#if not I will pull some quotes like I did for the Catherine post

[fetidbog]

I’m new here so apologies if I’m retreading old ground but have we talked about Varys and Thomas Cromwell parallels?

[originalpinkranger]

In Sickness and in Health - GSR

So, this was kind of therapeutic for me. Inspired by this post by @addictedtostorytelling. I, um, my husband and I have been trying to get pregnant for a while and it’s been a struggle. So, after I read her little meta, I got inspired and it’s something that I NEEDED to write. So, here you go. Something that wouldn’t stop flowing today. Enjoy!

In Sickness and in Health

GSR - Rated G

“No man, like I legitimately think Grissom knocked her up.”

 Greg whispered loudly over the lab table, Nick narrowing his eyes at him from his position at the other side.

 “You can’t be starting rumors like that man. Especially about Grissom.”

 “Hodges told me!”

 Now Nick really didn’t believe him. “And you honestly believe what Hodges says?”

 “No, but I have proof!” Greg stood up and moved over closer to Nick so no-one could hear him.

 “This is the text I got from Sara,” Greg cleared his throat and read the text to him in his best ‘Sara’ voice, ���Greg, please make sure to follow up with Brass on the Carson case. I’m not feeling quite right today so I won’t be in. Also, please tell Warrick to get with Hodges on the trace analysis from the Wilson DB. Thanks.”

 Nick looked at him unamused. “Nowhere in that text does it say, ‘Greg I’m pregnant’.”

 “Okay but hear me out. Sara never misses work. She came in with 102 fever once and didn’t blink an eye. AND I had to stop on the side of the road yesterday so she could puke. I’m telling you man. Grissom knocked her up.” Greg put his phone back in his pocket and stood next to Nick with his arms crossed, grinning at his potential discovery.

 “Alright boys, what have you got for me?” Catherine sauntered in, standing in between them. She surveyed the both of them and realized something was off.

 “Alright Greg, spill, what is it?” Catherine put her hand on her hip and leaned against the table, waiting for Greg to open like a can of biscuits.

 “Greg here thinks Sara’s pregnant.” Nick spoke for him, letting the air out of Greg’s balloon.

 Catherine stared at Greg like he grew another head.

 “You can’t be serious…”

 Greg threw up his hands in exasperation.

 “I swear no one believes anything I ever say! I’m taking my ball and going home.” Greg snatched the folders he was working on off the table and stormed out of the layout room.

 Catherine shook her head and turned her attention towards Nick.

 “You know Cath maybe he’s right.” Nick leaned forward on the lab table and Catherine followed behind him, putting her glasses on to look at a case he was working on.

 “I did see her eating crackers and drinking a 7UP the other day. I have my suspicions. A woman knows.” She spoke as she looked over the document, clearly unfazed by the whole thing. “I guess all the jokes about Grissom’s virility will be put to bed.” Catherine put down the folder and smiled, bemused at the idea of Grissom being a father.

 Nick pondered. Maybe Greg (ney Hodges) was right. A slow smile started to form on his face.

 Grissom. That old son of a gun. He took a mental note to stop and buy some cigars on the way home to congratulate him.

 The next day, Nick walked into Grissom’s office with a fancy box and a huge grin on his face.

 Grissom looked up at him over his glasses.

 “What is it, Nick?”

 “I just wanted to come in and congratulate you.”

 Grissom really looked at him now. “For what Nick?”

 “On being a proud papa!”

 Grissom took off his glasses and set them on this desk, threading his fingers together.

 “Excuse me?”

 “Yeah...”

 And so.

 “Hodges had told Greg that Sara was pregnant because she had to go out of the room quickly because her stomach was queasy, and Greg got a text that Sara wasn’t coming in because she and I quote ‘wasn’t feeling quite right’ and he had to pull over the other day for her to puke on the side of the road and Catherine said she saw her in the break room drinking 7UP and eating saltines so I put two and two together and just wanted to congratulate you.” He took a long breath and opened the shiny, wooden box he brought with him.

 “So, congratulations daddy.” He grinned at Grissom.

 Grissom looked down at the box full of cigars and then back up at Nick. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, then, pointedly

 “She has the flu, Nick.”

 “Just the flu?”

 “Just the flu.”

 “Oh.”

 “Also, smoking is bad for you.” Nick closed the box slowly. His face fell and got red with embarrassment.

 “I…” His mouth open and closed like a fish, not knowing what to say.

 Grissom helped him.

 “You can leave now Nick.”

 Nick stuttered an ‘I’m sorry’ and showed his way out of Grissom’s office.

 Grissom leaned back and sighed heavily, his mind drifting to Sara at home.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Hearing the keys rattle in the door, startled the bundle of fur at the foot of the bed and leapt up from his position by human number 1. Barking his head off down the hall and to the door, tail wagging uncontrollably, waiting for what was to come next.

 “Hey buddy. Have you been taking care of mom?” Grissom bent down to give Hank a scratch behind his ear and Hank thanked him by licking his hand.

 Hank then turned around and ran back towards the bedroom where Sara laid.

 Grissom heard a loud sneeze.

 He sloughed off his jacket, hanging it up in the closet by the door and toed off his shoes.

 He made his way to the back bedroom but stopped at the fridge first to grab a water for Sara.

 He stopped at the doorway.

 “How are you feeling?”

 She blew her nose into a tissue and sniffed.

 “Like I got hit by a Mack truck. Although at this point, that may be more pleasant.”

 He chuckled and made his way towards her, handing the bottle to her. She took it from him and took a long swig.

 “Ugh. I haven’t felt this bad since I was a kid.”

 Grissom reached up and put his hand on her forehead. “Cool to the touch. Looks like your fever broke.” He slid his hand from her forehead to her cheek, stroking it softly with his thumb.

 Sara leaned into his touch and gave him a soft smile. “Mmm. Thank you for taking care of me.”

 “In sickness and in health, isn’t that how it goes?”

 Her smile got wider. “It is.”

 His mind drifted back to the events of the day. “So, um, today was interesting.”

 She quirked an eyebrow at him and brought the bottle to her lips to drink, “how so?”

 “Hodges started a rumor that you were pregnant.”

 She spit out her water and choked slightly, gasping for air as he rubbed her back.

 “Excuse me?! How in the world- “

 “Because of all the times that you needed to throw up. Everyone just assumed. I got an earful from Nick in my office. Standing there with a box of cigars.”

 She leaned back on her pillows and sniffed. “That’s…quite an assumption.”

 He nodded, “it is.”

 The silence was palpable.

 Sara picked at the lint on the bed sheet and didn’t look up at him. “What is it, Sara?”

 He knew when she got quiet, she was analyzing something and trying to figure out how to put it in words.

 “…would that be such a bad thing?” She looked up at him slowly, searching his face for an answer.

 Now he was the one that quirked a brow at her. “Sara…”

 “Gil..I…” She started and then took a deep breath and continued, “you know that I had a less than stellar childhood and I guess I never really thought about the idea of having a child because of the childhood that I had and thought that maybe I would be a terrible mother because I didn’t know how to nurture a child or how to take care of one but maybe…” She drifted off and looked down.

 He lifted her chin and searched her eyes, “Maybe what honey?” He said softly.

 “Maybe I’d want one with you.” She whispered with so much hope in her voice.

 He sighed. He knew that his answer had to be carefully chosen. It’s true he was never good with words, but this answer had to be worded oh so carefully and be the right one.

 He thought about what to say and straightened his gaze at her. “Sara, with my age and my hearing, are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

 She sniffed again, not sure if it’s her sickness or fighting back tears. She reached for his hand and held it.

 “Gil, I know that things have been complicated, but when I was in that desert, I had a lot to think about. Especially about us. And maybe, maybe I thought that I would never get the chance to be a mom. More of a what if. And now I have that chance and maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

 He really looked at her then.

 “Sweetheart, is this something that you really want?”

 She squeezed his hand.

 She nodded, “yes, it’s something I really want.”

 “Okay.”

 “Okay?” Her eyes lit up.

 He nodded his assurance this time and squeezed her hand back.

 Then.

 “ACHOO!”

 He really belly laughed then. Her sneeze breaking the intense conversation and his silent relief.

 “Let’s focus on you getting better first and we’ll talk about babies. For now, hydrate and sleep.”

 She didn’t argue. Sara shimmied down the covers and he pulled the sheets over her shoulders.

 Hank circled next to her and laid back down, making sure that she was safe and sound, doing his natural duty.

 Grissom smiled and leaned down to kiss her forehead as she drifted back off to sleep.

 Closing the door to the bedroom, he walked to his office and fired up his laptop. He put on his glasses and Googled.

‘Men over 50 and being a first-time father.’

[dahlia-coccinea]

A few thoughts on the scene of Catherine returning to the Heights after her stay with the Linton’s - it is commonly cited in discussions about her character and generally, the narrative goes that she shows herself to be vain and narcissistic in laughing at Heathcliff, and this honestly confuses me? I think that is quite selective in what details are noted about the scene and misses placing it in a wider context. To start I think its best to reference the scene in its entirety, sorry it is quite long (bolding is mine):

Heathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, and uncared for, before Catherine’s absence, he had been ten times more so since. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call him a dirty boy, and bid him wash himself, once a week; and children of his age seldom have a natural pleasure in soap and water. Therefore, not to mention his clothes, which had seen three months’ service in mire and dust, and his thick uncombed hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally beclouded. He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a bright, graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough-headed counterpart of himself, as he expected. “Is Heathcliff not here?” she demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.

“Heathcliff, you may come forward,” cried Mr. Hindley, enjoying his discomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young blackguard he would be compelled to present himself. “You may come and wish Miss Catherine welcome, like the other servants.”

Cathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew to embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the second, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into a laugh, exclaiming, “Why, how very black and cross you look! and how—how funny and grim! But that’s because I’m used to Edgar and Isabella Linton. Well, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me?”

She had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride threw double gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable. 

“Shake hands, Heathcliff,” said Mr. Earnshaw, condescendingly; “once in a way that is permitted.”

“I shall not,” replied the boy, finding his tongue at last; “I shall not stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it!” And he would have broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy seized him again.

“I did not mean to laugh at you,” she said; “I could not hinder myself: Heathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky for? It was only that you looked odd. If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will be all right: but you are so dirty!”

She gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, and also at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellishment from its contact with his.

“You needn’t have touched me!” he answered, following her eye and snatching away his hand. “I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like to be dirty, and I will be dirty.”

With that he dashed headforemost out of the room, amid the merriment of the master and mistress, and to the serious disturbance of Catherine; who could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an exhibition of bad temper.

Importantly Nelly specifies that Heathcliff isn’t just his usual level of childish dirtiness and unkemptness, which assumedly Catherine wouldn’t have noticed when she comes home eager to find him. She wasn’t expecting him to be so neglected and her worst fault here is carelessly misplacing the reason for Heathcliff’s dirtiness, and not recognizing the larger neglect done by Hindley and how laughing could very understandably have hurt him (I don’t think many 12 year-olds are particularly emotionally intelligent though). Initially, she doesn’t seem to notice his state since she runs to him and gives seven or eight kisses. What she does not do, is she does not come back and say she’s better than him, acts embarrassed of him, or indicates she doesn’t want to be friends anymore - she says “it will be fine,” he just needs a wash. 

Catherine’s presence must have been part of what kept him tidier as Nelly notes that it during her absence is when he fell into such neglect. This would be in line with Nelly’s previous description of the two of them of when Hindley first comes home: “Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the fields.” Just as she would teach him what she learned and worked with him in the fields I’d say in this scene she’s simply consistently showing care for his wellbeing, even if she isn’t completely considerate when expressing it.

Not to get too off subject but I think this is pertinent - the line, “They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages” might be another quote that is taken too literally at times - I don’t think they were just running around dirty all the time as Nelly noted that Heathcliff isn’t generally this uncared for. Also, this line ends up being understood as their rejection of all society and their resistance towards growing up which I think may only be partly true. While I love that Nelly calls them “unfriended creatures,” I don’t take this to mean that they are simply elements of nature. Along with @astrangechoiceoffavourites’ recent post about how “Heathcliff does not reject Culture. Culture rejects him,” I think it’s also often overlooked that they both admire the beauty of the Grange. He describes the house in great detail: 

“ah! it was beautiful—a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers.”

He tells Nelly if they were in Edgar’s and Isabella’s position, “We should have thought ourselves in heaven.” Catherine is not more vain or materialistic than Heathcliff, or vapid just because she tells a 13-year-old boy who works on a farm and is only washing once a week he needs to wash more.

Still, Heathcliff has every right to feel hurt, he’s facing terrible physical and emotional abuse and as mentioned previously this has repercussions on his self-esteem for his whole life. Hindley in this scene is clearly trying to demean him to the level of a servant in the eyes of Catherine. A few months previously he was loved and cared for by Mr. Earnshaw but now any bright future is quickly disappearing. Heathcliff must know his situation won’t change under Hindley. The encounter with the wealth of the Linton family and Catherine’s acceptance into their world is also a stark example of Catherine’s ability to have something better than being with him forever. They both will grow up one day and she will eventually marry and there is no way Hindley would allow them to do so, nor would he give Heathcliff any means or education to provide for a family and have a home. 

Seeing Catherine obviously well cared for I think ignites a little jealously and fear that he is already losing her company. He seems at least mildly aware of Edgar as a potential rival as we see the next day during his conversation with Nelly when he tells her, “...if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn’t make him less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin, and was dressed and behaved as well, and had a chance of being as rich as he will be!” He did already note Edgar’s reaction to Catherine at the Garage saying, “Edgar stood gaping at a distance...I saw they were full of stupid admiration.” It seems easy to assume he is at least starting to be aware of her - three months prior he mentions to Nelly Catherine’s “beautiful hair,” “enchanting face” and says, Catherine is “immeasurably superior to them—to everybody on earth.” Catherine of course doesn’t necessarily know he feels this way and most likely isn’t fully aware of all his feelings about the situation he’s in. Seems reasonable to assume that she’s somewhat blind to his inner conflicts - later when talking to Nelly she seems to think that Heathcliff understands her completely yet its apparent they aren’t on the same page. She is as blind to the extent of his feelings, as he is of her’s. 

Anyway (getting a little off topic), Catherine’s subsequent reaction to this scene is totally out of line with the narrative of a wildly self-loving and cruel girl, and again we get a glimpse of a morose Heathcliff, nursing his pride and slowly pulling away from her. The fact that he storms off and they don’t immediately go back to their former relationship before her stay at Thrushcross Grange completely shocks her. After this encounter Catherine shows feelings of guilt and distress over the sour encounter. “She cried when I told her you were off again this morning,” Nelly tells Heathcliff the next day. And later again Catherine cries over Heathcliff’s mistreat by Hindley upon the Linton’s arrival. Later that evening when he’s locked in a garret Nelly details how she sneaks off to visit him:

“She made no stay at the stairs’-head, but mounted farther, the garret where Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined answering for a while: she persevered, and finally persuaded him to hold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things converse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and the singers to get some refreshment: then I clambered up the ladder to warn her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. The little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof, into the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost difficulty I could coax her out again.”

Later on she tells Nelly that his miseries have been her miseries - and she certainly isn’t ever as classist in her treatment of Heathcliff as her daughter is towards Hareton. When she misses Heathcliff for three years she’s only missing a “ploughboy,” as Edgar calls him. When he returns a gentleman she scoffs at Edgar’s suggestion that Heathcliff be let into the kitchen and mockingly gives the order: “Set two tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders.” And later tells him “Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone’s regard,” which shows she’s obviously blind to how many will always perceive him as an outsider and never a true gentleman.  

For fun, here is how this scene was adapted for the 1939 film - in the scene Catherine dreads seeing Heathcliff and upon seeing him makes no move to embrace him, then they have this AWFUL exchange: 

Heathcliff: Why did you stay so long? Catherine: Why? Because I was having a wonderful time. A delightful, fascinating, wonderful time...among human beings. Go and wash your face and hands, and comb your hair...so that I needn't be ashamed of you in front of the guests.

