-- one life , jackson

[genevieve whittier]

There were moments when Genevieve Whittier was certain she was nothing more than a ghost; her life consumed by finding ways to live half-alive. Even now, beneath the heavy green silk of her gown, his hands remained as an ugly purple and blue tapestry upon her skin. Each shallow breath she took was a reminder of her husband, bruising and chaffing. Despite his physical absence, Reginald’s shadow still loomed across the tattered and faded remnants of her life. Reginald was away on business, and while Genevieve usually accompanied him, this time had been different. There would be no other wives there for her to sit with and sip tea and practice needlepoint with while he conducted his business affairs. Men were the only ones to be found at railway camps, and Reginald was certain that they would all be desperate for female companionship. So the decision was made for Genevieve to remain in London, Reginald’s presence relegated to deep bruises.

She had grown accustomed to his assaults, learning her role and determining how to perform over the course of their marriage. But last night had been different. Her hands trembled at the memory causing the spoon she was holding to rattle against the teacup as she added milk and sugar. The metallic taste of blood remained fresh, spoiling her breakfast, but she dared not chance not eating what had been placed in front of her. There was no escaping Reginald’s scrutiny; the distance between them did not matter. His pockets ran deep, and Genevieve was certain that he compensated the household staff well to report on her actions. She had no allies. Try as she might, Genevieve had been unable to escape into the safe confines of her mind. Each moment, each thought were dedicated to her husband, and she was certain that had been his plan all along.

In the early days of their marriage Genevieve had clung to the hope that if she worked hard enough she would be able to gain Reginald’s favour. When she had closed her eyes then she had been able to picture them sitting happily beside one another in the garden of the home, the sun fading to red on the horizon and the sound of their children playing a song upon the evening. Such warmth was impossible to envision with Reginald now; his every word and action were barbed with ice. His touch no longer inspired visions of beautiful children but fear for them. She knew Reginald blamed her for their lack of an heir, the empty nursery a silent testimony to her failings as a wife. It was nothing short of miraculous that Genevieve had not conceived. If there was a God, her barrenness was testimony that he heard her prayers.

“M’lady?” A hesitant voice broke through her thoughts, and Genevieve peered into the concerned face of one the housemaids. “Is everything a’right? Yer cryin’…” Genevieve remained silent as she pressed her hand to her cheek, feeling the cool dampness of her tears for the first time. It had been so long since she had last cried that Genevieve was certain that she’d forgotten how. “So I am,” she murmured, more to herself than the anxious maid. “It is nothing to be concerned with. I am well. I fear that I am not accustomed to being alone.” The maid said nothing, nodding slightly in response as the weight of Genevieve’s lie filled the room.

- - - - - -

There were only a handful of places that Reginald deemed to be safe for Genevieve to visit without his accompanying her; Mrs. Kingsley was amongst them. The elderly woman lived on the outskirts of the docklands in a small home that still showed remnants of its former glory but had since been eclipsed by larger, more modern buildings. Mrs. Kingsley was just as overshadowed as her home; her hands were twisted and gnarled with arthritis, her eyes a clouded blue. She had lost her husband to a heart attack and her only son had disappeared while on a military tour in Africa, but despite her trials, she had retained her vibrant personality, and Genevieve found herself looking forward to her visits with her. She enjoyed hearing the stories of the ghosts whose presence still haunted the small home. In many ways the elderly woman was her only friend.

Genevieve sat straight, staring ahead as her carriage made its way through the winding streets, her heart drumming an erratic rhythm in tandem with the horse’s hooves. What was wrong with her? Guilt swelled in her chest, restricting her breath further. Her visit to the cobbler’s had changed everything. She could still see his cerulean eyes, dark and clouded, peering at her curiously as he looked up her name in the ledger; feel his warm hands as he steadied her; hear his voice curve itself around her name: Mrs. Whittier. Genevieve hadn’t responded, merely nodding before collecting her shoes and slipping into the filmy London afternoon once more. The Mrs sealed her fate; there could be nothing more, and she was a fool to have believed that it could be. Still, there had been a moment, as she had stared into those shadowed eyes, that Genevieve had allowed herself to hope. As certain as she was that he would never remember her, she knew that she could never forget him. In the weeks that had passed she still longed to feel his comforting grasp; to remember how it felt to be safe in the arms of another. The betrayal in her thoughts had to be clear to anyone who looked at her. It explained Reginald’s anger. For the first time in their marriage, Genevieve was certain she deserved it. She was married and invisible, and not for the first time, she hated what her life had become.

