♦️ The Scholar's Suitor ♦️ (Edith Farthingale: Her Past)

[emptyanima]

♦️ The Scholar's Suitor ♦️

I

It had been the dreariest November, before they met. Edith strode briskly through Shadewell, one of the finer districts of Paridon, carrying several books. Bundled in her arms were Mordentish lexicons, tomes of dusty arithmetic and fragmented histories of the various mysterious lands of the Core. She was clothed, as always, practically, but with an eye to style in her own small way. Her shoes were dainty and flat, and she wore a long, pale blue day dress; the shoulders were ruched as was the prevailing style, while her cuffs and collar were subtly frilled. Her hair was pinned up, the style exceedingly simple, and contained within the confines of a large-brimmed hat, lacking fanciful trappings and adornments. Her dress was whipped about her legs by a prevailing breeze, and while she did her utmost to keep them covered, occasionally passersby could catch a glimpse of her blue stockings.

It was in this manner, so dressed and carrying her books, her mousy features pressed into a look of determination, that she was espied from the swinging compartment of a passing hansom cab, as it careened down the foggy, cobbled street, accompanied by the rhythmic, percussive steps of the black geldings which pulled it. As Edith came upon the object of her search--her prized Penny-farthing (a curious bicycle with a large front wheel and a tiny one at the rear), mounting it as she adjusted her grip on her books, she glanced up at the passing hansom; her eyes met those of another. They were greyish-blue, common among Zherisian folk, and framed by golden strands of hair. Beneath them, a firm nose, strong jaw, and lips quirked into a curious smile. A moment later, the cab had passed on. Taking only a moment to reflect upon this event, Edith continued on her way. Within the hansom, a man mused upon the bookish woman, but made no mention of it to his dutiful driver as he was taken to his business.

♦️

"So, Master Merryweather, can you please conjugate 'être', to be, for me? Only in the indicative mood and present tense, for now." Edith smiled pleasantly to her student, a shy red-headed boy whose youthful cheeks were adorned with freckles.

"Oh, yes, Miss Farthingale-- Je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous êtes, il... s-s..." Edith's smile remained as the boy struggled with his High Mordentish grammar.

"Sont, Master Merryweather, but a bold effort nonetheless." She cleared her throat and was turning a page when there was a knock at the door. Another of the house staff answered it, and in swanned Mrs Merryweather. She was dressed rather lavishly, her hat elaborate, and her steps were accompanied by the potent scent of rosewater. She turned her gaze on Edith, speaking with an authoritative tone.

"Miss Farthingale, how is Francis progressing?" She did not smile, or even look at the boy as she spoke, seeming to be asking out of expectation rather than any true wish to know.

"Very well, Mrs Merryweather. His High Mordentish is improving nicely."

"Good," said Mrs Merryweather, with an air of disinterest, before continuing, "Oh, Miss Farthingale, a dear friend of mine has invited me to share afternoon tea with her at her residence. Watch Francis for two hours more, yes, and see to it that he is properly fed."

Edith opened her mouth to protest, but promptly shut it and nodded submissively.

"As you wish, madam." As Mrs Merryweather turned on her heel, Francis looked at Edith with an expression of confusion writ on his boyish features. As his mother closed the door behind her, he spoke, befuddled.

"Miss Farthingale. I do not want to be contrary... but didn't you say that you are as apt at cooking as Vlad Drakov is at capturing Darkon?" Edith could not conceal a smile at that.

"That is correct, Master Merryweather, though I have no desire to make your mother cross. Although, if I might speak candidly, she seems to forget that I am not merely a scullery maid who knows her letters." Francis giggled naughtily.

"It is quite alright, Miss Farthingale, don't worry about that, I shall have to raid the pantry while mama is entertaining her friends." A thought crossed Edith's mind, and with it, a frown crossed her features.

"Does your mother ever speak to you about your studies, Master Merryweather?" The little man wore a thoughtful expression, then shook his head.

"Not often, only when your are here, usually, Miss Farthingale. My mother does not speak to me much at all. And Daddy is much too busy to waste time on childish nonsense."

"Come now, did he say this?" Francis nodded bashfully. Edith exhaled gently, approaching her charge and kneeling beside him so that their faces were level. "Tell me, Master Merryweather, what would you like to learn next?"

"Will you tell me more about Vlad Drakov, Miss Farthingale?"

"Of course, my dear little man, as the master desires."

