#Trowbridge Hall

[iowacitypast]

University President Walter Jessup and President Emeritus Thomas Macbride lead commencement procession walking east on Market Street past the Dental Science Building on left, The University of Iowa, June 1922

Creator: Kent, Frederick Wallace

The Dental Science Building was renamed Trowbridge Hall when the Geology Department moved into the building in 1973 and named for Professor A.C. Trowbridge.

[fayes-fics]

Endeavour

Double Bind Masterpost

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Follow on to Forbidden, Benedict makes his attempt to replace Anthony.

Warnings: 18+ smut minors DNI, dom/sub relationship, dirty talk, hair pulling, bondage, biting, squirting, oral sex (m to f), slightly rough vaginal sex.

Word Count: 7.0k

Authors Note: This is a request fill for @eleanor-bradstreet to continue this series now known as Double Bind. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of your wonderful suggestion, my dear. Thank you for entrusting me with your thoughts on where this could go. There will be at least two more fics in the series after this one. Thanks to @colettebronte for giving this a check through. Enjoy <3

Benedict’s scent lingers on your sheets the following morning, and he fills your thoughts. But you daren't invite him back to your bed under Anthony’s roof—once was daring enough. Besides, your sojourn at Aubrey Hall ends later that day, with you waving out of your carriage to both of them, each likely thinking your farewell is for them alone, standing as they do in almost a line, Benedict directly behind Anthony.

Two days later, at the first event back in London, the decadent Trowbridge Ball, Anthony is notably absent, not feeling well apparently. Still, the rest of the Bridgertons are in attendance. You slip Benedict a note via your trusted friend’s brother.

Meet me on the dark walk. 

You only include your initials; too risky to include your name in case it’s intercepted, but you hope it’s enough that he will know who it’s from. 

As you slip away into the cool night air, you take a deep breath and slink unseen into the shadow of the building. You take pains to avoid being seen, and he does the same; you see his furtive approach a few minutes later before he spies you.

“Benedict,” you breathe his name from a darkened alcove of vines, and he is on you. Sweeping you into his arms, into a warm, enveloping hug. He smells just as delicious as he did that night, citrus, woodsy, breath sweetened by brandy and smoky from cigars.

“My sweet girl,” his voice is honeyed and soothing by your ear. “I am so very happy to see you.”

“I… didn’t know how to contact you discreetly…,” you admit honestly, clinging to his jacket, not wanting to let go.

“I cannot stop thinking of our night together,” he cuts in, “have you given any thought to my proposal?”

You exhale heavily at his reference to his parting request at Aubrey Hall that you leave Anthony for him, and you step back from his embrace. “I cannot make such a decision at this moment. Anthony means a lot to me; we have a special arrangement. There are… things I need, things I crave, that he offers me,” you look him square in the eye. “I wonder if you can provide those things?” you muse bluntly.

“What sort of things? His voice is laced with intrigue as he reaches out a hand to hold your wrist.

“Domination. Punishment. Harsh treatment sometimes. An escape from this world to a place where I am mindless with need,” you answer, matter-of-fact.

He looks temporarily taken aback, and his grip slackens. “I know of such things,” he confesses quietly. “If that is what you need, what you want, I shall try it. An experiment, a new sensual endeavour, if you will.”

“Very well then,” you nod brusquely. “I shall attend your bachelor lodgings on the pretence of an art lesson. My friend can be my chaperone for propriety's sake. I assume you have a back exit to your home through which she can slip away unseen?”

He looks impressed with your forethought and ingenuity. “Certainly,” he assures, drawing closer, eyes piercing yours.

“Wonderful. Then it is just the matter of which day,” you opine, allowing his hands to twine around your waist again.

“Tomorrow?” He suggests, a bit breathless, his lips skating your temple.

“Such enthusiasm,” you mutter coyly against his jaw. “Tomorrow works for me. I look forward to seeing your darker side, Mr Bridgerton,” you wink salaciously as you pull back slightly. 

It’s like a storm rolls in across his face. A hand clamps around your throat, and his eyes look uncharacteristically flinty. “It’s sir to you,” he growls, his fingers sinking into the column of your neck as he steps into the role as if he was born to play it. 

Your body is suddenly awake, a live wire, your breath shallow. “Y.. yes, sir,” you stutter.

Then, with a wink and a breathtaking smile, his hand falls away, and he is gone.

Oh, that definitely works for you.

——

The next afternoon you and your best friend bustle through the busy streets of Mayfair towards Benedict’s home.

“Are you certain of this?” she asks. “This seems like you are playing with fire, to be courting the brother of your paramour….”

“The Viscount is not my paramour,” you argue, “he is someone with whom I share a special, albeit unconventional, arrangement. To the outside world, yes, it appears we are courting, but that is a veil under which we must meet clandestinely. But we have no agreement of exclusivity, and I do not wish to be bound by the restrictive rules of society. I wish to be free to pursue my interests, which, as of now, includes Mr Bridgerton.” you shrug.

You can see your friend wanting to be supportive and empathetic, to understand your wishes, but it is clear she does not understand the dynamics of how your, or indeed any, intimate relations work.

“All I ask is that you keep this secret for me. For the purpose of the rest of the world, I am receiving art lessons from the brother of the man courting me. And you are my chaperone for the day. You are free to leave via the rear courtyard once we are in the house. And thank you again for doing this.”

She nods as you pull up to his door, and a friendly-looking older man, presumably Benedict's valet, answers. Without waiting for an introduction, your friend bids you goodbye as soon as the door is closed to the outside world. She squeezes your hand and nods to the valet, who obviously knows of this plan, leading her to the back door.

As you watch her retreating figure, you sense a pair of eyes on you. You turn and find Benedict leaning in the doorway to what you assume is his drawing room, a playful smile writ large across his face.

“Y/n,” the way it drips off his tongue, decadent and low, sets the fire in your belly.

“Mr Bridgerton…” you return in as seductive of a voice as you know how. Then you squeal in delight as he lunges for you, effortlessly picking you up bridal style, his body flexing against yours as he athletically bounds up the staircase to his bedroom.

It’s when he lets you down to your feet and turns to lock the door that the butterflies truly erupt. Just the two of you now, no interruptions or distractions—no chance of Anthony listening at the door this time. This is your chance to know the measure of the man. To see how he compares to his brother in the matters of your intimate needs, crude as it is to say.

He draws you into his solid frame and tilts your head up with a hand on your jaw. And it's just like it was at Aubrey Hall. His kiss is passionate and plundering, and you melt into him. Feeling all those things you did before. That you would let him steal you away from everything and everyone you know as long as he just keeps kissing you like this—like you are the very air that he needs to breathe.

“I hope I can be everything you need, that you desire today, my girl,” he begins as he finally breaks the kiss, spidering a finger up your arm, a crooked smile tugging at his handsome features.

“I am looking forward to it...sir.” The last word is pointed, and you roll it in your mouth like a tasty morsel.

He inhales sharply, and you are captivated by how his pupils rapidly dilate. His tongue peaks out the left corner of his mouth and swipes across his bottom lip as if he is tasting the charged atmosphere between you.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, and his voice is suddenly gruff. 

You smirk wordlessly in challenge, wanting to see how he will react to your pushback. See if he can tame you the way Anthony does so effortlessly.

His eyebrow raises at your audacity. “Are you suddenly deaf, my dear girl, or are you asking for a spanking?”

There it is.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you needle, smirking wider.

That large hand is back at your throat as it was the day before. He crowds into you. “You had better choose a word that tells me to desist right now, should you wish to continue to defy me like this,” he warns, and his rumbling voice slides over your skin like wildfire, your heartbeat racing. 

“Red will do,” you snark back as his grip tightens, the heel of his palm at your windpipe.

“Mmm, red it is,” he murmurs, his lips on your cheek. “Now do as you are told, or I will do it for you. But I will tear your frock to shreds, and then you must leave my house naked.” 

He releases his grip looking at you expectantly.

You are positively vibrating with how thrilling this is already. You hold his gaze challengingly as you undo the buttons to loosen your dress, intentionally choosing one that doesn't need a lady’s maid to remove. Confidently pushing it off your shoulders, you raise an eyebrow as you stand in your stockings and chemise.  Your stomach fizzes with anticipation that he will soon find out you chose to forgo underwear today to incite him.

“Lose this too,” he clips, tugging on your chemise. As you disrobe from it, his gaze falls heavily to your bare breasts, and he sucks in air loudly through his teeth.

“Where are your stays?” He scolds.

You shrug, and suddenly there’s a hand in your hair, pulling.

“Answer me!” he growls.

You hiss as he pulls your hair tighter, a slight burn on your roots.

“Easier access for you, sir,” you reply through gritted teeth.

“Good girl,” his mouth twisting into an approving smirk as his hand twines around your hair. 

The blunt fingernails of his other hand trail over your breasts so light it almost tickles, and your skin erupts into goosebumps, your nipples pebbling diamond hard. You suck in a deep breath and watch him through heavy lids.

 “And what about your underwear?” low and deadly. Those same fingers spider down your abdomen, over your belly and into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Same, sir,” you answer, practically panting in anticipation. 

“Mmmm, you are lucky; I like that you are so wanton,” he murmurs low, his breath hot on your cheek, fingers swirling teasingly in your pubic hair but not dipping low enough to touch where you are aching. “Now tell me, what are your favourite colours?”

You frown at the rather strange question to the point that you just answer honestly. “Green and blue.”

“Excellent,” he nods, pulling you closer by your hair until he whispers in your ear. “Go and lay on the middle of the bed, stretch your arms above your head and keep them there.”

He releases you and walks away to what appears to be his dressing room. Still slightly confused, you do as told and go lay on his bed. As you settle back into the pillows, you notice they smell like him, like yours did after that night at Aubrey Hall. You turn your head and inhale deeply. The scent memories come flooding back—his face between your legs, making you scream as Anthony sat outside the locked door. It’s so visceral, and you are already so aroused that you begin writhing slightly. Desperate to get some friction on your rapidly swelling clit, trying to rub it between your thighs, not wanting to be caught disobeying the requirement to keep your hands above your head.

“What are you doing?” the tone is intrigued. Benedict is back in the room. 

“Your smell,” you answer honestly, “it's all over your bed.”

“My scent makes you writhe like a little vixen in heat?” he mutters, almost disbelieving, stalking towards you predator-like.

“Yes sir,” you affirm, shooting him your best coquettish look, your movements a little more performative now, just for him.

“And you called me the dangerous one,” he tuts with a shake of his head as he mounts the bed gracefully, cat-like. “Well, maybe these will help you stay still, my naughty girl,” and in his hands, he shows you three cravats, one in navy blue and two in green - one mint, one teal.

“What are you planning to do with those?” you query as he crawls over your prone body.

“I'm going to tie you to this bed until you learn to stop defying me,” he warns.

“I’ll never stop,” you goad with a twisted pout, hands already grabbing the headboard, eager to be tied to it.

He pushes a knee high between your thighs, the wool of his trousers tickling your slit. “Then I’ll just have to tie you face-down and spank you; maybe then you will learn how to behave,” he states almost casually, pulling the cravats taut between his hands, so the heavy silk makes a snapping sound. 

“You wouldn't,” you challenge, wanting what he suggests more than anything. 

His stare turns at once both flinty and flirtatious. “Turn over right now,” he commands, lifting away slightly.

You raise an eyebrow but do as you are told, flipping over underneath him. As you settle on your tummy, he brackets your thighs with his knees so your legs are pressed together, then leans over you. His cock slides along the cleft of your buttocks, making your eyes widen. You have never seen it, but it feels sizable and hot pressing through the fabric of his trousers. It appears certain things do run in the family.

His body is warm over your back as he moves your left hand out wide at a diagonal, looping one end of the mint cravat around your wrist and the other around the bedpost. Then he does the same with the teal cravat on your right hand. Your arms are stretched out above your head but not uncomfortably so. There is enough slack to move but not get up—just the perfect light, restrictive hold.

On instinct, you try to push up and back into him, a little rebellion.

“Stop squirming, or I won't let you come,” he declares gruffly. 

Instantly you still. But you can't help mewling as he teasingly surges his cock over you again, covering your whole back as he lays over you. 

“What if I did this all night, just thrust my clothed cock between your delicious bottom cheeks and came that way? Not touching you where you need it most? Would that make you behave?” his mouth near your ear, his tone dripping with an entirely arousing threat.

“No sir, please don't sir,” you beg quickly, unable to bear the thought of being turned on but having no chance of relief.

“Mmm, not so insolent now, are you, my girl?” he crows. “Maybe we have found a way to make you obedient, hmmm? Will you do what I tell you now?”

“Yes sir, please let me come too,” you whine into the pillow as he thrusts again and groans.

“Trouble is my girl; your bottom is so shapely I can't seem to stop myself rutting over you,” he grunts and slides again; you feel your skin turning red with the chafe of the wool.

“Please take your trousers off; I want your skin on me,” you implore.

“If you are a very good girl, maybe,” he chimes.