After an eternity, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the dilapidated cottage. She waited until the door opened, Mr. Granley, the driver, standing at attention, before rising. Once outside, Genevieve carefully smoothed her skirts and tucked the thin handkerchief covering the charity basket she was carrying back into place. “Thank you, Granley.” She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not she was permitted to ask the driver if he would be staying or not. Her mother would surely chastise her for being afraid of a servant, but Granley was more than that. He was Reginald’s right hand, reporting on all of the household goings on. Her every movement was carefully scrutinized by him, and Genevieve knew that Reginald compensated him well for his loyalty. “Will you be staying today? Mrs. Kingsley is so fond of you; I think she views you as a son of sorts.” Granley cleared his throat and straightened his cap. “I’ve got another appointment to keep. Do send my regards. I shall be back to collect you at four, if that pleases you.” Genevieve nodded once before scurrying toward the door.

She didn’t knock before entering. Mrs. Kingsley was nearly blind and never locked her door as a result. Genevieve had once tried to caution the elderly widow against this, but Mrs. Kingsley had insisted that Genevieve was her only companion and any other shadow darkening her door was apt to be death himself. “Hello, Mrs. Kingsley,” Genevieve greeted warmly as she entered the small sitting room. Her wide skirts brushed against the dusty floors and seemed too large in the limited space. Genevieve often felt as though the room had been shrunk whenever she paid a visit. She always managed to fit, though, and the thought that there was one place in the world where she could still exist as herself brought a smile to her face as she placed the overflowing basket on a small sewing table to the right of the rickety rocking chair where Mrs. Kingsley was sitting. “I’ve brought you some sweet buns and jam this time. Oh, and a meat pie for dinner – our cook makes the most marvellous pies.” Most of the conversations Genevieve had with Mrs. Kingsley were one-sided, the elderly woman content to sit and listen to Genevieve prattle on about needlepoint and fabric swatches. The rare times that the other woman spoke was to inquire about another cup of tea or remind Genevieve that she deserved a better husband than Reginald. Those conversations only took place whenever Granley was absent, and for that Genevieve was grateful. Afternoons spent in Mrs. Kingsley’s company were not the most exciting, but they were an escape. Any moment where she could spread her wings were all she dared to hope for anymore.

Loud voices sounded outside, interrupting the serenity of the afternoon. Genevieve gasped, startled as the sound of something crashing to the ground echoed through the room. “Oh dear,” Mrs. Kingsley murmured, her voice nearly inaudible over the loud voice in the alleyway. “Not again.”

“Again?”

“Oh, yes. Ever since they opened the tavern there seems to be no end to the arguments that find their way to my backdoor. Though it’s not usually so early that it happens …”

“Why did you not say something to me sooner? I could have spoken to my husband –”

“Oh, my dear, we both know that I am not the sort that he likes to bully.” Genevieve bit her lip and glanced toward the dirty window. How was it that the only person capable of seeing the truth about Reginald, couldn’t see the colour of her own shoes? “Well, I will not just sit here and allow them to terrorize you.”

“Drunken men are no better than the wailing of an alley cat. If you leave him be, they will eventually move on.”

“Surely you cannot expect me to do nothing.”

“There is nothing to be done.”

Another crash echoed through the room, and Mrs. Kingsley’s grip tightened around the arms of her rocking chair. The sound seemed to drain the elderly woman of the little vitality she had left. As she regarded her sole friend, Genevieve’s mind was made up. “I shall return directly.” She made her way across the small room, pausing in the kitchen long enough to fill a small wooden bucket with water from the rusted basin. Opening the door she stepped into the alley and glared at the quarrelling men. Her heart was in her throat as he lips parted to speak, but no words came. Instead she raised the bucket and threw the water towards them with all the strength she could muster. A sharp curse followed, both men turning to glare at her.

