outside the lines ., edward

[clare abernathy]

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Clare peered back at the reflection of a stranger. Resignation was etched upon her features, heralding her defeat in a battle she had never truly fought. Her eyes appeared glassy and distant; her complexion sallow and waxen. The blue silk gown she wore hung loosely where feminine curves had once been. Reaching for the silver brush, Clare paused to pull the mass of hairs that had become trapped within its bristles the last time she had combed through her once-silky tresses. With practiced ease, she smoothed her hair back and fashioned it into a simple chignon.

Her aunt had insisted that they go into town, claiming that the fresh air and sun would help improve Clare’s constitution. Fatigue washed over in thick waves and Clare gripped the edge of the vanity to keep from falling. The power of such episodes had increased in passing weeks. Where they had once ebbed quickly and were easily forgotten they now threatened to pull her beneath their tide and never release her. If she were truthful, the days were increasing where she wished that would happen.

A cough spasmed through her, causing Clare to tremble long after it had ended. Her slender fingers massaged her throat in a vain attempt to ease the pain that had radiated from there since she had first arrived at the country estate over a month ago. At first she had been able to play off the illness as fatigue from the journey, then it was the unease she felt regarding the curious glances and whispers she was certain their friends cast her way at the parties she attended. Despite her parents hope that Clare would be able to escape the scandal by leaving London and Edward behind, some stories were impossible for others not to share.

The mere thought of Edward was enough to cause her thumb to absently massage the vacant space her engagement ring had once occupied. Clare deliberately avoided thoughts of him now. They were a waste of her time. He had made his intentions known that warm Sunday afternoon at her home when he had walked away, and she had ensured he knew she understood when she sent the ring back to his London home.

“Clare, darling, are you almost ready?” came the voice her aunt Ruth from down the hall, chasing away the anger and desolation before it had a chance to overtake Clare. Edward had abandoned her after he promised he never would. He had never asked her what had really happened, opting to accept the rumors and conclusions of others instead. If he had ever known or loved her at all, Clare knew he never would have had to ask.

With a final glance in the mirror, Clare smoothed her skirts and went to meet her aunt in the foyer.

- - - - -

Clare felt as though her heart would explode as she hurried behind her aunt. The earlier wave of fatigue had yet to ease and she was beginning to worry. With each step the ground slanted dangerously, her vision blurring. Black specks slowly overtook her world and Clare leaned against the wall for support. “Aunt Ruth?” she called weakly. “Could we return home? I’m feeling weak…”

With those words, Clare’s world slipped into blackness. [/ul][/blockquote][/size]

[edward hawthorne]

The envelope had been the final word between him and Clare. It arrived at his home and immediately he recognized the fluid curls of the handwriting. When he reached for it from the silver platter, his father instructed for the servant to bring it to him. He watched as delicate ring rolled out from the paper and into his father’s palm. His long fingers enclosed it like a deadly trap. “How could that girl be so negligent?! Sending your grandmother’s sapphire ring back in an envelope? Any fool with thieving hands could have taken it! If you had remembered – “

”We have it, don’t we? It’s all over now.

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His father made some sort of grunt of indifference and placed the envelope on the stand beside him. He took up the newspaper again and grimaced. ”I’ve had enough of these damn gossip reports. Pick some of your friends and get out of London.”

”What?”

His father stood, pointing the rolled up newspaper at him. ”I won’t have you wandering around just giving more reason for these incessant articles to be published. Besides, it’s hunting season. The exercise will be good for you. You’re leaving, tomorrow.” And without anything more, his father left with Edward’s future decided for him once again.

Edward stayed seated, staring at his clasped hands. The silent room bated, waiting for him. She had given back the ring. So, it was true. He knew he would have to forget it, and move on. Like everyone else had, like she had. He scrunched up his brow and took one deep sigh. He would go to the country and forget.

As he left the room, he slipped the empty envelope into his coat pocket.