[emptyanima]

II

Later that night, within a popular haunt, Edith had sequestered herself into a quiet corner, pen in hand. She observed a circle of gentlemen sat about a table, absorbed in all manner of learned discussion. The mousy scholar quietly noted arguments and rebuttals, common fallacies and more, when presently, she paused. Her gaze was drawn to another fellow, who was taking one of the last unoccupied seats at the table. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as she realised that she recognised him as the man from the hansom cab that cool morning.

As he set himself down, he paid a cursory glance to his surroundings, he also paused, the same recognition evident in his expression. The two nodded in acknowledgement of the other, but neither moved from their adopted places. She listened attentively for a few minutes more, when their discussion began to grow a little louder.

"Oh, what was that Dementlieuse fellow's name? The one with the morbid books on pain and sensation?"

"De Hyperbole?" One offered sheepishly.

"Oh, heavens no... de Pernibble?" Edith rose from her seat, approaching the table.

"If I might be so bold as to interject... his name is François de Penible, and he is Richemuloise, not Dementlieuse. It is a common mistake, so do not fret."

Discontented grumblings circulated about the table, when presently, the man from the hansom stood.

"Will you join us, miss?" Edith smiled.

"I should like to very much, sir." The man pulled back the last remaining chair and motioned to her to sit. "It is good to meet you all-- my name is Edith Farthingale." A few more half-hearted murmurings came, while beside her sounded clearly the words;

"Silas Carrington. A pleasure, Miss Farthingale."

♦️

One by one, the gentlemen scholars took their leave, and eventually only Edith and Silas remained. As the evening advanced, they discussed various topics; philosophy, history, literature and more besides. They turned eventually to more personal matters, though there was no manner of impropriety between them. Edith told Silas of her occupation as a governess of children, and how she was often treated no differently than those below stairs. Edith had often struggled with stigma, being one of the newly-emerging middle class. As for Silas, he was in his father's business; daguerreotype boxes. Edith found the idea to be an exciting one.

"Although, Miss Farthingale, were I truly free, I would not be involved with any manner of business at all. I would explore the world at my leisure. Perhaps, once the business is more secure, you would accompany me?"

"That sounds wondrous, Mr. Carrington. Truly splendid." Presently, Edith's eyes were drawn to the pocket watch which poked out of Silas' breast pocket. Following her gaze, he withdrew it and cleared his throat.

"It is now thirty-two minutes past ten, Miss Farthingale."

"Good heavens, really? I shall have to make my way home. I pray that it is not too dark."

"Nonsense, Miss Farthingale. I would be remiss as a gentleman to leave you unassisted in your plight. I shall see you escorted safely in my hansom." Edith studied Silas quietly for several moments, smiling. She could find no trace of malice nor ill intent in his countenance.

"Thank you, Mr. Carrington-- I shall accept your generous offer. I have only one question."

"Voice it, Miss Farthingale."

"Is there room for a Penny-farthing, perhaps?"

♦️

As the hansom cab rolled through the dark and foggy streets, Edith and Silas did not speak further. The lamplighters had long since completed their work, and as they swayed past each lamppost, their weary smiling faces were briefly illuminated. Their silence was comfortable, the sort of silence that can happily nestle itself between old friends. At last, the hansom reached Edith's humble abode, a modest townhouse with little by way of decoration-- through the windowpane, however, it was clear that the drawing room was crammed wall-to-wall with mahogany bookcases.

As the driver opened the door, the warm air was dragged from the cab, eliciting an involuntary shudder from the sleepy lady-scholar. Silas helped her to descend the steps that were set beneath the cab.

"It was a true pleasure to meet you, Miss Farthingale. I very much hope that we shall see each other again. Perhaps pore over your collection of well-loved tomes?" Edith's sleepy smile seemed to grow a little more.

"A splendid idea. Thank you for the enlightening conversation, Mr. Carrington, and the pleasant company."

"I wish you a pleasant evening, dear lady. May I...?" He gently took her hand in his, lifting it to his chin. She gave him a nod, her smile remaining firmly fixed. He planted a chaste kiss atop her gloved hand, his own exuding a pleasant warmth in the evening chill. At that moment, the driver set down Edith's Penny-farthing. She demurely withdrew her hand and went to wheel it to safety, sparing a glance over her shoulder to smile at Silas, a look which he happily returned.

As she went to open the door to her home, something slid out of the base of her glove. A soft thud drew Edith's attentions downward, to her doorstep. Gold lettering, gleaming in the low light, could be read upon the little card that lay there. There was an address written there, followed by a familiar name.

