#Blunderstone

[aicollider]

A brand new board game inspired by David Copperfield (Charles Dickens)

Title: Master Copperfield’s Journey Number of players: 2-4 Objective: To accumulate the most amount of experience (points) through overcoming obstacles and challenges on David Copperfield’s journey. Board Setup: The board is designed after the map of England, with specific locations and landmarks that David visits throughout the book. Each location has a corresponding card that contains a summary…

[weemsfreak]

Desire ♱

⋆Jane's pov (recommend read second)⋆

Jane Murdstone x Fem!reader

♱ Main story in readers pov here

Summary: Jane returns to her village after many years and commissions a new dress. A dressmakers apprentice catches her eye, and then Jane catches hers again and again. ~4k words

Warnings: obsession, stocking, mention of child abuse, family trauma and father issues (as in Jane/Edward Murdstone 'David Copperfield')

⋆♱✮♱⋆

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Stepping into the dressmakers, a nostalgic feeling washed over. The last time Jane had a dress fabricated by Gladys was nearly ten years ago.

"Well, I'll be. It has been a long while, Miss Murdstone."

Averting her eyes to Gladys, she was nothing but glad to see her still in business.

"Indeed, it has."

Moving further into the room, she threw her coat to the settee, placing herself so that Gladys could get to work. Jane had much to do today.

"How has Blunderstone treated you? Glad to be back at the factory?"

Jane cared not to talk about the past few years, nor the annoyingly disappointing end. She sighed, "It was a good many years, although a dreadful end I'm afraid. I am delighted to be back."

Jane stood with arms out as she felt Gladys' hands roam over her. She attempted to make small talk, she truly did, but as she stared at the wall her head was filled with thoughts of shopping and planning and…

"Y/N!"

Jane almost jumped, pulled from her thoughts, and shutting her eyes as she took a breath.

"Yes, how can I help-"

Silence. Jane wondered what had happened.

Her head snapped to the left to find you, wide doe eyes already on hers, before they averted to Gladys.

Her eyebrows furrowed, why were you staring? If she repulsed you that much, you need not look.

"Y/n, this is Miss Murdstone."

You slowly moved to her, gaze on the floor. You looked so small, so innocent as you bowed. Jane thought it was endearing.

"How do you do Miss Murdstone."

Jane cleared her throat quietly and deepened her voice, "Well, thank you."

She took to observing the wall as you lifted her skirts, then measured her bodice, shoulders, and arms.

You were gentle as you worked, and Jane couldn't decide whether she liked that about you, or resented it.

Still, she did not want to obscure any measurements, so she stiffened her body; not that she carried herself any other way. Your hands on her made it easier, really, for she did not wish to give in to your touch; nor anyone else's.

She heard Gladys let out a quiet chuckle and followed her gaze to your hands, which trembled slightly as you worked.

Pride and schadenfreude swelled in her chest at the thought of you being intimidated by her. Then, her mind went the other way, and she forced away a blush at the thrilling thought of you fancying her instead of resenting her.

Jane attempted to concentrate on her planning until warm fingers brushed against her pale neck and she flinched at the contact, not so used to the touch of others.

She watched you back away with a small gasp; it seemed your attention was focused elsewhere. Apologies flew from your lips, but Jane said nothing in return, for she was not angry.

Jane snuck glances through the doorway as you sat perfectly within her line of view. You began to draw on black fabric as you sat there so obediently.

She had half a mind to mess with you, in one way or another, but she did not wish to distract you, for it was of upmost importance that her dress fit perfectly.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane saw you many times after that day on her trips into the village. It seemed that you were as busy as she, and she wondered who you were and where you came from.

You blended well into the crowd, yet your pretty face stood out - delicate and captivating. You appeared so kind and caring, so sweet and naive.

When she caught you staring her way, she was unsure if her eyes were deceiving her.

It was not the frightened or indifferent look she usually received - she thought it might be intrigue, or perhaps something darker, which disturbed her slightly.

She wondered if your outward appearance matched your hidden interior, and briefly wondered if you would bend for her.

Of course, you would.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane ventured to the gardens and admired the nettles. Plain little things, not much to the eye, when she felt a presence behind her.

She ignored it, as she usually did, until she turned and caught sight of you out of the corner of her eye.

You sat on a bench next to some Calla Lilies, she thought that they reflected your being. They were soft like you, still and gentle like you.

Perhaps she admired the flowers very much, or perhaps she was unsettled; but for some reason she felt the sudden urge to spill her thoughts to you.

Thoughts about the lilies, thoughts about herself, thoughts about anything and everything, thoughts about you; but she knew she would talk endlessly, unlike her usual self.

Jane wished to move closer to you, to see up close the joy and sincerity written on your face as you basked in the serene surroundings.

You were warm like the sun, she envied that; and at the same time, she wished to take advantage of it.

As much as she desired to get to know you, she knew, and for once feared, the fact that she would come off as cruel, cold, perhaps menacing. She decided against it.

She did not wish to darken your day, but it was who she was; she knew nothing more.

And so, she walked past with her head held high and avoided you entirely, coming off as cold in an attempt not to burden you.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane has suffered throughout her life. She often wondered when it would cease.

From one thing to another, this and that, she turned to writing, she turned to the church. But over time, the things that she had found comfort in had betrayed her, just as everyone else had.

'Suffering as I have, a stronger soul emerged; the most massive characters are seared with scars.

As I am.'

She found comfort in the darkness of her deepest self, in the darkness of her room, in the darkness of her thoughts. For it was all that she knew, forever and ever.

Except, well, there was you, a new and profound thing in her life.

At first, she thought you had something against her. She knew your presence was not a mere coincidence, and felt that you would soon bring her closure, peace, and maybe even death.

Alas, after becoming comfortable with your consistent presence, feelings of joy and thrill overtook her when she saw you from afar, more so up close, bright eyes nothing but deep and swirling with intrigue; perhaps craving, perhaps desire.

Jane had not felt desire since she was married.

Her father had given her away to a man who worked in real estate and land development. She was young at the time, not naïve, but perhaps unknowing. Unknowing of a world that was outside of her upbringing.

But, not to her surprise, the marriage changed nothing.

Her husband was cruel, abusive, a tyrannical aristocrat. It was not anything she wasn't used to, but it was also not a life that she wanted to live.

For years she stayed silent, forgetting who she once was, until one day she confronted the suffering she had been through.

If not for nothing, then for this.

No, she never dreamed of men or marriage, she never hoped for children. Money was not a priority, the desire to fulfill her parents' wish absent.

She clung to the thought of independence, craved freedom, desired a life of adventure and knowledge. She resented any and all thoughts of her husband.

And so, when she got older, she took herself back, she took revenge.

'Embrace anger, hurl it into the void.

Transform it into something tangible, wield it until it unsettles you deep to the core. May your existence be meaningful, bold, and heard, for silence and isolation will never undo what they have done.

Retaliate until their power dwindles, crave change.

Shout into the abyss, thirst for revenge.

If the will is not present to fight for yourself, then fight for the person you once were.'

She summoned the strength deep inside, for if she was not true to herself, nobody would be.

Cyanide, easily accessible and almost untraceable.

Ever since, she has not been married, the excuse of being traumatized from her husband's death, the lie that she loved him enough to avoid it.

No, Jane has not felt desire since she was married; the desire to want revenge.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane routinely accompanied her brother out. This day it was a venture to the gallery, and she was filled with nothing but the usual feeling of being used.

Dreadful and unworthy the day was, just like her.

But, to her surprise and delight, her day took a significant turn. There you were, hand gently grazing over an artifact under a glass case.

Jane made the easy yet impulsive decision to abandon her brother and venture your way, finding herself increasingly drawn to you with each passing moment. She stood across, copying your movement as she pressed her fingers into a piece.

It felt surreal, being so close to comfort in a situation that would usually make her uneasy.

Perhaps it was new to her, the feeling she got when she felt the atoms that made up the world, maybe a world in which she had yet to know.

Pausing, she reluctantly raised her gaze to you, watching as you met it. She didn't wish to give too much of herself away, staring into orbs that held question, she kept her answers hidden behind a mask of indifference.

As she watched you scan her exterior, she couldn't help but feel selfish, she couldn't help but feel longing.

The longing of comfort, the light of another world, of warmth to balance out her chill, the longing of happiness.

For she wished you could show her how it was done.

'I'm so selfish, you're so kind.

I see the darkness, where you see the light.'

Yet, she dared not speak. This feeling was unfamiliar to her, leaving her at a rare loss for words to describe what she wished to convey.

She saw you and you saw her, but nobody spoke a word.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Once again, Jane accompanied Mr. Murdstone to the factory, following as he inspected the workers. She watched as young children bottled and corked the wine, making her way past the shelves of bottles and barrels.