I have a lot of questions. Number one: how dare they? lol How did they extrapolate that from the book? This has become the lasting memory of her for many film viewers, and also somehow for people that have read the book. 

I know there are many conversations that could be had on Catherine saying it would degrade her to marry Heathcliff, or at various time saying he is a baby, a pitiless wolfish man, and a brute. I’m not trying to gloss over when she is demanding and not always kind to him or other characters but people really choose to be blind to some of her actions in order to paint her as the villain of the story. Catherine Earnshaw is a wonderfully flawed and human character and these interpretations make her so 2D. 

I feel like a lot of these views are an expansion on this discussion as well as this other post (credit to @princesssarisa) about the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff before he leaves - I’ve found so few critics talk about them in a realistic, rather than metaphysical, way. Fewer yet discuss Heathcliff’s role in their failed relationship. More commonly they assert that Heathcliff’s feelings for her are true and hers are based on a shallow self love or whatever. So I guess I’ll just have to write it myself lol.

[ynsrg]

PRETENDING

CHAPTER 1

**Disclaimer: Hey, it’s an ‘actor meets actor and gets horny for them’ fic! I’m sorry for writing this but I’m down bad. Bo is just a character, I apologise profusely if this ever gets read by the wrong people, etc. etc. I also have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about – this fic is stupid, makes very little sense, and has a very thin plot from which I have dangled smut, like a garden trellis. I have another, much longer, fic in the works (25,000 words and counting) but I very much doubt it’ll see the light of day because my OC is American in it, and I’m legitimately terrible at writing American dialogue, so I wrote this about a scouse bird instead (it’s what I know) and did my best to make it work. This fic will include no family members because that’s really weird. Sorry in advance!**

Chapter 2: https://ynsrg.tumblr.com/post/660912110046429184/pretending

Chapter 3: https://ynsrg.tumblr.com/post/660912269314670593/pretending

Chapter 4: https://ynsrg.tumblr.com/post/660912544504004608/pretending

She misses Liverpool. It sounds ridiculous, and as the Californian sun beams down, making everyone and everything it touches look somehow glamorous, she feels ridiculous. This – here – is everything she’s ever wanted, everything she dreamed of, everything she’s worked for; but she misses her city, her home town, her Liverpool. L.A. is too sprawling, too lacking in soul, and takes itself entirely too seriously. She doesn’t really want to be here so much as a second longer than she absolutely has to.

Maybe acting isn’t the career for you, Catherine.

She sighs heavily and swirls the straw around in her drink. She doesn’t even particularly like iced coffee, the entire concept seems… off to her, but here she is with her iced coffee all the same.

“Am I boring you?” The sardonic voice from across the table interrupts her moping, and she responds with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, mate. I’m a little…” she grimaces, “… homesick.”

“Ah, yes. Because there is, somehow, an entire city full of people with accents like yours. It is a real place,” he smirks, “somehow.”

Catherine rolls her eyes and flicks her straw at him, pleased to note that she’s got some of the coffee on his white tee. “Gobshite.”

He snorts. “And just what the hell is a ‘gobshite’?”

“Look in the mirror and you’ll have your answer,” she replies flatly, leaning back and tilting her chin up in defiance.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I’m assuming I should be offended?”

“Probably,” Catherine shrugs. “But you seem quite hard to offend.”

“I’m actually very sensitive, Cath.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence falls between them again, and Catherine shifts in her seat, a little uncomfortably. He notices.

“So, tomorrow.” He runs a hand through his dirty blonde hair, which is something she’s noticed he does quite a bit when he’s anxious or nervous about something. Given the context of their current situation, the fact that he’s doing it now makes her anxious and nervous.

“Yes, Bo?” She responds wearily, and he eyes her like she’s a wounded, cornered animal that could lash out at any moment.

“Uh…” he taps his fingers on the table, searching for his words, which is quite unlike him. “So, I know we’re like, friends.”

“We are?” Catherine raises an eyebrow, working hard to keep a straight face.

Is he blushing?

“I mean, I think so?” He frowns at her, a little furrow between his brows, and her face cracks into a smile. “Ah, you’re fucking with me.”

“I am,” she says proudly, and he rolls his eyes.

“Anyway. So, friends means tomorrow might be, ah… weird,” he pinches the bridge of his nose and she fidgets in her seat again.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Bo,” she says cautiously, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach.

“I know, I know,” he replies quickly, picking up on her defensive tone. “Just, um… if anything feels… if you’re uncomfortable, just say the word, okay?”

Okay.

He’s avoiding Catherine’s eyes, fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist. “That’s sweet,” the words leave her mouth seemingly without any input from her brain and shit, she didn’t mean to say that out loud.

He huffs out a laugh. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’ve met someone more sarcastic than me.”

Thank fuck for that.

“Aye, I’m a proper cunt,” she nods, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she squints at him across the table.

“A fucking horror,” he agrees, trying and failing miserably to imitate her accent.

Catherine recoils. “What the fuck was that, Bo?!”

“Um…” he pulls a face, “scouse?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Never, ever do that again. Promise me.”

He laughs again, and there’s a bit of her that’s proud that she makes that happen as often as she does. Guy’s one of the biggest comedians on the planet and she makes him laugh on a regular basis. Bit mad, that.

“Catherine Mary McHale, I promise I will never, ever do that again.” He extends his hand across the table. Large. What a ridiculously large man, who remembers your middle name, for some reason.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t believe you, but okay.”

She extends her much, much smaller hand and meets him in a firm handshake. The knot in her stomach returns immediately, but when he releases her hand, it doesn’t make her feel any better.

“Alright then,” he shifts his chair back and picks up his phone. “I’d better get back.”

Catherine nods a little dumbly, head feeling a bit fuzzy.

He rises to his feet – large, huge, why is this fella a giant – and cocks his head to one side, peering down at her with a weird expression written across his features.

“What is it?” Catherine frowns up at him. “Have I got shite on my face?”

Bo laughs again, loudly and his eyes are crinkled at the corners and he has a dimple on his right side, she noticed that within about 30 seconds of meeting him for the first time. “No, Cath, you haven’t got ‘shite’ on your face.”

Air quotes, seriously?

She keeps looking up at him, eyebrows raised, foot tapping impatiently. “So, why are you staring?”

He slips his phone into his pocket and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m not staring.”

“You literally are. Here, you look like this.” She widens her eyes as much as physically possible and pulls a creepy face which she’s sure looks absolutely disgusting.

“You are a very attractive woman, Catherine,” he drawls, straight-faced, and he’s clearly and obviously being sarcastic, so she has absolutely no idea why her face is heating up.

“Fuck you, Bo,” she smiles up at him sweetly and he raises an eyebrow.

Weird.

“I’ll see you later?”

“Well, yes, pal. We’re acting in a movie together.”

He smirks. “Right.”

She nods. “Right.”

“Bye.”

“Ta-ra.”

Catherine watches his retreating form until he’s out of sight, and then she releases a shaky breath that she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

[pub-lius]

Can you tell me about James Madison?

Of course! I can talk about Jemmy Mads all day my guy.

So I will be talking mainly about who he was as a person instead of the timeline of his life, since I'll be discussing that more in depth later on. If you're looking more for that, I'd recommend these sources: The Three Lives of James Madison by Noah Feldman or Montpelier's library of information . If anyone else has recommendations or extra information, feel free to add it. Keep in mind, I present my theories based off extensive research as fact, but they could potentially be disproven. I'll do my best to include sources for my claims, but most of them are from the novel shown above.

James Madison was a relatively small man, around 5'4" (162.56 cm). If you hear anything about him being less than 110 pounds (~49.9 kg), that’s not true. He was not THAT underweight. He wore his brown hair pulled back into a queue and powdered white, even when that was highly out of fashion. It was rare to see him wearing any color but black, and he usually looked bored or perturbed. He wasn’t very social, like at all. At his inaugural ball, he is quoted as saying that although he was staying at the event longer, “I would much rather be in bed.”

James was born James Madison Jr. on March 16, 1751, the eldest of twelve children. In the 18th century, this meant that he was expected to maintain the family name in both contemporary society as well as posterity. Consequently, James was given an extensive education. He was educated at local schools until he went to college at the College of New Jersey, now Princeton.

James' college experience was unique for two reasons. The first was that he didn't attend William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, because of his health. It was believed that the humid air of Virginia would do damage to James' fragile health. Also, at Princeton, he was exposed to a much more liberal education than what was expected from William and Mary. Princeton was a Presbyterian university, and as Madison was Anglican (attending the Church of England), he was surrounded by new, different opinions on religion as well as politics.

Fast forward a bunch of time and we find Jemmy in Philadelphia. He was staying in Philadelphia with his new friend, Thomas Jefferson, and was just starting his career in the Confederation Congress (everyone’s favorite group of guys). Jefferson and Madison were staying with the ICONIC Mrs. House, and while they were there, Madison met a young lady named Catherine Floyd, also called Kitty. Jefferson noticed that James kinda liked her, so he started to basically play matchmaker. Well, Jefferson eventually left, and let’s just say, it didn’t work out between James and Kitty. 

Something happened between Madison and Floyd during a gap of time during the summer of 1783. Then, in August, Madison wrote a really dejected, barely legible letter to Jefferson telling him that he got dumped by a sixteen year old. Later, Madison would cross out some of the lines.

“At the date of my letter in April I expected to have had the pleasure by this time of being with you in Virginia. My disappointment has proceeded from several dilatory circumstances on which I had not calculated. [this following part is crossed out] One of them was the uncertain state into which the object I was then pursuing had been brought by one of those incidents to which such affairs are liable... It would be improper by this communication to send particular explanations, and perhaps needless to trouble you with them at any time.”

Jefferson’s response is also important to note, as I believe it says much about their relationship.

“I sincerely lament the misadventure which has happened, from whatever cause it may have happened... Should it be final however, the world still presents the same and many other resources of happiness, and you possess many within yourself... Firmness of mind and unintermitting occupations will not long leave you in pain... No event has been more contrary to my expectations, and these were founded on what I thought a good knowledge of the ground... But of all machines ours is the most complicated and inexplicable.”

The reason I include these excerpts is because I find they are at least partially representative of how James was affected by this rejection, the way he and Jefferson interacted, and how he thought about relationships. 

First, theres how he was affected. In Madison’s future behavior, he seems to care a good deal about his friends’ political perspectives, especially Jefferson’s. For example, when Hamilton was proposing his national bank and Jefferson was opposing it, Madison sided with his closer friend, Jefferson, and opposed the national bank. When Madison was president and less under Jefferson’s influence, he supported the national bank. This is a pattern I noticed, especially between him and Jefferson, but there are several exceptions in which Madison actively voices opposition to Jefferson’s opinions.

Secondly, about how he and Jefferson’s relationship. I will go a bit more in-depth on Jefferson’s part in this in his own post, but this mainly centers around my theory that Jefferson had a narcissistic personality, at the least, (disregard for others’ feelings, unemotional traits, need for admiration, etc). Madison, on the other hand, always wanted to appease those he admired, especially Jefferson, who, for the first part of their relationship, he viewed as a mentor. This created a bit of a one-sided dynamic in their friendship at times. (That isn’t to say their friendship was toxic or ingenuine. They both clearly cared a lot for each other.)

This seems to apply to several other relationships of Madison’s, such as Alexander Hamilton and Edmund Randolph. With both of these men, James disagreed with them politically, but justified their friendship with his maxim that, “friends don’t have to agree on politics!” Well, neither of them remained friends, and though I believe Jefferson played a role in the outcomes of both those situations, I also believe that ended as it did because of the way both parties viewed the concept of friendship.

In conclusion, James Madison was a studious, broad thinking man who valued friendship greatly, often prioritizing his friends’ opinions. There are many other interesting things about him, and I will try to cover as many as possible. I think its important for people to know more about Madison as he played several key roles in the founding of the United States. His politics and philosophies could be thought provoking, and his life experiences may be relatable to some, two things I believe are valuable. Feel free to ask further questions that I didn’t answer!

[acelor-acetaylorswift]

In honor of International Ace Day, a list of famous asexual people whose work Taylor has referenced!

I've been meaning to do this post for a long time, but it's taken some research and help from friends...and when I saw today is International Asexuality Day, I figured it was the perfect time to finally pull this together!

Salvador Dali

"And losing on card game bets with Dalí" -the last great american dynasty

Emily Bronte

There are a lot of parallels between "my tears ricochet" and the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.

"May she wake in torment...Why, she's a liar to the end...Be with me always...do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you..."

"Cursing my name, wishing I stayed"

"You say I killed you -- then haunt me!"

"You had to kill me but it killed you just the same"

"I didn't want to have to haunt you"

Heathcliff secretly comes to Catherine's wake

"And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake?"

J. M. Barrie - author of Peter Pan

"tried to change the ending / Peter losing Wendy"

writing about her friends' three kids (PP was written about Barrie's friend's kids)

general Tinkerbell vibes in Taylor's styling (lol)

George Bernard Shaw - playwright

So in his play Pygmalion (adapted into the movie My Fair Lady with Audrey Hepburn...just put on netflix!) Henry and Eliza have a very tempestuous relationship, eventually leading to a huge fight at the end of the play. A lot of stuff in their argument reminds me of "my tears ricochet". And it's super interesting b/c Henry seems to basically just want him, Eliza, and their other friend to just live together in some platonic arrangement. Even before that, at the beginning, he expresses that he has no interest in marriage.

(the quote or example from the play is indented, the cursive is the taylor line that corresponds!)

"This ring isn't the jeweler's, it's the one you brought me in Brighton." *Henry throws it in the fireplace*

"We gather stones...Some to throw, some to make a diamond ring"

After Eliza is transformed into a lady, she is distraught because her transformation is supposed to let her go anywhere and be anything she wants, but when she tries to go home, she realizes she can't be there anymore.

"And I can go anywhere I want / Anywhere I want, just not home"

"You have wounded me to the heart."

"And you can aim for my heart, go for blood / But you would still miss me in your bones"

"Well, you have my voice on your gramophone. When you feel lonely without me, you can turn it on!"

"And I still talk to you (when I'm screaming at the sky) / And when you can't sleep at night (you hear my stolen lullabies)"

The beginning of the ME! music video also gives me My Fair Lady vibes with the costumes and the green wallpaper...looks like Henry's library.

Isaac Newton - scientist and mathematician

my tears ricochet: a ricochet (a rebound off a surface) = Newton's Third Law (for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction)

this is me trying: "the curve became a sphere" = Isaac Newton invented calculus

John Ruskin - art critic

Ruskin was an art critic who famously had his marriage annulled because it was never consummated. He fell in love with the Lake District at a young age and was inspired by it throughout his life, eventually buying a home there in the 1870s.

Alexa, play "the lakes" by Taylor Swift!

Florence Nightingale - nurse

Nightingale was an English nurse who revolutionized nursing on the warfront. I can't help but see a parallel in the heart-wrenching

"epiphany"

H.P. Lovecraft - writer

So there's this short story called "Colour out of Space". They made a movie of it recently with Nicholas Cage lol. Basically there's this meteor with an alien virus in it that makes plants really big, then turns them to brittle ash and leaves the fields barren...."My barren land / I am ash from your fire".

This guy finds the stone and keeps it, not knowing its destructive nature.... "We gather stones never knowing what they mean"

Edward Gorey - artist

Gorey did this cartoon which really speaks for itself.