Silas Carrington.

[emptyanima]

III

As the weeks passed, Edith and Silas were kept mostly apart by poor luck and circumstance, despite their wishes. Finally, one evening, there was a knock upon the scholar's door. She rose from her desk and opened it, greeting her visitor with a wide smile. Mr. Carrington stood there, his coat tails blown about in the evening breeze, his fair hair and bowler hat coated with a dusting of snow.

"Oh, do come in, Mr. Carrington. I shall make you some tea, if you partake of it."

"My dear woman, I could not in good conscience consider myself to be Zherisian if I did not." The two shared a smile for a moment, before Edith gave him a nod, closing the door behind him as he entered, before walking briskly to prepare the tea.

Silas meanwhile, at Edith's behest, made himself comfortable on a slightly faded sofa nestled between two of the mahogany bookcases he had previously espied. He took in the busy, but not messily decorated room. A large Rajan rug lay in pride of place upon the floor at the room's centre. Above her desk hung a simple carved figure, depicting a stylised human figure within a squared circle. It was a symbol he'd seen displayed many times upon visits to his friends; the symbol of the school of thought that was spreading throughout the city of Paridon-- that of the Divinity of Mankind.

Presently, Edith returned, with a pair of teacups rattling upon a tray, encircled by saucers, a teapot, tea-strainer, sugar bowl, a jug of milk and several silver spoons. She set them down with a smile and began to prepare each cup to its imbiber's liking. Silas cleared his throat, before saying, "I think that explains a great deal about you, Miss Farthingale."

"Yes, Mr. Carrington?" He motioned to the figure on the wall.

"I did not realise that you were one of their celebrants."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Carrington. I have only recently begun to attend their lessons on attaining divinity of self, but I am finding that I greatly enjoy it, particularly the opportunity it affords me to reflect."

"To reflect, Miss Farthingale?" She nodded, kneeling down upon the rug. She reached for a candle, setting it before her and lighting it. Their eyes met briefly as she looked over the flame.

"Do as I do-- if I might be so bold as to ask." Silas nodded, smiling amusedly as he mimicked her stance. Her voice softened to a soothing whisper. "Focus inwardly, Mr. Carrington. Consider what you have learned, what you have seen and felt this day. Consider it afresh, and how it might lead you to be improved."

Silas closed his eyes, still smiling, though soon the contemplative soul-searching that she encouraged struck him. He did indeed consider these things, and looking ever deeper, he saw the secrets of his heart looking back at him. A face. Her face. Silas shuddered. Drawn from her own contemplation by his movements, Edith frowned faintly in concern. "Is everything alright, Mr. Carrington?" He leaned forward, bringing a hand to her cheek gently.

"Yes, my dear Edie, all is well."

The sudden intimacy of hearing him call her this name, feeling his hand upon her cheek, and sensing that his eyes were drawn to her lips... it all shook Edith to her core, revealing to herself her own depth of feeling which, however sudden, was clear and pure. And with this mutual affection silently realised, the pair shared a chaste, but loving kiss.

♦️

In the months that followed, all was well. They spoke together, waxing lyrical upon matters of philosophy for hours at a time. They danced together, with Silas promising that even when they were of riper years, and their bodies were failing, that they would still dance like this. They would sit together, at times reflecting, at times simply enjoying silent companionship.

Silas proposed. Edith accepted.

But would their happiness last?

[emptyanima]

IV

For several months, it did. With a handful of her treasured companions, plans were made for Edith and Silas’ wedding. It would be a simple affair— for simple is what Edith liked best. A new dress was tailored to her form, a beautiful flowing white gown, with panels of lace and ribbons of blue.

It hung, ready, in her armoire, and each time she looked upon it, she gave a helpless smile. Each night, before she slept, she would regard it, and imagine what it would be like to be Silas’ wife. She would be dutiful, she had decided, in all things. She had found herself somewhat overwhelmed by Silas’ family. They were loquacious and well-mannered, but she sensed in them some unspoken disapproval. Perhaps, she thought, they believed her too plain for a man of such prospects. Despite this, Silas remained devoted. They danced, dreamed, and delighted in private kisses, though nothing more, for that would have been much too improper. With the memory of one such kiss still dancing upon her lips, Edith straightened out the gown and dressed for bed.

That night, however, was to be more auspicious than she could ever have known.