You were uncertain that Benedict had it in him to tame your wild streak, to combat your willful behaviour. But he is doing wonderfully, with just the right balance of dominance and teasing. In fact, it's more playful than Anthony is, and you are finding the dynamic entirely, well, charming.

“How am I doing?” He whispers keenly, breaking character as if he can intuit where your thoughts have gone.

“Wonderful," you murmur over your shoulder, and he looks so pleased that a little warmth blooms in your chest. He is so keen to fulfil your needs; it's very sweet.

“Are you sure you are comfortable?” he checks.

“Very,” you assure. “Now tame me, Mr Bridgerton,” you challenge, and like a switch, he is back and snarls in response.

“I’ll tie your legs open, too, if you don't behave. I have a wardrobe full of cravats and all the time in the world, my girl,” he warns steelily.

“Promises, promises, sir,” you provoke.

There is a sudden, stinging slap to your left buttock, and you squeak loudly.

“Behave,” he admonishes.

You just giggle and wiggle your bottom at him in defiance.

“I have a riding crop to bring my steed into line. Are you asking for the same, my girl?”

A frisson runs down your spine; even Anthony hasn’t done that yet. You bite your lip, considering it.

“No answer to that, hmmm?” he hums with a tinge of victory.

You twist your head and allow one eye to catch his gaze, it’s a heated staredown, and the flash in his pale eyes makes you shiver under him. It’s amazing how he can seem so utterly sweet in one moment and so utterly authoritative the next.

“Just your hands are fine, sir,” you retort with a pout, and he guffaws at that.

“Not really in a position to negotiate, though, my girl, are you?” he points out. “It's funny. You say you want domination and punishment. But I think you really relish challenge and surrender,” he skewers you so accurately that you almost break out of the scene. “And my brother is too focused on the physical to realise that you want someone to spar with you with words as well. Does he talk to you?”

“Of course,” you frown.

“No, I mean, does he talk to you? Does he tell you every little thing in his head when he has you like this? Under his control?”

“I….” you pause, “I suppose not.”

“Hmm, that's his first mistake, isn't it? You don't want just the physical act. You crave to know the intangible too. You want to know what someone is thinking. The intellectual puzzle of it all,” he continues, his voice bringing you under his spell even as he barely touches you. “You know how I know this?”

“How?” you breathe.

“Because of that night, in that corridor. You were an unsatisfied woman, and you told me it was what you asked for. You asked my brother to fuck you without pleasure and send you away? If you were into the dynamic for purely physical pleasure, you would never ask for that.” His monologue is murmured against your naked back as he runs his lips and tongue over your spine and ribs, contouring every line. “You are chasing experiences, something to make you think. Something to push your boundaries. And luckily for me, you found out one other thing that night.” 

“What?” you whisper, enrapt in what he has to say as he glides lower and his teeth graze the globe of your bottom.

“I will make you come, even if you don't ask for it, particularly when you don't ask for it, as that means you probably need it even more. Same as I will decide if my hands are enough. Not you. When we are playing like this, it's my job to intuit what you need before you even know it yourself. I can see what your body tells me, even when your mouth is arguing. And if Anthony had just seen that himself and pleasured you, despite what you claimed to want, you would not have ended up with my tongue between your legs, desperate to scream my name, not his.”

You are actually panting by the time he pulls your legs apart roughly and licks a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh, making you gasp loudly, lapping up the trickle of moisture there. He groans at your taste, but it doesn't stop him from talking.

“Just as I know you are dripping down your thighs right now because of what I just said as much as what I just did,” he argues, his tone muffled as he sucks hard on your inner thigh, biting down, but you barely feel it, the endorphin high blotting your mind. 

You had no idea he was capable of this. It’s more mental than physical. He is talking you into submission—filthy words winding you into a state of panting, needy arousal.

“Fuck me,” you exhale shakily.

“Not yet,” he responds, and you actually whimper, exasperated. “There's something else you should know about me.”

“What?” it's just a needy breath.

“I won't fuck you until you are begging for my cock. I’ll never be mean to you. Im not that sort of man. But I will control you, bring you into line. If I don’t touch your little weeping cunt I can make you so mindless you’ll properly surrender, do anything I told you to. You would crawl naked on your hands and knees to me in front of strangers.”

The mental image makes you startle. Every single thing you have done with Anthony has been in private. The title of Viscount means he must maintain public decorum; he prefers to keep personal affairs private. You have certainly never done anything in public. Now Benedict is suggesting you submit to him in front of people, and the shocking thing is… you just might. 

“Now, did you forget about the third cravat?” he laughs, climbing back over your body. You had, but you don't admit it. “Hmm, your silence suggests so. Well, this one is for your eyes.” 

His voice is suddenly back at your ear as the navy silk wraps around your face. There is a tug as he secures the cravat with a knot, the world blacking out. Butterflies roar in your tummy as you realise you are now tied down and blindfolded—giving him your trust willingly.

“Bring your hips up high but keep your head on the pillow,” you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he gives the order.

You do as commanded, shuffling as best you can without your hands and sight until your hips are high off the bed.

“Excellent,” he compliments, his warm hands rubbing delicately on your bottom. “Now tell me, does Anthony spank you?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“And I assume you enjoy it?”

“Very much so,” you confirm, flexing your hips slightly, hoping he will get the hint.

A large hand spanks your left cheek. You squeak and instantly know his technique is different to Anthony’s. He keeps his hand there, grabbing your flesh, fingers pulling at and digging into your skin, elongating the sensation, like he enjoys the heat radiated from the sting he just created. “How’s that, my girl?”

“Very good sir,” you moan tacitly.

He spanks your right cheek just the same. Both hands are now grasping your flesh.

“More, sir,” you mumble, your face burrowing, his scent there sharper now you cannot see, pushing back into his hands.

He chuckles richly, and you hear him shift slightly. 

“What else does Anthony do to you that you enjoy?” he questions, pulling your cheeks apart further and sliding his clothed cock there again.

“He fucks me roughly, sir,” you answer, hoping it will finally goad him into doing the same.

“Hmmm, I will need more detail than that, my girl.”

“He takes me from behind, just how you are now, sir, and leaves handprints on my body,” you expound. “Sometimes he gags me if Im being particularly willful.”

“Are you ever not willful?” he banters, and you just know he has a cocked eyebrow.

You twist your face over your shoulder even though you can't see him. “Not often,” you volley back with a twisted pout. His responding bark of a laugh makes you giggle.

“You are just delightful,” he opines and then spanks both cheeks in quick succession, making your head drop and groan. “I would happily go and get another cravat to gag you if you wish, but I so enjoy your insolent tongue; and all your wonderful noises, it seems almost a shame.” he ponders bemused, smacking both cheeks again so hard the sound echoes up the walls.

Your curse is muttered under your breath. Benedict certainly takes his time more than Anthony does—it seems he wants to luxuriate in the experience. By now, his brother would be inside you, telling you to shut up.

“I could do this all damn night,” he confesses, as if reading your mind, his tone like velvet. 

“Just fuck me already, sir,” you whine, frustrated.

“You do know that the more you demand, the less inclined I am, you brazen little nymph,” he intones, and a hand strikes yet again. 

Your bottom is now burning. He hasn't varied hand position like Anthony, who covers your entire cheek with a tingle. Benedict is hitting the same fleshy spot repeatedly until it’s so intense, a direct line to a throb in your clit. Which he hasn't even so much as nudged yet. When he does, you will be so hyper-sensitive you know it will be a jolt you’ll feel everywhere - you relish and dread it in equal measure. 

“Begging, however, is encouraged,” he adds, interrupting your thoughts.

“Please, sir, please, please fuck me,” you change tack and realise this is what he said would happen.

“Mmmm, now that is something I love to hear,” he hums low, his voice taking on a rough edge as he surges his cock against your tailbone yet again. You hear sounds of clothing rustling and realise he is undressing slightly—somehow, it feels like a victory. He leans over your back, and warm, smooth flesh brushes your shoulder blades.

“There you go, my girl; I removed my shirt,” he compliments. “Keep it up, and I might just get naked for you.” To punctuate the end of his sentence, he pulls back upright and spanks you again.

You know you are moaning and even drooling a touch, dampening your cheek. His technique is definitely more languid and deliberate; the drawn-out tease is beguiling.

“Please, please, please fuck me, sir,” you try again, hoping it will get him to take off his remaining clothing.

Sure enough, his wrist grazes your sore bottom cheeks, working open his trousers roughly.

“Yessssss, sir, please,” you add, going all out for the performance of it all, revelling in the theatricality of the moment.

“You sound so beautiful when you beg,” he rumbles. You scream as two fingers suddenly plunge into your cunt entirely without warning. “Good christ, you are soaked.” 

You can hear the squelching noise of your body as he rocks those long fingers into you, and you keen loudly. Clit throbbing even harder as the blunt round of his fingernail scrapes along your inner walls.

“Please, sir, oh god, give me more. Give me more fingers, your cock, anything,” you babble.

With his other hand, he grabs your hair, pulling your head up like a puppet as you hiss at the prickle on your scalp.

“You will take what I give you, do you hear me?” he growls and everything in your body pulses at the utterly commanding tone.

“Yes sir, of course, sir,” you moan, those fingers inside you curling harder now, and you cry out as he finds that spot inside that makes you crazed.

“There it is. Let's see you soak this bed like the little wild thing you are,” he snarls and suddenly, the languidness of the moment is gone. His hands are urgent and rough, your hair being pulled so tight, his fingers pushing inside your cunt.

You yell, cry out and curse.

“Yes, that's it,” he urges, breathing heavily.

The whiplash moment catches you unawares, and you can't fight what your body is doing; you don't even want to. It's a dizzying sensation as he pushes you fast towards a crescendo. It's not the usual climax; he’s still not as much as touched your clit. It's different, pressure building up inside you that feels almost frightening to let go of. Your wrists tug in your bindings, and you thrash slightly, resisting the tide rising in your body.

“Don't you dare hold back,” he demands, “let it go, don't fight it, give it to me,” he sounds so on a knife edge as his fingers plunder your body that you can't do anything but obey. Your whole body shakes as you cry out, and the pressure erupts—something gushing from inside you, soaking his arm, the bed, and the back of your legs.

“Fuck that's it, yes, yes, yes,” he cries victorious as you squeal and shake and want to collapse, but he grabs your hips, so you stay upright.

You are still quaking all over when he surprised you, releasing your hair, and as your head slumps back onto the pillow, he pulls your ass cheeks wide apart and leans down to plough his tongue between your folds from behind, stubbled chin pressing your clit.

You call out loudly, feeling it in your throat.

“That’s it. Cry for me, my girl,” his tone muffled into your slit, drinking up the fluid leaking there as your body still quivers.

The most obscene noises fill the room as he laps at your body. You moan and writhe under his tongue, already overwrought, the high morphing into something else. He’s taking your body to another different high, stabbing at your clit with long, pointed tongue strokes.

“I want you to come too,” he orders, the heat of his breath making your clit pulse.

“Sirrrr,” your muted protest sound drunken, and that’s how you feel, like every bone in your body is liquid, like you can't possibly come so soon after the intense experience you just had.

“What?” his chuckle has a flinty edge to it.

“I…I can’t,” you groan.

“Don't defy me, girl,” he warns, and a hand reigns down on the back of your thigh, where it meets your bottom, and you jump, pushing your knees wider. He takes advantage of the new stance, tilts your pelvis further so your back is arched low and sinks his whole face into your slit.

You breathe out a curse at just how pressed into your body he is. Your hands tied, unable to do anything but writhe, your lashes flutter heavily against the soft silk tied over your face. Again he is right; you want challenge and surrender, and this is the moment you surrender; with a shaky breath, you bury your face and let him take you somewhere primal and instinctual. Where you are rooted in your body but also somehow floating in a haze of exhilaration.

Your clit pulses, almost painful, as he sucks it between his lips and bites down gently over and over until your thighs twitch and a white-hot burn all around where his mouth holds you captive.

He can feel the ripples emanating from your channel on his face, and he utters encouragements into your soaked flesh. You start to fracture as his whole mouth, nose, and chin engage with your body, taking you over an edge that has you gripping the headboard until your knuckles are sore from gripping and your throat feels hoarse from all the sounds he is wringing from you.

Suddenly his mouth is gone, and you want to yell in frustration that you are not yet done; you want to ride out more when he straights and, with no warning, he thrusts his cock into your palpitating channel. The invasion is almost too much—like you are being split open. The hot hits stretch of him feels so different to Anthony in a way you can't describe, but it’s everything you need at that precise moment. 

You scream. Scream so loud he probably wishes he had gagged you after all. But he doesn't seem to care, doesn't reprimand you for being so very loud, not that you could stop even if you wanted to.

“Fuckk, your cunt is so very juicy and swollen,” he grunts through gritted teeth when you quieten to just panting. He holds still buried deep inside you. “No wonder Anthony cannot resist you. You feel exceptional, my girl.”