"I'm still on that tightrope" -mirrorball

Nikola Tesla - engineer

Okay, this is one I want to do more research on because there is just so much to read about this guy and his brilliance/quick mind makes me think of Taylor. But a kind of similarity I found was that he drew a diagram of a solar eclipse and ironically, three years ago, Tesla car batteries had this weird thing happen when there was a solar eclipse...

my eclipsed sun

Also, at one point, people in the press began turning against a project of Tesla's, saying it was a hoax.

your faithless love's the only hoax I believe in

Kinda goofy ones, but I thought I'd put them out there as long as I was writing something up. And I'll leave you with the most amazing thing I found about Tesla, which kind of reminds me of Taylor's love for her CATS:

I have been feeding pigeons, thousands of them for years. But there was one, a beautiful bird, pure white with light grey tips on its wings; that one was different. It was a female. I had only to wish and call her and she would come flying to me. I loved that pigeon as a man loves a woman, and she loved me. As long as I had her, there was a purpose to my life.

Anyways, happy ace day! Hope you enjoyed this! I apologize that it's messy...formatting on tumblr is not my expertise lol. it was cool to see some prolific people who were possibly ace because there's not much visibility out there.

Feel free to share any other references/people to look into!

[interstellarflare]

However Long It Takes || William Schofield

1917 (2019)

~PART TWO~

Warnings: Slight gore, swearing.

Summary: He first met you in the summer before the war. Since then, you had been the only thing on his mind. Now, he will do whatever it takes to get back to you.

Author’s note: 1917 SPOILERS! If you haven’t seen the movie then please don’t read! I have now changed my original plans, and am attempting to make this a four-part series, so stay tuned for more! Also, apologies for the incredibly long chapters. In addition to this chapter, I wrote this late at night, so please ignore any spelling mistakes. I was tired and wanted to write, so please enjoy!

Though his letters became less frequent, Will sent as many of them as he could.

You looked forward to the days when they arrived, you were anxious to see how he was coping on the front line. His letters usually contained as small gift, usually a pressed flower he managed to find on his way to and from his post. At some point, a small and delicate rose was encased in a letter addressed to you, Will telling you that one of his close friends, Lance Corporal Tom Blake, had traded a packet of old cigarettes to get it, not that the young man smoked anyway. ‘You should give it to your girl back home’ Blake had told him, having given Will the rose ‘She’ll love it I reckon, pity you can’t send her a cherry blossom’. 

You laughed to yourself quietly, as Annabelle and Catherine were asleep in the next room. With tearful eyes, you pressed a gentle kiss to the paper, sighing heavily as you gently placed the letter and the rose on top of a discarded book atop your bed. There was still much to do before Mrs Schofield came home from the bakery, where she had been all day.

Not too long after Will left for the war, Mrs Schofield had asked you to move in with them after your mother had moved to the country to take care of your grandparents. You had kindly obliged, and it had made the Schofield family’s life incredibly easier. As you cleaned the dishes, you hummed quietly to yourself, the humming eventually turning into soft singing. It was a wordless lullaby that your mother used to sing to you when you were little, and now you sung it for the Schofield sisters to fill their dreams with faeries and sugar plum castles. You did your best to shield those two little girls from the horrors of war. They were your only light in this dark corner of the world that you inhabited.

So many men had not returned home, the thought of Will being one of those men...

Your humming ceased into silence, the dishes in the sink sat unmoving in the soapy water as your hands clenched into tight fists, your knuckles turning white wrapped around the dishcloth. The thought of losing Will, the thought of him not coming home sent cold shivers down your spine.

The door to the Schofield home opened and closed swiftly, Mrs Schofield entering with a tired sigh. She made her way into the kitchen where her weary eyes met your own with a kind expression. “Are the girls asleep?” she asked quietly, once again sighing heavily as you nodded wordlessly. The older woman collapsed into one of the chairs beside the dining table, placing her head in her hands as she closed her eyes. Deciding to finish the dishes later, you moved to sit opposite Mrs Schofield, quietly pulling out your own chair whilst sitting down wordlessly. “How were the girls toady?” the older woman asked lowly, running a stressed hand over her messy greying hair. You smiled “They were well behaved...” you began as you looked towards Annabelle and Catherine’s closed bedroom door “I took them for a picnic up by the cherry blossom orchard, they enjoyed the sunshine for a change”.

Mrs Schofield smiled, chuckling in amusement at the painted image of her daughters running and chasing each other through the rows and rows of cherry blossom trees. Being children again. The trees themselves were not in bloom, but it would have been a joyous sight to behold. It had been the first time they had laughed in the years Will had left. “I’m glad you are here Y/n...” Mrs Schofield mumbled tiredly, yawning as she struggled to keep her eyes open “you have made this war a whole lot more bearable by being there for my family, and for Will”. Small tears welled in your eyes at her kind words, a lump forming in your throat as you choked back a shaky sigh. “You should write to him more...” you spoke slowly, swallowing that hard lump as you cleared your throat “he knows you are busy, but he asked how you were in his most recent reply and-” 

“I don’t...” Mrs Schofield interrupted suddenly, her eyes opening quickly and narrowing on your form. Taking a deep breath, she continued “...I’m too scared to write. What if the one time that I do, he gets blown to pieces before he can even read it”. You mouth fell agape in shock, your eyes wide with disbelief. “He is your son! How could you say something like that!?” You quietly exclaimed, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edge of the table tightly. Mrs Schofield shook her head with a grumble “You know that this war will take more lives-” “And you think that your own son will be one of them!? I cannot believe that you would believe such a thing!-”

“Mum?”.

A quiet voice from the kitchen doorway. As your turned, your chest tightened at the sight of Annabelle and Catherine, bleary-eyed with stray strands of hair sticking up in awkward angles. The house was completely silent as both girls stared between the two of you, confusion enveloping their expressions. “Is everything alright?” Annabelle mused, her voice low and quiet. When no response came from their own mother, who instead chose to remain silent and avoid her daughter’s gaze, you sighed heavily as you stood from your seat. “Everything is fine girls. Now come, let’s get you back to bed” you spoke sweetly, walking towards them with a kind smile all the while ushering the young girls back to their room. Before you left the kitchen, you turned back to Mrs Schofield with a disapproving stare. “Write to your son...” you spoke angrily, watching sadly as the said woman ignored you completely. It was hard for her, for everyone in this town. “It would mean the world to him if you did”.

When no answer came in response, you sighed heavily and left Mrs Schofield to her own devices and made your way to Annabelle and Catherine’s room. Ignoring their sad gaze, you lazily removed your shoes and sat on the end of Catherine’s bed, sighing heavily as you did so. Annabelle clambered from her bed into her younger sister’s, the two of them sharing an uncertain glance. “Will isn’t coming home, is he?” Annabelle spoke timidly, lying down beside her sister with her eyes slightly glazed. You moved to lie down between them, wrapping your arms around them and bringing them close to your side. “Of course he is! He’ll come back, I know it” you tried to say positively, giving each of them a tight hug while they closed their eyes to return to sleep. It was hard to remain so positive, let alone this optimistic. But you hoped, prayed that Will would eventually come home.

William chuckled to himself as he read your letter, his eyes taking their time in tracing your cursive handwriting:

I took your sisters to the cherry blossom orchard yesterday. While they might not have been in bloom, they enjoyed it nonetheless. It was the first time they have actually enjoyed themselves since your departure. I have also taught your sisters how to read much more...challenging novels. They have grown up so much Will, they are becoming beautiful young women. Strangely, Annabelle has developed a liking to Shakespeare. Even though she has no understanding what is written, she seems completely fascinated by the story of Romeo and Juliet.

Catherine has found her own artistic talent in drawing! I have encased a drawing of hers inside this letter, as she desperately wanted you to have it.

Your mother wishes you well, Will. She is planning to write to you soon. She misses you greatly, we all do.

I hope you will be home soon, my love. I will wait for you for however long it takes.

Forever yours, Y/n.

P.S. Tell Tom that I found the rose a beautiful gesture. You are lucky to have such a good friend by your side.

Placing the letter aside, Will reached back inside the envelope to remove a small piece of paper. Unfolding the paper brought a large smile to his face, as the multi-coloured swirls of Catherine’s drawing formulated a dazzling memory. Although the majority were stick-figures, the drawing was of the night he had met you, dancing in the town square on that magical summer night. William was amazed, he hadn’t thought that his sisters had been watching. Then again, he supposed that the two smaller yet distinct figures hiding by the lamppost was them anyway. With a feather-light kiss to the paper, will removed the tobacco tin from within his coat pocket and carefully opened it, as to not make a mess of the contents inside. As he placed the drawing and your letter inside, Will’s eyes caught a glimpse of your picture. You had sent it in your first letter to him.

While the photo itself was in black and white, he knew the look of your crimson dress anywhere. You stood amongst the cherry blossom orchard, your (hair/colour) hanging loosely and dotted with stray petals. “Another letter from your girl, eh?” Tom mused from his side, the silence behind the front line broken by the Lance Corporal’s laughter. Slightly embarrassed by his friend, Will chuckled deeply as he placed the tobacco tin back inside his coat pocket. “Yes, it was-” “Did she say anything about the rose? The Frenchman I traded with was a right bastard”.

William laughed louder, he wished he could have seen your face when you beheld the rose. “She did...” he began, smiling fondly “she said and I quote ‘I found the rose a beautiful gesture”. Tom snorted, shaking his head slowly as he spoke “Well I’m glad, she seems like a wonderful woman”. The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, casting their eyes towards the sky to stare up at the flickering stars. The silence was unnerving. Usually, there would be some sort of artillery shelling occurring, but now it was unbearably quiet. “Do you think this war will end?” Tom asked somewhat casually, his tone laced with sadness and uneasiness. Will turned to look at his friend with a bewildered expression “I hope so, I’m sure many of us would like to go back to our families”. A low hum came from Tom as he shifted in his position in the grass. “I wonder how my brother is, I haven’t heard from him in a while, you know...”.

As Tom spoke continuously about his brother, or various other topics, Will found himself slowly succumbing to the lull of sleep. He was tired, so very tired, and all he wanted to do was dream of home. To dream of being at home with his mother, with his sisters, and at home with you.

William knew that Tom was standing beside him, his hand outstretched in waiting. He knew, because of the shadows dancing across his eyelids. He didn’t want to wake, having heard the majority of the conversation with Sergeant Sanders moments prior.

Pick a man, bring your kit.

Reluctantly, Will opened his eyes. At first, he eyed Tom’s extended hand skeptically, before lifting his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes. Without a second thought, Will took the hand before him, and was hauled to his feet in one swift movement. As Will grabbed his helmet and rifle, an uneasy feeling settled within his stomach.

He wasn’t sure what Blake had picked him for exactly, but something told him that this would be no easy task.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @prideofnewberk @4lendow-norris @blogbykate @strangethings-everywhere @arcaneloki @baekchelor @geekyfer​ @fandom--0verdose​ @gecrgemackays​ @fenderenderender​ @travelingmypassion @thylalock​ @aathepenguin @sexyskywalker​ @ms-baekhyun​ @stardustx0918​ @socialambivert​ @annaabner​

[janeyseymour]

Let Me Help You

Hello! Here we are with yet another piece of writing! 

Jane Seymour was always the first one to help her fellow queens. She didn't mind it one bit because, in a way, they were helping her by letting her help them.

Can also be found here! 

Jane Seymour often helped the other queens. For Catherine of Aragon, it was subtle. She was slowly breaking down the walls that the first queen had built up around herself. For Anne Boleyn, it ranged from holding her through nightmares to simply patching up a skinned knee. Anna of Cleves was hard to help, ever the independent woman, but Jane Seymour knew that if it ever came to it, she would be there in a heartbeat to help out the German woman. Katherine Howard was most certainly the queen she helped the most, stepping in as a maternal figure to the youngest queen. Catherine Parr was one that just needed a push in the right direction when it came to taking care of herself. And Jane? Jane didn’t mind any of this one bit.

-

I.

Catherine of Aragon never liked to put her emotions onto anybody else. Instead, she held everything in for as long as possible before unexpectedly exploding at the smallest of things. Unfortunately for Jane, Catherine was about to unleash her wrath.

“Oh my- Jane, can you just relax for like five minutes? Kat went out with Anne and Anna! She’s going to be fine, and she’s going to do the dishes when she gets back!”

“But I told her they had to be done before they went anywhere! And forgive me for worrying about my daughter while she’s out with the two who are most likely to get her into a sticky situation,” Jane shot back.

“Okay first of all, you need to give Anne and Anna more credit and-”

“That’s rich coming from you, Miss “Anne is the most irresponsible person I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her.”

“You know what Jane?” Catherine’s voice got scarily low.

“What Aragon?”

“Stop mothering everybody, especially Kat! Newsflash, she’s not your daughter! You just feel like you need to step up because you couldn’t even be a mother in your last life! You died before you could!” she shouted.

Before Aragon could speak another word, Jane had wrapped the woman in a hug. This was the last reaction that the first queen could’ve ever expected from the third queen.

“Lina,” Jane sighed. “What’s got you down?”

“Jane! What the- I just said something so terrible, and your first instinct is to hug me and ask me what’s wrong? Are you insane?”

“Thank you,” Jane whispered as she continued to hold Catalina.

“What the- why are you thanking me?” Catherine was beyond confused. “You should be yelling at me, screaming at me like I deserve!”

“You trusted me enough to break that stoic persona you have. You lost your cool. You needed to do it, and I’m just glad you didn’t lose it on Boleyn.” She let out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Jane, what are you talking about?”

“Even in the show, you say something about having to “keep your cool”. You only carry that over into real life. I’m just happy you finally trusted me enough to let down your guard.”

At those words, Catherine of Aragon broke. Jane Seymour wasn’t wrong in what she had said, and the golden queen had been so blinded by trying to keep up some sort of characterization that had been fabricated for her.

The blonde was shocked at what was happening before her, a small pang in her chest surging through her. She had broken the first queen. The Catherine of Aragon was openly crying in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” Jane sighed as she pulled the crying queen close to her.

“No, you were right. I don’t ever break. Thank you for being here,” the first queen gripped the third queen’s shirt as if her life depended on it.

“Of course love. Don’t think for a second I won’t ever be here for you.” Jane placed a gentle kiss on the woman’s hairline. The golden queen didn’t cry for much longer, but the silver queen held her through it all.

“Are you feeling better love?” she asked gingerly as she felt the upset queen’s breathing regulate once again. She felt a nod. “That’s good. How about we go sit down and watch some television to relax?” She felt another nod.

Normally when the two women watched television together, Jane found herself on one end of the sofa while Catherine settled on the other, but today the two found themselves sitting beside one another.

It was an unusual sight for the other queens to walk into: the strong Catherine of Aragon tucked into the motherly Jane Seymour’s side fast asleep.

“Mum? Wha-” Kat started

“Please go do the dishes I asked you to do,” Jane paused as Catherine moved in her sleep. When the golden queen situated herself the blonde continued pointedly, “ before you left the house today.”

II.

Anne Boleyn had a tendency to get hurt quite a bit. After she had purchased her heelys, the occasions where she wasn’t covered in bandages were few and far between.

“Janey!” Anne’s shrill voice called out. “Jane!” She called again when Jane didn’t come running to her rescue.

“Yes love?”

“Remember when you told me if I got hurt again and had blood dripping down my legs again, if I got blood on your white carpet again, you would take away my heelys?”

“Jesus Annie,” Jane sighed loudly. “Stay outside, I’ll grab the first aid kit and be out in a moment.” Jane set down her embroidery and pushed her glasses up before setting off to find the first aid kit.

“Jane! It’s kinda getting all over the front step!”

“Better than my white carpet,” Jane huffed as she brought the first aid kit out. “It took me weeks of scrubbing to get that stain out.”

“I said I was sorry!”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Sorry not sorry... I’m just tryna have some fun,’ and then you laughed.”

“But I apologized after!”

“After I took away your wheels for a week,” Jane rebutted. “Now, please give me your leg so I can clean this mess up.” Jane opened the kit to find various snacks in place of the many bandages she had stocked up on for occasions like this.

“Anne Boleyn, where is all of my medical equipment?” Jane spoke lowly, slowly becoming more and more frustrated.

“Well uh,” Anne laughed awkwardly. “Funny story about that: I thought that if I got hurt again, and clearly I was not planning on it-”

“Mistake number one.”

