until on the last word she was particularly emphatic enough that her face did indeed take on an expression of pleading despair.
Her father looked at her for a long moment, his moustache casting strange shadows on his face, before saying:
“No.”
He then turned away and appeared to forget her presence in his study.
In a shocked daze, Tabitha left her father’s presence. She was back in her room before she realized what had just happened, what her father had just said.
No.
The solidity of the word weighed down on her as if it were as heavy as her father himself.
No.
He had not said anything else to the purpose. There would be no reprieve. She would be sent to live with Aunt Hilsida. There were no longer any other options.
And Tabitha, who had never hated anyone in her life, began to hate her father.
It was quite strange, really. She had never hated her mother, even through the long weary years of her blather and her empty-headed attempts to make her a lady, even though she had been the one to first think of sending Tabitha away to Aunt Hilsida. Tabitha couldn’t hate her mother, because that’s just who her mother was. But her father—
Tabitha hadn’t even realized how much she expected from her father until he had completely disappointed her. And so she hated him for what she had wanted him to be, and what he had actually turned out to be.
She made a promise then, that she would never ever again speak to her father. It shouldn’t be that hard, really, since she had gone nearly thirteen years of her life without doing it so far. She vowed it to herself and used a pin to prick her finger so that she could let one drop of blood fall on her candle flame.
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