His filthy words just make you want more; you drag your cheek groaning a litany of noises, flexing your hips, asking for movement. But he doesn't move. He just stays still, fingers banded around the crest of your hips, the hair of his thighs tickling the back of yours.

“Please move, sir,” you lament.

“Beg for it,” he instructs.

He is doing quite an exceptional job in a different way to Anthony, making you surrender to his will, turning you supplicant, pleading, frantic. He was right—you want to do this. 

“Please, sir,” you gust through gritted teeth, “please fuck me; I need to feel you moving inside me,” you state loudly, clearly, unashamed.

“Good girl,” he compliments and withdraws slowly. Then ploughs back in fast, making your breath catch, your whole body rolling to the point you grab the headboard and push back.

“Yes, that’s it; show me how much you want it,” he growls, and you yearn to please him. To be exactly what he wants.

“Give it to me, sir,” your voice jagged, needy.

“What do you want?” His tone imperious.

“You. Your cock, sir. Fuck me rough,” you breathe.

And that’s all he needs—the green light. Fingers grip hard as he sets a punishing pace. Spearing deep into your body. So far, your lungs feel squeezed as you curl and roll at the force he takes you with.

Your moan is resonant and sounds almost foreign, like it didn’t come from inside you but from some other wild, untamed place. 

He hisses his approval at your noises. He seems to like you loud and vocal, whereas Anthony often tells you to stay quiet and take it, where you have to whimper and drool around his makeshift gags. Benedict doesn’t appear to care who may hear you; it seems he is almost taking pride in the sounds he can wring from you. Hell, he wants you in public; that exhibitionist streak intrigues. Everyone in his household surely knows what is transpiring in his bedroom on this sunny late afternoon.

“Sirrrrr,” you slur as your whole body moves under his rough treatment, your knees scrabbling on the bedding, your hands gripping the headboard, your cheek pressed so deep into the bedding, you know you have crease patterns on your face.

“If you want something, girl, tell me,” he pants each word as he thrusts hard, those fingers a vice-like grip on the crest of your hipbone, leaving marks, jerking you back onto his cock as he presses forward, driving so deep.

“You are so far inside me, sir,” you comment, the feeling of being so drilled into almost blooming into an ache. But an ache that pulls on a string inside, making your eyes roll back, and your mouth fall open, chasing more, wanting it. To feel so viscerally invaded to the point it hurts, him slamming into you, hips snapping, snarling as he does so.

“Yes, I am,” he preens, “and don’t you take all of me so well,” he flatters, leaning down over your back, his skin dewy from the exertion smearing dampness onto your spine. “This is what you need, to be fucked so hard you don’t answer back, isn't it?” he snarls hot into your ear.

“Yes sir,” you answer when he clearly expects a response.

“My little defiant one is finally submissive and taking it like a good girl,” the tone is entirely smug.

You groan as he grabs the knot on the back of your blindfold, pulling you suddenly upright. The slack binding on your wrists snapping taunt, the knots tightening to the point of a faint tingle in your fingertip, your arms suspended in the air in front of you.

He shuffles forward, buried inside you, manhandling you, so you sit on his lap facing away, your legs on either side of his.

“Ride me,” he commands, “take hold of the headboard and fuck me, my girl. Show me what you can do.”

You do as told, rising off his cock, sinking back down, revelling in the new angle you can hit, the steely plunge inside that makes your eyelids flutter.

“Faster,” his orders clipped.

Your thighs begin to protest. Riding him hard as he breathes so loud right by your ear. Then a hand snakes between your legs, and fingers snag your clit. You bite your lip and moan loudly, every muscle ache worth it.

“Are you going to come for me again?” He asks, but it’s not a question. He knows the answer. He can feel the pull of your cunt inside, rippling as he strums your pulsing clit.

Suddenly there is a glancing blow on your breast from his other hand, a light finger spank that catches your nipple and makes you howl. It doesn't hurt, but it makes your nipple throb. 

“Answer me.” His voice a gravelly menace.

“Yes. Yes, sir, I'm going to come for you,” you rush out, smarting from the tingle. You crave he does the same on your other breast, but he doesn’t, his hand too preoccupied between your legs.

Leaning forward slightly, you use the headboard for leverage, and he complements as you speed up. Every fibre on your body pulling taunt as you chase that breaking point. Almost using his body and hands with little thought to his pleasure, mindlessly pursuing your own as he ordered.

He swaps hands, and that’s when you break the renewed vigour of movement too much for you to take. You slump deep onto his cock and scream his name, not the title of sir, his actual name; as you fracture, one of his arms bands around your waist, so you are held in place, the other around your neck, fingers tight over your throat.

“Yes,” he growls in your ear, sounding more animal than human, grunting as he tilts his hips to piston into your convulsing cunt twice more, then suddenly withdrawing, painting your lower back with his warm release as he traps his cock between your bodies.

There is nothing but panting breaths for a few seconds, and then a gentle touch pulls your blindfold up and away. Warm, soft lips on your neck as he reaches for the binding on your wrists and releases them. You flex your hands on instinct, rotating your wrists.

“Was my binding too tight?” His ask is meek, fingertips tracing the redness there.

“No, it was merely silk; this will fade within the hour,” you murmur, twisting to give a quick smile of assurance. 

He pulls you into him and shuffles until you can lay together, limbs entwined, recovering slowly. 

“Was that everything you wanted?” his ask is so endearing you can't help but settle into his arms a little.

“Mmm, it was wonderful,” you assure.

“So, will you be with me?” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple with a sweet kiss, the tone so hopeful.

“I can't answer you yet, Benedict,” you respond honestly, pushing up onto your elbows to touch his jaw affectionately. “I have something special with your brother; I will see him tomorrow and see where I stand. I will not make you any promises, but please know tonight was wonderful, and I wish to be with you again.” 

He looks so pleased you are satisfied and nods, seeming to accept your reasoning. You lay in his arms momentarily, then rise to get dressed.

“Will you not be spending the evening or night with me?” he inquires, his voice almost small.

“No,” you shake your head, “I never do so with Anthony either,” you add to reassure. 

He gets up from the bed, throwing on some clothing himself, his shirt open to the waist, britches held up by braces, and, in a gentlemanly manner, sees you down the stairs and to the back of his home.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he murmurs as he opens the door for you.

Stealing a glance around to see there are no witnesses from nearby windows, you press a brief kiss to his lips. But he spins you and crowds you into the doorframe, turning it into a lingering passionate moment. Opening his lips and stealing into your mouth, the taste of your arousal strong on his tongue.

“You will see me, anon; I promise,” you whisper into his cheek after you break apart. 

Before his fervent kisses can change your mind, you quickly steal down the steps without a look back, slipping unseen into the small alley behind his home and out to the street to hail a hack as the sun sets. You can sense his eyes watching you go. 

You are in a quandary. You don't know if you can pick between them now. Benedict stepped up and was exactly what you needed. But with a different edge, his approach was more mental, to Anthony’s passionate physicality. They are so different, and yet both so beguiling. It's entirely possible you need both brothers fulfilling different needs as they do. The problem is, would they ever accept that? Benedict knows about Anthony but wants you all to himself. And Anthony has no clue. You can’t conceive of how you would broach the subject with him. His penchant for jealousy can be a problem, but the possessiveness it brings out in him is undeniably attractive. Part of you hopes you can delay making a decision, greedily taking from both what you want.

This dilemma will rear its head much quicker than expected. Unbeknownst to you, Benedict's teeth have left a little mark high on your inner thigh—it's not even something you feel. But it certainly doesn't go unnoticed by a certain someone the very next day.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84

[angels17324]

Chance Chapter 6

Prince Friedrich x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Genre: All the fluff 😇

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Dearest Readers, it would appear to be that our love matches of the season have yet to be engaged. Rest assured this author will be the first to let you know as soon as either couple has accepted a proposal. Maybe we shall have some luck at the Trowbridge ball? This author hopes to report on one of the lucky matches soon. 

-Lady Whistledown 

At the Trowbridge ball, (Y/n) was standing with her brothers, she had to admit she was a bit nervous about the evening's events. She smoothed her dress down and thought back to just a few hours earlier. 

Marie was getting (Y/n) ready for the Trowbridge ball. (Y/n) barely slept the night before after her father had told everyone the news. Whether it was excitement or nerves she wasn’t sure yet. Marie had just finished lacing up her stays. When another maid knocked at the door. 

“Miss, I have a delivery from the Modiste here,” The maid said. Both Marie and (Y/n) looked at each other in confusion. “But my dress is already here, and we haven’t ordered anymore,” She glanced back at her dress that was resting on her bed. “She dropped this off saying it was a special delivery,” The maid put the box on the table and quickly left. “What do you think this is about?” Marie asked staring at the box in front of them. 

“I guess there's only one way to find out,” (Y/n) walked to the box and opened it. Inside was a beautiful deep blue gown, Marie helped her pull it out and they look at it. “Is there a note?” She set the new dress on her bed as Marie picked up a note from the bottom of the box. “Here,” She handed it to (Y/n) wanting her to read it quickly.

“‘I hope to see you wear this at tonight's ball and that it can make up for the one that got ruined. Signed Friedrich.’” She read and looked back at the dress then at Marie. Marie giggled, “I think you should definitely wear it!” 

So here she was now at the ball wearing the gown that had been sent to her. She hadn’t seen Friedrich yet but she knew he was there. She was looking around the hall and walking as her brothers started to disappear into the crowds leaving her alone. “Miss (L/n),” the voice that called out sent a chill down her spine and made her want to hide but she couldn’t.

“Lord Jameson, how lovely to see you again,” She gave a polite nod to the man as she turned to him. “Do you think I may have your next dance?” He asked holding his hand out to the girl. She glanced for a quick escape but found none, so she allowed him to take her hand. 

He guided her out to the dance floor, compared to Friedrich he felt cold. They danced and she kept her eyes looking out on the crowd hoping she could spot Friedrich. It took a bit but she did he was on the edge of the dance floor speaking with her father but he kept glancing at her.

“Did your father inform you I wish to propose?” He asked. “He did…” She said just above a whisper. She had wished it had been a dream when he father told her but he reminded her it wasn’t “And what is your answer?” He smiled at her, it didn’t hold the same brightness as Friedrich’s. The only thing she wished at this moment was to be dancing with Friedrich.

“I’m sorry my lord?” She looked at him. “To my proposal,” the end of the song couldn’t come quickly enough for her.

“My answer is no,” She said calmly. “Your father promised,” He said. “My father promised nothing, he said only if I didn’t accept another,” She stated firmly, she had never planned to marry the man in front of her. 

The song finally ended, “Another?” He asked. Friedrich tapped Lord Jameson's shoulder, “I believe I have her next dance,” he said, causing the lord to loosen his grip that had tightened on her during the song. (Y/n) pulled back. “Your highness,” He bowed again. “Shall we?” Friedrich ignored the man and held his hand out to her. She nodded and took his hand quickly, wishing to be as far from Lord Jameson as possible. “Impeccable timing as always,” She smiled at him. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t come to your assistance quicker Schatz,” he placed a hand on her waist as the music started. “It’s alright, you still came to my rescue,” She said with a slight tease in her voice, already feeling more at ease with Friedrich.

He chucked, as they danced together, “I’m glad my gift arrived in time for you to wear tonight,”

She giggled a bit, “It’s beautiful, but you didn’t need to gift me a dress,”

“Maybe not, but I hoped it may make tonight a bit more memorable,” He smiled and spun her, causing her to laugh a bit. 

“I would say just being able to dance with you makes it memorable enough,”

“Is that so?” He chuckled a bit, “Well then maybe I should save my plan for another night,” she pouted a bit and he smiled at her. “But I do believe I could still top our dance,” He smiled. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I hope to soon remedy that.” 

“Oh?” She looked at him and tilted her head. “Yes, may we go to speak somewhere a bit more private?” “Of course,” She nodded. He led her to the edge of the dance floor where her father was still waiting, his hand never leaving hers. It seemed like he knew what was coming and now she had a feeling she did too. She could feel the butterflies in her stomach as they walked outside and were just outside the gardens. 

Her father stayed far enough back for them to have privacy, but close enough that they could be seen by him.  “Some people back home, believe my coming here was to run away, in truth I was running to something.” Their eyes met and she could see all the emotions in his eyes. “I came here in search of someone to start a life and a family with, and I believe I found her, in you.” He confessed he pulled a small ring from his pocket and kneeled on the ground in front of her. “Will you be my wife, Miss (Y/n) (L/n)?” he finally asked full of hope. All she could do was nod. “Use your words, Schatz,”

“Yes,” she finally said and he slipped the ring on her finger, and stood up while holding both her hands. He brought both her hands up to his lips and kissed them. 

Taglist - @faye-tale @eleanor-bradstreet @colettebronte @broooookiecrisp @emmamandms

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[polinweek]

POLIN WEEK SHOW SCENE MADNESS: ROUND 1:

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[birdofdawning]

The Bookseller's Eldest Daughter and the Witch's Girl

The first chapter is here; the previous chapter is here.