And then she saw him. His cerulean eyes bright even as rivulets of water dripped across his cheek. “Are you daft, woman?” his companion called out. “I should teach you a lesson!”

“And I should hope that you would have manners enough to know not to frighten defenceless women!”

“I’ll show you how I can defend ya!”

Even as the other man moved toward her, Genevieve could not turn away from the piercing blue eyes of a stranger. Her saviour.

[jackson warren]

He had one day off a week from Mister Sullivan’s and he usually liked to spend it getting a meat pie and watching the boats sail in along the Thames. He had found a spot along the river’s bend where the stench wasn’t as foul. For the first month he had worked at the cobbler’s he had been persuaded to attend church with the Sullivan family. Mister Sullivan was married to a plain, but kind woman with three daughters. It became obvious that they intended for their oldest, Mary, to become his betrothed. She was a soft, shy girl, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes.

“Mary, sit beside Mister Warren and help him with the hymns,” Mister Sullivan instructed, allowing his daughter to pass and sit next to Jackson at the end of the pew. She smiled timidly and caught his eyes for a half a moment before lowering her gaze to the ground. He gave a curt, but polite smile and moved further down to the end of the pew to allow her room to sit. They sat in heavy silence as she shuffled the pages of the hymnal book between her fingers.

“Have you attended this church before?” she asked faintly.
”No.”
She mouthed an “oh” and nodded, remaining silent.

He stared at the large wooden cross in the vestibule, looming over the flock of people sitting neatly in their pews. He remembered their church in Virginia, the brick walls from the years of Independence. He couldn’t recall what the priest had preached about, he had been too fixated on the profile of Annalee Oakland who sat in the next section. Her blonde hair tied up with a colored silk ribbon.

”Father O’Neil’s homily is always very inspiring. I've often felt the light of Him when listening to his sermon, maybe you will too."
Jackson looked up into the rafters. The expanse of the church vaulted into emptiness, their own bodies infinitesimally smaller than the mass of brick and mortar.

Jackson felt a vacancy gather inside of him. He was not solidified by faith, like the pure Mary Sullivan who was unwavered not in her belief but in holding Jackson’s own gaze. ”I don’t think so,” he declared, staring ahead. From the corner of his eye he could see her turn towards him, but she remained quiet and folded her hands in her lap.

He had lasted another three Masses before he told Mister Sullivan that his “cousin” wished for him to attend Mass in the East End with her. He wasn’t even Catholic. But he couldn’t face each Sunday in church, it was as if he was being mocked. He didn’t belong there.

So he sat on the muddy banks of the Thames, amidst the dark surroundings of the docklands, and let the church have their light. He got up and brushed the crumbs off his shirt and made his way into the labyrinth of alleyways.

Today would have been his brother’s birthday – he would have been twenty-seven had that bullet not found him. He idly wondered if his family would do anything to commemorate it back in Virginia. If they were all still there. Then he realized they all probably believed he was dead. His frowned and tried to shake the thought from his mind. What end did he believe he would find? To live each day as a shoe cobbler and die alone, eternally a stranger to London? He saw nothing but a bleak gray past tomorrow, a fog obscuring everything that would be. Anger rose within him, curling his fingers into the flesh of his palm and pressing tight against his head.

”Watch where ye’re goin’ Yank!” Someone yelled as Jackson walked by without running into anyone. He turned, curious as to how they knew he was American, when he saw a brawny dockworker by the name of Tom. Last week he had kissed a redheaded young woman by the name of Anne, who apparently belonged to this Tom.

Jackson’s fist plummeted into Tom’s face before realizing what had happened. The lad stepped back stunned but it didn’t take long for him to start retaliating. He was a dockworker and an East End boy, fighting was survival and for times like these, Jackson was glad of it. He punched Tom in the stomach, knocking him backwards against the building but Tom was quick, and rebounded with a fist to Jackson’s jaw. He tasted blood against the slick cut of his lip. They grappled at each other, Tom hitting him several times in the head as Jackson punched back. And then, Jackson and Tom were wet, cold and confused.