Her eyebrows furrowed when an eerie feeling came over her, a feeling of being watched, of being coveted.

"Jump, boy" Edward instructed.

The boy tried, pathetically.

Jane snickered on the inside, "You should sooner teach the furniture."

"Jane" Edward warned. She fought off the urge to roll her eyes.

The boy attempted to jump, and she watched her brother become increasingly frustrated with the situation.

"You will not be switched to another job, boy."

The child jumped higher, but still failed to reach.

Jane raised her brow in amusement, "We should switch to a less enjoyable activity."

"JANE."

She saw it coming, Edward's hand travelled to the child's shirt as he drug him to the next room. Jane followed, standing guard as she allowed her brother to reprimand the child.

Eyes were on her, but she glowered the factory workers down until they looked away.

Over the noise she heard a close thud and turned her gaze to the shelves. They would soon snap under the weight, she thought, raking her eyes over the bottles and barrels.

Her heart jumped slightly as she watched a boy near, a tall boy, yet shorter than she. She smirked as he got closer, knowing the event that occurred over and over again.

That was, until she noticed the glass bottle in his hand.

She breathed deeply, attempting to keep her stone façade, a smirk that faltered but eyes that were emotionless, showing plain as day that she was not scared, not frightened of a boy with a glass bottle.

Or perhaps, she just wished that she wasn't.

She wished that her inside reflected her outside, wished that her heart was as cold as her shell.

For she wished he could break it with that bottle, shatter what she had learned over the years, what she had made, what she had turned into, and allow the real her to be shown.

He raised the bottle and a moment of hurt ran through her. A moment where she pictured the bottle making contact, a moment that, as a child, she had no wit nor strength to oppose her father's wrath.

Still, she stood her ground, eyes unblinking.

He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, and she knew.

When the boy turned away, Jane smirked once more, focusing on the lashing sounds behind her.

It was cruel, she knew, she was cold, she knew, but beaten and bruised was nothing new, it wasn't unfamiliar or forced, for she had no choice; it was home.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane grew weary as she observed Edward in his suit, appearing as he was going to a flood in the trousers; she almost laughed.

As it was, she had to deal with the situation.

When she entered the shop, she was so focused on her task that she failed to notice you. That was, until she had passed off the suit and took a moment to breathe.

She had remorsefully given up multiple opportunities to converse with you, to be close to you, to sit with you again, although she very much wished to.

She had engagements to attend and preparations to make for the ball, yet she disregarded them. She was unwilling to forgo the chance to be with you, sitting all alone on the settee.

Her boots were loud against the floor as she walked toward you and sat. Once more, a rare occurrence for her, she found herself at a loss for words; so she took to her usual belittling of man.

As a clue, as a question, as a way to convey her feelings.

"Men, incompetent."

There was silence, and for the first time in a long time, she almost regretted speaking.

You snickered. "Indeed."

Jane had absolutely no time to spare, yet she sat and took in your calming nature.

Her heart beat fast, partly due to the multitude of errands she had to undertake, and perhaps due to your proximity.

She withdrew her watch, anxiety mounting as she realized she was already behind schedule. She absentmindedly toyed with her money bag and threaded beads.

With a heavy heart, Jane resolved to curtail what she longed to say to you and the time she yearned to spend in your company.

"I have somewhere to be."

But as Jane went to stand, a clever idea struck her. Her gaze swiftly found yours, and you met it. Her eyes narrowed, trying to gauge your disposition.

Would this work? Would you grant her this favour? Did you share the same feelings she harbored- admiration, longing, desire?

For a moment, you seemed wary of her, but the hesitation quickly passed.

Her voice laced with hope and unspoken affection, "Would you be so kind as to deliver the suit when it is finished?"

She saw you pause, and her usual sureness left her body entirely. Although, she would never show it.

"Of- of course."

A smile played at Jane's lips; you were special to her.

But despite that fact, she had to feign indifference- treat you as nothing more than a passing acquaintance, one toward whom she harbored no affection, and from whom she expected none in return.

It was always the fault of her own, and she knew.

She felt a profound sense of loneliness, her demeanor threatening. She grasped others by the throats and shook them until they gave in for a breath, until they feared her, until they bent.

Yet in this moment, she posed the most important question; would you bend for her?

You had abandoned your sewing, observing her with unwavering attention.

Then, with a widening of her eyes, she saw you, she saw a glimpse of the innocence that she once held, and lost, mirrored in a young woman who was just a little lamb, the total opposite of herself.

Doubt clouded her mind, and Jane was no longer sure that her maliciousness was justified.

But you weren't so convinced, apparently.

"Lovely. Gladys will provide my address. I expect it by 5pm."

Jane stood and clasped her slightly trembling hands as she bid you farewell.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane opened the door, utterly surprised to see you standing in her home, nonetheless clad in a beautiful dress that accentuated your features and further illuminated your eyes. She was relieved when you looked her up and down, oblivious to the small blush that coloured her cheeks.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress and extended Edward's suit toward her.

"Here you are, Miss Murdstone. I hope it meets your satisfaction."

Jane accepted the suit with gentle hands, no longer concerned with the fit; it mattered little at this point.

"We are hosting a ball tonight."

She watched you avert your gaze from her and nod, perhaps in disinterest.

"I trust that it will be enjoyable."

Pausing to examine you, Jane pondered for a moment.

"I do hope."

A maid suddenly came barrelling up the stairs and entered her chambers, rudely interrupting, Jane thought.

"Miss Murdstone, let's prepare you for the ball."

As the maid entered, Jane noticed a shift in your gaze from the maid to herself, and she found a fleeting glimpse in your eyes, of something which she had not found previously.

In that moment, Jane decided to offer an option, accepting your response either way.

"It will commence at 8pm. You are welcome to join."

Jane regretted her impulsive words, aware that if you were to attend, she would be unable to focus on her duties. However, the thought of your presence stirred within her a thrill she has not felt in so long.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Jane was focused on her role of hosting, moving throughout the ballroom, and attending to the needs of her guests. She had no qualms, accustomed to yielding to her brother's wishes, until she caught sight of you out of her peripheral.

In the corner of the room, you stood sipping on a drink, bright eyes watching, observing, joyful.

Jane mirrored your actions, her gaze sweeping across the room.

She saw Edward with a woman, and most everyone else she knew paired off with their respective partners—someone they called theirs.

But she, well, she had nobody, and it seemed neither did you.

As the others began to dance in a slow waltz, Jane found herself consumed by thoughts of longing. She thought very much that she would like to dance with you.

Yet she knew it wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be taken lightly.

The only person she desired to dance with was not within possibility. No, she could never bring herself to ask if you would fancy a dance with her, and so she quietly slipped away.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

As Jane sat in her chambers, a creak sounded from the hallway, followed by a momentary pause.

She waited in anticipation, uncertain of who it may be, but knowing there was possibility of it being you.

You, who followed her.

You, who shadowed her every move.

You, an innocent young woman filled with curiosity, fascination, interest.

When she heard nothing more, she mustered the courage to venture out of her chambers.

Slowly, she searched the corridor and other rooms, her heart pounding until she finally discovered a figure in her sanctum with bated breath.

Jane had left her notebook open on her desk, perhaps subconsciously harboring a flicker of hope—a wish that someone would stumble upon it, someone would understand, someone would lose themselves in her deepest thoughts and emotions.

But well, she didn't wish for someone, not just anyone, which was precisely why she had closed it only to reopen it earlier that day without a second thought.

She thought that she thought too much, she had no choice.

You were lost in her thoughts as she watched you from the doorway, suddenly beset by insecurity regarding her decision—to grant you access to her life, to her upbringing, to expose her true self to you.

Yet, your actions confirmed her suspicions, and her wish. As she watched your lips tremble, a surge of fear and anger overcame her.

She approached you silently, her hand landing firmly on your warm shoulder.

In that instant she found solace, and faint amusement flickered within her at the thought of events that had passed.

"I knew I would find you here."

Jane spun you around and grasped your neck, bony fingers tightening as she drew you closer. Your gaze broke her in a manner she had never experienced before; she had no choice but to be truthful.

"You fancy yourself sly, following me around, do you not?"

Your doe eyes widened at Jane's heavy words, hands trembling once again at her touch.

"Do not presume I failed to notice your presence."

She saw you.

"At first, I thought perhaps you wished me dead, the way you stock me."

Jane chuckled softly; this was ironic.

"Then I realized that you made no attempt to be stealthy."

She watched you swallow, an urge surging within her to draw you even closer.

"We share the same interests, do we not?"

With a nod from you, albeit hesitant, Jane became more brazen.

A smirk graced her lips as she leaned closer, her breath brushing against your ear; you shivered.

You closed your eyes, as did she.

"Do not think I miss the way you look at me."

Jane attempted to sound firm and unwavering, yet she was guilty as well.