- - - - - - -

”Do you think Mary Craybridge is hiding anything beneath that large skirt?” Frederick Russell asked with an impish smirk as they sauntered down the lane. ”You mean your virginity?” Henry Lennox said with a raised eyebrow. Frederick shoved Henry, almost knocking him into the aforementioned Miss Craybridge. Edward laughed along -- glad of their company even if they were as mature as a pack of squirrels. They had joined him after two weeks of what felt like solitary confinement with his mind on Clare.

He had thought he saw her once -- a couple of weeks after his friends had arrived. But the girl had been too thin and had stepped away and into a shop. But after his friends had pulled him away, the lurch in his chest remained as a bruise.

When he thought back on it – he and Clare really had not many moments together. He knew what he had liked about Clare, but he was already beginning to forget the details of her. In all reality, he knew Frederick and Henry better. Perhaps it was all for the better, like his friends tried to convince him. Maybe it was all meant to end like this.

”You both going on the hunt today?” asked Henry. Edward began to nod when he heard a shift in the air, a murmur. He turned to see a woman fallen, a small gathering of people around her. Suddenly he was back in the alleyway on his engagement night. He could only see the crease of fabric and brown hair. The woman was lifted, and the people parted for him to see an ashen, sleeping face.

Henry shifted beside him. ”Is that…”
It felt as if knuckles kneaded into the bruise in his chest. “Clare!” Edward moved to run forward, but he felt a grasp on his arm holding him back. He turned to see Frederick, a solemn expression on his usual smirking countenance.
“Edward, don’t do this.”
“Let me go!” he turned, tugging his arm.
“Remember what she did to you! If you can’t, we all saw it. I’m sure Henry and I would be able to remind you.” He gripped Edward’s arm harder, as if it would force him to recall that night.
“She’s hurt!”
“And she doesn’t need you.”
“But I – “
“She’s a whore Edward! A whore! Leave her!” Frederick exploded, his fingers bone white around Edward’s navy sleeve. Stunned, Edward looked away for a silent moment as Clare’s aunt and a servant hurried her wasting body away.
“I need to know.” He jerked his arm hard out of Frederick’s clasp and ran towards Clare’s aunt.

She saw him and issued the servant to carry on ahead. He looked frantically from the servant back to the woman. “Oh my dear boy,” she said -- worry carving a mask on her aristocratic features. ”I think it’d be best if you didn’t come, for both of you.” He gritted his teeth and issued only a soft ”Please,” as he held his gaze with her. She pursed her mouth and then finally nodded.

He stepped into the bright room just as the servants began to close the curtains. Clare had been placed beneath thick blankets – a bead of sweat trickled from her brow along the camber of her cheek. Dark smudges of purple deepened the arcs of her eyes. The last window leaked a pale light onto her skin, as if the color of sea beaten rocks. The curtain was closed, the dark, immense.

He moved closer, listening to the ragged breaths she tore against the air. He sat onto a chair beside her, the groans of the wood indistinguishable from the creaks of his bones. As he sat hunched, he pulled a worn, folded envelope from his pocket. He rubbed his thumb over the elegant swoop of handwriting, as if attempting to trace them to the prints of his fingers.
Finally a candle was lit, and the golden hues sank into the angles of her face. He watched her, dying. A burn scalded his throat, and he moved to reach for her, but paused. He looked up to her aunt, “Will she awake?” She wrung a lace handkerchief between her hands. ”I-I don’t know. We called for a doctor but he’s out of town.”

”Please use ours.” The aunt smiled softly and nodded. ”Talk to her, see if she wakens,” she said before exiting the room.

He looked back to Clare, her chestnut hair as a halo around her head. He didn’t speak, afraid to worsen her somehow. “I wish I knew you Clare, ” he whispered, as he moved to hold her hand. It was cold and unfamiliar. He waited to feel that gentle squeeze back he knew. But there was nothing, except the rattle of her lungs.