“I thought I would probably want a snack instead of a bandage. I guess I was wrong.”

“For the love of-” Jane stood up. “Just tell me where the darn bandages are.”

“My bedroom, in the top right drawer of my desk.”

“You are so lucky I love you,” Jane muttered as she walked back into the house. Moments later, she came back with a wet paper towel and bandages to see Anne had dove into the cheetos that were placed in the medical kit.

“Turns out, past me was right. These cheetos are really hitting different.” As Anne continued to munch on the snack, Jane began to clean up the mess. Once, the green queen offered the blonde a cheeto but was told “Anne, you know I do not put such snacks into my body, and I’m still not quite sure you do either given how bad they are for you.”

“But they’re so good!” Anne whined.

After a few minutes, the third queen had finished cleaning up Anne’s leg and grinned.

“Wheels please.” She outstretched her hand.

“But Jane-”

“I don’t want to hear it. Wheels. Now.” The second queen slowly began to take out the wheels of her shoes and placed them in the silver queen’s hand. “You’ll get these back in a week.”

Anne groaned. “But now I have to walk . Where’s the fun in that?”

“At least you won’t be getting as hurt this next week. Please be more careful in the future.” Jane threw a pointed look at the girl before dropping her facade and placing a kiss on the other queen’s head.

It was a good thing Jane had taken away Anne’s wheels, because had she not, Anne would’ve broken her arm the very next day.

III.

Anna of Cleves almost always refused help.

“Seymour, I’ve got it handled, seriously. It’s fine,” she would say.

Jane would protest, “But Anna, you don’t have to go through this alone!” And most days, the blonde was met with “but it’s really fine. I know how to handle myself.” But there were some days where Anna couldn’t just brush the issue under the rug and go about her day.

Jane’s cell phone rang, and as usual, she answered with, “Hello, this is Jane!”

“Seymour, I know it’s you. That’s why I called your number,” Anna deadpanned.

“Oh Cleves! Where are you?” She then looked down at the number she was calling from. “This isn’t your number!”

“I-” she was interrupted.

“Miss, you have one more minute before I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the phone,” a voice could be heard saying.

“Who is that?” Jane’s heart began to flutter. Where was that girl?

“Doesn’t matter. Listen, I’ll get straight to the point: Anne and I-”

“Hey don’t forget about me!” Katherine’s voice could be clearly heard.

“You have my daughter?”

“Uhm, Anne, your daughter, and myself may be in a bit of a sticky situation.”

“Anna of Cleves,” Jane began, only to be interrupted by Anne.

“Ooh, she used your full name! You’re in trouble!”

“Anne Boleyn!” Jane’s voice was much sharper this time.

“Ooh! Someone’s in trouble!” Anne’s voice rang through. “Oh god, it’s me. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Just tell me where you are,” the blonde was about to blow.

“The police station on main and third. Please come bail us out.” The line went dead. Anna of Cleves had hung up on her, mostly in fear of what Jane would say next.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, the three were greeted with a not-so-thrilled looking Jane.

“I’ve posted bail. Let’s get going. We’ll talk about this in the car.” Jane began to hurry to the car, the other three not far behind her.

“Can somebody please explain to me why I’m picking the three of you up from the police station at 9 pm on a Monday?” Jane’s tone indicated she wasn’t playing around.

“Mum, it’s honestly not our fault,” Katherine tried.

“Not the time Kat.” The pink haired queen shrunk in her seat.

“Seymour, I was protecting your daughter from a creep. The man in the cell next to us? He tried to make advances at Katherine. I tried to push him away, and we kind of got into a bar fight. The cops were called. I didn’t have my wallet on me like I usually do because we just opened a tab, so I couldn’t post bail. I’m sorry.” Jane’s face softened at the admission.

“Is this true?” She directed the question at the other two queens in the car. Both nodded. “Well then, none of you are in trouble. Thank you Anna.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat for your daughter, you ol’ mum,” the red queen chuckled lightly.

“And I’d bail you out again in a heartbeat ol’ Cleves.” Jane gently ruffed the woman’s hair.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t just bail us out myself.”

Later that night, the third queen made her way to the fourth queen’s room.

“Thank you for keeping my daughter safe. Seriously,” Jane smiled softly as she handed the German some chocolate.

“I’d do anything for you queens,” Anna happily accepted the chocolate.

“And we would do anything for you too, you know.”

If only Jane had known Anna had been craving chocolate all night.

IV.

Katherine Howard relied on Jane Seymour quite frequently, not that you would ever hear the older queen complaining. It made her quite happy to be able to put her maternal energy into something instead of having to bottle it up, and the pink queen didn’t seem to mind being coddled. Yes, she relied mostly on Jane to comfort her from her fears and nightmares. Yes, Jane almost always was the one cooking meals when they weren’t eating out. Yes, Jane was even the one who mostly accompanied on the very few outings the fifth queen wanted to make. But Jane was useful for other things too.

What most people wouldn’t pick up on about the blonde is that she was quite good at styling hair. Most wouldn’t know this due to the fact that the third queen’s hair was often worn down, or at the very most in a plain bun.

Katherine quite often liked to change her hairstyle. Some days it was down, some it was up in a simple ponytail, and other days one could find her with some sort of intricate hairstyle that Jane had done.

“Your hair looks so pretty today!” A stranger in their local store would say.

“Thank you,” she would blush. “My mum did it.”

Today, Katherine had taken it upon herself to try to style her own hair in two dutch braids. Unfortunately for the fifth queen, her locks had decided to work against her today, and she instead only succeeded in tangling her hair. After trying to brush it out for fifteen straight minutes, she gave up and walked into the living room.

She watched Jane for a few seconds before the mother figure pushed her glasses up on her face as she read her book.

“Mum?” She whispered from the entrance.

“Oh hello Kitty!” She took in the girl’s appearance. “Having a bit of a struggle with your hair today?” She said, although not in a harmful way; it was soft, almost sympathetic.

“Yeah,” the pink haired queen played with her fingers. “Do you think you could-”

“Of course.” The blonde haired queen stood from the chair and led her daughter back to her room.

“How do you want your hair today?” Jane asked as she began to brush out the younger queen’s tangles.

“Just two plaits please,” she asked shyly.

“That seems a bit too simple for you to not be able to do yourself,” the blonde chuckled. “What do you really want?”

“Two dutch braids. I just couldn’t quite get all of the hair to stay in neatly,” she admitted.

“That’s quite alright. That’s what your ol’ mum is here for, isn’t it?”

“You’re here for so much more, and you know that.”

“T’was just a joke, dear daughter of mine.”

As Jane worked, Katherine couldn’t help but become fascinated with the way her mother so effortlessly twisted her hair. With a few more twists, the girl was presented with two clean braids, much nicer looking than the ones she had attempted earlier.

“There you are love.” Jane smiled softly.

“Thank you.” Katherine turned to face the blonde and pecked her cheek.

“Only the best for my daughter.” Jane gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind the girl’s ear.

“Thank you.” Katherine grinned from ear to ear.

Jane knew that Katherine liked being referred to as her daughter, but she didn’t quite know how far that one simple title went for the younger queen.

V.

Cathy Parr was quite the independent woman; her past life only proved this. Her song in the show only proved this. That didn’t mean that every once in a while she leaned on the mother of the group though.

“Jane?” Cathy called from her room.

“Yes dear?” Jane appeared with a skillet in hand.

“I need help.” Jane stayed quiet, silently urging the woman to continue. “I can’t find the right words to convey what I’m trying to say.”

“Well, how long have you been working on this piece?”

“Far too long,” Cathy sighed. “It’s been like three hours, and I just can’t come up with the right words.” She handed over the laptop and allowed her fellow queen to skim over what she had written.

“Well, it seems to me Catherine, that the point you are trying to make is quite simple, but it can get a little confusing with all of the bigger words you use. You know, it’s okay to not use such big words. It’s okay to keep things simple sometimes.” The blonde handed back the laptop.

“I-” Cathy read over what she had written, seeing that what Jane had spoken was true.

“You’re right. Maybe I should try to say things more simply.”

“When are you going to realize that “Mama Jane” is almost always right?” the silver queen laughed. “Mama Jane also knows that you haven't had anything to eat today, so come eat some lunch with me, will you?”

“But I have to finish this Jane,” Cathy grumbled.

“You won't be able to finish it if you haven't got any brain food, now will you? Come on, it’ll be quick. I won’t keep you for too long.” Jane exited out of Parr’s room. Cathy groaned but rose from her desk to follow the blonde.

“What’s for lunch?” she questioned as she watched the silver queen busy herself.

“I was thinking of a stir fry. Any requests?”

“Lots of vegetables please,” Cathy responded. “So, what have you been up to today?” She tried her hand at holding a conversation.

Jane was a bit taken back. Parr wasn’t one to casually strike up this sort of conversation. These conversations were normally reserved for Aragon and Katherine. Still, she was delighted to answer.

“Oh you know, same old, same old. I spiffed up around the house, watered my flowers, and settled in to read a bit. I took to reading some of your writing. It’s quite good.” Cathy blushed at the compliment. “I’m assuming you’ve just been trying to write since you woke up this morning?”

“I, uh- thanks. And, yeah, but it wasn’t really going anywhere. Thank you for making lunch by the way.” Jane nodded as if to say you’re welcome.

A few moments later the two were happily diving into their lunches in silence, save for the few crunches that could be heard from the vegetables being devoured.

“This is delicious,” Cathy complimented.

“Thank you!”

“You should like, open up a restaurant or something. Everything you make is just- to die for!” It was Jane’s turn to blush.

“Thank you love. Maybe in another life,” she laughed weakly. The two continued their lunch when Parr was struck with an idea.

“Oh my gosh,” she mumbled to no one in particular.

“What is it, love?”

“I know exactly how to word what I’ve been trying to say!” The writer stood up abruptly and began to clumsily make her way to her room. “Thank you for lunch Jane!”

“I told you you needed brain food!” Jane shouted in good nature.

-

Jane Seymour had adapted to being the mother figure in the house, and she didn’t mind this one bit. In fact, helping the other queens helped her. They might not know it, but in helping them, they were helping her.

[austen-tatious]

         I decided to focus my post for today around the Thorpe’s as they have been annoying me relentlessly, even as I sleep. I made these two memes, mainly because I thought they were funny exaggerations of Isabella and John Thorpe, since we’ve also talked about how both of them use exaggerations and superlatives so intoxicatingly, I thought it was appropriate. Further, I think that using Tinder, or a dating app in general, is a fitting satire of the time period, and how anxious everyone was to get married, especially in the upper-middle to noble classes. The character’s in this book in particular are overly anxious to marry, especially the women, since as Henry Tinley points out, the power of refusal is virtually the only power that women have. So therefore we see character’s such as Isabella, abusing that power to get the greatest possible financial situation from marriage. It all had me thinking what the Thorpe’s dating profiles would look like if they had that technological ability in their time. I made the choice not to modernize the language, as I drew many of the sentences from direct quotes (with slight alterations to make them fit into the profile). The photos are taken from the Northanger Abbey movie characters.

        The top image is Isabella Thorpe’s dating profile. Under “miles away” I wrote “You haven’t need to know where I am...are you already in love with me!?” I thought this would be fitting for Isabella as she is very anxiously aware of all the attention around her from the men. For example, on pages 41-42 in my edition (which is the penguin classics) when she becomes distressed by the “two odious young men who have been staring” at her. She acts like she doesn’t want the attention stating that it “put me quite out of countenance” and wishes that they won’t follow them, “They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up”. And yet, while she says all of this, it is obvious that Isabella relishes in the attention, and even seeks it at points. She makes sure that they walk right by the men, and even when she is talking to James, she turns back several times to glance at them (although, only three times, as opposed to…I don’t know…zero). While the entire point of a dating app is to meet up with people near you, I could totally see Isabella teasingly skewing where she is as some kind of game to test the man’s attachment to her. Under her description I altered two direct quotes from her slightly in order to make them fit into the profile. The first one is originally “I shall not speak another word to you all the rest of the evening; so I charge you will not expect it” (page 68). And the second one comes from her first interaction with Captain Tinley when she tells Catherine that she will not be doing any dancing, but relents to dance with the Captain after he simply asks her twice. Of course we can imagine that Isabella would both message her matches first and go on outings with them frequently, until of course, she found someone with a better inheritance.

      For John Thorpe’s profile (the second one), I based it around real-life experiences of frat-boys profiles that I have encountered myself (if only there was a picture of him holding a fish!). I did not know that the character trope of a “frat bro” existed in the regency period, but I suppose I stand corrected. John, to me, comes off as very desperate. While he seems to try not to come off this way, he is constantly bugging Catherine, who although arguably overly polite, is obviously uninterested, which is why I set his distance at zero miles. For his description I took the modern saying “Saturday’s are for the boys”, which is often used by Frat-boys, and used it to reference the scene where he virtually kidnaps Catherine (with the help of his sister and her brother). And of course, I made sure to reference his horse as many times as possible (although I’m sure he would’ve talked about it more), and pulled a direct quote from page 46 about the exercise of his horse.

[princesssarisa]

The feminism of “Wuthering Heights”

Not long ago on Quora, I answered the question of “Is Wuthering Heights a feminist text?” I thought I may as well share it here too, since my similar post on the feminism of Romeo and Juliet has been so popular.

Is Wuthering Heights a feminist text? It’s debatable.

It’s certainly not a work of modern feminism, and just because Emily Brontë was a woman doesn’t mean she lacked internalized misogyny, per se.

From a certain perspective, it can be read as a fairly sexist story. It revolves around a brooding, violent male anti-hero, Heathcliff, who emotionally and physically abuses women (among many other dark deeds), yet whom the reader is still clearly meant to feel some sympathy for. His descent into villainy is at least partly blamed on his beloved Cathy, because she rejected him for a wealthier man. As for Cathy herself, she’s a wild, fiery figure who defies society’s ideals of sweet, passive femininity and wields the chief power in both of her romantic relationships, and yet she’s portrayed as a vain, arrogant, vicious-tempered narcissist, prone to manipulation and hysterics, who emotionally betrays both men. Ultimately she’s “punished” with anguish-induced madness, sickness and death (and implied twenty years of wandering as a miserable waif of a ghost), and from then on she serves to fuel Heathcliff’s “manpain,” with his endless grief being used to stir up pity for him despite all his cruelty. Nor is Heathcliff’s abuse of women the only male-on-female violence to be found. In one scene Hareton Earnshaw slaps the younger Catherine when she insults him (to the approval of narrator Lockwood, who overhears it and thinks her “sauciness” deserved the punishment), yet he’s still portrayed as having a heart of gold under his gruff facade and is given a happy ending where he and Catherine fall in love and become engaged.

And yet…

It’s a story told mostly from a woman’s perspective. The chapters narrated by Lockwood are more of a framing device than anything else – the bulk of the story is narrated by Nelly Dean. And her focus is really more on the young women she serves than on Heathcliff, who sometimes disappears from her narrative for months or years at a time. Heathcliff might be the driving force of the plot as a whole, but it can be argued that the two Catherines are the real protagonists, with Heathcliff as the love interest to the first and the antagonist to the second.

Furthermore, all four principle females are three-dimensional characters. The two Catherines, Nelly Dean and Isabella Linton each have distinct, multilayered personalities and none can be reduced to stereotypes of womanhood. None of them are objectified or sexualized the way even the most “feminist” male author’s female characters tend to be. Nor are any of them meek or passive; in different ways, each one is feisty, sharp-tongued and rebellious. All of them are flawed too (putting women on a pedestal is almost as anti-feminist as vilifying them) yet with the possible exception of the elder Cathy, none of them are treated by the narrative as bad people. At the very least, they’re no worse than the men around them, and even though they suffer for their mistakes, none are portrayed (again, with the possible exception of the elder Cathy) as deserving the bad things that happen to them. Young Catherine and Nelly both receive happy endings, while Isabella’s ending is bittersweet, and none of them need to conform to a societal ideal of womanhood to escape from tragedy.