"Do not think I miss the way you tremble when I'm close."

She knew of the way you craved her, she understood.

"Do not think I miss your desire."

It was incredible, really, how energy made up the universe, how matter was eternal, how it could be neither created nor destroyed.

Both of you, electron orbitals overlap, not separate, but existing as one with her hand around your neck, around your lifeline.

She shook you until you gave in for a breath, until you feared her, until you bent.

But Jane harbored no desire for you to fear her, no desire for you to bend, not in the manner she wished for others to. See, it wasn’t just desire that tied Jane to you, it was hope.

People said that she was cold, cruel, harmful, metallic.

A cold shell of defensive whips and comments; once a girl imbued with warmth, a girl born to love.

Jane wished for her outward demeanor to mirror her innermost self, knowing she wore a facade of disdain, yet feeling anything but inside.

See, she was sly, smart, and deceiving, perhaps appearing as malicious and distant; but perhaps that's how she wished to appear.

You, however, were smart, witty, and perceptive, but you wore her heart on your sleeve, intentions written plain as day. An open book, placed for all to see; but only some to analyze, only some to admire.

Jane longed to shed her pretenses, to be her true self, to be as real as you, maybe even more so.

Your hands encircled Jane's waist as she sensed you pressing closer into her grasp.

Soft lips met her jawline, and in that moment, she decided that she would bend; she wouldn't mind, not for you.

Jane stiffened in defense and increased her grip as she felt you smile against her skin. Her lips opened in a soft gasp as she let out a breath, inhaling your scent.

Your words, spoken with a fervor she never anticipated from your lips, made her falter.

"I suffer, I attach, I crave, and I desire. And I always get what I desire."

[citizenscreen]

‘Noted Author Turns Clergyman for Films...Hugh Walpole, as the Vicar of Blunderstone, and George Cukor, director of 'David Copperfield,' the Dickens Classic being transported to the films by David O. Selznick for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.’ (Caption, 1924)

[aneurinallday]

The Tragedy of James Steerforth

Chapter IV: Old Friends

“Mr Bradbury, I don’t understand,” David protested. “You don’t like the rewrite? But your feedback last week was so positive. You assured me that I was on the right track.”

The man behind the desk lit a pipe and began to puff, filling the cluttered office with the potent smell of expensive tobacco smoke.

“Things change, Mr Copperfield. There’s a lot of competition out there. We need to be careful what we put our stamp on.”

On the desk between them sat a thick manuscript, lovingly penned and carefully bound. Calligraphed on the front page in graceful cursive was the title: The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery.

“Is it too fantastical?” David asked, picking up the manuscript and nervously cradling it in his lap, “I admit, I did change some names and physical attributes, but only to protect people’s identities. Everything else is truthful. This is the story my life, as it happened, with no embellishment. This is my complete and honest autobiography.”

“Mr Copperfield, we’re not going to publish this.”

“But I - oh.” David paused. “Forgive me, I don’t wish to argue, but I’m just - I’m just confused. At our previous meeting, you praised my writing so highly. Are you sure I can’t change your mind with another revision?”

“It’s not the writing that’s the problem, Mr Copperfield. It’s you.”

“Me?”

“The truth is, we’ve received a report about you.”

“A report? About what? From whom?”

“From an old school friend of yours. He gave us a review of your character that contradicts your memoirs. He said that when you were boys together, you got him into all manner of trouble - running around London, wreaking havoc, sneaking out of the dormitory at night to visit strumpets.”

“What!” David exclaimed, “Sir, none of this is true, I swear. There was occasionally some trouble, but nothing serious. Just boys making fools of themselves, as boys do. I certainly never hired the services of any ladies - I didn’t even know how!”

“Is that so?” Mr Bradbury leaned forward. “Your friend said that you had rich benefactors who kept your pockets full and your reputation spotless. He also said - ” the publisher lowered his voice to a whisper, “ - that you got the clap off a trollop, and you travelled all the way to Yarmouth to see a doctor under a false name, to make sure it stayed hush-hush.”

“But that’s absurd! I went to Yarmouth to see my childhood friends! Ask them, they’ll tell you the same thing.”

“I don’t know, Mr Copperfield. Your friend was quite credible. He spared us no details.” The publisher inhaled deeply from his pipe. “It seems you’re not exactly the poor, tragic orphan you portray yourself as.”

“What can I do to prove these accusations false? The Peggotty family can corroborate my version of events! Ask them!”

“You mean the Peggotty family who were promised a cut of your royalties? I’m sure they’ll say whatever you tell them to say.”

“But - ”

“Mr Copperfield, I recommend you seek publication elsewhere.”

Silence filled the office. David trembled for a moment, then gathered up his things, rose stiffly, and bowed his head with a jerk.

“Before I go, may I ask…this gentlemen who claimed to know me at school - who pretended to know so much about me. What was his name?”

“I hardly have to divulge that.”

“Are you going to tell anyone? The other publishing houses, I mean?”

“No, this’ll stay between us. Anyone unlucky enough to pick up your manuscript is welcome to deal with you. Good day.”

“...Good day, Mr Bradbury.”

David left the publisher’s office in a daze, walking past rows of printers and binders busily churning out novels. He held his hand-written manuscript close to his chest, as if to shield it from sceptical eyes who would tear its narrative to shreds.

Stepping out of the arched doorway of 85 Fleet Street, he paused to glance up at the view above him - a stern, seven-storey façade of pale bricks. Barely a half-hour ago, he’d walked in that door with a heart full of hope, and now he was walking out with his fledgling career in tatters.

“What’ll I tell Agnes?” he wondered. She’d been so happy to see him excited about his new contract. He could already hear her voice reassuring him everything would be fine, giving him perfectly sensible advice. Sometimes he wished she would be less supportive and more cruel, just so he could feel like he deserved her.

Tears stung his eyes as he walked the streets of Central London, but he blinked them away, breathing deep to steady himself. It took him a minute to realise somebody was calling his name.

“Daisy! Daisy! Look over here!”

He turned to see a familiar figure approaching him. He recognised the ostentatious hat, the dark head of curls, the fine coat.

“Steerforth?” he gasped. “Can it be?”

Steerforth’s silver-handled cane tapped on the pavement as he drew nearer.

“Don’t look so surprised, Daisy. You know I can’t stay away from you,” he teased.

David stared at him in disbelief. They stood eye-to-eye, and Steerforth extended his hand. Remembering his manners, David hurriedly tucked his manuscript under his arm, and shook Steerforth’s hand.

“James, you’re back! I had no idea you were in London! My God, why didn’t you show yourself sooner?”

“It’s a dull story. How’ve you been, Daisy?”

“Me? I’ve - I’ve been fine. But what about you? Nobody’s heard from you in weeks! We thought maybe you’d left the country again.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Steerforth waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been living my life, same as always. You know me - nothing ever keeps me down.”

“But after the storm and the beach, we - we parted on such bad terms, we weren’t sure if you were ever coming back.”

“That’s in the past. I had to move on eventually.”

“But what about your mother? She’s been losing her mind, searching everywhere for you. Why haven’t you been to see her yet?”

“That’s my business, Daisy.”

“I know, it’s just…You could at least write her a letter. Or send a messenger if you don’t want to see her in-person.”

“Maybe.” Steerforth’s expression turned serious. He leaned on his cane with both hands, and sniffed. “Listen, Daisy. Back at Yarmouth, back on the beach…that whole affair with the Peggottys. I’ve been feeling quite awful about it. Do you think I can be forgiven?”

“Well, I can’t speak for them. But I forgive you.”

“Really? Despite everything I put you through?”

“Really,” David said firmly, “You’ve made some…poor choices, but I believe you to be a good man.”

“You don’t hate me, then?”

“No, I don’t hate you. I never have - I never could.”

“I appreciate that, Daisy. I really do.” Steerforth looked very solemn. “I know things can’t ever be the same as they were, back when we were boys. But still, it would mean a lot to me if you forgave me. The things I did, the things I said…They were terrible. Truly terrible. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, my friend,” David sighed happily. “Of course. Whatever happened between us, I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

He was indescribably relieved. Relieved that his once-closest companion had turned out to be a good person after all. Relieved that he no longer had to live in a world where they weren’t friends.

“Thank you, Daisy.” Steerforth’s seriousness went away, and he grinned again. “Anyway, enough about me! Tell me what you’ve been up to. How’s the writing going?”

“It’s going well. I’ve published some short stories in The Morning Chronicle, and now I’m working on a full-length book.”

“A book? How wonderful! Is that it right there?”

He pointed to the manuscript under David’s arm. David instinctively tried to hide it.

“Yes, it’s - well, I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but it’s an autobiography.”

“No need to be embarrassed, my darling Daisy. Your life has had enough ups and downs to fill a thousand pages. You might as well earn some money off it.”