Chapter Five

Soon the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and the King’s son walked into a tidy stone square and there, seated around a fountain and playing cards by the light of their lanterns, were a band of night watchmen. They looked up at the sound of footfalls and called out to know their business in that place.

“I have the King’s son here. Maybe real King’s son,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “And I am returning him to the palace.”

“Are you indeed?” said the leader of the patrol, getting to his feet with a gleam in his eye, for everyone knew about both the Prince’s muteness and the King’s open-handedness toward those who served him well. “Well, my girl, I believe we can take him on from here. By rights we ought to take you in for suspected night-mischief, but you get away home now, like a good girl, and I’ll see you don’t get into any more trouble.” And he reached for the King’s son.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter said with a firm voice. “I must caution you on handling the Prince. I am very sorry to say that he has been enchanted, and I have not yet broken all the spells and crosses that lie about him.” [1] At this the leader of the patrol dropped his hands and took a few steps back, and she continued: “While I am, of course, grateful for your kindness, for the time being I must stay by his side. But an escort would be very welcome,” she added coolly.

And thus the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and the King’s son were marched straight to the palace gates and, after a terse exchange (and not a little haggling) between the guards inside and the watchmen outside, they were eventually walked through the palace gardens and up into the great reception hall.

There they stood waiting among enormous portraits and opulent tapestries while servants ran about in excitement, lighting lamps and sending each other to wake up even more important servants. These grander servants would then arrive to also run about in excitement and so-on, until eventually someone important enough to inform the King was woken. And even though she was wearing her best red dress the Bookseller’s eldest daughter couldn’t help feeling more than a little small and tawdry in that grand chamber. Beside her the King’s son still looked dazed and stared straight ahead.

Finally there was a sudden hush and the King arrived wearing a very fine red dressing gown over his pyjamas. “What is all this?” he was saying to his Steward in annoyance, “If my son has taken to wandering about at night, well, that’s unfortunate of course but I certainly don’t see that it’s cause for all this kerfuffle! Or that it couldn’t be dealt with in the morning!”

The Steward, who was dressed in a slight less fine dressing gown, smoothed out his beard and said “I quite agree your majesty, but I have been given to understand that circumstances may not be quite as—”

At this point the King had set eyes on his son and he said “Why, Samuel, what’s happened to you my boy? What on earth are you wearing? And who’s this?” He looked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter up and down with avuncular confusion.

But the King’s son merely gazed blankly at his father.

“Sir,” began the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Your Majesty,” corrected the Steward with an eyebrow raised.

“No, no, there’s no call for all that rot, not at this time of night,” said the King kindly, “Go on, my dear.”

“Your— um, well, Sir, I believe that this is your real son,” explained the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “I found him in Fairy and managed to bring him back to you. And if he has not been carried off by the fairies every night for the past year (which I suspect he may have been, certain passages in Trowbridge’s Miscellany suggest—) …Well, that is, Sir, if he hasn’t, then I suspect you may have been entertaining an impostor. And that you ought to check. I mean, check if he’s here. Your son. In his bed.” she finished weakly, a little worried that she was rambling.

The King looked very surprised and, being a good father, not a little horrified. He gave a sharp order to a group of guards to attend his son in his bedchambers immediately, and — if the Prince was there — deliver the King’s compliments and request his presence at once. 

While they were all waiting he addressed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter again, asking her who her parents were, and where she lived, and had she had a good midsummer festival and so-on. “And are visits to Fairy… a common thing for you, my dear?” He finally asked.

“Not at all, sir,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter earnestly. “But I was there recently on a family matter, and recognised the Prince. He is, as you can see, still affected by the place and I fear some care will have to be taken to return him to himself.”

But at this moment the guards returned with another King’s son walking stiffly between them, only this one was dressed in periwinkle-coloured pyjamas! And behind the group came the Queen in a satin night-gown with a shawl thrown over her shoulders.

“Why there are two of ‘em!” cried the King in astonishment. “Look at this, m’love, two Samuels! Whatever next? Line ‘em up together and let’s have a look.”

The Queen came to stand next to her husband (the Bookseller’s eldest daughter recalled that the Queen was renowned as a famous beauty and stole a look at her out of the corner of her eyes, but at that moment she saw only a worried middle-aged woman woken from sleep). “But Henry, which is the real Samuel?” the Queen asked as she looked between the two young men.

“Haven’t the foggiest! Hey! Samuel! Speak up, boy, and let your mother know which you are!” said the King. But both King’s sons continued to stare at him wordlessly.

“Two of ‘em now and neither of them will talk!” muttered the King, and turning to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter he asked “Can you tell which is which?”

The girl had, in fact, been considering what needed to be done next, and was beginning to realise that she was finally out of her depth here. Unless she could think of something she was going to have to go back to the Braziers’ Quarter and ask— but no! (she decided, still annoyed) she would handle this problem herself, with simple observation and Reason.

“Could you bring that lamp over?” she asked a servant. He looked rather displeased to be so commanded by some shop girl but he did as she asked and she began walking around the two young men, examining them closely. One was in his fine pyjamas and was clean shaven and trim, the other was ragged and too-thin, with a patchy beard and long hair. But other than these mere surface differences they were identical.

She quickly ordered her thoughts into a list, like this: (1) Obviously the King’s son wasn’t being carried away to Fairy each night, as she had proposed, for here was his double. So either (2) one son was a mere fairy glamour cast over a log or a fence post or a mound of grave-dirt or something, or (3) it was a disguised fairy playing cruel sport with them. But if the sham-Prince was only illusion thrown over a fence post or something why hadn’t it fallen away by now, as Greenaway’s Nature of Fairy Glamours conjectured that it ought? No, it must be a fairy imposter, in which case it could be tricked into revealing itself. Several methods suggested by Margaret Whitherwick in her four volume A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Traffic With the Fairies: Requisites, Recommendations, and Prohibitions [2] immediately sprang into her mind and she was just about to ask for a broken mirror and an onion [3] so as to begin when she happened to glance down.

She blinked. And then she snatched the lamp away from the now quite angry manservant and paced from one side of the twin Princes to the other staring at the ground. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, of course! Why it’s just like my sister only—!” And then she stood still and narrowed her eyes, thinking.

There was a long pause, and then the King said “I perceive that you have an idea…?”

“Oh! Yes, forgive me, Your Majesty,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, still eyeing the two King’s sons. “I know what’s happened, I just need to work out how to… You, hold this! And stand here!” she told the manservant, who, with a scandalised glance at the Steward, took the lamp back and stiffly moved as he was requested, standing a few paces in front of the King’s son from the palace.

“Now, you come with me,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, taking the hand of the King’s son from the revel, and she led him to stand before his twin, facing the lamp. “And now,” she muttered to herself, “just… nudge them together…” and stepping to one side so that the light fell full upon the King’s son, she gave him a gentle push, so that he stepped back onto the feet of his double.

There was the soft sound of cloth falling to the floor and the King said “Why, wherever has the other chap gone?” and then the King’s son was standing tall and alert, looking this way and that with his wits very obviously returned to him.

“Mother?” he said, “My King? What has happened?” in a voice that was rough and faint, as if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

And the Queen said “Samuel!” and she was hugging him, and the King stepped forward to shake his hand and say “Well met, sir! Well met indeed!” and wiping a few paternal tears away, and everyone was talking and smiling and the King called for claret and a toast. And it was several very long minutes before anyone thought to ask what had just happened.

But eventually the King did ask just that. And then the Queen looked over at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who found herself suddenly being assessed by a pair of very perceptive grey eyes. “I rather suspect that this young woman has been waiting to tell us that very thing, Henry,” she murmured, and they all turned to the girl expectantly.

“Oh!” she began, slightly ill-at-ease with being the centre of attention in such grand company now that she had had time to worry about it, “Well, um. Did you not notice how neither Prince had a shadow? No matter how I moved the lamp there was only a sort of dimness directly beneath them. And then I realised that the fairies must have separated the Prince from his real shadow, and enchanted it to carry on as the Prince, turning up to meals and wandering about and so-on, so that you didn’t go looking for him. I would not be surprised if the shadow-Prince stayed in bed on sunny days and only got up on cloudy days, so no-one would notice that he cast no shadow himself.”

“By Jove, but he did too!” exclaimed the King, thinking back. “But how did you know how to put them back together?”

“The shadow hadn’t really been separated from its body, not in any important way,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter (feeling just a little bit like a fraud), “that’s how both parts were still alive. So I made sure there was a strong light in front of the real Prince — I guessed that he was the one from Fairy — and just… nudged them back together. And it worked: he was whole again and any other enchantments cast over either half of him fell away. Just like they were.” She pointed to the floor, where the crumpled heap of periwinkle pyjamas lay exactly where the false Prince had been standing.

The King regarded the Bookseller’s eldest daughter soberly. “My dear, we owe you — the Kingdom owes you — a great debt.” And he said this with such tremendous gravity that you forgot that he was standing in his dressing gown and pyjamas. “Ask me anything, and, if it be in my power, it shall be yours.”

“Ah,” said the girl pulling some papers out of her satchel, “Yes, actually I did have some expenses while organising everything. I hope it’s not impertinent to ask for remuneration. I’ve kept the receipts, if you would like to check them. It’s not much.”

The King blinked at her and then nodded to his steward to take the receipts. “Of course, my dear. It shall be taken care of. But surely you would like something else?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stood for a moment, biting her lip. And now that she was standing here (though she would never have admitted this to the Witch’s girl) it did seem a bit venal to ask for a reward when, really, she had only done the right thing. In fact, the more she thought it over, the more horribly awkward she felt.

But then the Queen stepped over to her and put a kind hand on her back and said “Come now, child, don’t be afraid. Tell His Majesty what you would like. You don’t strike me as the sort of person who would ask for something unfitting or indelicate, and no-one will think any less of you.”

“Oh, Madam,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter hesitantly, “I… I would like the money to start my own bookshop. Only a loan, of course! I have put together a possible repayment plan…” (here she began hunting through her satchel) “… Which I can’t seem to… actually it’s at home, of course it is, why would I bring… but, please be assured that I have worked out the minimum of what I need, and am certain that I can repay you within three years!”

They all stared at her.

“A bookshop?” said the Queen, “Is that what you want?”

“One of my own, yes Madam,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter earnestly.

“Well, I’m sure the King would be pleased to—”

But she was cut short.

… And the next thing the Bookseller’s eldest daughter knew she was starting awake and finding herself standing a few feet away from where she was sure she had just been. And looking around, she noted that everyone else seemed to be blinking and confused too.

Everyone except the King. “A bookshop!?” he said abruptly, “A bookshop!? No, my girl, you shall marry my son, the Prince!”

There was a terrible silence.

Then the Queen and the King’s son both started speak at the same time: “Henry—!” and “Sir, I have no idea who this person is—!” and all the servants looked at each other and at the King and finally at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. And then they started whispering and nodding towards her.

“ENOUGH!” shouted the King abruptly, and he was no longer the kindly man from a few moments ago. His face was red with anger and his eyes glittered dangerously. “I will NOT be despised so while I stand in my own home! I have said that my son shall marry this girl and that is what will happen!”

“Sir!” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, very conscious of the suspicious looks she was being given, “Please, I cannot marry—”

The King turned on her. “You, some nobody from the streets, have the affrontery to scorn my commands so easily?!” he thundered, “Think well before you do so again, for if you refuse me a second time you will lose that pretty head, my girl!”

“What!?” said the girl.

“Henry!” cried the Queen.

The King’s son and the Steward tried to speak to the King too, but he would not have it. “Put her in one of the guest bedrooms,” he said, pointing at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “and put a guard on the door. His door too,” he added jerking a thumb at his son, and then he went back to bed.

Everyone stood and stared each other in shock.

“Please, Madam, I promise—” began the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, but the Queen gave her a narrow look.

“Best do as the King says, I think,” she said, a little coolly. “Go to bed and try and sleep. We will untangle all this in the morning.” And then she took the Prince’s arm and followed the King out of the reception chamber.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked about and saw only hard, mistrustful faces regarding her. “Can’t I just—” she began.

“Nobody cares about what you want,” said the Steward, “Follow me.”

And so half an hour later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter found herself alone in a bedchamber the size of all their upstairs rooms at home put together, lying in a night gown that was too short, in a bed that was too soft and much, much too big. And what was worse, she was sleeping alone, without her sister for perhaps the first time since she was three years old.

How did everything go so wrong? She asked herself. And then she remembered how only that morning she had been warned against pursuing this course, and of what she had replied, and she wept into her pillow for the second time that day.

[1] Fairy magics are as whimsical and capricious as their users, and a spell may last nine heartbeats or nine months depending on how much trouble the fairy could be bothered taking at the time. There is usually little point in seeking out the fairy who wove a particular enchantment and asking it to lift the spell, because they will probably have forgotten all about it, and reminding them is unlikely to be beneficial. A more powerful fairy may be able to break the spell, but as this always requires bargaining (and not inconsiderable danger), people generally do not care to pursue this course of action unless utterly desperate.