They stopped and looked over to the mouth of the alleyway. A young woman with flaxen hair stood defiantly, the empty bucket in her hand. A shock coursed through his already charged body as he realized he knew her.

”Are you daft, woman? I should teach you a lesson!” Tom yelled. He was surprised to hear her yell back. Her quiet nature had been meek and delicate at the shop. But her bones seemed made of something more resilient.

”“And I should hope that you would have manners enough to know not to frighten defenseless women!” Tom began to stride towards her, ”I’ll show you how I can defend ya!” he declared, gripping his fists, his fury still liquid in his veins.

He looked towards her to find her staring not frightened at Tom’s looming figure, but at him. There was intention in her gaze, a murmur of want. The air held still, and heavy. He tried to pull the minutes closer to him as he searched her eyes. Jackson stood motionless, the water dripping down his neck. Then, Tom grabbed at the collar of her dress, and Jackson felt something fracture within.

He ran at Tom and threw him into the brick wall. Tom tried to throw him off, but Jackson held fast as they wrestled. The woman gasped and Jackson turned to look when Tom slammed him into the wall – hard. Jackson blinked, the grays of the alley blurring together. He saw Tom’s fist and ducked, his hand colliding into the wall instead with a crack. Tom howled and cursed and Jackson punched him one last time in the face. Tom slumped to the ground, his face bloodied and cradling his broken hand as Jackson towered over him, his fists clenched.

“Get. Out.” Tom pulled himself up and gave one look of absolute loathing towards Jackson before staggering away.

He stood there quietly for a moment, catching his breath as the tumbling world settled around him. Something tickled the side of his face and when he reached up, his fingers came away sticky with blood. He looked towards her, her slender frame silhouetted against the sun that nestled between cramped homes. “You distracted me,” he said, squinting – the sun in his eyes.

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[genevieve whittier]

Rough hands gripped the collar of her dress, forcing Genevieve onto the tips of her toes. The sharp, biting sound of fabric being torn free from the collar of her dress refocused her attention on her assailant. Anger burned bright in his eyes, glinting dangerously as he pulled closer. It was different than what she had grown accustomed to with Reginald. Where he was controlled this man was volatile, and she found herself wondering if that would make a difference in the end. She closed her eyes and resigned herself to whatever would happen next, slowly retreating into the safety of her mind and blocking out everything else. Genevieve waited for the first blow; the harsh words that were sure to accompany it, but neither came. Instead she was pushed backward, her arms flailing wildly as she fought to keep herself from falling.

She stumbled back, colliding with the hard brick wall. The lace trim of her dress caught on the rough surface, tearing further. If Reginald found out there would be hell to pay; she needed to find a way to hide the damage from Granley before he returned. This was the sort of transgression that he waited for. It would earn him further favour with his employer. Perhaps she could borrow a shawl from Mrs. Kingsley and claim that she had felt chilled…

A loud groan of pain interrupted her reverie, and she turned her head in time to watch both men as they struggled to gain the upper hand. She gasped in horror as her former assailant rounded on the cobbler. He turned toward her, their eyes meeting once more before he was slammed against the wall. A groan followed with a low oath, then a sharp cry of pain, but Genevieve could no longer watch. Instead she reached for the lace handkerchief that had been a gift for her sixteenth birthday, her maiden initials embroidered into the corner, and buried her face in it.

She wondered if this was what it was like for the servants at her home. Genevieve felt small and insignificant – as though she was nothing more than a spectator. She desperately wanted to do something and find a way to end this but had nothing at her disposal. All she could do was wait until the shuffling of feet had stilled, the fighting ceased, and wait for the aftermath. For the first time she understood why the servants in her home averted their gaze whenever she was near. It wasn’t that they were ashamed to call her mistress; they were embarrassed of their inability to do anything.

“Get. Out.” The words were hard and cold, resounding with finality through the narrow alleyway. As silence reclaimed the space once more, Genevieve could feel the familiar tendrils of dread as they wrapped themselves around her heart. Still and calm were the precursors to the impending storm; the silence weighted with anticipation of what was to come. Once more she waited for her assailant to come for her and hoped it would be quick. There were no heroes in Genevieve’s tale, only monsters. She was not the princess whom a prince could save. If she were to be rescued she would have to find a way to conquer her monster alone.