“That’s true…”

“So what did the publisher at Fleet Street think of it?”

“Well, they were pleased with…Wait, how did you know I’d found a publisher there?”

Suddenly, Steerforth grinned. He widened his eyes and trembled his lip in an expression of mock earnestness.

“Mr Bradbury, I swear, he was out of control!” he exclaimed theatrically, “Even at a young age, it was like he had the devil in him. All of us were afraid of him, but we went along with everything he said, because we feared he would make our semester a living hell. Mr Bradbury, for the sake of your poor readers, please don’t let him spread his lies any further! The man he pretends to be is not the creature he was!”

David couldn’t speak. Steerforth burst into laughter.

“I swear, no matter how many years go by, you’re still as much of a dullard as you were back at school. When I look at you, all I see is that scared, lonely little orphan on his first day, so desperate to make friends, so eager to please. Hanging on my every word. Tripping over himself to make me smile.”

As he stared at Steerforth’s laughing face, it took David a moment to realise that he’d been fooled. Steerforth wasn’t sorry. He had no regrets about anything. He’d only feigned remorse as a set-up to this punchline. The bigger the twist, the greater the satisfaction.

“The look on your face!” chuckled Steerforth, full of glee. “Of all the pranks I’ve pulled, this was my favourite.”

“Prank?” David uttered, “James, you cost me a contract that I worked very hard for. Because of you, I was dropped by Bradbury. Now I have to start all over again.”

“Oh, cheer up, Daisy,” Steerforth scoffed, “There are other publishing houses in London. I’m sure your grand monument to self-pity will be flying off the shelves in no time!”

“How could you do this to me?”

“Typical Daisy - so virtuous he can’t even take a joke.”

“What you did was no joke, James. You could’ve ruined me.”

“That was the idea. Good day!” Steerforth tipped his hat merrily, and walked away.

And so ended David’s first meeting with the reborn Steerforth.

As David watched him go, he considered the many years of friendship that had preceded this quarrel, and began to wonder if they’d been an illusion. Had Steerforth ever really liked him? Had he ever seen him as a friend? Or had he merely seen him as a pet, an amusing novelty?

Upon David’s arrival at Mrs Strong’s school, Steerforth had been the first to extend the hand of friendship towards him. He’d taken the lowly orphan under his wing, becoming his mentor and protector - defending him from bullies, even while being a subtle bully himself. Whether it was motivated by sympathy or by a condescending sense of charity, it was an act of kindness for which David would always feel grateful.

And from that day on, David had loved him. How could he not? Everybody loved James Steerforth. James Steerforth was everything: rich, stylish, handsome, funny, clever, and seemingly without flaw. He’d been the most popular boy at school, beloved by students and teachers alike. The sort of boy who was welcome everywhere he went, the object of admiration and adoration from all.

As the years had passed, Steerforth had proven himself to be selfish and irresponsible. His money and privilege had made him carefree and inconsiderate; and time and again, he’d treated other people poorly. Not because he meant to do so, but because he lived in a world where none of his actions had consequences, and where he’d always been sheltered from the reality of human suffering. Adulthood had brought him little maturity, and he’d charmed his way through life in a never-ending quest for pleasure, oblivious to the trail of destruction he’d left in his merry wake.

Yet still David had worshipped him. None of Steerforth’s shortcomings could ever dampen the gratitude that David had felt towards him.

And then, one fateful summer, David had made the mistake of inviting Steerforth on a trip to Yarmouth, to visit the home of the Peggottys, his childhood friends. There, Steerforth’s wandering eye had been caught by Emily, the fiancée of Ham Peggotty. The rest was history.

It was a mistake for which David would always blame himself.

“I should’ve known better,” he muttered as he began to walk in the direction of home. “I should’ve known you’d cause trouble. You always do.”

But the sabotage of his publishing contract was a turn of events that he could never have predicted. This wasn’t the misguided prank of a careless young man, but a deliberate act of malice, inflicted by a venomous and vindictive soul.

The Steerforth who’d returned from Yarmouth was…different. On the night of the storm, he’d lost something - perhaps his self-worth, perhaps his dignity, perhaps his sense of right and wrong; David wasn’t sure what. But it seemed that the best part of Steerforth had been lost with the sinking boat, leaving only the worst part behind.

Chapter V: The Uninvited Guest

[acacia-may]

It's time to talk about the greatest love confession in all of literature (courtesy of David Copperfield) 💘

(A/N: Look at them folks! True love right there!💕)

Hello friends, I am working on an ask in which this suddenly became relevant (I promise it's not just completely random😅) so I feel that the time has come to discuss the greatest, most romantic, and most swoon-worthy love confession in all of literary history! (In my personal opinion anyway).

It is from a very old and criminally underrated book titled The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery most commonly referred to as just David Copperfield which was published in 1850 and written by classic novelist Charles Dickens (who is probably most famous for writing A Christmas Carol). It is not a romance novel (but it does have a romance subplot), so it is generally not discussed when talking about the greatest love confessions in literature. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to make a big long meta post about it. Ramblings below the cut!

(Warnings: Spoilers ahead for David Copperfield which was published in 1850. It also has a few great filmed adaptations including an excellent BBC one from 1999 with Maggie Smith, and a new one (2019) with Dev Patel that gets so many extra kudos for cutting out most of the infuriating love triangle and making David Copperfield less oblivious. Power move! But that did change this confession sequence in the movie so I suppose that's a downside but I digress...Some spoilers for the 2019 movie below as well)

David Copperfield is not a romance novel by any means, but there is a romance subplot and a positively swoon-worthy love confession at the end of this book in which the main character, David Copperfield, finally expresses his love to Agnes Wickfield who has been his best friend and has stood by his side since childhood and who we (as the reader) know has always been obviously, desperately in love with him. Unfortunately, David Copperfield is a dumbbell (I say with the utmost affection) and one of the most oblivious fictional men of all time (My sisters and I like to call him the "OG Oblivious Fictional Man," and he is the standard to which we compare all other oblivious fictional men. To this day we have only found nine (9) fictional men we consider more oblivious than him but that is another story).

David doesn't know how he feels about Agnes for literally around 700 pages which span decades of his life, and then when finally confronted with the possibility that he could have romantic feelings for her, he freaks out and runs away to go on a soul-searching journey in the mountains. He eventually comes to terms to with the fact that he loves her and then proceeds to freak out that she could never return his affections...

Anyway...bless David--he goes to visit her several times trying to pluck up the nerve to confess. Agnes meanwhile is trying to guard her heart from yet from another rejection. David, for his credit, picks up on her hesitation (progress!) and believes she has "a secret" though he doesn't quite put all the pieces together. He has some really incredible lines here one of my favorites of which is:

"My dearest girl, dearer to me than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me share your unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try to give it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart, let me try to lighten in."

But Agnes has literally been "sister-zoned" (as in "you're like a sister to me" which is beyond friend-zoned) for 700 pages and even completely rejected for another woman, the nice but completely airheaded Dora who has since died (A/N: in the 2019 movie, Dora lives but David dumps her because they are incompatible and he actually loves Agnes which is what he should have done in the book). Anyway, after all of that, Agnes can't even allow herself to hope that her romantic feelings for David are finally being returned. She says, "If I have any secret, it is--no new one; and is--not what you suppose. I cannot reveal it or divide it. It has long been mine and must remain mine."

David starts to connect the dots (FINALLY) and confesses his love to her even though he swears up and down that he "thought that nothing could have wrestled this confession from [him]." He has quite the speech (which I won't type out completely here), but it ends:

"I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!"

I am sorry to have to tell you all that even after all of that, hopelessly oblivious David is still beyond nervous and concerned that Agnes does not return his affections. But this, my friends, is where we get to the pinnacle, the end-all-be-all moment of the most swoony-worthy confession in all of literary history. Agnes who has quietly, unquestioningly, and unrequitedly loved David from their childhood sees all of his fears and insecurities in having confessed to her and tells him there is "one thing [she] must say." David is so nervous that he is about to get rejected and timidly asks her what it is not even daring to hope that she is about to return his affections but...

"She laid her gentle hands upon [his] shoulders, and looked calmly in [his] eyes.

'Do you know, yet what it is?'

'I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.'

'I have loved you all my life!'"