Most mortals will first try one of the common folk-methods of terminating such enchantments; these usually involve physically breaking something, such as snapping a thread that has been wound tight around the bewitched item, or shattering a mirror that is reflecting it. But even such venerable countermagics as these are variable at best in their efficacy.

Greenaway’s researches proposed that fairy enchantments are at their weakest during ‘those liminal moments of permutation, when what was waxing begins to wane, and one thing becomes another.’ He listed such circumstances as the sun rising, the tide turning, and the solstices. Those seeking to break a fairy spell, he thought, were likely to have their best chance if they could wait for or contrive such a situation and then utilise one of the two-dozen counterspells he records in his appendix to Observations and Conjectures on the Nature of Fairy Glamours.

Alternately, one might consult a witch.

[2] Each volume of this indispensable work on modern fairy-dealing details one of the aspects mentioned in the subtitle. The fourth volume contains the index and an invaluable gazetteer of known entries into Fairy for the reader to avoid, the usefulness of which has, perhaps, become undermined since the author entered a box hedge maze during a garden party and never emerged again.

[3] A broken mirror, as is widely known, enables the viewer to observe fairies and other spirits stripped of their illusions. But what the Bookseller’s eldest daughter intended to do with the onion I am uncertain. If she had asked for an onion and an eggcup all would be quite obvious, but I can find no method of enticing fairies with an onion alone.

The next chapter

[fictionz]

New Fiction 2022 - December

The Chimes at Midnight by Geoff Trowbridge (2008)

It takes its time to get to the meat until there’s more to chew on in the latter half. Most of these TOS alternate histories were mildly interesting but this one is a cut above.

A Gutted World by Keith R.A. DeCandido (2008)

"What if the Cardassians discovered the Bajoran Wormhole?" This is the question that got me reading all these Myriad Universes novellas in the first place, but because I’m me and a completionist, I couldn’t just skip past the others in the series to get here. I come to Star Trek expanded universe stuff with a DS9 first approach so I was keen to read how the author spun out this alternate history in which the Dominion gets their foothold in the alpha quadrant if they met the Cardassians first. It had a little too much TNG cast for my taste (especially since those characters dominate so many of these stories), but it’s a worthy DS9 tale.

Brave New World by Chris Roberson (2008)

Now we get to a whole lot of Data, so more of TNG. The courtroom stuff doesn’t hit the same way in these stories as it does in the TV episodes, and then all the implications of androids woven into the fabric of the galaxy is strangely not that compelling.

The Embrace of Cold Architects by David R. George III (2010)

Another Data-heavy story. I think these novellas introduce interesting directions with how the Federation will absolutely exploit artificial beings if they have the slightest excuse, but this particular one needed to be its own novel. It ends just as things get interesting.

The Tears of Eridanus by Steve Mollmann & Michael Schuster (2010)

A TOS story that deviates from the prime universe thousands of years before the era we know. It revels in an alternate history in which the Andorians made first contact with Earth, and the Vulcans and Romulans never parted ways.

The Last Generation by Andrew Steven Harris, Gordon Purcell, Bob Almond, Terry Pallot, Mario Boon, John Hunt, Robbie Robbins, Chris Mowry, Neil Uyetake, Andy Schmidt, Scott Dunbier, Justin Eisinger, Mariah Huehner, Bill Tortolini (2009)

I could’ve done without Data and the TNG cast at the center of things (again), but it’s cool to see Sulu flying around being a badass in his Excelsior ship. All these TNG tales feels like the higher-ups asking “Ey, where’s my TNG (money)? I gotta have my TNG (money)!”

Strange World dir. Don Hall (2022)

I loved it, but then I’m a sucker for perilous adventure tales across strange new lands.

Violent Night dir. Tommy Wirkola (2022)

Die Hard meets Home Alone with a blend of Bad Santa and maybe God of War?

Empire of Light dir. Sam Mendes (2022)

I was there for it all the way. Sometimes I remember I’m a normie-ass man but that part that feels like I’m a distant weirdo never goes away, and this movie’s for that guy.

Demon Wind dir. Charles Philip Moore (1990)

I watched this movie within a video game along with its MST3K-style commentary at 2 AM with my youngest brother and what a thing to do and write down.

Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio dir. Guillermo del Toro (2022)

I mean, of course it’s great. I haven’t read the original story and it sounds like this hews closer to that than the popular perception from Disney’s takes.

Babylon dir. Damien Chazelle (2022)

This could've been dry but instead it’s constantly running at full charge, and even when we slow down to the granular level of filmmaking commentary it’s still a high pressure romp.

Jack and Jill dir. Dennis Dugan (2011)

Eh, I suppose the most impressive thing here is that Sandler sells the idea that’s he's own twin sister to the point that you consider them separate people.

The Whale dir. Darren Aronofsky (2022)

This had the potential to be bleak but instead it’s just genuinely hopeful. The performances come across a little too staged, as does the whole movie I suppose, so it’s no surprise to learn than this was originally a stage play.

The Outer Limits - "The Sandkings" (1995)

Here we go! I’d been thinking about watching the entire 1995 reboot of The Outer Limits and it’s everything I could’ve hoped for. All the 90s actors I remember from Saturday afternoon sci-fi TV, dated effects and production techniques, stories about man’s reach exceeding his grasp. This first episode even features three generations of the Bridges acting clan. The thing about intelligent alien bugs isn’t so compelling, but the overall production makes up for it.

The Outer Limits - "Vanishing Act" (1996)

I was looking for an episode that features New Year’s Day and found this story about a man who time jumps forward by ten years every time he falls asleep. It’s a sci-fi sort of twist on It’s a Wonderful Life and very reminiscent of something you’d see on Star Trek.

Tales from the Crypt - "And All Through the House" (1989)

And since I plan to also watch Tales from the Crypt after TOL, I skipped over to this story about a bad Santa stalking a bad mom.

The Outer Limits - "Valerie 23" (1995)

Here’s a reminder not to fuck around with robots. Don’t do it! Especially not if they’re hot! There’ll more fucked up robot tales in the seasons ahead...

The Outer Limits - "Blood Brothers" (1995)

We get a few stories here about rich assholes trying to live forever. This one does also present an interesting idea: what if we could all be cured of all ailments and live twice as long in the process? What happens when no one’s dying and the population count explodes? In any case, that’s more thought than what goes into the episode’s story. It’s mostly about a rich guy jumping the gun on proper medical testing and getting screwed as he should.

The Outer Limits - "The Second Soul" (1995)

Oh man, I was definitely on the paranoid side of this story as the events unfold. It was nice to get one of these where it isn’t a bleak or worst case ending.

The Outer Limits - "White Light Fever" (1995)

Another rich asshole who literally wants to live forever. And that’s it. Spoiler: he doesn’t get to.

Don't Hug Me I'm Scared - Series 2 (2022)

I wanna love this because I loved the original web series, but binging a bunch of TV-length episodes just felt like too much of it. I liked them when they were shorter and spaced out more. Binger beware, I know.

[news-markharrisonrootsmusic]

NEWS AUGUST 2024

Hello everyone,

I hope things are as OK as they can be. There are a lot of uplifting and exciting things happening at this end, with the imminent release of the new album FOOLS & CLOWNS (30 August) and the single from it THEM AND US (August 23). 

NEW ALBUM AND SINGLE - FIRST REVIEWS AND AIRPLAY

The new album and single have already been getting a fantastic reaction from places and people that matter. 

'songs that have melodies and hooks – some that will have you dancing, some nodding wistfully and a few that will have you raising your fists and roaring' (Music News) - read the full review here: Music News review

'their music is always interesting, there's something new happens every other verse or chorus, and I really like that .... I think it's blinkin' marvellous, 10 out of 10 to the Mark Harrison Band' (Frank Hennessy, BBC Radio Wales) 

BBC Radio London - I went to Broadcasting House and was a guest on Gaby Roslin's show, chatting and performing the single. I doubt anyone's been there and said they were going to perform their latest single and it's 'about the cult of management' before! Listen to my appearance on the show here: BBC Radio London Gaby Roslin Show

Jazz FM feature - legendary broadcaster David Freeman interviewed me and played three tracks from the album on his Blues And Boogie Show, listen here: Jazz FM feature Part 1Jazz FM Feature Part 2

BBC Radio Wales - Frank Hennessy has played three tracks on his Celtic Heartbeat show and had wonderful things to say, listen here: BBC Radio Wales

Music News interview - all manner of hopefully interesting and non-standard areas covered in this chat with Andy Snipper, including some views you may not frequently hear expressed:  Music News interview

THE NEW ALBUM

Huge thanks to everyone who has already ordered the album, and those orders are going out now. Hope you like it when you get it. 

ORDER FOOLS & CLOWNS HERE

Everyone ordering the album directly via this link will also receive a private link to download it and watch a film in which I talk briefly about each of the songs and the ideas behind them. 

This is an album of truly original and individual songwriting and musicianship, for people who care about and enjoy those two things! If you're one of those people, please do order a copy now, and please do share the news with any like-minded souls with soul who you know. And if you've got any of our previous albums, you definitely should add this to your collection!

The new album has some new sounds for us, and covers all manner of topics you won't normally find. The songs together present a world view, upsides and downsides of the human condition, common experiences of trying to get by, and fun in the face of adversity. In short, the human spirit.  

Here are clips of tracks from the album:

Fools & Clowns trailer

Here's a film of us making the album:

The Making of Fools & Clowns

The album has, as you can see, fantastic artwork, plus a booklet with all the lyrics. 

NEW SINGLE - THEM AND US

A catchy, jaunty song about working life and the useless as viewed by the useful. Not a common song topic I know, but it resonates with so many people. 

Stream it, download it and see the lyrics, here.

Watch the official film, which illustrates this widespread issue with some wit here

See Mark talking about the subject of the songhere

NEW T-SHIRTS

We now have a fantastic selection of new T-shirts in a new online shop. The designs are all taken from designer Andy Hall's wonderful work on albums and posters over the years. Three of the designs are available at gigs now. 

All the designs, in all sizes, can be ordered here: online shop

SHOWS

There are lots of forthcoming shows, and more coming in all the time, have a look at the listings here. Here are this year's as things stand, with ticket links:

SAT         SEPT 7         CRANFEST, CRANBROOK, KENT                                         TICKETS & INFO

FRI         SEPT 13      THE PUMP, TROWBRIDGE                  TICKETS & INFO

FRI         SEPT 20      SOUTHDOWNS MUSIC FESTIVAL, BOGNOR                               TICKETS & INFO

THURS      OCT 3        GROUNDHOG BLUES CLUB, WELLINGTON, TELFORD               TICKETS & INFO

SAT         OCT 12           CARLISLE BLUES/ROCK FESTIVAL                            TICKETS & INFO

FR1         OCT 18      BREADSALL MEMORIAL HALL, DERBYSHIRE                      TICKETS & INFO 

SUN         OCT 27           BEVERLEY BLUES FESTIVAL                          TICKETS & INFO

SAT         NOV 2             THE PLOUGH ARTS CENTRE, GREAT TORRINGTON, DEVON             TICKETS & INFO

SAT         NOV 23           THE EDGE ARTS CENTRE, MUCH WENLOCK, SHROPSHIRE           TICKETS & INFO

SAT         DEC 7              UNDER THE EDGE ARTS, WOTTION UNDER EDGE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE            TICKETS & INFO

Our recent run of shows has included some truly great experiences at fantastic venues, such as the sold-out show in the extraordinary Spiegeltent at Edinburgh Jazz & Blues Festival, and the memorable one at a church in Oborne, Dorset, both pictured here.  

UPDATED WEBSITE 

The website has been revised and updated, have a look at it all here, it's got everything anyone could need to know, see or hear! 

http://www.markharrisonrootsmusic.com/

FILMS

New live films, including the most recent shows in Edinburgh, Oborne and at The 100 Club:

recent live films

All manner of good films are on our YouTube channel, have a prowl around and subscribe too: YouTube channel

SPOTIFY

Passing Through continues to get a lot of streams, and you can check out all the albums: 

Spotify

ALBUMS

All the albums, can be ordered direct here, so if there are any you haven't got, do get them! We do songs from all of them.

Many thanks for all the interest and support,  

Mark 

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 11-12

CHAPTER XI

WHEN I was a kid, one time I had an old-maid teacher that used to tell me, "Buzz, you're the thickest-headed dunce in school." But I noticed that she told me this a whole lot oftener than she used to tell the other kids how smart they were, and I came to be the most talked-about scholar in the whole township. The United States Senate isn't so different, and I want to thank a lot of stuffed shirts for their remarks about Yours Truly.

Zero Hour, Berzelius Windrip.

BUT there were certain of the Heathen who did not heed those heralds Prang and Windrip and Haik and Dr. Macgoblin.