It’s too bad that most adaptations cut the second half of the book, because without the younger Catherine, the elder Cathy’s portrayal might create the sense that Brontë was condemning high spirits and willfulness in women. But young Catherine, who is portrayed sympathetically and gets a happy ending, is very much like her mother: lively, strong-willed, adventurous, temperamental, and sometimes too proud for her own good. In her ultimate romance with Hareton, as she “civilizes” him and teaches him to read, she arguably takes almost the same dominant role her mother did over Heathcliff in their childhood, though unlike her mother she is willing to listen to him and compromise with him. The fact that during his reading lessons she gives him “smart slaps” when his attention wanders and playfully threatens to pull his hair for his mistakes helps to compensate for the one slap he gave her back when they were “enemies.” (It seems unlikely that their marriage bed will be a tame place.) She earns her hopeful future not by being more passive or ladylike than her mother was, but just by being a kinder, more compassionate person and more willing to recognize her mistakes and grow past them. Hareton contrasts with Heathcliff in much the same way.

Nor, contrary to popular belief, is Heathcliff ever romanticized. His horrific deeds are never excused away and he’s not portrayed as a desirable romantic partner for anyone but the equally fierce Cathy. The very notion that he’s a romantic hero is brutally deconstructed by Isabella’s storyline, as she naively idealizes him and thinks she’s in love with him, but is horribly abused after she marries him and quickly comes to despise him. Brontë might ask us to understand him and pity him, but she never tries to make us love him. He’s a tragic monster.

Nor, unlike in the Hays Code-compliant 1939 film, is Isabella trapped for decades in her miserable marriage. She leaves Heathcliff, escapes to London, and builds a new life for herself and her son Linton. True, she still dies young, but she dies free.

Without being heavy-handed about it, the book also condemns the era’s patriarchal laws and customs that made women powerless. The laws that let husbands abuse their wives (Heathcliff and Isabella), that let fathers-in-law lord over and abuse their daughters-in-law (Heathcliff and Catherine), that prevented daughters from inheriting their fathers’ property in favor of the male next-of-kin (Thrushcross Grange going to Linton Heathcliff instead of to Catherine), that gave unfit fathers custody of their children against the mother’s will (Heathcliff and Linton), and that forced women to depend on marriage to raise their own fortunes and to escape from a toxic family (Cathy).

Yet it’s what little power the women do have within these confines – emotional power – that leads to the hopeful ending. Catherine, with help from Nelly, overcomes her own bitterness and reaches out to Hareton, finally freeing him from Heathcliff’s degrading influence with her friendship and later love. This, combined with the dead Cathy’s ongoing hold over Heathcliff’s psyche, is what makes Heathcliff finally give up on life, with his death bringing peace both to himself and to everyone he terrorized.

Last but not least, let’s discuss Cathy. No, she’s not portrayed as a good person, and yes, her sins are “punished” with brain fever and death. But still, it’s gratifying from a woman’s perspective to see the object of an imposing Byronic anti-hero’s love not be a delicate ingenue whom he controls, but an iron-willed firebrand whose passion equals his own and whom he gladly lets dominate him. And any claim that she’s worse than Heathcliff (as bad as, maybe, but worse?) or that she deserves no sympathy whatsoever smacks of misogyny. Her struggles are very relatable for women who feel torn between rebellion and conformity. This quote sums it up well: “I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free”.

As a child she was fully herself: wild, androgynous, barely distinguishable from Heathcliff. But it came at the price of disapproval from her stern father and servant caregivers, and later from her tyrannical brother, who viciously abused Heathcliff and tried to separate them. Then she discovered the world of the Lintons: wealth, status, beautiful clothes, good manners, kindness, affection. It’s so easy to condemn her as a “shallow gold-digger” for giving in to the lure of that world and choosing to marry Edgar instead of Heathcliff. But one glance over her great speeches should reveal that regardless of her other flaws, she’s not a shallow person. With her family and all of society holding up the Lintons and their lifestyle as superior, and when the only alternatives she sees are either staying under Hindley’s brutal thumb (again, remember: for a girl, marriage was the only escape) or starving in poverty as Heathcliff’s wife, it’s understandable that she should give in, even though it means betraying her true self, donning the mask of a proper lady, and rejecting her soul mate. Yet she always knows she really belongs with Heathcliff, not with Edgar, and she tries to have them both by maintaining her “friendship” with Heathcliff while married; before Heathcliff runs away and makes his own fortune, she even plans to help him by sharing Edgar’s wealth with him. But eventually and inevitably, the two men clash and her double life shatters. It’s not just the stress of the love triangle that causes her breakdown, but what it represents: her yearning for freedom while trapped in the confines of upper-class womanhood and knowing what she would loose if she were to choose one over the other. What woman hasn’t struggled with society’s demands of “proper” womanhood and felt torn between wanting to rebel and wanting the benefits of conforming? I don’t think any character who embodies that struggle as powerfully as Cathy can be labeled an anti-feminist character, no matter how deeply flawed she is or how tragically her story ends. The fact that it’s not her failure to be a proper lady that dooms her, but her choice to become one and deny her authentic, wild and androgynous self, can be seen as a particularly feminist statement.

Also, I respectfully disagree with the claim I’ve read that the only purpose of Cathy’s strong will and free spirit is to intoxicate Heathcliff. They’re essential to her entire personal character arc. None of the characters in this complex book are only written to serve another character’s development, male or female.

Is the book feminist in every way by modern standards? No. But does it still have many feminist qualities and themes? Does it speak powerfully to women and empower them in subtle ways? I think it absolutely does.

@theheightsthatwuthered, @astrangechoiceoffavourites, @wuthering-valleys, @incorrectwutheringheightsquotes, @nitrateglow

[lostinplanetnumber5]

REVIEW: Heartless by Marissa Meyer

Here I am to write about one of the best books I read this year: Heartless, by Marissa Meyer. 

SYNOPSIS:

Long before she was the terror of Wonderland—the infamous Queen of Hearts—she was just a girl who wanted to fall in love.

Catherine may be one of the most desired girls in Wonderland, and a favorite of the unmarried King of Hearts, but her interests lie elsewhere. A talented baker, all she wants is to open a shop with her best friend. But according to her mother, such a goal is unthinkable for the young woman who could be the next queen.

Then Cath meets Jest, the handsome and mysterious court joker. For the first time, she feels the pull of true attraction. At the risk of offending the king and infuriating her parents, she and Jest enter into an intense, secret courtship. Cath is determined to define her destiny and fall in love on her terms. But in a land thriving with magic, madness, and monsters, fate has other plans.

SPOILER-FREE REVIEW

I love everything related to Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and I also love to read stories about villains and how they became who they are. Heartless is the perfect mix between those two.

I loved the way, Marissa Meyer wrote a whole different story about Wonderland but it felt like an original one by Lewis Carroll. The author writes in such a light and pleasant way that I didn't even see time go by during the more than 400 pages I read. I was enchanted by everything in Cath's world, and I spent the entire book wondering what would happen to a person as lovely as she was (and such a big dreamer!) become the feared queen known for the phrase: "cut off their heads!" (we have an explanation for that in the book by the way).  During a ball at the king's palace, Cath meets the famous joker. Soon something special starts to emerge between them, but nothing can happen because she is royalty, destined to get married to the king and the joker is ... well, just a joker.

I had so much empathy for Cath with all the things she was forced to go through, that I just wanted everything to work out and she would soon be able to fulfill her big dream ... but obviously, it doesn't happen. After all, we are reading the story of how she became a villain. Heartless is the kind of book I already knew that something very bad would happen in the end: I just didn't imagine what could happen to change the course of that story. The ending was very well written, surprising, and very sad. I fell in love with all the characters: The Cheshire cat, Hatta (Mad Hatter), Jest/joker (oh, how I fell in love with Jest) ... 

To sum up: this book was a roller coaster of emotions, it was a delicious reading that, ironically, broke my heart. It had a little bit of all the things I like: good writing, good character construction (I cheered and suffered for them), and I was also surprised (countless times). I also loved how the author was able to put elements and some lines from Carroll's story in that book: it made me feel like I was in Wonderland.

I gave this book five stars and also added it to my list of favorites. If you have not yet read Heartless I guarantee you will not regret it. I am soon going to start reading Cinder, by the same author, Marissa Meyer. Hopefully, It'll also surprise me. 

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ + ❤️

Have you read Heartless? Let me know your opinions about the book or if you're planning to read it. Thank you so much for reading this review!

(I'm also thinking about making a playlist on Spotify with songs that remind me of this book and then share it here. Is it a good idea? If so, let me know. I'll also share some of my favorite quotes about this book here, as I already did on my last post).

Bye, Sarah.

(original 📷)

[rivet-ing-titanic]

May 25th, 1912 - American Inquiry Day 18

Day 18: The last day. You would think that it being the last day and being off of work, I could get this one done on time. But life gets in the way. SO, here we are, to cover the final day of witness testimony, submitted affidavits, letters and “process-verbal” entered into record. Are you tired of these posts? Did you read or like them or find them interesting? Well if you are tired of them, it is just this and a Final Report summary post left to go. Jury is out on whether I will be back next year to do the British inquiry, day by day. (Maybe I should just do it now so each day will be on the correct day, protect me from my own laziness, personal issues and procrastination.) Enough about me, let’s dive in.

Today, testimony was taken on board the RMS Olympic, in the New York Harbor.

Witnesses:

Herbert James Haddock, Captain, RMS Olympic;

E.J. Moore, Wireless Operator, RMS Olympic;

Frederick Barrett, Leading Fireman, RMS Titanic;

Submitted: (All submissions are linked)

Proces-Verbal – E.J. Moore, Wireless Operator, RMS Olympic; 

Affidavit – James McGough, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Affidavit – Catherine Crosby, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Affidavit – Imanita Shelley, Second Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Affidavit – Eleanor Widener, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Correspondence – Letter from Stanley Lord, Captain, SS Californian;

Correspondence – C.C. Adams, Vice President, Postal Telegraph-Cable Company;

Correspondence – H.C. Wolfe, New York World; 

Correspondence – P.A.S. Franklin, Vice President, IMM; 

Correspondence – B. Brooks, GM, Western Union Telegraph Co.; 

Statement – Mrs. Lucian P. Smith, First Class Passenger, RMS Titanic; 

Notable Quotes/Lines of Questioning or Summarized Testimony:

Smith starts by questioning Captain Haddock, about where they were, when and how he heard of the Titanic situation, and what his actions were. He is also questioned about any notifications of ice sightings they received, of which the first they heard was from the Asian on Saturday morning.

“Fear absolutely no hope searching Titanic's position. Left Leyland S. S. Californian searching around. All boats accounted for. About 675 souls saved, crew and passengers, latter nearly all women and children. Titanic foundered about 2.20 a. m., 5.47. GMT in 41.16 north. 50.14 west; not certain of having got through. Please forward to White Star - also to Cunard. Liverpool and New York - that I am returning to New York. Consider this most advisable for many considerations.” – Rostron (read from the record by Haddock)

Haddock then reads for the record, the exchange of messages between himself and Captain Rostron of Carpathia. They discuss location, ice, particulars of letting the appropriate channels know what has happened, Ismay and that they believe it best that survivors do not see Olympic, that no transfer take place.

Haddock continues to read from Moore’s report, detailing how the names of passengers were passed on by a “half-asleep” Cottam, who asked to be excused for his sending. Moore wrote in his report, “during the transmission of names it was evident the operator on Carpathia was tired out”. Cottam had testified earlier in the inquiry that once he heard Titanic’s distress call on the night of the 14th, he got about a handful hours of sleep over the next few days until they reached New York. He was working the wireless non-stop, with and without assistance from an immobile, frost bitten Bride.

Moore relates to Smith that he received seven or eight messages to the effect of a request for compensation for the story of Titanic. Moore makes note of these in his report, however did not reply to any requests from papers such as the New York Herald, the Sun and the World. He also indicates that he was never told not to give out any information, however he and the captain held information back in a desire that it be more accurate.

In addition to answering Smith’s questions, Moore submitted his wireless report (listed above as process-verbal) that both he and Haddock referred to during their testimony.

The correspondence from Stanley Lord that was submitted into record is a letter to Smith in which Captain Lord corrected a statement he made while testifying, which ultimately is inconsequential in my opinion, and probably more of a formality correction than anything.

As you all know, I love a passenger story or affidavit. So instead of pulling a whole bunch of quotes, as I am so wont to do, I now have just linked all submissions above, for you to peruse at your leisure. Is it being lazy? Maybe a bit, but I wanted to end this day, with a sprinkling of quotes, (of which I hope to have not included any similar before) a few thoughts in regards to any submissions or quotes, and my conclusions prior to the final report.

McGough asked a dining-room steward whether there was any danger, shortly after he left his stateroom. At that time the steward told him “not in the least” and suggested he return to bed. Fortunately for McGough, he did not. This seems a theme throughout this inquiry, where immediately after or even some time after, Titanic crew members, such as stewards, were not totally sure of what was going on or, if they were aware, the severity of it. Personally, I believe part of this to be due to the inability to inform due to technology limitations of the time, solved by walkie-talkies and earpieces today. Additionally, if a steward were on watch, and had not heard anything yet, he or she would have no reason to say anything other than everything is fine. I would also consider the desire to not cause panic had some impact as well. Clearly, it would have been helpful if some sort of light or alarm or notification had been in place, for passengers and crew alike, but word of mouth, on an incredibly large ship, with over 900 crew members, some of whom are sleeping, would be time consuming. Time, unfortunately the Titanic and the souls on board did not have. This does not even take into account the time that would have been necessary to figure out the extent of the damage. So while I personally feel, there should have been some better systems in place, criticism of stewards who only passed on what they knew at the time, or what a higher up told them, should be discouraged. (As you might know, I am currently learning more about crew hierarchy and things of this nature in my new book)

“It was reported on the Carpathia by passengers, whose names I do not recollect, that the lookout who was on duty at the time the Titanic struck the iceberg had said: ‘I know they will blame me for it, because I was on duty, but it was not my fault; I had warned the officers three or four times before striking the iceberg that we were in the vicinity of icebergs, but the officer on the bridge paid no attention to my signals.’ I can not give the name of any passenger who made that statement, but it was common talk on the Carpathia that that is what the lookout said.” – Crosby (hearsay)

Imanita Shelley has an interesting story about her accommodations and slight mishap of rooms that happened upon the start of her journey. See above for a link to her affidavit. I would be interested to see the rooms which were referred to. It does not seem in her affidavit that she makes any mention of actual room numbers. This is also the first, I have read, mention of issues with the heat onboard Titanic.

“Afterwards, on board the Carpathia, a first-cabin passenger a Mme. Baxter, of Montreal, Canada, told Mrs. Shelley that she had sent her son to the captain at the time of the collision to find out what to do. That her son had found the captain in a card game, and he had laughingly assured him that there was no danger and to advise his mother to go back to bed.”- Shelley (a very strong accusation that if true is concerning, however others have testified that this was not the case)

 “I borrowed money from a gentleman and took this Marconigram myself and asked the operator to send it for me… it was not received… This is the only complaint I have to make against the Carpathia… He also said it was not necessary to pay him, because the White Star Line was responsible. I insisted, however, because I thought that probably the money might have some weight with them, as the whole thing seemed to have been a monied accident.” – Mrs. Smith

“On the night of Sunday, the 14th of April, 1912, my husband and I gave a dinner at which Capt. Smith was present. Capt. Smith drank absolutely no wine or intoxicating liquor of any kind whatever at the dinner.” - Widener

 Conclusions prior to the Final Report: 

You could really get into the weeds with the last 18 days of testimony, what people/boats had drinking water, saw her go down and thought she broke in half vs. went down in one piece, who was afraid of suction, who heard explosions, I could go on. Part of me wants to do this, I think it would be quite interesting, especially diving into the distant light/boat testimonies. However, I do not have the time for that these days, and you probably don’t either (if you do please share what you find). What I will say, on my last day-by-day summary post is this: If you are a Titanic crazed person like I am, and love the history, the nuances of what went wrong, what went right, specific passenger experiences directly from their hand or mouth, do yourself a favor, and dive into this. The Titanic Inquiry Project is the most complete, well organized, and informative Titanic site I may have ever had the pleasure of using. They link out to passenger and crew and witness bios, they have the particulars on every ship mentioned, and it continues to add more and more. I am not done with this site now that I am done with this inquiry, I still have the British, and if you remember my post about liability, they now have those hearings. I cannot sing the praises of this enough. So if you have a rainy day, and an inquisitive mind, check out titanicinquiry.org . You will not be disappointed. And, if you like, you can use my American Inquiry posts, all under one link on my page, to help navigate, or pick and choose what you want to read.