And that is how it is done, friends! Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

(A/N: I found all these great gifs from the 2019 movie, and I got so excited about including them😅)

[whatoncewasdeadj]

Low Place Like Home by Sneaker Pimps

You walked all over, in your blunderstones In your own road movie, with your one armed man Gonna make it to the problem page Trouble-shoot your life Gonna make it to the problem page Need some time and space

Just to find yourself I hope you find yourself In a low place like home Low place like home

You talked it over from your bedroom throne Making sense of nothing, like your one armed man, Read your future in the magazine, search your stars for clues Read your future in the magazine, tells you what to lose

Just to find yourself I hope you find yourself In a low place like home Low place like home I hope you find yourself In a low place like home

You fall all over, in your small town heels Catching hold of nothing, like your one armed man, Treat your life like a tragedy, self-inflict abuse Treat your life like a tragedy, precious else to choose Crucify yourself, I bet you find yourself

Low place like home Low place like home Low place like home Low place like home

Crucify yourself, I hope you find yourself Low place like home I hope you find yourself Low place like home Low place like home

[stephenkelloggmusic]

10 years ago today, I headlined Webster Hall in NYC with my band, the Sixers. It was an “evening with” and we played to 1200 people for 3 hours. It was an emotional one (aren’t they all) because we had decided to take a hiatus. In the way that, as we get older, one doesn’t always know when, or if, they will see a friend again, we hugged, said goodbye and headed off into the night. It’s fitting that this anniversary falls where it does. “Thanksgiving” was the first single I released after the band parted ways. A co-write with Kit Karlson & Chip Johnson, it is the song for which I am most grateful. Since 2012, Sam Getz has toured the world with Welshly Arms and enjoyed a platinum album with “Legendary.” He has two wonderful kids and still rips the guitar like his fingers are on fire. Most recently he (along with Jimmy Weaver) produced half of my new record “Keep It Up, Kid.” The other half of KIUK was produced by Dave “Cookie Dough” Chalfant. Cook wasn’t on stage with us that last night in New York but he was a part of everything we ever did and is a Sixer to the last. I am infinitely better for his presence in my life. Kit and Chip have remained partners in song, and in addtion to co-producing “Blunderstone Rookery” & the “East” portion of “South, West, North, East” they have enjoyed great success with their producing & publishing partnership. This fall they toured in our friend Tyrone Wells’ line-up. Two of the greatest talents I’ve ever known. Boots Factor many of you have seen on stage with me in recent years. You know him for his singing, sense of humor and stunning musicality. You may or may not know, he has released 3 albums and is perhaps the best dad ever. Boots is all over KIUK, and I can’t wait to rock the Bowery Ballroom plus with him next week. As for me; 5 albums, a book, more than 900 shows including my first stops in Europe and Australia, and a TEDx Talk that opened the door to my work as a speaker and storyteller. I’ve played with several of my heroes, not the least of whom are my daughters. I guess you could say we have kept busy. Yes indeed; there are so many things to be grateful for. 🦃 #StephenKellogg #SK6ERS 📷: @megandoodlebaker (at Home Sweet Home) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClWTRwGOe8D/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[mati-rmx-blog]

‪sei una persona di quelle che si incontrano quando la vita decide di farti un regalo.

‪(Charles Dickens)‬ - The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery (which he never meant to publish on any account)

[bookstofilms]

The Personal History of David Copperfield (2019) dir. Armando Iannucci

Based on the 1850 novel The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery by Charles Dickens.

[lionhecrtsx]

Sharp eyes scanned the length of the books on the library shelf. Perhaps Lestat was melancholy in a way, or perhaps he was simply sentimental. Sentimentality hardly suited him, but absence had made him grow somewhat thin in patience. With a slow exhale, Lestat tapped the spine of the book, The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery (Which He Never Meant to Publish on Any Account), and he plucked it from its nestled place. Mindlessly, he found a chair, already flipping through the weathered pages, attention turning upwards only once he’d sat. “This,” he said, to the other passing by, “is a terrible book. Dull. Uninteresting. Predictable. I never understood Dickens, nor do I respect him.” || @hiddenstarters​

[weemsfreak]

Desire ♱

⋆Reader's pov and main story (recommend read first)⋆

Jane Murdstone x Fem!reader

♱ Jane's pov here

Summary: When the lady of the village returns after many years and ends up in your place of work, you fabricate a dress for her; and then you follow her. ~5k words

Warnings: obsession, stocking, mention of child abuse, family trauma and father issues (as in Jane/Edward Murdstone 'David Copperfield')

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The bakery, the factory, the church, and the bank.

Places which she ventured on a normal day,

Places which you ventured on a normal day.

Things that she did,

Things that you did.

The gallery, the haberdashery, the manor house gardens.

She was busy,

You were busy.

Wherever she went, you followed.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The ball rang out, signifying that someone had entered. You ignored it from the next room, not wanting to drop your task at hand.

"Well, I'll be. It has been a long while Miss Murdstone."

You rolled your eyes and mouthed Gladys' words, mocking the dressmaker as you continued to cut out fabric.

"Indeed, it has."

Your hands stopped working at the sound of a voice, gaze slowly raising to the wall as you listened. You heard shuffling to Gladys' workspace, a coat hit the settee.

"How has Blunderstone treated you? Glad to be back at the factory?"

A hum. "It has been a good many years, although a dreadful end I'm afraid. I am glad to be back."

Your eyes flit around the room; the factory? Miss Murdstone?

Oh. OH. The Miss Murdstone of Murdstone village. The sister of factory owner Mr. Murdstone.

You had never met the Murdstone's, but you had heard of them and their reputation in their own village. They had been gone for some ten years; a marriage, you had heard. And it seemed that now, they were back.

You prayed that Gladys wouldn't call you in for help as you were not very confrontational, and you had heard that the lady could be, well, cruel.  

Slowly you continued to cut out fabric, listening in on their conversation as you did.

The contrast of murmuring and sureness calmed you, the new voice in particular was melody to your ears. It was strong yet weak, cold yet warm, confident yet weary, cruel yet sweet; you longed to know what body housed a voice like that.

Inevitably, Gladys called your name from the next room.

You screwed your eyes closed and took a deep breath before dropping everything and heading through the doorway.

"Yes, how can I help-"

Your eyes flit from Gladys to a tall dark figure. One which caught you off guard, before it consumed you.

Ghost white skin sandwiched between midnight hair and a dress to match, the length of which you've never seen the likes of before.

Her gaze was locked onto the wall, until she noticed you staring.

Expectant eyes shot to you and made your heart flutter nervously, you averted your gaze back to Gladys.

It seemed that the only colour this woman possessed was that of her iris', which made them stand out even more.

"Y/n, this is Miss Murdstone."

You moved closer and gave a small bow, eyes on the floor. "How do you do Miss Murdstone."

"Well, thank you."

You nodded with a small smile.

"Help me with this, will you?" Gladys passed you a measure and gestured to her skirts, to which you lifted and got to work.

Black fabric, not something you worked with often, although it was certainly growing on you. You looked between dark and the light of her petticoat, and you wished for the chance to see long legs hidden underneath. Alas, petticoats were not see through.

Miss Murdstone was not a very social woman, though you were not surprised at her lack of emotion or chatter, as there was not much about her that was mainstream.

You stood and helped Gladys with small things, measuring around her bodice, shoulders, and arm length, the lady stiff as a board. Your hands trembled as you worked, which neither woman failed to notice.

You couldn't help but steal glances at the lines in the woman's skin, dark hair tied up neatly, scars and light freckles placed perfectly, as if they were intentional.

You couldn't help but think that she looked as if she was made of wax.

Cold fingers brushed against the pale skin of her neck and she flinched, a string of apologies flowing from your mouth. You stepped away and let Gladys finish the job, the only thing going through your head was how warm the woman was to the touch.

Being sent on your way with the measurements, you began to cut out black fabric. More length added to the sleeves and skirt, waist cinched just a bit.

You worked in the corner of the room, stealing glances at the dark woman though the doorway now and then. When you had left, the women began to make small conversation again; you closed your eyes and listened to her voice.

You hadn't noticed when the bell had rung and she had left, until Gladys walked in.

"A pretty young thing like you shant be intimidated by Miss Murdstone."

Your eyes shot to Gladys as a light blush overtook your cheeks. You were intimidated alright, but not in the way she thought.

You hummed, "Maybe not intimidated, but overtaken."

"Get to work silly girl" she chuckled, pointing down at the barely touched black fabric in your hands.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

You could tell by the way she carried herself through life, by the way that she spoke to people (or didn't acknowledge them at all), that she was cold, iron, wrought, metallic.

Yes, that was it, she was metallic, and she possessed some type of pull. You failed to fight it off with bated breath when dark yet enchanting eyes met yours.

What really pulled you in, however, was her mysterious nature. Her front was menacing, her cruelty was obvious, her exterior freezing anyone who dared cross her path.

She was a delight, far more true than you could ever be.

Being a dressmaker's apprentice, you didn't have every day to venture around Murdstone village. But when you did, you made it worthwhile.

You had been intrigued by her since the day she stepped into the shop, and soon enough, you became attached.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

It was easy to spot her through the crowd of people, being one of the tallest, darkest, and notable around.