Walt Trowbridge conducted his campaign as placidly as though he were certain to win. He did not spare himself, but he did not moan over the Forgotten Men (he'd been one himself, as a youngster, and didn't think it was so bad!) nor become hysterical at a private bar in a scarlet-and-silver special tram. Quietly, steadfastly, speaking on the radio and in a few great halls, he explained that he did advocate an enormously improved distribution of wealth, but that it must be achieved by steady digging and not by dynamite that would destroy more than it excavated. He wasn't particularly thrilling. Economics rarely are, except when they have been dramatized by a Bishop, staged and lighted by a Sarason, and passionately played by a Buzz Windrip with rapier and blue satin tights.

For the campaign the Communists had brightly brought out their sacrificial candidates—in fact, all seven of the current Communist parties had. Since, if they all stuck together, they might entice 900,000 votes, they had avoided such bourgeois grossness by enthusiastic schisms, and their creeds now included: The Party, the Majority Party, the Leftist Party, the Trotzky Party, the Christian Communist Party, the Workers' Party, and, less baldly named, something called the American Nationalist Patriotic Cooperative Fabian Post-Marxian Communist Party—it sounded like the names of royalty but was otherwise dissimilar.

But these radical excursions were not very significant compared with the new Jeffersonian Party, suddenly fathered by Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Forty-eight hours after the nomination of Windrip at Cleveland, President Roosevelt had issued his defiance.

Senator Windrip, he asserted, had been chosen "not by the brains and hearts of genuine Democrats but by their temporarily crazed emotions." He would no more support Windrip because he claimed to be a Democrat than he would support Jimmy Walker.

Yet, he said, he could not vote for the Republican Party, the "party of intrenched special privilege," however much, in the past three years, he had appreciated the loyalty, the honesty, the intelligence of Senator Walt Trowbridge.

Roosevelt made it clear that his Jeffersonian or True Democratic faction was not a "third party" in the sense that it was to be permanent. It was to vanish as soon as honest and coolly thinking men got control again of the old organization. Buzz Windrip aroused mirth by dubbing it the "Bull Mouse Party," but President Roosevelt was joined by almost all the liberal members of Congress, Democratic or Republican, who had not followed Walt Trowbridge; by Norman Thomas and the Socialists who had not turned Communist; by Governors Floyd Olson and Olin Johnston; and by Mayor La Guardia.

The conspicuous fault of the Jeffersonian Party, like the personal fault of Senator Trowbridge, was that it represented integrity and reason, in a year when the electorate hungered for frisky emotions, for the peppery sensations associated, usually, not with monetary systems and taxation rates but with baptism by immersion in the creek, young love under the elms, straight whisky, angelic orchestras heard soaring down from the full moon, fear of death when an automobile teeters above a canyon, thirst in a desert and quenching it with spring water—all the primitive sensations which they thought they found in the screaming of Buzz Windrip.

Far from the hot-lighted ballrooms where all these crimson-tuniced bandmasters shrillsquabbled as to which should lead for the moment the tremendous spiritual jazz, far off in the cool hills a little man named Doremus Jessup, who wasn't even a bass drummer but only a citizen editor, wondered in confusion what he should do to be saved.

He wanted to follow Roosevelt and the Jeffersonian Party—partly for admiration of the man; partly for the pleasure of shocking the ingrown Republicanism of Vermont. But he could not believe that the Jeffersonians would have a chance; he did believe that, for all the mothball odor of many of his associates, Walt Trowbridge was a valiant and competent man; and night and day Doremus bounced up and down Beulah Valley campaigning for Trowbridge.

Out of his very confusion there came into his writing a desperate sureness which surprised accustomed readers of the Informer. For once he was not amused and tolerant. Though he never said anything worse of the Jeffersonian Party than that it was ahead of its times, in both editorials and news stories he went after Buzz Windrip and his gang with whips, turpentine, and scandal.

In person, he was into and out of shops and houses all morning long, arguing with voters, getting miniature interviews.

He had expected that traditionally Republican Vermont would give him too drearily easy a task in preaching Trowbridge. What he found was a dismaying preference for the theoretically Democratic Buzz Windrip. And that preference, Doremus perceived, wasn't even a pathetic trust in Windrip's promises of Utopian bliss for everyone in general. It was a trust in increased cash for the voter himself, and for his family, very much in particular.

Most of them had, among all the factors in the campaign, noticed only what they regarded as Windrip's humor, and three planks in his platform: Five, which promised to increase taxes on the rich; Ten, which condemned the Negroes—since nothing so elevates a dispossessed farmer or a factory worker on relief as to have some race, any race, on which he can look down; and, especially, Eleven, which announced, or seemed to announce, that the average toiler would immediately receive $5000 a year. (And ever-so-many railway-station debaters explained that it would really be $10,000. Why, they were going to have every cent offered by Dr. Townsend, plus everything planned by the late Huey Long, Upton Sinclair, and the Utopians, all put together!)

So beatifically did hundreds of old people in Beulah Valley believe this that they smilingly trotted into Raymond Pridewell's hardware store, to order new kitchen stoves and aluminum sauce pans and complete bathroom furnishings, to be paid for on the day after inauguration. Mr. Pridewell, a cobwebbed old Henry Cabot Lodge Republican, lost half his trade by chasing out these happy heirs to fabulous estates, but they went on dreaming, and Doremus, nagging at them, discovered that mere figures are defenseless against a dream... even a dream of new Plymouths and unlimited cans of sausages and motion-picture cameras and the prospect of never having to arise till 7:30 A.M.

Thus answered Alfred Tizra, "Snake" Tizra, friend to Doremus's handyman, Shad Ledue. Snake was a steel-tough truck-driver and taxi-owner who had served sentences for assault and for transporting bootleg liquor. He had once made a living catching rattlesnakes and copperheads in southern New England. Under President Windrip, Snake jeeringly assured Doremus, he would have enough money to start a chain of roadhouses in all the dry communities in Vermont.

Ed Howland, one of the lesser Fort Beulah grocers, and Charley Betts, furniture and undertaking, while they were dead against anyone getting groceries, furniture, or even undertaking on Windrip credit, were all for the population's having credit on other wares.

Aras Dilley, a squatter dairy farmer living with a toothless wife and seven slattern children in a tilted and unscrubbed cabin way up on Mount Terror, snarled at Doremus—who had often taken food baskets and boxes of shotgun shells and masses of cigarettes to Aras—"Well, want to tell you, when Mr. Windrip gets in, we farmers are going to fix our own prices on our crops, and not you smart city fellows!"

Doremus could not blame him. While Buck Titus, at fifty, looked thirty-odd, Aras, at thirty-four, looked fifty.

Lorinda Pike's singularly unpleasant partner in the Beulah Valley Tavern, one Mr. Nipper, whom she hoped soon to lose, combined boasting how rich he was with gloating how much more he was going to get under Windrip. "Professor" Staubmeyer quoted nice things Windrip had said about higher pay for teachers. Louis Rotenstern, to prove that his heart, at least, was not Jewish, became more lyric than any of them. And even Frank Tasbrough of the quarries, Medary Cole of the grist mill and real-estate holdings, R. C. Crowley of the bank, who presumably were not tickled by projects of higher income taxes, smiled pussy-cattishly and hinted that Windrip was a "lot sounder fellow" than people knew.

But no one in Fort Beulah was a more active crusader for Buzz Windrip than Shad Ledue.

Doremus had known that Shad possessed talent for argument and for display; that he had once persuaded old Mr. Pridewell to trust him for a .22 rifle, value twenty-three dollars; that, removed from the sphere of coal bins and grass-stained overalls, he had once sung "Rollicky Bill the Sailor" at a smoker of the Ancient and Independent Order of Rams; and that he had enough memory to be able to quote, as his own profound opinions, the editorials in the Hearst newspapers. Yet even knowing all this equipment for a political career, an equipment not much short of Buzz Windrip's, Doremus was surprised to find Shad soap-boxing for Windrip among the quarry-workers, then actually as chairman of a rally in Oddfellows' Hall. Shad spoke little, but with brutal taunting of the believers in Trowbridge and Roosevelt.

At meetings where he did not speak, Shad was an incomparable bouncer, and in that valued capacity he was summoned to Windrip rallies as far away as Burlington. It was he who, in a militia uniform, handsomely riding a large white plow-horse, led the final Windrip parade in Rutland... and substantial men of affairs, even dry-goods jobbers, fondly called him "Shad."

Doremus was amazed, felt a little apologetic over his failure to have appreciated this new-found paragon, as he sat in American Legion Hall and heard Shad bellowing: "I don't pretend to be anything but a plain working-stiff, but there's forty million workers like me, and we know that Senator Windrip is the first statesman in years that thinks of what guys like us need before he thinks one doggone thing about politics. Come on, you bozos! The swell folks tell you to not be selfish! Walt Trowbridge tells you to not be selfish! Well, be selfish, and vote for the one man that's willing to give you something—give you something!—and not just grab off every cent and every hour of work that he can get!"

Doremus groaned inwardly, "Oh, my Shad! And you're doing most of this on my time!"

Sissy Jessup sat on the running board of her coupe (hers by squatter's right), with Julian Falck, up from Amherst for the week-end, and Malcolm Tasbrough wedged in on either side of her.

"Oh nuts, let's quit talking politics. Windrip's going to be elected, so why waste time yodeling when we could drive down to the river and have a swim," complained Malcolm.

"He's not going to win without our putting up a tough scrap against him. I'm going to talk to the high-school alumni this evening— about how they got to tell their parents to vote for either Trowbridge or Roosevelt," snapped Julian Falck.

"Haa, haa, haa! And of course the parents will be tickled to death to do whatever you tell 'em, Yulian! You college men certainly are the goods! Besides—Want to be serious about this fool business?" Malcolm had the insolent self-assurance of beef, slick black hair, and a large car of his own; he was the perfect leader of Black Shirts, and he looked contemptuously on Julian who, though a year older, was pale and thinnish. "Matter of fact, it'll be a good thing to have Buzz. He'll put a damn quick stop to all this radicalism—all this free speech and libel of our most fundamental institutions—"

"Boston American; last Tuesday; page eight," murmured Sissy.

"—and no wonder you're scared of him, Yulian! He sure will drag some of your favorite Amherst anarchist profs off to the hoosegow, and maybe you too, Comrade!"

The two young men looked at each other with slow fury. Sissy quieted them by raging, "Freavensake! Will you two heels quit scrapping?... Oh, my dears, this beastly election! Beastly! Seems as if it's breaking up every town, every home.... My poor Dad! Doremus is just about all in!"

CHAPTER XII

I SHALL not be content till this country can produce every single thing we need, even coffee, cocoa, and rubber, and so keep all our dollars at home. If we can do this and at the same time work up tourist traffic so that foreigners will come from every part of the world to see such remarkable wonders as the Grand Canyon, Glacier and Yellowstone etc. parks, the fine hotels of Chicago, & etc., thus leaving their money here, we shall have such a balance of trade as will go far to carry out my often-criticized yet completely sound idea of from $3000 to $5000 per year for every single family—that is, I mean every real American family. Such an aspiring Vision is what we want, and not all this nonsense of wasting our time at Geneva and talky-talk at Lugano, wherever that is.

Zero Hour, Berzelius Windrip.

ELECTION day would fall on Tuesday, November third, and on Sunday evening of the first, Senator Windrip played the finale of his campaign at a mass meeting in Madison Square Garden, in New York. The Garden would hold, with seats and standing room, about 19,000, and a week before the meeting every ticket had been sold—at from fifty cents to five dollars, and then by speculators resold and resold, at from one dollar to twenty.

Doremus had been able to get one single ticket from an acquaintance on one of the Hearst dailies—which, alone among the New York papers, were supporting Windrip—and on the afternoon of November first he traveled the three hundred miles to New York for his first visit in three years.

It had been cold in Vermont, with early snow, but the white drifts lay to the earth so quietly, in unstained air, that the world seemed a silver-painted carnival, left to silence. Even on a moonless night, a pale radiance came from the snow, from the earth itself, and the stars were drops of quicksilver.

But, following the redcap carrying his shabby Gladstone bag, Doremus came out of the Grand Central, at six o'clock, into a gray trickle of cold dishwater from heaven's kitchen sink. The renowned towers which he expected to see on Forty-second Street were dead in their mummy cloths of ragged fog. And as to the mob that, with cruel disinterest, galloped past him, a new and heedless smear of faces every second, the man from Fort Beulah could think only that New York must be holding its county fair in this clammy drizzle, or else that there was a big fire somewhere.

He had sensibly planned to save money by using the subway—the substantial village burgher is so poor in the city of the Babylonian gardens!—and he even remembered that there were still to be found in Manhattan five-cent trolley cars, in which a rustic might divert himself by looking at sailors and poets and shawled women from the steppes of Kazakstan. To the redcap he had piped with what he conceived to be traveled urbanity, "Guess 'll take a trolley—jus' few blocks." But deafened and dizzied and elbow-jabbed by the crowd, soaked and depressed, he took refuge in a taxi, then wished he hadn't, as he saw the slippery rubber-colored pavement, and as his taxi got wedged among other cars stinking of carbon-monoxide and frenziedly tooting for release from the jam—a huddle of robot sheep bleating their terror with mechanical lungs of a hundred horsepower.