SEE American Inquiry Day 17 post HERE.

[harryswanderlust]

Overdue

where y/n’s the new library assistant and harry doesn’t actually show up for the books...

warnings: none

requested: nope

It wasn’t until the beginning of September that Y/n had really started to appreciate her job in the campus library. She’d been working there for only a few weeks, every night from six ‘til eight, and she enjoyed it. She enjoyed sorting through endless amounts of books and placing them back on the proper shelf. She’d end up finding new and exciting things to read from doing this, and at first, she thought that was the best part of her job, but after someone waltzed into her library during the start of September, she was given a new reason to love it so much.

She remembers it being a particularly cold night, which was surprising to no one since it was the beginning of the autumn season in upstate New York. Everyone already had their jackets pulled out by the end of August and were adjusting to the cooler temperatures. Everyone except Y/n. She’s always hated the cold, and she’s set on moving out of New York once she graduates. All she wants to do when fall and winter roll around is curl up in a pile of blankets and read until she falls asleep, but on that night a cup of hot chocolate would have to suffice.

It was a typical Thursday, and it wasn’t any quieter or less empty than any other day of the week since most kids couldn’t find the library even if they tried. She always finds it amusing when certain students come rushing in to find a book for a paper they were supposed to start writing weeks ago, but chose to wait until the last minute instead. It’s usually the same people over and over again, and thankfully it’s not a daily occurrence, but it did happen on this night as Y/n’s shift was coming to an end.

She’d lost track of time, so it was a few minutes past eight when he hurried in, but the library hours have always been clearly posted on the doors. She briefly looked up from what she was reading–Shakespeare’s Hamlet–when she heard the door swing open, and felt a gust of cool air blow in. She let out an annoyed sigh when she glanced up at the clock to check the time. She was hungry and planned on grabbing something to eat after locking up, but now she was going to have to wait because some idiot couldn’t read a sign.

She observed the stranger as he made his way inside, trying her best not to scrutinize him too hard or get caught staring. He was wearing a university hoodie that appeared to be in desperate need of a wash, and his hair is falling in disheveled ringlets in front of his face from being windblown. She cut him some slack for it because everyone on campus was only trying to stay warm, but it didn’t make her less irritated with him.

He looked to be a bit older than she was. Maybe around twenty-one? She didn't think there was any way he could be a sophomore like her or any younger than a junior really. His sleeves were half rolled up, exposing a trail of tattoos up his left arm and a wristband on his right arm with the name of his frat house. She decided to shrug it off, simply going back to reading her Shakespeare while he went about finding the books he needed. She was almost near the end of the third act when he walked up to the checkout counter, shaking his hands through his tousled curls for about the tenth time since he arrived.

It wasn’t until then that she truly got a good look at him, and she could physically feel her heart skip a beat when was met with a pair of forest green eyes, simultaneously shutting the play and nearly falling off her stool in the process. She stumbled before catching herself on the counter and flashed him a smile to try and conceal her embarrassment.

“That’s one of his longest plays isn’t it?” He asked her as he slid a few books across the counter for her to check out. Her brows drew together, his question throwing her way off guard before she registered that he was talking about Hamlet. Her eyes shifted back and forth between him and the play because she definitely wasn’t expecting him to ask her that.

“Uh, yeah. I think it is,” is all she could manage to say in response, working to grab the books he placed in front of her to scan them. She eyes him unsurely for a moment, and an awkward silence stretched between them as the scanner beeped a couple of times.

“It’s been a while since I’ve read that, but ‘to be or not to be: that is the question’, right?” He asked, quoting the play to her, and she swore her jaw practically dropped to the floor. She didn’t think he was dumb–hell, she didn’t even know the guy–but if someone had told her she’d be talking to him about Shakespeare she wouldn’t have believed them. But here he was quoting Hamlet of all plays. Her own friends didn’t even discuss Shakespeare with her, and they’ve always got their noses stuck in some piece of literature as much as she does.

“I think Hamlet should’ve let nature run its course, you know? I believe in fate, and by taking things into his own hands he only made things worse. Nothing was really resolved,” he said, reaching for his books as she handed them back to him.

She nodded, considering his words. She’s only ever heard people’s thoughts on Romeo and Juliet and everyone’s opinions are pretty much the same on that one. “I believe in fate,” he’d said. Was it fate that lead him into her library on that Thursday night? Was it fate that lead to him coming in almost every single night after that?

“I’m Harry by the way,” he added, introducing himself with a dimpled grin. Y/n’s not sure why she was finding it charming or why she’d become more endeared by him than she was several moments ago.

“And could you try to not look so surprised that I’ve read Shakespeare before?”

She frantically shook her head, stammering over her words as they quickly fell out of her mouth. “No, I’m not–I, I mean I wasn’t–I mean it’s, it’s just that–”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let it slide since you’re cute,” he teased, shooting her a wink. Her entire face heated up at the compliment, but she didn’t know what’s worse: how little she thought of him or how he had called her out on it. “Definitely cuter than the last library assistant. What was her name? Callie or Catherine or something like that?”

“Caitlin,” she corrects, causing Y/n to remember how she heard somewhere that she was caught with pot in her room and got kicked out of school. Whether that’s true or not, Y/n doesn't know. But she hasn’t seen Caitlin around campus since so she’s definitely not around anymore. She also found a secret stash in between some books one time which makes the rumors seem more truthful than they are not.

“Caitlin, that’s right. I liked her. She’d write papers for me sometimes if I paid her enough.”

Classy, Y/n thought to herself. She mentally rolled her eyes at his confession, finding it unsurprising. She figured this guy may have known a thing or two about a famous playwright, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t another lazy student that only tries to pass so they can keep partying every weekend. She didn’t care for guys like that and assumed that everything she found attractive about him was all on the outside.

“Anyway, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“That's because I didn’t give it to you,” she’d shot back, watching as his grin grew wider and he licked his lips. She wasn't aware, but he was the type that liked a challenge. He loved having to work for it.

“Guess I’ll have to call you princess from now on then.”

The pet name didn’t earn any appreciation from her, nor did it make her want to keep talking with him at that point.

“If you think I’m going to write your papers for you, you’re wrong. And your books are due in two weeks,” she told him, ignoring his subtle attempts at flirting with her. He should’ve stuck to giving her his analysis on English literature.

“I’ll be back in two weeks then.”

That’s the last thing he’d said before shooting her one last wink and leaving with his books tucked under his arm. She didn’t know what exactly to think of the guy, and he even hadn’t crossed her mind until he returned to the library again. She had hoped that she wouldn’t see him again after that, but that proved difficult since he purposely showed back up two weeks later during her late night shift. As it turned out, he wanted to continue the conversation they had when they first met, but Y/n didn’t buy it. She thought he wanted to see if he could take another shot at possibly trying to get into her pants.

She was quick to judge him though, and soon found out how wrong she was about him. Sure they don’t run in the same circles, and honestly, they still don’t, but they have a lot more in common than she was willing to give them credit for at first. It took a while, but she eventually started looking forward to his infrequent visits. And after a couple of months, the infrequent visits turned into a daily routine.

At first, he’d act as though he was coming in to find a book he wanted so it didn’t seem like he was only there for the cute, alluring, library assistant, but he soon gave up trying to hide it. Not that it wasn’t at least a little obvious to Y/n. He only ever came in when she was there, and she knows this because she took it upon herself to ask the actual librarian if she’d seen him. She told Y/n she’d never seen or heard of him before. It’s possible that she could’ve simply missed him, but before Y/n started working there Harry had only seen the inside of their library a solid two times.  

So by the time the end of the fall semester rolled she had fallen in love with her job, and by mid-February, she had fallen for him. She tried to chalk her feelings up to love being in the air and all that, but she wasn’t just enamored by his riveting smile or adorable curls. She didn’t want the four walls of the campus library to be the only place she ever saw him. She wanted to be able to be with anywhere and recite her favorite soliloquies to him or listen to him play his guitar or sing to her.

That was their thing. He loved art and music, and she loved books and poetry...and maybe even him too. She hasn’t been able to find the guts to tell him, out of fear that he might not feel the same way. If he hasn’t asked her out by now then she doubts it’s going to happen. Besides, they’re good at the whole friend thing, and there’s no way she wants to ruin that.

“Did you read the book before you wrote this paper?” She asks him one day when they’re sitting at a table in the library. They’re going over a paper he had to write over Homer’s Iliad, and she’s pretty sure the only thing he’ll get credit for is putting his name on it.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” He responds, and she shakes her head. He groans as he takes his paper back from her, running a hand over his face and through his messy locks. He tugs slightly at them with frustration, and she places a hand on his shoulder. She gives it a soft squeeze, offering a sympathetic smile.

“I should read it shouldn't I?”

She nods, murmuring a quick “yeah” before standing up. “I’ll go find it for you.”

She slips behind the bookcases, finding the book with ease since she read it herself a while back. She hears the light pattering of footsteps behind her, and she whirls around to find that Harry has followed behind her. She gasps when she almost collides with him, the book nearly falling out of her hands.

“What’s that?” She asks when she spots a cd in his hand. He shifts back and forth on his feet, his body towering over her as he looks down at her. His face flushes at her question, a pink tint blossoming over his cheeks as he twists his lips to hide a smile from her.

“I...I made you a playlist of all my favorite songs. I thought you might listen to it while you’re reading or studying or whatever,” he tells her, shrugging nonchalantly as he wipes his hand against his jeans. It makes her realize that he’s actually nervous. She’s actually making him nervous.

She smiles fondly at him, her heart swelling at the simple gift. He could’ve just thrown all the songs onto a Spotify playlist, but he went out of his way to make her a cd.

“Thank you. I love it,” she says, wanting so badly to kiss him for it. He’s standing close enough that it would be easy. All she’d have to do is lean in, and she’d be lying if she hasn’t spent some time thinking about how his lips would feel against hers. Like the beginning of a beautiful song is what she guesses.

“How can you love it? You haven’t listened to it yet, princess.”

She rolls her eyes, playfully pushing his arm.  “Because you made it for me, silly.”  

This gets him to smile, and she swears it makes her want to melt. His fingers gently trace over her wrist, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Her breath hitches at the contact. She didn’t see it coming, his gaze is cast downward at where they’re touching as he pauses for a moment.

“Would you wanna go to a party with me tonight?” He finally asks once he’s racked up enough courage.  

She blinks a few times. “What?”

“I mean, you totally don’t have to if you don’t want to. My frat’s throwing one tonight, but I’d understand if that’s not your scene. I just thought it might be nice to hang out somewhere besides here,” he explains, afraid that asking her out has scared her. He’s as terrified of moving too fast as she is, and doesn’t want to assume that she likes him.

If only he knew.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” she says, wrapping her own fingers around his.

He bites his lip, bringing his other hand up to push her hair behind her ear and cup her cheek. He slowly pulls her closer to him, their noses brushing against one another’s. It tickles and a giggle escapes past her lips as her eyes flutter shut, anticipating a kiss. But his lips ghost over hers, not giving her the one thing she wants.

“Great, I’ll pick you up in couple hours?” He whispers, pulling away from her and letting her go.

She nods, not trusting herself to say anything. She can hardly breathe, and when he leaves she leans back against the shelf full of books. Her head spins, unable to process what just happened.

He asked her out.

He finally asked her out.

————

Taking a nap wasn't her smartest move, and she was dreading how little time she had to get ready. She had an outfit picked out in her mind before she even left the library, but had to quickly throw on a dress and shoes in order to focus on getting the sleep out of her hair and face. She doesn't look bad, but she did envision herself looking better for a first date. Though, going to a frat party as a first date wasn’t exactly what she had in mind either.

She slides into the passenger's seat of his car when he pulls up, immediately noticing how he ditched the dirty hoodie and fixed his hair. He looks as nice as she does, and even more handsome than he ever has in their tiny, old library.

“You clean up nice,” she compliments, taking a second to buckle her seatbelt. It’s dark but she can still see him blushing as his hand reaches for the gear to back out.

“Only when I really like the girl,” he teases. “And you look beautiful too.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, biting back a smile. Her fingers wind tighter around the sweater she grabbed on her way out, the butterflies in her stomach starting to flutter faster. Somehow she’s more nervous that she’s ever been. He’s just Harry. The guy who stops by the library more times to see her than he does to read a book and is now probably going to become her boyfriend.

Wait.

Boyfriend? Now she’s getting ahead of herself. He doesn’t want to be her boyfriend. Sure he had her a mixtape–which is undoubtedly pretty romantic–and he did ask her out, but he’s not going to become her boyfriend all of the sudden. She’s not even sure what to call what’s already going on between them.

“You want something to drink?” He asks when they arrive at the house, surrounded by hundreds of half-drunk college students and someone’s terrible playlist blasting through the giant speaker.

“Yeah,” she nods.

“Okay, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” she frantically grabs his arm, pulling him back to her. He glances at her, brows drawing together to show he’s confused and making her mentally slap herself for acting like a crazy person. “I’m...I’m not really comfortable being alone.”

She releases her death grip on his arm, praying that she didn’t make herself seem like a pathetic freak. She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, avoiding his gaze. But he smiles softly at her and grabs her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Alright, I won’t leave your side,” he tells her, squeezing her hand for assurance. She looks up at him, squeezing it back as a thank you.

He leads her to the kitchen, which causes an outburst from several of Harry’s friends. A blonde one comes from around to counter to pull him into a hug, engaging in some sort of handshake with him afterward. He pats him on the back, telling him that he was wondering when he was going to show up.

“I’m here now,” he tells him, stepping to the side and placing his hand on the small of Y/n’s back. “And this is Y/n.”

“Wow, Harry. You’ve always known how to pick them,” a lankier one says before winking at him.

“Is she your girlfriend? Or another one of your hookups you never intend on calling back?” Another one pipes up, tauntingly.

“No, we’re–”

“You’ve always been quite the ladies man haven’t you?” The blonde one nudges his shoulder.

Okay, his friends seem like nice people except they really don’t. But was what that one guy said true? Did he have a thing for hooking up with girls and never calling them? Was she really just another conquest to him? And if she was, why would he put so much effort into a quick screw?

“I think I’m going to go to the bathroom,” she lies, excusing herself from the awful situation. Harry calls out after her, but she doesn’t turn around and instead makes her way towards the stairs. She hurries up them, set on heading for the bathroom but stopping short upon finding something else.

To her left, a bedroom door is open slightly and inside she can see the same hoodie Harry was wearing earlier hanging off a chair. Now, she's in a house belonging to a bunch of frat boys that all play the same sport, so that doesn't mean the bedroom is his. But is that going to stop her anyway?

Absolutely not.

She presses her hand to the door, opening it further and stepping inside. The first thing she notices—besides the condom laying out on his dresser—is the Iliad laying out on his bed. So it’s definitely his room, and she definitely wasn’t expecting so many Fleetwood Mac and Pink Floyd posters. What also comes as a surprise is the bookshelf full of books, including classics like Hemingway.