You wouldn't say that you stalked her, no, for you ran your errands in the same way as she, and your interests matched hers well.

That became clear when one day you took a stroll through the manor house gardens and found her, admiring the Nettles from afar.

Nettles were not much to the naked eye, and they stung like a bitch when one got close. Alas, their being was important, indispensable, beautiful; like her.

Cold on the outside and warm on the inside.

You sat on a bench next to some Black Calla Lily's, and couldn't help but think about how the flowers reflected the both of you. These particular Lily's caught your eye and drew you in, but get too involved and their toxins could harm you.

Warm on the outside and cold on the inside.

Perhaps you were both deceiving.

Her back faced you tauntingly as you longed to admire her features. You hadn't gotten a satisfying look at her, although you assumed nobody had ever gotten very close.

Holding your breath, she turned to continue down the path, head held high as she gazed straight ahead.

She didn't look your way, she didn't acknowledge you, no, she didn't say a word.

Yet you knew her, you knew she was perceptive, she noticed every detail.

And deep down you knew that she knew you were there.

She always did.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

You were suffering throughout your days and nights, physically unable to get the metallic lady out of your head. You hadn't been this obsessed, this buried, this crazy for a woman.

You knew it was wrong, to want her, to want to know her, to want to feel her dark locks run through your fingers.

You knew it was wrong to watch from afar, even worse to get close; but you couldn't help it.

She was enchanting, she was brooding, she was maddening.

One bright morning you arrived to church early, and placed yourself in the very pew where the Murdstone's always sat. You took the hymnal and prayer books and moved them to another pew, leaving only one set of books available.

After some time, Mr. Murdstone passed the pew, giving you a look of disdain before continuing on.

Your gaze dropped to your lap nervously, unsure as to where she was.

Another moment passed, and you noticed a shadow beside you, then felt a soft brush against your leg.

It was so soft you believed it was imagined.

"Apologies."

Looking over in disbelief, you found the metallic woman beside you, her attention set on the priest.

As the service progressed, you couldn't help but wrack your brain around her being. For as much as you knew her, or at least thought that you did, as much as you saw her, you couldn't tell.

After eyeing her at church a couple days a week, you realized she was a devoted congregant. She gave the impression that she was one who would reprimand for breaking the rules, for not adhering to the faith's principles.

But all the same, she seemed as though she'd like to bend them, challenge society's expectations, and oppose normalcy, as it was obvious she didn't follow every mainstream convention.

You had confirmed recently, after some research, that 'Miss' Murdstone was not married; but for which reason, you wondered often.

Long fingers opened the prayer book and held it still as a stone on her lap, eyes scanning the words slowly.

Silently, you leaned closer, setting your gaze on her as she peered down at you. You smiled, watching her lips twitch and eyes bore into your own in question; then the prayer book was angled so you both could recite together.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

One day, you set out determined for your destination: the gallery.

See, there was not much that you knew, but there were a few things. One being that the gallery bustled with activity on a certain day of the week, and another being that Jane Murdstone was a sucker for all things nice.

The Cultural and Historical collections always inspired you, and allowed you to indulge in the fantasy of a better world, a more interesting world, a world in which you were yourself, truly.

And well, as did she.

As expected, Miss Murdstone made her way around a glass case following the male version of herself. You recognized him immediately, the man of the village.

Watching from the other side of the room, you took note of their differences and similarities. Physical was obvious, they were tall, they were dark, and they were chilling.

Your heart couldn't help but feel heavy, as although she was striking, easily catching your eye even next to her brother, she was the lesser.

It was obvious that she was more brazen, more intelligent, and more capable; alas, he was the man, and she was the woman.

You ran your hand over an artifact, pressing your skin hard into the rough texture.

Glass should cover something so fragile, so special, so significant, you thought, for someone could steal it with the snap of a finger.

You could steal it with the snap of a finger. You wouldn't, however, not now. For you had something far more important to tend to.

A dark figure caught your peripheral, your eyes discreetly landing on the woman as your head stayed focused in the direction of the artifact.

You watched as long fingers ran over a piece opposite, feeling the atoms that made up the world, perhaps a world in which you had yet to know.

You took a deep breath, gaze lifting when her pale hand paused in its track.

You were expecting it, her eyes on her pray, on her goal, on you.

Touché. You respected the effort, the care, the menacing stare, but it was of no use.

You stared back, taking in the elements of her skin, the light in her eyes, and the hate in her heart.

It was incredible, really, how energy made up the universe, how matter was formed, how it could be neither created nor destroyed.

She saw you and you saw her, but nobody spoke a word.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Miss Murdstone spoke few words to you the couple times that she entered the shop; for her measurements, her dress, and then again when a colleague had tailored a suit for her brother.

You understood that you knew her better than she knew you, for you were just a dressmaker whose name had most likely slipped her mind.

Alas when you watched her on the streets, back and forth with long strides, elegance never faltering, haughtiness never letting up, she never failed to deepen your infatuation.

You admired the way she gave no thought nor care about others' opinions, the way she could allow- feed into the absolute cruelty, perhaps hate that came out of her mouth.

The way she let it happen, the way she lived for it.

You were high as the heavens the one time she had spat at you. It was short, nothing that she thought twice about, but you were truly and utterly drunk on her.

Others you knew, didn't appreciate being spoken down to that way, looked at with a bitter glance, nor dealt with in that sneering tone.

And well, most of the time you wouldn't either.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The factory, a place of your dreams and nightmares.

In your favour, it wasn't difficult to sneak into at night, the bottles and barrels and wine and corks the only witnesses of your doing.

Their livelihood, their significance, the thing that gave the Murdstone's the justification to be poison; possibility to be ruined within hours.

You ran a finger along a trail of dust as a smirk crept over your face. Mr. Murdstone was too pretentious for his own good, careless perhaps, not too smart it seemed; but you were.

For his sake, and his sake only, it was a damn good thing that his sister had consumed your every thought.

By morning you had tucked yourself deep behind the shelves.

People of every age, those of every kind made their way into the factory, cleaning, filling, corking, labelling, and packaging.

You were caught off guard when you eyed Mr. and Miss Murdstone make their way around the factory, inspecting the work and the workers. They passed by the shelves with a step that felt far too long. You froze at their proximity, for you had no escape.

Letting out a breath, you watched as they halted near a small boy, a boy far too short to reach the corking lever.

"Jump, boy" Mr. Murdstone instructed.

The boy tried, pathetically.

"You should sooner teach the furniture" the lady said to her brother.

You held in a snicker.

"Jane" Mr. Murdstone warned.

You watched as he attempted to jump, Mr. Murdstone frustrated with his lack of effort.

"You will not be switched to another job, boy."

He jumped higher and had yet to reach.

Miss Murdstone turned to her brother with the raise of a brow, "We should switch to a less enjoyable activity."

"JANE."

Mr. Murdstone grabbed the child by his shirt, dragging him to a secluded room and slamming the door with no hesitation.

Miss Murdstone followed with hands clasped in front of her, then you heard grunting and lashing sounds. Your eyes shut and you flinched at the suddenness, whacking your head off a board.

Blue eyes travelled your way, somehow hearing your skull make contact with the wood over the loudness of everything else. The metallic woman looked in your direction, around you, above you, and you could swear it, straight at you. But she couldn't see you through the willful blindness of the bottles and barrels.

Her gaze was averted, however, when a tall boy made his way toward her with intent.

Your eyes widened as you watched him pick up a glass bottle, your brain registering that he most likely wished to protect the child; but harming Miss Murdstone wasn't the way.

With a deepening heart beat you contemplated the fact that you may have to reveal yourself, jump in front of hard glass in shame and remorse before ghostly pale skin turned crimson.

But, as you watched the metallic woman, you noticed her smirk; joy, thrill, and humour behind her eyes.

She faltered for a moment when she noticed the bottle, lips twitching; a moment of hurt. Still, she stood her ground, eyes unblinking.

He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, and she knew.

For they were cruel, they were cold, and they were abusive, perhaps.

But she now had no fear, for she was used to it.

When the boy turned away and you watched her smirk return, chest falling slightly in relief, it made sense.

You realized why she was the way that she was; beaten, bruised, petrifying, and cruel. It wasn't anything new, it wasn't unfamiliar or forced. It was all that she knew.

It was what she knew, it was who she was brought up to be; the little girl, the woman, the one who took care of the men.

The one who listened to their commands but rose to control when they were too coward.

The one who was reprimanded when she spoke her mind but was brought up to be superior all the same.

The girl who said nothing and was harmed for her warmth, now a cold shell of defensive whips and comments; in a woman's body tall enough to make the men resentful.

She was born to love and taught to hate, for she had no choice.

She had no choice.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The lady had returned to the shop days later with Mr. Murdstone's suit, shoving it into your coworkers' arms.

"You measured incorrectly" she grumbled.