♦️

She woke with a start, alerted from her slumber by a great ruckus at the front door. She pulled a shawl about her shoulders, not wanting to answer the door in a state of undress (for no lady would ever wish to answer the door garbed only in her nightgown) and hurried downstairs.

Her dear Silas greeted her with a smile. His visage however, was pale. Eager to practice her marital duties, she helped him to settle beside the fireplace, removing the guard to allow him to bask in the fulness of its warming glow. A thousand questions leapt to her lips, but she stopped them, saying only,

“I shall make some tea.”

Setting the painted china in his hands, she regarded him with expectation written on her features. He lifted a hand to her cheek, smiling faintly.

“My dear Edie, do not fret for me, or think me mad, but I saw faces staring at me from the fog, or at least I believe that I did.” He paused, kissing her cheek as Edith trembled. “Everything will be alright, I am sure. It is likely that, weary as I am, I merely leapt at shadows.” She held him silently, his hand tracing gently over her back for several minutes. Finally, Silas said, “I’ll take my leave for now— I’ve already imposed upon your hospitality enough, especially at this unsociable hour, dearest.” Edith smiled.

“My door is always welcome to you, Silas.” Much more at ease, Silas excused himself, closing the door behind him with an easy smile.

A smile soon torn from his face.

[emptyanima]

V

She could not place exactly when this change had begun, and that is what frightened the lady-scholar most. His visits had become more infrequent, and when he did deign to share his presence with her, she felt a gulf ever-growing between them. There was a coldness about him, something new and alien. No longer did he dance with her, embrace her, or murmur fragments of Mordentish poetry in her ear.

Each time she saw it, Edith grew to regard that beautiful gown with trepidation. Fear took hold of her mind, her heart. Fears that she only dared speak to herself in solitude—

“He comes from a fine family, with excellent prospects. Perhaps he, like his family, has come to regret his proposal. For what am I? I am a simple governess, and yet he is too much a gentleman to break off our engagement. Perhaps he simply does not want to invite scandal and rumour upon me… or upon himself.”

♦️

So came that night.

He had resigned himself to another visitation to the lady-scholar’s modest home. Edith regarded him silently, pale hands trembling as she wrapped them about her teacup. His visage was perhaps the coldest and most detached that it had ever been. At last, he spoke, with an air of disinterest.

“You quiver like a caged bird, Edith. What has seized that overactive imagination of yours?”

Edith stared down into her teacup, her eyes misting.

“Oh, Silas… you never call me Edith. I have always been Edie to you.” With a sob, all the fears she had kept hidden spilled from her lips. “If I might speak candidly to you, the man I am to wed… oh, Silas… has your heart turned from mine? Do you regret attaching yourself to one so meek and plain? I beg you, love, if that is the case, then let us make a clean severance.”

The lady-scholar’s cheeks were hot, her heart thudding in her ears. She wrestled with emotion— the love she felt for the man before her on one side, the fear that he did not return that love on the other. Silas’ expression was at once both thunderous and detached. He rose from his seat, approaching Edith with predatory strides. Reaching her, he brought a hand to her cheek. A glimmer of hope flared within Edith’s breast.

“I tire of pretence. You are meek, and you are plain, and while you are at least aware of your shortcomings…” Edith’s hope failed, his touch no longer gentle— his nails digging into her cheek as he spoke further, “You… woman… I revile you.”

Numb with heartbreak and disbelief, her world crumbling around her, Edith only became aware of the lengthening fingers after several moments. She looked into the face of the man she loved, and before her, it changed. It was an utterly nightmarish metamorphosis, and his grip on her was tightening all the while. Slowly but surely, his features became dewy, dripping like molten wax, gradually losing most definition. Eventually, the face that she loved was gone. All that remained were two yellow eyes, with slitted pupils through which to see, a slight suggestion of a nose, and a thin mouth pressed into a grim smile. What stood before her was a mockery of humanity.

Edith’s misery turned to fear. She had learnt a little of such creatures during her time training with the other celebrants of the Divinity of Mankind. Creatures derided by some and pitied by others. Silas had been claimed by one of them— a doppelganger. The creature dragged its nails across her pallid cheek. Edith spoke meekly.

“What have you done with him, creature?”

It gave a low, almost-human laugh.