He painfully hesitated before going out again from his small hotel in the West Forties, and when he did, when he muddily crept among the shrill shopgirls, the weary chorus girls, the hard cigar-clamping gamblers, and the pretty young men on Broadway, he felt himself, with the rubbers and umbrella which Emma had forced upon him, a very Caspar Milquetoast.

He most noticed a number of stray imitation soldiers, without side-arms or rifles, but in a uniform like that of an American cavalryman in 1870: slant-topped blue forage caps, dark blue tunics, light blue trousers, with yellow stripes at the seam, tucked into leggings of black rubberoid for what appeared to be the privates, and boots of sleek black leather for officers. Each of them had on the right side of his collar the letters "M.M." and on the left, a five-pointed star. There were so many of them; they swaggered so brazenly, shouldering civilians out of the way; and upon insignificances like Doremus they looked with frigid insolence.

He suddenly understood.

These young condottieri were the "Minute Men": the private troops of Berzelius Windrip, about which Doremus had been publishing uneasy news reports. He was thrilled and a little dismayed to see them now—the printed words made brutal flesh.

Three weeks ago Windrip had announced that Colonel Dewey Haik had founded, just for the campaign, a nationwide league of Windrip marching-clubs, to be called the Minute Men. It was probable that they had been in formation for months, since already they had three or four hundred thousand members. Doremus was afraid the M.M.'s might become a permanent organization, more menacing than the Kuklux Klan.

Their uniform suggested the pioneer America of Cold Harbor and of the Indian fighters under Miles and Custer. Their emblem, their swastika (here Doremus saw the cunning and mysticism of Lee Sarason), was a five-pointed star, because the star on the American flag was five-pointed, whereas the stars of both the Soviet banner and the Jews—the seal of Solomon—were six-pointed.

The fact that the Soviet star, actually, was also five-pointed, no one noticed, during these excited days of regeneration. Anyway, it was a nice idea to have this star simultaneously challenge the Jews and the Bolsheviks—the M.M.'s had good intentions, even if their symbolism did slip a little.

Yet the craftiest thing about the M.M.'s was that they wore no colored shirts, but only plain white when on parade, and light khaki when on outpost duty, so that Buzz Windrip could thunder, and frequently, "Black shirts? Brown shirts? Red shirts? Yes, and maybe cow-brindle shirts! All these degenerate European uniforms of tyranny! No sir! The Minute Men are not Fascist or Communist or anything at all but plain Democratic—the knight-champions of the rights of the Forgotten Men—the shock troops of Freedom!"

Doremus dined on Chinese food, his invariable self-indulgence when he was in a large city without Emma, who stated that chow mein was nothing but fried excelsior with flour-paste gravy. He forgot the leering M.M. troopers a little; he was happy in glancing at the gilded wood-carvings, at the octagonal lanterns painted with doll-like Chinese peasants crossing arched bridges, at a quartette of guests, two male and two female, who looked like Public Enemies and who all through dinner quarreled with restrained viciousness.

When he headed toward Madison Square Garden and the culminating Windrip rally, he was plunged into a maelstrom. A whole nation seemed querulously to be headed the same way. He could not get a taxicab, and walking through the dreary storm some fourteen blocks to Madison Square Garden he was aware of the murderous temper of the crowd.

Eighth Avenue, lined with cheapjack shops, was packed with drab, discouraged people who yet, tonight, were tipsy with the hashish of hope. They filled the sidewalks, nearly filled the pavement, while irritable motors squeezed tediously through them, and angry policemen were pushed and whirled about and, if they tried to be haughty, got jeered at by lively shopgirls.

Through the welter, before Doremus's eyes, jabbed a flying wedge of Minute Men, led by what he was later to recognize as a cornet of M.M.'s. They were not on duty, and they were not belligerent; they were cheering, and singing "Berzelius Windrip went to Wash.," reminding Doremus of a slightly drunken knot of students from an inferior college after a football victory. He was to remember them so afterward, months afterward, when the enemies of the M.M.'s all through the country derisively called them "Mickey Mouses" and "Minnies."

An old man, shabbily neat, stood blocking them and yelled, "To hell with Buzz! Three cheers for F.D.R.!"

The M.M.'s burst into hoodlum wrath. The cornet in command, a bruiser uglier even than Shad Ledue, hit the old man on the jaw, and he sloped down, sickeningly. Then, from nowhere, facing the cornet, there was a chief petty officer of the navy, big, smiling, reckless. The C.P.O. bellowed, in a voice tuned to hurricanes, "Swell bunch o' tin soldiers! Nine o' yuh to one grandpappy! Just about even—"

The cornet socked him; he laid out the cornet with one foul to the belly; instantly the other eight M.M.'s were on the C.P.O., like sparrows after a hawk, and he crashed, his face, suddenly veal-white, laced with rivulets of blood. The eight kicked him in the head with their thick marching-shoes. They were still kicking him when Doremus wriggled away, very sick, altogether helpless.

He had not turned away quickly enough to avoid seeing an M.M. trooper, girlish-faced, crimson-lipped, fawn-eyed, throw himself on the fallen cornet and, whimpering, stroke that roustabout's roast-beef cheeks with shy gardenia-petal fingers.

There were many arguments, a few private fist fights, and one more battle, before Doremus reached the auditorium.

A block from it some thirty M.M.'s, headed by a battalion-leader— something between a captain and a major—started raiding a street meeting of Communists. A Jewish girl in khaki, her bare head soaked with rain, was beseeching from the elevation of a wheelbarrow, "Fellow travelers! Don't just chew the rag and 'sympathize'! Join us! Now! It's life and death!" Twenty feet from the Communists, a middle-aged man who looked like a social worker was explaining the Jeffersonian Party, recalling the record of President Roosevelt, and reviling the Communists next door as word-drunk un-American cranks. Half his audience were people who might be competent voters; half of them—like half of any group on this evening of tragic fiesta—were cigarette-sniping boys in hand-me-downs.

The thirty M.M.'s cheerfully smashed into the Communists. The battalion leader reached up, slapped the girl speaker, dragged her down from the wheelbarrow. His followers casually waded in with fists and blackjacks. Doremus, more nauseated, feeling more helpless than ever, heard the smack of a blackjack on the temple of a scrawny Jewish intellectual.

Amazingly, then, the voice of the rival Jeffersonian leader spiraled up into a scream: "Come on, you! Going to let those hellhounds attack our Communist friends—friends now, by God!" With which the mild bookworm leaped into the air, came down squarely upon a fat Mickey Mouse, capsized him, seized his blackjack, took time to kick another M.M.'s shins before arising from the wreck, sprang up, and waded into the raiders as, Doremus guessed, he would have waded into a table of statistics on the proportion of butter fat in loose milk in 97.7 per cent of shops on Avenue B.

Till then, only half-a-dozen Communist Party members had been facing the M.M.'s, their backs to a garage wall. Fifty of their own, fifty Jeffersonians besides, now joined them, and with bricks and umbrellas and deadly volumes of sociology they drove off the enraged M.M.'s—partisans of Bela Kun side by side with the partisans of Professor John Dewey—until a riot squad of policemen battered their way in to protect the M.M.'s by arresting the girl Communist speaker and the Jeffersonian.

Doremus had often "headed up" sports stories about "Madison Square Garden Prize Fights," but he did know that the place had nothing to do with Madison Square, from which it was a day's journey by bus, that it was decidedly not a garden, that the fighters there did not fight for "prizes" but for fixed partnership shares in the business, and that a good many of them did not fight at all.

The mammoth building, as in exhaustion Doremus crawled up to it, was entirely ringed with M.M.'s, elbow to elbow, all carrying heavy canes, and at every entrance, along every aisle, the M.M.'s were rigidly in line, with their officers galloping about, whispering orders, and bearing uneasy rumors like scared calves in a dipping-pen.

These past weeks hungry miners, dispossessed farmers, Carolina mill hands had greeted Senator Windrip with a flutter of worn hands beneath gasoline torches. Now he was to face, not the unemployed, for they could not afford fifty-cent tickets, but the small, scared side-street traders of New York, who considered themselves altogether superior to clodhoppers and mine-creepers, yet were as desperate as they. The swelling mass that Doremus saw, proud in seats or standing chin-to-nape in the aisles, in a reek of dampened clothes, was not romantic; they were people concerned with the tailor's goose, the tray of potato salad, the card of hooks-and-eyes, the leech-like mortgage on the owner-driven taxi, with, at home, the baby's diapers, the dull safety-razor blade, the awful rise in the cost of rump steak and kosher chicken. And a few, and very proud, civil-service clerks and letter carriers and superintendents of small apartment houses, curiously fashionable in seventeen-dollar ready-made suits and feebly stitched foulard ties, who boasted, "I don't know why all these bums go on relief. I may not be such a wiz, but let me tell you, even since 1929, I've never made less than two thousand dollars a year!"

Manhattan peasants. Kind people, industrious people, generous to their aged, eager to find any desperate cure for the sickness of worry over losing the job.

Most facile material for any rabble-rouser.

The historic rally opened with extreme dullness. A regimental band played the Tales from Hoffman barcarole with no apparent significance and not much more liveliness. The Reverend Dr. Hendrik Van Lollop of St. Apologue's Lutheran Church offered prayer, but one felt that probably it had not been accepted. Senator Porkwood provided a dissertation on Senator Windrip which was composed in equal parts of apostolic adoration of Buzz and of the uh-uh-uh's with which Hon. Porkwood always interspersed his words.

And Windrip wasn't yet even in sight.

Colonel Dewey Haik, nominator of Buzz at the Cleveland convention, was considerably better. He told three jokes, and an anecdote about a faithful carrier pigeon in the Great War which had seemed to understand, really better than many of the human soldiers, just why it was that the Americans were over there fighting for France against Germany. The connection of this ornithological hero with the virtues of Senator Windrip did not seem evident, but, after having sat under Senator Porkwood, the audience enjoyed the note of military gallantry.

Doremus felt that Colonel Haik was not merely rambling but pounding on toward something definite. His voice became more insistent. He began to talk about Windrip: "my friend—the one man who dares beard the monetary lion—the man who in his great and simple heart cherishes the woe of every common man as once did the brooding tenderness of Abraham Lincoln." Then, wildly waving toward a side entrance, he shrieked, "And here he comes! My friends—Buzz Windrip!"

The band hammered out "The Campbells Are Coming." A squadron of Minute Men, smart as Horse Guards, carrying long lances with starred pennants, clicked into the gigantic bowl of the auditorium, and after them, shabby in an old blue-serge suit, nervously twisting a sweat-stained slouch hat, stooped and tired, limped Berzelius Windrip. The audience leaped up, thrusting one another aside to have a look at the deliverer, cheering like artillery at dawn.

Windrip started prosaically enough. You felt rather sorry for him, so awkwardly did he lumber up the steps to the platform, across to the center of the stage. He stopped; stared owlishly. Then he quacked monotonously:

"The first time I ever came to New York I was a greenhorn—no, don't laugh, mebbe I still am! But I had already been elected a United States Senator, and back home, the way they'd serenaded me, I thought I was some punkins. I thought my name was just about as familiar to everybody as Al Capone's or Camel Cigarettes or Castoria—Babies Cry For It. But I come to New York on my way to Washington, and say, I sat in my hotel lobby here for three days, and the only fellow ever spoke to me was the hotel detective! And when he did come up and address me, I was tickled to death—I thought he was going to tell me the whole burg was pleased by my condescending to visit 'em. But all he wanted to know was, was I a guest of the hotel and did I have any right to be holding down a lobby chair permanently that way! And tonight, friends, I'm pretty near as scared of Old Gotham as I was then!"

The laughter, the hand-clapping, were fair enough, but the proud electors were disappointed by his drawl, his weary humility.

Doremus quivered hopefully, "Maybe he isn't going to get elected!"

Windrip outlined his too-familiar platform—Doremus was interested only in observing that Windrip misquoted his own figures regarding the limitation of fortunes, in Point Five.

He slid into a rhapsody of general ideas—a mishmash of polite regards to Justice, Freedom, Equality, Order, Prosperity, Patriotism, and any number of other noble but slippery abstractions.

Doremus thought he was being bored, until he discovered that, at some moment which he had not noticed, he had become absorbed and excited.

Something in the intensity with which Windrip looked at his audience, looked at all of them, his glance slowly taking them in from the highest-perched seat to the nearest, convinced them that he was talking to each individual, directly and solely; that he wanted to take each of them into his heart; that he was telling them the truths, the imperious and dangerous facts, that had been hidden from them.

"They say I want money—power! Say, I've turned down offers from law firms right here in New York of three times the money I'll get as President! And power—why, the President is the servant of every citizen in the country, and not just of the considerate folks, but also of every crank that comes pestering him by telegram and phone and letter. And yet, it's true, it's absolutely true I do want power, great, big, imperial power—but not for myself—no— for you!—the power of your permission to smash the Jew financiers who've enslaved you, who're working you to death to pay the interest on their bonds; the grasping bankers—and not all of 'em Jews by a darn sight!—the crooked labor-leaders just as much as the crooked bosses, and, most of all, the sneaking spies of Moscow that want you to lick the boots of their self-appointed tyrants that rule not by love and loyalty, like I want to, but by the horrible power of the whip, the dark cell, the automatic pistol!"