His jaw fell open as he looked it over, scratching at his head, "Where is it incorrect, my lady?"

You held in a laugh as she flung the trousers over his arm and pointed to the hem. "They need to be taken out. He's not lacking in stature like yourself."

Nodding, he made his way to the next room. "I need it finished for tonight" you heard her holler.

"Of course, Miss Murdstone."

You were sat on the settee, sewing a piece and trying your hardest to pretend she wasn't there, hoping you wouldn't have to entertain her.

Alas, as it was, you longed to converse with her, you longed to entertain her.

You longed to run your eyes over her frame, yearned to move closer and take in her deathly smell, her serene eyes and ghostly skin.

You longed to run your hands along the warmth of her neck once again and know that she was real.

Heeled steps approached as your mind went blank and heart began to race. She sat down next to you.

"Men, incompetent" was all that she said.

You felt bad for him, of course you did, but you couldn’t help but snicker at her comment.

"Indeed."

You admired very much that she spoke her mind and wished to give her the ability to feel freely, without reprimand and without judgment.

Attempting to focus back on your work, you were distracted when she withdrew her pocket watch. Busy fingers wrapped around the intricate watch and chain before moving to toy with the money bag and beads hanging off her chatelaine.

A sigh, "I have somewhere to be."

You ignored the burning question in your mind, 'where?'

The woman turned to you suddenly, your gaze shot to hers.

Her dark blues narrowed as if she knew what you were doing: following, admiring, chasing, craving her.

Your heart almost jumped out of your throat as you thought of her knowing, knowing of your attachment, knowing of your enamour, knowing of your desire.

You calmed however, when you realized that you didn't see rage in her eyes, but intrigue; for she had an idea.

"Would you be so kind as to deliver the suit when it is finished?"

You tilted your head at her sickly sweet tone, figuring that it was the only way she knew to get people to bend for her, to get you to bend for her.

But you would bend for her coldness, you would bend for her cruelness, you would bend for her warmth, you would bend for her anyway she'd ask, fake or sincere.

You would bend for her.

Yes you knew of many places, the factory that you should not enter, the bakery, the grocer, the bank, the haberdashery, and her leisurely activities, but you didn't know of her home.

You didn't know her that well.

You stuttered in surprise, "Of- of course."

A smile played at her lips, but you knew you weren't special.

When her dark blue eyes bore into your own and you saw the hate, you knew that her thoughts were nothing but careless, nothing but mean, nothing but questioning.

You wondered how someone could be so…brave? Sadistic? So content with being unliked by others, even intentionally resented.

Lonely? You could say. Perhaps you both had something in common.

She grasped others by the throats and shook them until they gave in for a breath, until they feared her, until they bent.

You wouldn't mind that, not from her, not at all.

You saw it run through her mind with a slight widening of eyes, as if she was attempting to convince herself that her maliciousness was justified.

For you, well you were just a young girl, a little lamb. You were the innocence that she once had and lost, the total opposite of her.

But you, you weren't so convinced.

"Lovely. Gladys will provide my address. I expect it by 5pm."

She stood abruptly and exited the shop, leaving you alone.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

The suit was done by 4pm, you prayed that it would fit perfectly. Not that you were opposed to being rebuked by Miss Murdstone, but you truly wanted nothing but to please her.

Wearing one of your favorite dresses, you set out to the Murdstone's estate, walking through the surprisingly busy streets with curiosity.

The door was open when you arrived, and you were greeted by a maid who was bustling around. They informed you where to take the suit due to their current occupation.

You found yourself nervously knocking on a door in a dark hallway, sure that this was a ruse.

The door swung open quickly at the hand of Miss Murdstone, making you flinch in surprise.

You took in the sight of her in her new black dress, one which you had the pleasure of aiding in the fabrication of. It clung to her figure perfectly, defining strong shoulders and a cinched waist.

Smoothing out the fabric of your dress, you attempted not to drool as you extended the suit out to her.

"Here you are, Miss Murdstone. I hope it meets your satisfaction."

She took the suit from you gently, giving you an expectant look as she stayed silent.

"We're hosting a ball tonight."

You averted your gaze to the window at the end of the hall, nodding in understanding and jealousy.

"I trust that it will be enjoyable."

You watched as she looked you up and down, you felt that this was the most attention she had ever given you.

"I do hope."

Silence. You had much to say, but no will to say it.

Whether it was your imagination or a mutual understanding, your relationship seemed to be based on physicality, lacking verbal connection.

A maid then came barreling up the stairs, carrying many things in preparation of the night. "Miss Murdstone, let's prepare you for the ball."

You watched as she entered Miss Murdstone's chambers and disappeared from your sight, the lady allowing her access. Your eyes flit from the maid to hers, screaming with want for a job which you did not have, did not desire; until now.

She spoke with a tone of genuine disinterest, yet the invitation in itself told you something.

"It will commence at 8pm. You are welcome to join."

⋆♱✮♱⋆  

You had been welcomed into their home, but it felt unsettling all the same. Her unknowing of your presence, or at least not expecting it, gave you the ability to be discreet.

But here, you felt as if something was expected of you, as if she had invited you just to watch you. Ironic.

Few eyes glanced your way as you took your time admiring the Murdstone's estate. Upper class fascinated you, elaborate décor and offerings made you feel envious, yet insignificant at the same time.

You weaved through the crowd of people, introducing yourself as you picked up a glass. Most likely you looked out of place, you knew, despite the fact that you were dressed appropriately.

You were intrigued, however, as you desired to learn more about their lives; desired to learn more about her life.

Not to your surprise, as the night progressed you caught her moving throughout the ball room.

She was on a mission as always, it seemed, tending to others needs and wants in hopes of a pleasant ball; in her role of pleasing her brother. Your eyes followed her tall form as you sipped your drink in a corner, absolutely content.

For a while.

Enjoyment flowed through you as you watched others dance, resisting the urge to join in. You hesitated as your heart panged, knowing that the only person you desired to dance with was not within possibility.

Eventually you had lost sight of her, only Mr. Murdstone in the centre of the room dancing with a woman, so you left.

You quietly snuck to the main room of the house, debating on departing until you realized that nobody was around.

Sneaking up the stairs, you ran your hand along the balustrade, stopping at the top to utilize the light of some candles. If anyone caught you, you were searching for the loo.

A large family portrait on the wall greeted you, an eerie feeling overwhelming you at the sight of the Murdstone family.

The mother, a force to be reckoned with. The father, a tyrannical aristocrat. And the son, vindictive.

As your eyes raked over the young girl, however, you realized she was just that, a young girl.

A young girl born into upper class, born into cruelty, born into a life that was not chosen but wholly hers.

You supposed nobody really had a choice.

The candles guided your attention to an open door, the floor creaking when you stepped closer.

You longed to enter, but a deep dreadful feeling in your chest told you not to.

Shaking your head, you stepped away; but your curiosity got the best of you, as always.

The dimly lit room was lined with books and filled with décor, artifacts, and art. It was the most interesting room you had ever known.

You ran your fingers along an open book on the table, the intricate writing making you guess it was that of a woman.

'My father has gotten…better.

I cannot help but wonder if it is too late.

He now asks me why I am so angry, why I raise my voice.

He does not understand that

I learned it all from him.'

You sucked in a breath as your hand traced the ink. Being lost in her deepest written thoughts was…intense.

You turned pages upon pages for more, stopping at the most recent.

'I question my ability to experience the tender emotions of humanity.

To harbor affection in the manner of mortals.

The question for this issue is

Do I have a human soul,

And can I prove it?

And, of course,

There is no definitive answer.'

Your lip began to tremble at the tug of her words, of her thoughts, of her feelings.

She was no ghost, she was no wax figure, she was as real as you, maybe even more so.

As a small tear escaped your eye, a hand landed harshly on your shoulder.

"I knew I would find you here."

An amused but mocking voice.

She spun you around and grasped your neck, fingers reaching until they squeezed and pulled you close.

It felt pleasant, it felt warm, it felt real.

"You fancy yourself sly, following me around, do you not?"

Your eyes widened, hands trembling at her touch, clenching them at your sides.

"Do not presume I failed to notice your presence."

She saw you.

"At first, I thought perhaps you wished me dead, the way you stock me."

She chuckled.

"Then I realized that you made no attempt to be stealthy."

You were at first, but then you got sloppy. You swallowed thickly.

"We share the same interests, do we not?"

You nodded your head the best that you could, you truly did.

A smirk grazed her lips as she brought them to your ear, making you shiver at the proximity.

You closed your eyes.

"Do not think I miss the way you look at me."

She knew, she knew of your attachment.

"Do not think I miss the way you tremble when I'm close."

She knew of the way you craved her.

"Do not think I miss your desire."

 It was incredible, really, how energy made up the universe, how matter was eternal, how it could be neither created nor destroyed.