“I have taken his place, woman. The carcass you loved… he is just that, a carcass, a corpse.” The creature almost spat the words as Edith tore herself away. She made first for the door, but the lock was much too unwieldy to open before the creature would be upon her. She turned and bolted up the stairs— perhaps she could slip out of the window? The doppelganger was close behind her, and she felt its breath brush the back of her neck. She burst into her bedroom, rushing to the window.

Those freakish long fingers wrapped themselves about her shoulders, pulling Edith with inhuman force to her bed. Gripped by fear, Edith struggled to draw upon her training, for it required a deeper focus. She wrestled with the beast as it sought to destroy her.

In that moment, she resolved within herself that she would not die, not that night. She would not let it claim her face as it had taken her beloved’s, to drape across its features like a flag upon a conquered fortress. She pushed the doppelganger into her armoire— sorrow welled within her as the wedding gown tumbled out. It overwhelmed her. What use was it now? Silas was dead, and his death had been drawn out by the creature’s ruse. She was brought back to the terrible present as the doppelganger threw her against the floor, and as they continued to fight, the dress was torn this way and that, and stained with blood as Edith was continually scratched. With tears in her eyes, Edith tried to find refuge from the bloody chaos, if only for a moment, to draw upon what she had been taught. It was a risk she had to take— if she continued without, she’d be overwhelmed, though the pause may have been enough to seal her fate. It wrapped its fingers around her neck tightly, siphoning the air from her corseted chest. 

Within her mind, fragments of instruction echoed. She saw a faint, kindly face, if marred by ritualistic scarification. It was one that she knew. Though he was not one of the celebrants, the words the Rajan fakir had shared were wise, and they played in her mind now.

Your mind must be as a fortress, Miss Farthingale, and your spirit ironclad. Only in this, will you find strength.

Edith drove her fist into the creature’s half-formed face, sending it reeling back. This gave her just enough time to stand.

“Give up, mere woman. Your promised is dead, and you are nought but a poor, plain creature. I’ll use your visage so well…”

The creature lunged forward as Edith tried to bolt for the door— it took hold of her about the hips, hurtled forward, and threw her down the stairs. Her world swirled and blurred around her while her head bled. She was at once both numb and in great, unspeakable pain.

I am going to die, she thought. Oh, Silas! Was your death anything like this? Almost overcome with despair, she began to embrace the darkness that moved across her sight, heralding the slow descent into unconsciousness, for then there would be no pain at the end.

[emptyanima]

VI

But within her, that determination, that perseverance, continued to glow. Oh, what a test this was! Surely, if she could overcome it, it would be yet more proof of the great potential of man? Yes… Silas would want this for her, she was certain of that. Slowly, painfully, Edith clung to the bookcase beside her, dragging herself up onto the balls of her feet. That almost-human laugh sounded once more.

“Your determination is admirable, but misplaced. You shall only suffer more if you struggle.”

Edith inched back, still reeling, still bleeding. She drew a blank. It was clear that she would not be able to best the creature with force alone— she lacked the strength and practice for that. Into the drawing room she continued with backward steps, her gaze never leaving the mockery of mankind before her. Her breaths were laboured, her spirit wrestling with her weary body. The creature, not in the least bit deterred, lunged for her once more. 

The seed of an idea germinated, took root, and flourished within the lady-scholar’s mind. She took hold of the fire guard, pulling it back as though opening the entrance to hell, and with that same momentum, she threw herself to one side. Had she moved a moment later, she would have joined the creature in the furnace.

It gave a terrible scream as the flames engulfed its near-featureless form. Edith closed her eyes, bringing a hand over her mouth and nose to keep herself from gagging at the stench, and fainted.

♦️

It was only when she came to that she permitted herself to weep, unbridled. She could scarcely believe what had transpired that night— in fact, a large part of her hoped against hope that the whole affair had been a horrid dream, truly the effect of an overactive imagination.

The stench in the room told her otherwise. Limping and bruised, Edith rose, taking in the chaos that had overcome the home she once held dear. She peered fearfully into each little nook and cranny, and found herself trembling at shadows.

It was all too clear. Edith could not remain here. And then, a thought seized her.

They will believe that I killed him!

The poor woman was overcome in her grief by that thought. Bedraggled, in a fit of panic, she packed a small case. A few simple dresses, a handful of books and other necessities. A small number of personal effects, her portfolio chief among them. Having made herself look somewhat more presentable, Edith tore through the early hours of the Zherisian morning, paying no heed to whatever terrors might await in the thick fog. Whatever they were, they deigned to let her flee.

The lady-scholar was bound for the Core.