“I see you got lost on your way to the bathroom,” Harry says, now leaning in doorway and watching her with a subtle smirk.

She ignores him, her fingers scanning over the spines of the books. “So you’ve got Wuthering Heights on your shelf, but you can’t get through the Iliad?”  

He shrugs. “Wuthering Heights was entertaining.”

She snorts, “Spoken like someone who didn’t understand the book.”

“Did you?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but can’t find any good way to answer because she, in fact, didn’t understand it. So that’s twice now that’s she’s not given him enough credit and put her foot in her mouth, right?

“You know this is like way overdue right?” She pulls a book off the shelf, holding it out for him to see as she points clearly at the return date sticker. He was supposed to return it a couple months ago, but she’s partly to blame for giving him a pass every time he forgets to bring his books back.

He walks over to her, one hand grabbing her waist and the other brushing her hair away from her face.

“What are you–”

“I think this is too,” he cuts her off, gently cupping her cheek with his hand and pulling her in for their lips to meet. The kiss is deep and slow, lighting up her body and she finds it hard to catch a breath. Her arms wind around his neck, her finger running themselves through his curls.

She moans when he pulls away, still keeping her body close to his. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that,” she giggles, giving him another peck on the lips. “Could never really tell if you were into me.”

Harry nods, pinching her hips and causing her to giggle again. He could listen to that sound on repeat, like a sweet melody.

“Trust me, I am,” he says before pulling her in for one last kiss.

[thethrobbingmembers]

THE THROBBING MEMBERS REVIEW: Red, White, and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston

Casey McQuiston doesn’t understand how the LSATs work. -Lily

I refuse to state my opinion on this book in case the anons hunt me down. -Sarah

I am a traitor. -Margo, did not read the book

Dream Cast

Alex

Henry

Summary

The first son of the US, Alex, falls in love with the youngest prince of England, Henry. Bisexual chaos ensues.

Review

You know how sometimes you see reviews for a book, and they’re all positive, but for exactly the wrong reasons? Like, they call it “witty” and “romantic”, using quotes that don’t sound like what they’re describing at all? That was this book. Why did we read this book. I did not choose this book. This was supposed to be my turn and yet we read this book.

Here I am, stuck in my house, social distancing the fuck out of myself, thinking about this book! That I read! With my eyes and my brain! I blame the coronavirus. It gave me too much free time.

The main character, Alex, is actually pretty good! He has an internal life and a sense of humor! He is fun and good. Unfortunately, Henry, the prince of England, is not fun and good. He is what happens when an author creates a character based on the concept of England, without knowing anyone from that country or, God forbid, doing any research. He is a blank slate who plays polo and says “bloody hell” occasionally. Also he’s blond and must therefore be oppressed. I’m not biased.

That was a major problem throughout the whole thing. The lack of research permeated it, like the malaria spread from mosquitoes that, supposedly, Henry was unfamiliar with, even though THEY HAVE MOSQUITOES IN ENGLAND. Every once in a while the characters would reference a “fun historical fact that they knew,” except the facts were from Tumblr posts that we’d all seen that had like 100k notes. Meanwhile, Alex was named after Alexander Hamilton. I’ve listened to Hamilton. We’ve all listened to it. I know it’s good. But like. We know Hamilton owned slaves, right? We can all find that easily on Google, right? Right???

Anyway, to the romance. It started out good! I was having a good time watching Alex hate Henry, and was looking forward to their slowburn realization that maybe, they had a lot in common. Instead we got a summary of the beginning of their relationship, and how Alex learned all these things about Henry and now they were friends, and it was fine! Most of their relationship developments were like that. They kept summarizing things that could have been included as actual ways to develop their relationship. I’m not the type to say “show, don’t tell,” but!!!! Show, don’t tell!!

I’m not going to get into the ending too much because I hate it a lot. Let me just say: politics are bad. Nothing about political campaigns and the cutthroat dealings of Washington politicians is romantic or uplifting. Sex scandals and abuse are not uplifting. I hated every second of it.

At least some of the banter was cute.

- Catherine

4/10 stars

Additional Ratings

Sexy Sex: 4/10

Forgettable, but at least they did the do in the White House. 

Mystery: 0/10

At the end of the book McQuiston tried to throw in a lil #metoo commentary and did not have the skill to pull it off.

Notes: Save some time and watch The Prince & Me instead. 

[letterfromtrenwith]

A Feast for the Senses

A George/Elizabeth AU fic.

While hunting for a last minute gift, George Warleggan is drawn to the Cusgarne Chocolate Company, where he meets the chocolaterie's lovely owner, Elizabeth Chynoweth, and finds himself unable to resist returning...

~

George mentally cursed himself as he hurried down the street, turning up the collar of his coat against the chilly autumn wind. How could he have been so stupid? He could blame the chaos of the move and setting up the new office. Except part of the reason he had been so keen to move back to Cornwall was to be nearer his Aunt Joan, and now he had gone and forgotten her birthday!

For once in his life – and completely unintentionally – Uncle Cary had actually managed to be helpful, in that he had been the one to remind George, during the course of an otherwise all-business call.

“I suppose you’ll be out at your godmother’s tonight…I’ll tell you what, finding out she was born on Halloween wasn’t much of a surprise.” Cary had probably kept talking, considering he rarely let an opportunity to complain about Joan pass him by, but George had zoned out, staring in seasonally-appropriate horror at the date on his desk-top calendar.

He’d essentially just hung up on Cary, pulled his coat on and hurried out passed a bemused Margaret and Emma, saying he had an appointment and would see them in the morning. It was already just after 4pm, so he didn’t have long before the shops closed. The supermarkets would be open later, of course, but he didn’t want a cheap bunch of flowers and a bottle of Asti. Joan had been his mum’s best friend, and George had been close to her his whole life. She deserved something special.

Although he’d visited her several times while he’d been living in London, he hadn’t actually been into Truro proper for years, not even in the time since he’d moved back. He’d been too busy opening up the new branch. Almost all of the shops had changed from what he vaguely remembered, which did nothing to help him. How he could possibly have failed to remember the date became more bewildering as he went, considering almost every building he passed, and not just the shops, was covered in orange and black decorations. Now he thought about it, at least two of the other flats in his new building had had pumpkin lanterns outside their doors when he left this morning.

Even the little art shop he came to had delicate strips of black crepe trailing down its windows, framing several suitably gothic paintings. Knowing his aunt’s fondness for art, he went inside. Despite some difficulty extracting himself from the overly chatty owner, he considered it a successful visit, coming away with a very nice watercolour of Mousehole and a birthday card featuring a charming illustration of two foxes frolicking in awoodland.

George was just deciding whether to finish off with flowers or chocolates when the scent of the latter decided it for him. Warm and rich, the scent was fleeting but incredibly enticing. He managed to follow it to the entrance of a small courtyard, which was made up of half a dozen traditional shop fronts gathered around a paved square and big stone fountain, its water covered in the orange and yellow leaves which fell from two trees growing up between the stones. Directly in front of him was the obvious source of the aroma. Gold lettering flowing beautifully over midnight blue paint proclaimed the establishment to be The Cusgarne Chocolate Company.

Their window was also decorated for Halloween, but far more uniquely than the plastic skeletons and furry spiders in the other shops. Across the glass, delicate white cursive quoted Shakespeare: “Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble…” The display itself centred on a witch’s cauldron, which George realised was actually skilfully crafted out of dark chocolate. Green goo oozed over the side and orange flames burned underneath, both likely made out of sugar.

To the left was an odd assortment of chocolate creatures: bats, snakes, and what looked like lizards. He recalled the Macbeth reference – the ingredients of the witches’ brew. It also made sense of the little tableaux on the right hand side: trees made of chocolate and sugar, with tiny human-like figures hidden amongst them; the woods advancing on Dunsinane. The artistry and creativity of the display was truly amazing. Now, he wanted to go in as much out of curiosity as to buy something for Joan.

A traditional shop-bell tinkled over his head as he pushed open the door. Inside, the smell was incredible, and his stomach chose that moment to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At that same moment, a woman appeared behind the counter. He was about to say hello but then she smiled at him and he found he couldn’t say anything. She was tall with dark hair and soft features, and her smile took his breath away. The colour of her apron matched the décor outside, and the colour suited her.

“Can I help?” At her raised eyebrows, he realised he was probably staring at her like an idiot. He cleared his throat, gripping his parcel tightly. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

“Oh, er – “ George finally shook some sense into himself. “I want to get a present for someone.”

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

“No! Er, no – I don’t have – That is, it’s for my Aunt. It’s her birthday. Today.”

“Oh, last minute, hmm?” She smiled again, gently teasing and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well, I’ve just moved and – “ Why was he telling her that? “Never mind.”

“Let’s see what we have for her.” She indicated a display of chocolate in a cabinet in front of her and George finally left where he’d been standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I can make you up a selection box of a few different flavours.”

“That sounds nice.” He propped his bag from the art shop up against the counter. “I was just, er, admiring your window display. It’s very original.”

“Oh, thank you.” There was that flooring smile again. “But that’s Morwenna’s work, really. My cousin – and business partner. She’s the real artist, I just make the chocolates.”

“Well, they look lovely, as well.” They really did. The cabinet held an extraordinary variety – milk, dark and white chocolate in many different shapes.

“What does she like? Your Aunt?”

“Er – “ George had never said ‘er’ as many times in his life as he had in these last few minutes. “She likes liquors, and nuts, and dark chocolate.”

“Oh, a woman of taste! I can do her a box of 16, with four different flavours?”

“That would be great, thank you.” She fished in the pocket of her apron, coming out with a pair of glasses. Putting them on only made her more attractive and George had to glance away, pretending to examine a display on the other side of the small shop floor, although he barely actually took it.

“So, where did you move from?”

“Hmm?” He looked back to see her peering intently into the cabinet, considering the selection in front of her.

“You said you moved.”

“Oh, yes. From London. Although, I’m from Cornwall, originally, actually. But, I’ve been working for the family company, and we’ve opened an office here.”

“What sort of work do you do?...Would she like a gin truffle, do you think?”

“Er, yes, she would, and we do investment banking.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting! Dark chocolate salted caramel?”

“Yes, please, and not really. It’s just lots of numbers. I imagine it’s not as interesting as making chocolate.”

“Maybe not.” She flashed him another smile; she really was stunning. “Does she like marzipan?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then what about….pistachio squares and marzipan cherry deluxe?”

“Sounds delicious.” She finished packing the chocolates, neatly folding the lid of the elegantly embossed gold box closed then sealing it with an imitation wax seal bearing what George assumed was the company logo.

“I hope she likes them.”

“I’m sure she will.” After he had paid, she passed him the box, their fingertips touching as he took it. With her leaning forward, he finally got a good look at the name sewn into her apron. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“It was my pleasure.” 

~

About a week later, George found himself loitering on the street outside the entrance to the courtyard, debating whether or not to go in. He did have a legitimate reason to go back to the shop, but still felt like a silly teenager, manufacturing an excuse to see a pretty girl again.

Pretending it was just out of interest, he’d taken the invitation on the little business card clipped to his receipt, which suggested a visit to the shop’s website. He’d learned that they’d been in business just a little over three years, and it was a family company, owned by Elizabeth and the cousin she’d mentioned, Morwenna, as well as a third girl with the same surname, Rowella. He’d heard of the Chynoweth family before; they’d been landowners a few hundred years ago, same as the Warleggans.

From a professional point of view, the business seemed very impressive.  Aside from a small selection of unusual products sourced from around the world, everything they sold was handmade on site, using local ingredients wherever possible. All of their honey and edible flowers were sourced from the big Trenwith estate, which had its own organic farm shop now, according to Joan. They offered special ordering for occasions and even had a small online business, delivering to the local area. From their website, he found their Instagram profile, which included pictures of some of the window displays Elizabeth had credited to her cousin. They really were stunning. According to a post from a few months ago, the shop had won a Cornish Business Award, the three women posing proudly in evening dresses.

Macbeth had disappeared from the window today, replaced by a sugar bonfire and a chocolate Guy, flanked by brightly coloured candy Catherine wheels. At the sound of the bell, Elizabeth looked up from where she was adjusting a display next to the till.

“Oh, hello again! Did your Aunt like her present?” He had to admit to a slight suffusion of pleasure at the fact she remembered him, even though it had only been a few days.

“Yes, she loved them. I actually came back to get her some more of those marzipan cherry things.”

“Oh…” Her face softened, the corners of her lovely mouth turning slightly downward. “I’m afraid we don’t have any. We sold out but one of our suppliers has been having problems, so we don’t have the ingredients to make any more at the minute.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right.”

“Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes, as it happens.” Just then, George realised they weren’t alone. A girl George recognised as Morwenna was talking to two women at the far end of the counter, in front of several copper pots warming on burners, something he somehow had managed not to notice the last time he was here, although they were clearly creating the wonderful smell that had brought him here in the first place. “One of my colleagues is going on maternity leave this week, and I’d like to get her something.”

“How lovely! When is she due?”

“In about six weeks.” Margaret finding out she was pregnant just after she’d agreed to re-locate to join the new office hadn’t been the best timing, but it was hardly her fault. Besides, part of the reason she’d agreed was that her and her husband wanted to get out of the City. Unfortunately, it meant that he and Emma had to take on her clients themselves at the same time as getting the new branch on an even keel. At least until they could find someone to cover her.

“Wonderful! What do you think she would like? Rose and violet creams might be nice for a new mum?”

“I think she would like those, actually. Thank you.”

“How are you settling in? To your new house? And job? If – er – if you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, er. It’s a bit hectic, but it’s going okay. I still haven’t unpacked at the flat, though.” There he went, talking too much at her again. God, it really had been too long since he’d had any kind of normal social interaction with anyone. Let alone a beautiful woman. Her laugh was wonderful. Suddenly, he became aware they were being watched. While they’d been talking, Morwenna had been pouring hot chocolate into paper cups for the other customers, and now she was finished she was looking over at him and her cousin with a quirked eyebrow. She probably saw men making utter fools of themselves in front of Elizabeth every day.

“Here you are. Um – I could, er, I could call you when we get more of those chocolates made, that your Aunt likes. If you’d like to leave your details, that is.”

“Oh, well, er, yes, that would be very good of you. Here.” Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he produced a business card. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She read the card with a hint of a smile. “George.”

~

“There’s a woman on the phone for you.” Emma waylaid George as he returned to the office from a meeting with some potential new clients. “Says she’s from some chocolate company?”

“Oh, put her through.” George tried not to sound too excited, even though he’d felt a little thrill knowing Elizabeth had called him, even if it was only to tell him that she had some chocolates in stock that his Aunt liked. God, he was pathetic.

“George? Hello, it’s Elizabeth Chynoweth here, from Cusgarne. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but we ended up having to find a new supplier. I think the new recipe is just as nice as the old one, but maybe your Aunt can be our official tester!” Even over the phone, her laugh was musical. “I’ve put a box aside for you.”

“Oh, thank you very much. I’m a little busy at work at the moment, but I’ll try to drop in – “

“I was going to say, we’re having a special evening at the beginning of next week – the 2nd -  for the Christmas light switch on. When they do the late night shopping, you know? Well, I suppose you don’t – Anyway, would you like to come? We’re open until 8.”  

“Oh, that would be nice. I’ll – I’ll see you then.”

George spent the next week in a state of eager anticipation, as if he were going out on a date, instead of dropping into a Christmas sale at a chocolate shop. He even found himself considering what he should wear, looking at his wardrobe on the morning of the 2nd and trying to decide which was his nicest suit. Crossly, he told himself not to be so pathetic, but still pulled out a dark blue one which Margaret had once told him complemented his eyes. 

The shop was busy when he arrived just before half past 6, people milling about with glasses in their hands, some already carrying bags emblazoned with the shop’s logo. Clearly, the event was doing well for them. Christmas music was playing quietly and thankfully unobtrusively in the background, and the usual delicious aroma was even more so, layered with other flavours George couldn’t place.