Both of you, electron orbitals overlap, not separate, but existing as one with her hand around your neck, around your lifeline.

She shook you until you gave in for a breath, until you feared her, until you bent.

But you knew her now, unlike you did before.

You knew she wanted to toy with you, and well, you with her.

You wouldn't say that you were cold, cruel, or that you had ever harmed another; for you were just a little lamb.

But, when she looked at you with disdain, you wished to give her a taste of her own medicine.

You wished to slap the sly look off her face, tell her that she wasn't as cruel or deathly as she thought she was, put her down until she lost her sense of fabricated self and cold exterior- until she found her real self again, warmth staring back at you as her clothing and shell were shed.

See, she was smart, witty, and perceptive, but she wore her heart on her sleeve, intentions written plain as day.

An open book, placed for all to see; but only some to analyze, only some to admire.

You, on the other hand, were sly, smart, and deceiving.

Perhaps she saw you as a dumb, innocent, oblivious young woman; but perhaps that's what you wanted her to think.

Gently, you placed your hands onto her waist, pressing yourself further into her grip.

Your lips met her jawline softly, watching as her mouth opened slightly in a gasp, warm breath fanning across your temple.

You bit your lip in pleasure as a smile spread across your face, you breathed low:

"I suffer, I attach, I crave, and I desire. And I always get what I desire."

[wordacrosstime]

David Copperfield

[The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery (Which He Never Meant to Publish on Any Account), by Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by HK Browne. First Edition Published by Bradbury & Evans, London, 1850. 624 pp]

'Well, well!' said my aunt, 'the child is right to stand by those who have stood by him – Janet! Donkeys!'

Just opposite the pond where a pioneering Francis Bacon tried to stuff a chicken with snow (an early experiment in refrigeration, as a result of which he died) is where Coleridge stayed when he was trying to get off Laudanum. The chemist he used to supply his needs (just around the corner) apparently had a secret door so that he could pick up supplies discreetly.

This was all a bit earlier than Charles Dickens’s semi-autobiographical novel David Copperfield, in which the hero stays with the Steerforth family, in the same street, in their imposing house on Highgate Hill, where he revels in the view across London. It does, though, set a tone.

Go to Highgate today and you can still take in the views, across Hampstead Heath and to the landmark hungry city beyond. You’ll see interesting looking delicatessens and bakeries and estate agents in whose windows are advertised average-looking properties with eye-watering prices. Cyclists and runners come here for the challenge. (That climb up West Hill must be traumatic, and so must the one past Highgate Cemetery where Karl Marx lies quiescent). What you won’t see is any trace (apart from a blue plaque) of that Dickensian hero who was to all intents and purposes, Dickens himself.

When I first went to Grammar School (some time before the flood), our teacher of English, a redoubtable Scots lady, set us to work reading Robbie Burns, most of which I still find unreadable to this day: (“First he ate the black puddens, and then he ate the white” if memory serves. What was all that stuff about?). But then, having, I suppose given up on us ever adopting Scotland as a second nation, started us reading David Copperfield.

There was a lot of early humour. She had us read passages from the book, and one of my classmates had the misfortune to take on a section in which, according to him, “workmen were warming their hands round a brassiere.” (Brazier was the word he was searching for, but an unpleasant nickname pursued him for years afterwards). We couldn’t get why Brooks of Sheffield would be listening in to awkward conversations about David’s destiny, let alone why David should be the someone who was “sharp”, or why Barkis, the carrier, should be ‘willin’.

Steerforth of course is both David’s boyhood hero and nemesis, eventually betraying in the most callous manner David’s adolescent friend Little Emily, so it is ironic that his family home sits high on a hill where you might have thought all manner of approaching disasters might be foreseen. You look at that house and contemplate how Mrs Steerforth lived there, alone and destroyed by the revelation that her son had been the least moral of individuals, with an inherent streak of cruelty.

What no one likes about David Copperfield in particular and Dickens in general is how good all the children (a lot of the adult characters too) actually are. You know, and I know, that children and adults too, just aren’t like that. His characters are noble, responsible, uniquely loving and should they ever commit a single irresponsible act, they suffer for it (usually in silent prayer) over a good number of pages. This is a feeling you can’t get over, but perhaps as the pages go on you learn to ignore a little in the face of mounting eccentricity.

The mentally troubled Mr Dick and his fixation with kites and Charles I helps you do this, so too does Mr Wilkins Micawber who continually totters on the brink of the debtors’ prison (like Dickens’s own father) while continually fathering children and remaining optimistic that ‘something will turn up’.

But while the good do seem impossibly good, the bad are really bad too, though believably so. David’s own mother perhaps doesn’t mean to be bad. (She just falls in love with the wrong man). But David’s schoolmasters are disconcertingly sadistic. Steerforth, the schoolboy role model shapes up to be a hero, but is gradually revealed to be a snob without decency or morals. And then there’s Uriah Heep, the character for whom the word ‘oily’ was created, the beast who corrupts all about him and whose desires – for both heiress and position in society – are so grotesque, yet so nearly come true.

David Copperfield is not a fairy tale. Instead it is a whole collection of them, in which every variety of fairy tale outcome from cruel disaster to shining achievement takes its place within its pages. Most varieties of mythical beast are there too, together with a few, often vulnerable, often understated, heroes. The best novels always answer ‘what if?’ questions. So many what ifs arise in David Copperfield that it is virtually a philosophy course. There’s a muted plea for social justice too, which is no bad thing, even now.

There are a lot of reasons not to read it. (Too long, too sentimental, too much else to do). But ever since my dour Scots teacher encouraged us to open its pages, it has become one of those books I go back to, time after time.

Top/Middle: Two photographs thanks to Quintessential Rare Books, LLC, Laguna Hills, CA, USA & to Abe Books. Bottom: Sketch of Dickens in 1842 during American Tour; thanks to Bonhams.

Michael Spring

wordsacrosstime

1 February 2021

[quipmodestproductions]

Public History Episode 2.04 | The Micawber House Expands

Things have changed in Blunderstone.

[sal-of-so-u-l]

Charley Fuckin Dickens!

The Pickwick Papers (The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club; monthly serial, April 1836 to November 1837)[231]

Oliver Twist (The Adventures of Oliver Twist; monthly serial in Bentley's Miscellany, February 1837 to April 1839)

Nicholas Nickleby (The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby; monthly serial, April 1838 to October 1839)

The Old Curiosity Shop (weekly serial in Master Humphrey's Clock, April 1840 to November 1841)

Barnaby Rudge (Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of Eighty; weekly serial in Master Humphrey's Clock, February to November 1841)

A Christmas Carol (A Christmas Carol in Prose: Being a Ghost-story of Christmas; 1843)

Martin Chuzzlewit (The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit; monthly serial, January 1843 to July 1844)

The Chimes (The Chimes: A Goblin Story of Some Bells That Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In; 1844)

The Cricket on the Hearth (The Cricket on the Hearth: A Fairy Tale of Home; 1845)

Dombey and Son (Dealings with the Firm of Dombey and Son: Wholesale, Retail and for Exportation; monthly serial, October 1846 to April 1848)

The Haunted Man (The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain: A Fancy for Christmas-time; 1848)

David Copperfield (The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery [Which He Never Meant to Publish on Any Account]; monthly serial, May 1849 to November 1850)

Bleak House (monthly serial, March 1852 to September 1853)

Hard Times (Hard Times: For These Times; weekly serial in Household Words, 1 April 1854, to 12 August 1854)

Little Dorrit (monthly serial, December 1855 to June 1857)

A Tale of Two Cities (weekly serial in All the Year Round, 30 April 1859, to 26 November 1859)

Great Expectations (weekly serial in All the Year Round, 1 December 1860 to 3 August 1861)

Our Mutual Friend (monthly serial, May 1864 to November 1865)

The Signal-Man (1866), first published as part of the Mugby Junction collection in the 1866 Christmas edition of All the Year Round.

Edwin Drood (The Mystery of Edwin Drood; monthly serial, April 1870 to September 1870), left unfinished due to Dickens's death

(Ty Wikipedia, I’m not clever enough to to know all this)

[english-history-trip]

Turning upon me a lustreless eye, that reminded me of a long-forgotten blind old horse who once used to crop the grass, and tumble over the graves, in Blunderstone churchyard… ——— I know that I was filled with pleasure by all this; but, at first, with an indescribably sensitive pleasure, that a very little would have changed to pain. ——— ‘That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.’ ‘Ah! but I didn’t like to tell you,’ says Dora, ‘then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me!’ ——– See, how our house and church are lessening in the distance; how the grave beneath the tree is blotted out by intervening objects; how the spire points upwards from my old playground no more, and the sky is empty!

[Evocative lines from David Copperfield (1850) by Charles Dickens]