Instead of approaching footsteps, the silence remained. Gradually, Genevieve concluded that she was alone; there was no one coming for her. She lowered her trembling hands, tightening her grip on the handkerchief and looking around. Before her the cobbler stood, his body resting against a crumbling wall, his gaze unwaveringly focussed on her. She was certain that he must blame her for all that had happened. Her appearance had only made things worse. Yet despite that knowledge, Genevieve could not bring herself to look away. “You distracted me,” he rasped.

The late-afternoon shadows had consumed most of his features and she found herself longing to see his face clearly once more. She knew she should turn and walk from him, return to the safety of Mrs. Kingsley’s small parlour once more, but she didn’t want to. Instead, Genevieve stepped cautiously toward him. “You frightened me,” she replied softly. The steadiness of her voice surprised her. She felt strangely on edge, as though the very air of the alleyway had been charged.

As she neared, Genevieve noticed the jagged cut across his temple. A thick stream of blood snaked its way down his cheek. “You’re hurt,” she murmured, stepping closer. She pressed her handkerchief against the cut, frowning as a low hiss of pain escaped from his lips. “Thank you,” she said finally, uncertain of what else she could say.

[jackson warren]

She was suddenly very close. He could see where the blonde wisps of her hair had fallen from her neatly pinned coif. She lifted her arm and pressed a cloth to his head. A stitch of pain coursed through him and he grimaced. The sight of blood was no stranger to him, the war had shown him more than just a scratch. But the woman bandaging him was something new. "Thank you," her soft voice plucked from the air. He looked down and held her gaze, quiet, still frowning from the pain. Her green eyes held his for another moment, searching, until she glanced away, dabbing the rest of his cut. He didn't drop his gaze though, struck by the delicacy of her bones. He stood before her, large and looming, blood and sweat coating him. He was surprised she had come so close. She was so small, so fearless. He hadn't always been like this. He liked to believe he had once been kind.

There had been something so intrinsic in his makeup by growing up in the south. He had remained close to the earth, bound by its roots and red clay. He always had a quiet nature, the other school boys had teased him growing up, but quickly became bored once they learned they wouldn't have a protest from Jackson. He didn't see reason to reply when it would only be vacant words.

On clear mornings he would search for the best fishing spots along Goose Creek with his brothers. The plop of bait into the cool water was one of his favorite sounds. The smell of summer on the grass, the sun threading lacework on his tanned skin -- these gentle moments had strummed into his very veins. Charlie had been the outspoken one -- always at the center at every event, never knowing when to shut up -- he irritated Jackson more than once. But as things go, he would of done anything to hear his voice again.

On some summer nights as his father would bring out his fiddle, its ocher corners worn to a pale grain, they all would unconsciously gather closer on the front porch. Fireflies twinkled an earthen-bound night sky in the fields as they sang the old songs. His father had said the songs had come with their ancestors from England long ago. Now in London, the songs he heard were no comfort. The warmth of a summer's evening were gone from them.

His mother rarely sang, though her voice was as clear and sweet as the water from the stream. But on the night before he and Charlie left for war, she had sung. It was a slow, soft song, the kind that lingers long after the final note. "Darling, can you hear the devil drawing near?" she began, staring out to the field, as if knowing what awaited beyond it. "Like a bullet from a gun, run darling run, all the songs you used to sing to me would rock the birds to sleep" She never looked at her sons -- she had seemed afraid to.

At last he spoke to the girl. "Twice now, I've helped you. You shouldn't of come outside. I don't know what you thought would of happened after you threw water on us." His voice was stern, but he watched her with curiosity. Who was she? Twice now she had come into his life, each time more startling than the time before. She had only been a Mrs. Whittier before, an inky line on a blotted page. And that was not enough.

"What is your name?" She removed her cloth, which had been a fine handkerchief -- now stained the bright red of his own blood clutched in her pale fingers. His mother's song immediately quaked back into his mind.

Darling, can you hear the devil drawing near?
His mother hadn't been afraid for what was ahead of them, she had been terrified of what her sons would become.

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