He pictured, then, a Paradise of democracy in which, with the old political machines destroyed, every humblest worker would be king and ruler, dominating representatives elected from among his own kind of people, and these representatives not growing indifferent, as hitherto they had done, once they were far off in Washington, but kept alert to the public interest by the supervision of a strengthened Executive.

It sounded almost reasonable, for a while.

The supreme actor, Buzz Windrip, was passionate yet never grotesquely wild. He did not gesture too extravagantly; only, like Gene Debs of old, he reached out a bony forefinger which seemed to jab into each of them and hook out each heart. It was his mad eyes, big staring tragic eyes, that startled them, and his voice, now thundering, now humbly pleading, that soothed them.

He was so obviously an honest and merciful leader; a man of sorrows and acquaint with woe.

Doremus marveled, "I'll be hanged! Why, he's a darn good sort when you come to meet him! And warm-hearted. He makes me feel as if I'd been having a good evening with Buck and Steve Perefixe. What if Buzz is right? What if—in spite of all the demagogic pap that, I suppose, he has got to feed out to the boobs—he's right in claiming that it's only he, and not Trowbridge or Roosevelt, that can break the hold of the absentee owners? And these Minute Men, his followers—oh, they were pretty nasty, what I saw out on the street, but still, most of 'em are mighty nice, clean-cut young fellows. Seeing Buzz and then listening to what he actually says does kind of surprise you—kind of make you think!"

But what Mr. Windrip actually had said, Doremus could not remember an hour later, when he had come out of the trance.

He was so convinced then that Windrip would win that, on Tuesday evening, he did not remain at the Informer office until the returns were all in. But if he did not stay for the evidences of the election, they came to him.

Past his house, after midnight, through muddy snow tramped a triumphant and reasonably drunken parade, carrying torches and bellowing to the air of "Yankee Doodle" new words revealed just that week by Mrs. Adelaide Tarr Gimmitch:

"The snakes disloyal to our Buzz We're riding on a rail, They'll wish to God they never was, When we get them in jail!

Chorus:

"Buzz and buzz and keep it up To victory he's floated. You were a most ungrateful pup, Unless for Buzz you voted.

"Every M.M. gets a whip To use upon some traitor, And every Antibuzz we skip Today, we'll tend to later."

"Antibuzz," a word credited to Mrs. Gimmitch but more probably invented by Dr. Hector Macgoblin, was to be extensively used by lady patriots as a term expressing such vicious disloyalty to the State as might call for the firing squad. Yet, like Mrs. Gimmitch's splendid synthesis "Unkies," for soldiers of the A.E.F., it never really caught on.

Among the winter-coated paraders Doremus and Sissy thought they could make out Shad Ledue, Aras Dilley, that philoprogenitive squatter from Mount Terror, Charley Betts, the furniture dealer, and Tony Mogliani, the fruit-seller, most ardent expounder of Italian Fascism in central Vermont.

And, though he could not be sure of it in the dimness behind the torches, Doremus rather thought that the lone large motorcar following the procession was that of his neighbor, Francis Tasbrough.

Next morning, at the Informer office, Doremus did not learn of so very much damage wrought by the triumphant Nordics—they had merely upset a couple of privies, torn down and burned the tailor-shop sign of Louis Rotenstern, and somewhat badly beaten Clifford Little, the jeweler, a slight, curly-headed young man whom Shad Ledue despised because he organized theatricals and played the organ in Mr. Falck's church.

That night Doremus found, on his front porch, a notice in red chalk upon butcher's paper:

You will get yrs Dorey sweethart unles you get rite down on yr belly and crawl in front of the MM and the League and the Chief and I

A friend

It was the first time that Doremus had heard of "the Chief," a sound American variant of "the Leader" or "the Head of the Government," as a popular title for Mr. Windrip. It was soon to be made official.

Doremus burned the red warning without telling his family. But he often woke to remember it, not very laughingly.

[mylespilling]

Wiltshire dyslexia association event

It's Dysleixia Awareness month and here are some suggestions for different tyoes of users wutg dyslexia to us in assistive technology

Resource Handout WDA Event – Thusrday 5th October 2023 – County Hall, Trowbridge Assistive Technology Workshop – Arran Smith & Myles Pilling Microsoft 365 – Learning Tools -https://www.microsoft.com/en-gb/education/products/learning-tools Dictate – Speech to text Immersive Reader – Text to Speech Edge – Read Aloud, Dark Theme, Language selections, Background themes Access to Work Dragon…

[mylespilling123]

Wiltshire dyslexia association event

It's Dysleixia Awareness month and here are some suggestions for different tyoes of users wutg dyslexia to us in assistive technology

Resource Handout WDA Event – Thusrday 5th October 2023 – County Hall, Trowbridge Assistive Technology Workshop – Arran Smith & Myles Pilling Microsoft 365 – Learning Tools -https://www.microsoft.com/en-gb/education/products/learning-tools Dictate – Speech to text Immersive Reader – Text to Speech Edge – Read Aloud, Dark Theme, Language selections, Background themes Access to Work Dragon…

[grabplanthire]

Short Video Presentation Arilinx Permanent Jewellery

ARILINX Permanent Jewellery is the UK’s fastest-growing, fully dedicated, and completely mobile permanent jewellery brand. Our mission is to create exquisite and timeless pieces of jewellery that are designed to last a lifetime.

Court Hall,Trowbridge,South West Wiltshire,BA14 8AR

+44 7541 517905

booking@arilinx.co.uk

https://www.arilinx.co.uk/

[iowacitypast]

The Dental Science Building with scaffolding, The University of Iowa, 1917

Creator: Kent, Frederick Wallace 

https://digital.lib.uiowa.edu/isl.../object/ui%3Aictcs_19085

[teenagedirtstache]

[livingonfanficseyra]

Lord Trowbridge: So Bridgerton, care to join us on a hunting expedition this weekend?

Anthony: No, thanks. My wife and I went hunting last week and she captured an excellent mule. It was really impressive. What can I say Kate's a natural when it comes to hunting or anything actually. She's just amazing.

Lord Trowbridge: *nods awkwardly, watching Anthony’s expression*

Colin watching the whole exchange, amusedly.

~

Two days later..

Benedict: I won't be attending the party, Anthony. We're having a get together at the art school.

Anthony: Alright.. You know Kate, my wife, is an excellent watercolorist. She did a painting of the Aubrey Hall gardens and it is exquisite.

Benedict: *huffs and rolls his eyes* I know Kate is your wife and I have already seen the painting. Besides there's no one left in London who doesn't know that Kate is your wife as you keep mentioning "Kate, my wife" in every single conversation.

Anthony: Well there's no harm in reminding everyone that Kate is my wife. She's beautiful, brave, kind and caring and she chose me to be her husband. I am entitled to brag.

Colin: *watching Benedict from the corner, laughing his arse off* Ha the sweet sound of victory. Lovely. Pay up brother!

Benedict: *paying Colin while muttering about stupid brothers*

More stupid incorrect bridgerton quotes here :P

[newtonsheffield]

In regard to the viscountess vs. viscountess smack down we all deserve; If I had any literary talent I would right the scene in which Kate finally gets fed up with Violet comparing Anthony to Edmund, and lays into her. I’ve only got 2 lines of dialogue, but they’ve been bouncing around my head like a DVD screensaver for months. Violet: You did not know my husband! Kate: And you do not know mine.

I think they made some interesting choices with Anthony and Violet's relationship in season 1

Honestly every time they're alone together I just want to scream

"Stop! You're hurting him!"

Violet baited Anthony into arranging that marriage with Nigel Berbrooke by saying it's what Edmund would have done, when I feel like we all know it's definitely not what Edmund would have done at all. But no one's ready to talk about that.

And when she says "Time, as we both know, is of this essence." I'm ready to throw down myself.

And here's what I basically think has led to this relationship between Violet and Anthony.

Violet's final pregnancy was... traumatic. Edmund died, and she had a difficult birth, and I think it's likely she had Post partum depression considering everything. And I think early on, it was easy for her to lean on Anthony. To let him take over the burden, it was a relief, in a way. But I think she forgets that Anthony was barely a man when it happened. Because it's easier for her to see him that way. Rather than someone who's still a boy who was stunted by grief.

But I think despite all this it leaves us open to some very interesting dynamics because we know that Kate is fiercely protective of the people she loves.

And I almost don't want it to be an argument between the two of them, I just want Kate to state simple facts.

Here's a little snippet of how I see it going down, fairly early in their marriage.

It was what a good wife was supposed to do, Kate reminded herself , visit her husband's family. And she liked the Bridgerton's she truly did, but at present sitting in the drawing room at Bridgerton House with her mother in law, she was finding it difficult to remember Why.

It had started when she'd arrived, shown into the drawing room with a simple Lady Bridgerton the title still making her head spin just a little as she settled herself across the table from Anthony's mother, smiling politely when Violet said:

"No Anthony today?"

Kate had hummed, "Just me today. I'm afraid Anthony had some meetings he could not postpone."

And, instead of smiling and moving on, Violet had hummed again, "Oh, I don't doubt it. Anthony is always... rather busy."

Kate had frowned, but the conversation had moved on before she'd been able to offer much of a response, but her mind had kept ticking over it, over a hundred different interactions she'd seen of Anthony and his mother. The way she'd sighed when she'd seen Anthony slipping back into the Danbury ball that very first night. The way Violet's eyes had tracked Anthony across the room every second they'd been at Aubrey Hall, the disappointed tut she'd given Anthony when she'd found them together. The way when Anthony had tried to explain that he hadn't been trying to compromise her at all Violet had whispered What would your father have said?! And Kate had watched as Anthony's face fell, his voice distant as he'd said We will marry next week. And indignation settled in her chest.

"Are you attending the Trowbridge ball this evening? Only I thought I understood from your Mother that you were not." Violet hummed into her tea, startling Kate just a little, her tongue a little clumsy.

"Anthony is not but there is a gentleman recently come back to town that Edwina has some... interest in, and I must confess I'm curious."

And again, Violet sighed a little sadly, catching Kate a little by surprise. "I hope, very much, that Anthony is trying to be a good husband to you. I know he can be a little... distracted."

Kate's mouth fell open, she couldn't help it. It was the very first thing she'd noticed about Anthony, the very first thing she'd liked about him. The first thing that had made it seem like they were the same, two sides of the same coin. Kindred Spirits. His devotion to his family. The way he shouldered burden after burden. The way he toiled over letters from his tenants, settled disputes, worked well into the night, steered gentlemen away from Eloise when she looked like she wanted to sprint from the ballroom. How he sat with Gregory and Hyacinth, playing games, making up wild tales. The way he cared for her, stood attentively at her side, his hand on her back a little indecently. Present. Even if he'd never love her. And his own family couldn't see it. And something in her snapped.

"You don't see it, do you?" Her voice came out much more softly than she expected, so soft Violet barely registered what she'd said.

"Don't see what, darling?"

"That he's drowning, in your disappointment."

Violet's brow furrowed stammering for words she couldn't seem to find. "Anthony is very capable of-"

"well perhaps that's the problem." Kate cut across her, sipping her tea to buy time, panic rising in her chest. "He is very capable, but enough straw can break a camel's back, so it stands to reason every person could break as well. And he'd never tell you this, because he loves you, and he wants to make you happy, So I will; Anthony is not his father, however much you all want him to be. However much he might want to be, he isn't."

That seemed to spur Violet into action, her eyes flashing a little dangerously for a moment, her voice firm, "You did not know my husband he was-"

"And do you know Anthony?"

Silence rang through the room for a very long moment, Violet staring back at her. And Kate forced herself to continue.

"Because the Anthony that I know, is an excellent husband, an excellent son and will be an excellent father to our children."

Anxiety still swirled in Kate's stomach as Anthony's mother stared, unblinkingly back at her, tension prickling all around them, thickening the air, but Kate forced herself to stand her ground, her spine straight, holding her gaze for a long moment.

"Well, I've taken up too much of your time already, Lady Bridgerton, I shall take my leave."

And that evening, when she heard a deep masculine voice in her ear in the middle of the Trowbridge ballroom say

"Lady Bridgerton, you look absolutely ravishing tonight."

When she heard Violet's surprised voice say "Anthony, darling, I'd heard you weren't attending."

It felt like victory when Anthony said, "And leave my wife with no dance partner? Absolutely not." A Grin on his face as he jerked his head in the direction of the dance floor. "Shall we?"

[adventures-in-a-world-of-fiction]

I will be doing a talk and book readings from 2pm to 3pm in Trowbridge Town Hall on Saturday 21st March 2020. I will be talking about the writing process and the ups and down of being an author as well as doing readings from my books.