”You cannot leave me. Open your eyes, open your eyes,” he repeated over again like a prayer, never realizing his cheeks were wet.
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[clare abernathy]

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The sun was warm against her arms, and Clare tipped her parasol back slightly allowing the early afternoon rays to kiss her cheeks. Soft rose-coloured blossoms broke through the verdant canopy; a carpet of vibrant crocuses teasing the borders of the path they were walking along. Edward paused suddenly, stooping to pluck one of the delicate white flowers. He stared at it for a moment, watching the head bob as he twirled the stem between his fingers. Clare said nothing, feigning interest in a pair of sparrows pecking at the ground before them, but her thoughts were on Edward.

There were moments where she caught him watching her, his brow knit together in contemplation. It was the same expression he had as a child when he was cornered in chess or trying to solve a puzzle. She often wished she could ask him what he was thinking about but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. She was afraid of the answer. “For you,” he said softly, slipping the flower behind her ear, his finger lingering on an errant curl that had escaped from its pinning. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her, watching every interaction between the two of them; Clare murmured her thanks and turned to continue down the path once more. As she turned, Edward’s hand claimed hers. With that gentle touch all else dissipated as though it had been made of smoke. All Clare was aware of was the gentle press of his hand around hers. When he had whispered that he loved her, she squeezed his hand in response, unable to find the words to tell him how she felt.

- - - - -

The door of the sick room swung open, the light from the hallway spilling across the dark floorboards and across the bed. “She’s in here,” Clare’s Uncle Broderick was saying as he ushered the doctor into the room. “I’m afraid my niece has not been herself for some time. I would ask that you direct any questions about her condition to me. My wife tends to be less pragmatic where these things are concerned.” The doctor chuckled as he set his worn leather case on the bedside table. “Ah yes, such is the plight of all women.”

“Indeed,” Broderick murmured in response, no longer paying attention to the doctor but to the young man at his niece’s side. He did not need an introduction to know who it was, Edward’s tear-stained cheeks more poignant than words. Broderick sighed and motioned to the door. “Come with me, boy. The doctor needs privacy to conduct his examination of her.”

Broderick didn’t speak as he led Edward down the hallway and into his study. He didn’t bother to offer Edward a seat as he made his way to the rich mahogany bar and retrieved two crystal tumblers. “You look as though you could use a drink,” he began, pouring them each a glass of brandy. He took a sip from his own glass before crossing the room and handing Edward his. “You’re welcome to sit,” he said, gesturing toward a leather chair by a chess table, “but I will ask that you listen. I knew your father. I cannot say much in the way of kindness about him. To be frank, I was dubious about you and Clare. She is more than a niece to my wife and I, she is like a daughter and will do anything to assure her happiness.” He took another sip of his brandy, watching as Edward did the same.

Broderick paced away from Edward and toward the bookshelves lining the far wall. He traced his finger along the worn spine before continuing, his voice a soft rasp. “It was Clare who convinced me of your merit, but it appears that you deceived her well. Though I suppose that is what boys are good at. My own son told no shortage of lies to get what he wanted when he was a child. But he was a child, Master Hawthorne. By the time he was ready to marry he was a man. He made his own choices and suffered the consequences without my input. My wife will tell you that Clare is ailing of a broken heart – she has always waxed romantic.

“My niece is ill. I do not know how she will fair. Before I allow you into that room again I ask that you consider what it will mean to her if she awakens to find you by her side. I know you are a Hawthorne, but I would hope even you would have enough compassion to not break her heart again.” Broderick took a final sip of his brandy and set the empty tumbler on the bookshelf. “Take all the time you need, Edward. It is better to make a sound decision than a rash one.” Then, without awaiting a response, Broderick left the room.

- - - - -

The breeze had turned chilly, and Clare glanced toward Edward to see if he had noticed the change as well. He was gone, a trail of smoke all that remained from the place he had been only moments before. “Edward?” she called, but found that she had no voice. There was no warmth here, no light. Instead the world was cast in shadowed shades of gray. The garden was withered, flowers crumbling to ash beneath her touch. A tear slipped down her cheek as she watched her dreams slip away. You cannot leave me.

She didn’t want to stay, but she no longer knew her way home.
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