“George! You came!” Elizabeth slipped between two chatting couples. Tonight, her apron was worn over simple black dress, which made her look even more stunning. Her smile was wide and welcoming and she seemed almost excited to see him. Considering the obvious success of the evening, she couldn’t be that keen to get one sale, could she? “Would you like a drink?”

“Er…”

“There’s mulled wine, or not mulled wine, or – “

“Or a chocolate martini. Here.” George took the glass, because it was presented to him so firmly he didn’t feel like he could refuse. He recognised the young woman who handed it to him as the third partner in the business, Rowella Chynoweth. Unlike Morwenna, who resembled Elizabeth quite strongly, she was more petite, with fair hair, but she was still unmistakably a Chynoweth. “I may not know much about chocolate, but I do know how to make a killer martini.”

Killer was right. It was very tasty, but also incredibly strong. One sip and George had to blink several times to feel like he could see straight again. Then again, he hadn’t had more than a single glass of wine to be polite at business dinners in he didn’t know how long.

“Rowella helps out in the shop sometimes, but she mostly deals with the business side of things for us.” Elizabeth explained, giving her cousin a look George was unable to interpret.

“I’m the brains, and they’re the beauty.” Rowella grinned. “So, you’re the famous George.”

“Er – “ He doubted that, somehow.

“Rowella – “ Before Elizabeth could say anymore, she was interrupted by a cry from across the room.

“George?! George Warleggan, is that you?” A petite brunette politely elbowed her way through the crowd towards him. It took a couple of moments to place her, although he didn’t know if that was because he hadn’t seen her in years or the effects of the martini.

“Verity? Wow!” George had gone to school with Verity’s brother Francis Poldark a long time ago, but they’d mostly lost touch after going off to university. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you! And you? I saw the new office, but I didn’t know you’d come with it!”

“Well, I have.” Wanting to get the conversation away from himself – especially as Rowella was still looking at him speculatively – George looked between Verity and Elizabeth. “Do you two know each other?”

“Verity’s one of our suppliers – Trenwith Organics.”

“Oh, of course!” He had forgotten that the estate belonged to the Poldarks. When they’d been at school, Francis’ father had been having some financial troubles with it, troubles which it seemed his children had managed to solve. “You’ve got the big farm shop now, haven’t you? I saw the signs for it when I drove down. How’s that doing?”

“Oh, great!” This thankfully led into a business related discussion, a topic George was much more comfortable with. It turned out the Poldarks were looking to expand their business even further by opening a full restaurant at the farm shop, and George was able to refer Verity to some financial people in that line. “You know, the Cusgarne range is one of our best-sellers in the shop. We can’t replace the stock fast enough!”

“Oh, well, you know – “ Elizabeth looked charmingly embarrassed at Verity’s praise, a wonderful soft pink blush creeping over her cheeks.

“And Morwenna made us a chocolate Trenwith for our birthday celebrations! It was amazing! She’s a true artist.”

“She is.” George couldn’t argue there. Tonight’s window was back to Shakespeare again – a Winter’s Tale complete with intricately painted chocolate bear.

This led onto talk of Cusgarne’s own expansion plans, Rowella explaining that they hoped to increase their online business, as well create some new product lines.

“Once we can afford the R&D, of course. I’ve made a contact with a local distillery, and we’d love to make a chocolate gin with them. We’ve done some small test batches, but we really need to put some more substantial time into it, which we just don’t have at the moment. We’ve been focusing on the beauty side.”

“Beauty?” George wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly.

“Yes. Verity’s sister-in-law, Demelza, she makes her own line of soaps and hand creams and things.” It took him a moment to process the news that Francis had managed to get himself married. “She uses ingredients from the Trenwith estate, usually, but her and Elizabeth came up with the idea to do some cacao-flavoured products. We’re just testing the waters with them at the moment, but – Hang on.” Rowella hurried away to the other side of the room, Elizabeth watching her go with a smile.

“I’m sorry, she’s very enthusiastic.”

“That’s okay. It’s very impressive, actually. I meet a lot of business people, and not many have the kind of focus and vision you all seem to.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say.” There was that blush again, and George feared a far less attractive version might be appearing on his own face.

“While she’s off, let me get you those chocolates for your Aunt, and I want to ask your opinion on a new recipe.” Verity excused herself to talk to someone else, and George followed Elizabeth over to the counter, on which sat several little platters of different chocolates, over which was a beautifully handwritten sign saying ‘Eat me’. Evidently Shakespeare wasn’t Morwenna’s only literary inspiration. “These are my new Christmas flavours.”

He saw White Chocolate Coconut Snowball, Christmas Pudding Truffle, and Milk Chocolate & Roast Chestnut, but Elizabeth picked up the tray marked Mulled Wine Truffle.

“I’m not completely certain about this one, so I’m canvassing for opinions tonight. Would you try one for me?” George shifted his now empty martini glass to the other hand so he could pick up a chocolate but, to his surprise, Elizabeth lifted one and held it out to him, close enough to his mouth to make her intention clear. Imagining she could probably hear his heart pounding, George leant forward and took the sweet, his lips just touching her fingertips. Since she wanted his opinion on the flavour, he tried to focus on that rather than the way his blood was doing its level best to rush away from his head. “What do you think?”

“I think – “ He coughed slightly. “I think that Morwenna isn’t the only artist in your family.”

“Oh, my – “ Just then, Rowella appeared again, brandishing a tube of cacao & burnt orange hand cream, which she insisted George try.

Later that night, the charming scent still on his hands and boxes of chocolates on the coffee table, George sat down at his laptop and pulled up a search engine. He needed to do some research. 

~

Christmas shopping was his next excuse to visit the shop, which was almost as busy as it had been on their party night. Clearly it was a popular place to buy gifts, and the wintery weather which had settled over Cornwall made their hot chocolates especially appealing. Morwenna poured him an orange flavoured one, having failed to persuade him to accept a shot of brandy in it instead.

“I have to go back to work after this.”

“I’m at work,” she replied, adding a measure of Irish cream to the cup she had behind the counter. He assumed she didn’t drink on the job when she was doing her windows – today was a chocolate Santa’s sleigh filled with brightly-coloured sugar gifts, soaring over a white chocolate and powdered sugar snow scene.  

“Yes, but you’re the boss.”

“So are you.” This was an excellent point, but he was saved from having to refute it by Elizabeth appearing with a welcoming smile. She was more than happy to help him pick out his gifts, most of which were either corporate ones, or for his employees. Cary got a bottle of whisky every year, and besides him there was only Joan to buy for on the personal side.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Elizabeth asked as she made up a box of their different flavoured chocolate squares for a private trust the firm handled investments for.

“Oh, er, not much. Dinner with my Aunt here, but back to London for the day itself.” He’d probably end up working. Cary wasn’t the festive type, but for some reason he got grumpy if George didn’t come home for Christmas, despite the fact he usually spent most of the day drinking in his study. “Although I’m actually going to be there for a while.”

“Oh. Really? How long?” She made an odd expression as she closed and sealed the box, placing it with the others.

“Maybe a month. Just some things that need finished off back there.” With Margaret still off, Emma had been displeased to find George was going away for a month, as well. They had maternity cover for Margaret now, as well as support staff in place and a graduate trainee, so he was entirely confident Emma could manage.

“Oh, well. You won’t be away too long, then.”

“No.”

“Shall I gift wrap all of these for you?”

“Oh, I don’t know – “ He glanced at his watch, and then back at the door as two new customers jangled their way in. “I’ve got to get back, and you’re getting busy.”

“I’ll do them this afternoon. You can come back and collect them later.”

“Oh, thank you.” He paused. “Er – When I come back – from London, that is, there’s something I’d like to talk about, with you.”

“Oh?”

“About your business.”

“Oh.” Was it just him, or did she sound slightly disappointed? “Well, I look forward to that. I’ll see you later.”

It was oddly dismissive, and George spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if he’d offended her somehow. Maybe she didn’t want some corporate type interfering in her family business? He hadn’t considered that. How arrogant of him. Perhaps he should apologise to her. However, when he got back to the shop later on, he found Morwenna alone. Apparently, Elizabeth had gone out to see a supplier. George did his best to hide his disappointment.

“But she did leave you all these.” She handed him a pile of beautifully wrapped boxes, before placing a final one on the top which he didn’t recognise.

“Oh, that’s not.”

“It’s on the house, for being such a good customer.” She winked at him, and he wondered how many of those ‘special’ hot chocolates she’d had.

At home, he opened the package, finding inside a selection of poinsettia shaped chocolates flavoured with caramel, and a little note in soft, flowing hand which he knew instinctively was Elizabeth’s.

Merry Christmas. Good luck in London, and make sure to come and see us when you get back.

Underneath that was a phone number. 

~

It ended up being closer to six weeks in London, and they were the longest of George’s life. He spent several days debating whether to call Elizabeth – she had given him her number after all. But why had she? Just because he’d said he wanted to talk business? He wanted to do that face-to-face. In the end, a few days after the New Year, Elizabeth settled it for him.

Hi. Hope you had a good new year. Your aunt came in for some more marzipan cherry. She’s found some new flavours she likes, too! :D

This led into them texting occasionally throughout his stay, George feeling a little blip of excitement every time his phone trilled a text alert, and then immediately scolding himself for acting like a love-struck teenager. A little while after the first message, he received an email from his aunt, mostly just her usual general chat, but with a small PS tacked onto the bottom:

You never told me that Elizabeth girl from the chocolate shop was so lovely – although I suppose I should have guessed by how much you were talking about her. Although, I’m sure she only keeps inviting me back so she can talk to me about you.

That couldn’t be true, could it? Surely Elizabeth just liked Joan – he could see why they would get on well. From Elizabeth’s messages, Joan had quickly become something of a regular at the shop. George imagined she would appreciate Morwenna’s ‘enhanced’ hot chocolates.

Meanwhile, in his spare moments , he worked on the proposal he wanted to make to Elizabeth – the business proposal. He was going to offer to secure investment in the business: to fund their research & development, maybe expansion to larger premises if they wanted, to take on extra staff so Rowella could devote herself full time to the management – and so they could increase production. George generally didn’t deal with a lot of small businesses, but the model wasn’t actually that different to larger companies in some ways. He did know about the failure rate of small businesses, especially food related ones, and they’d already beaten the odds on that.

He kept telling himself he was doing this solely because he was impressed with their work – and he was – but would he really be offering to find funding for some other nicely run little shop he might have accidentally wandered into, one where a beautiful woman hadn’t stepped out behind the counter and floored him with a single smile?

Well, it didn’t matter what his underlying motives were, he honestly did think the Cusgarne Chocolate Company deserved a boost, and a boost was really all they needed. He’d have to have a proper look at their accounts, but considering their current expansion plans they seemed to be operating on a steady financial basis.

A few days before he was due to arrive back in Cornwall, George sent Elizabeth a message:

Hi Elizabeth. I’m going to be back in Truro next week, and I was wondering if we could meet up? I’d like to discuss that business matter with you. If you’re interested, that is.

Every second until she replied felt like an age.

I’d love to. Friday, okay? You can drop by shop after closing. Any time after 6.

~

He gave the window a quick look – a sort of sculpture that looked like a mineral, painted purple. It was very pretty, and executed with Morwenna’s usual skill, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

The door was locked, and there was no sign of anyone inside, although the lights were still on. Perhaps they’d forgotten? Or maybe they were running late. He’d assumed Elizabeth would bring in her cousins – his aunt had managed to clarify the exact relationship between the three women, George not having liked to ask – since they were her co-owners in the business, and Rowella was the manager.

At his knock, Elizabeth hurried out from the back and came to let him in. Although it was not as strong as during opening hours, the warm scent of chocolate still lingered. It was such a comforting aroma, and George hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it while he’d been away. He knew how much he’d missed Elizabeth’s smile, however.

“Come in! It’s freezing out there.”

“It is.” He followed her through into the back. The kitchen was, as he’d suspected, rather compact; these old buildings usually didn’t have much space. It was actually impressive that they produced so much here. To his left, he saw a tiny office with a safe. Rowella’s domain, presumably. She was not there now, though. In fact, she wasn’t in evidence at all, and neither was Morwenna. “Are the others on their way?”

“Oh, they’re not coming.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say to that. Was Elizabeth just here to let him down gently? It was kind of her, but she could have just told him they weren’t interested in whatever he had to say. He attempted to counteract his slight disappointment with a moment of levity. “I was hoping to ask Morwenna what her window is!”

“Oh, it’s amethyst. February birthstone.”

“Oh. Well, it’s very pretty.”

“Yes. I don’t know how she comes up with them all. She’s being very secretive about her Valentine’s Day one.” There was a slightly awkward pause as they stood facing each other next to a spotlessly clean metal bench. George decided to make one last ditch attempt at persuading her.

“Look, about my proposition – proposal.” Quickly – and far more nervously than he’d ever spoken even when addressing a conference hall full of hard-nosed hedge fund managers – he outlined what he wanted them to consider, and the potential for their business it could bring. “You could increase your beauty line, or even move into other foodstuffs, different merchandise, maybe even a recipe book…But, maybe you don’t want some bloke you hardly know interfering in your business and you’ve just kindly let me waste your time.”

“No!” Elizabeth had been listening in what seemed to him to be politely tolerant silence, but suddenly she became a lot more animated. “No, I’m – we’re – immensely grateful for your offer, and I know Morwenna and Rowella want me to snatch your hand off.”

“You’ve discussed it with them already?”

“Well, after you put Verity onto those restaurant venture people, I guessed what you might be going to offer us when you said you had something…and your Aunt tipped us off a bit.” George bit back a sigh. He loved Aunt Joan, but sometimes she could be as frustrating as Uncle Cary. By all rights, they should get along better, considering how much they loved to interfere in his life.

“But you have reservations?”

“Yes…” She stepped back slightly, glancing down as she trailed her hand over the surface of the bench. “Not because I don’t think it’s a wonderful plan, and not because I don’t think it’s incredibly kind of you to offer, but because – Well, you know what they say about mixing business with pleasure.”

“Wh – what?” George had to put his slightly rude response down to complete confusion at what she’d said. Having gone to the back of the room, Elizabeth returned with one of the shop’s golden boxes in her hands; a long, thin one. Standing in front of him again, she bit her lip – a gesture George struggled to tear his eyes away from – and flipped open the lid. Spelled out with individual letters on two rows of chocolates was a message: Be My Valentine.

“I mean – I don’t know how much more obvious I can be. The first day you walked in the shop, I asked if you were married; the next time, I asked for your number. Then, I invited you to a party, and gave you a present, and my number. I did my best to impress your Aunt, and I texted you for weeks, and now I’ve invited you here to see me, alone, at night and….Oh. You were expecting the girls to be here as well, weren’t you?” She pressed the box shut, suddenly looking distraught. “You’ve just been being polite this whole time, haven’t you? And now I’ve gone and made a complete fool of myself and I’m sure you’ll never want to give us the investment now – “

George leant forward and stopped up her tirade with a kiss, not caring that he crushed the box of chocolates between them. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before wrapping her free hand around his neck and kissing him back. When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.

“What you said before – about business and pleasure – “

“Oh,” Elizabeth shook her head. “Whoever said that was an idiot. Besides, no matter how much I fancy you, Rowella would kill me if I turned you down. And Morwenna would help.”

Before he could reply, she threw the now hopelessly squashed box aside and wrapped both her arms around his neck, kissing him again.

She tasted like chocolate.  

[victorianwhitechapel]

Elizabeth “Long Liz” Stride

[Previous post]

Last days and murder

The night from Thursday, September 27 to Friday, September 28, Elizabeth Stride continued to lodge at 32 Flower and Dean Street, Whitechapel. On Saturday 29th Elizabeth spent the afternoon cleaning two rooms at the lodging house and for her services she was paid 6d by the lodging house deputy Elizabeth Tanner. Liz asked fellow lodger, barber Charles Preston to borrow his clothes brush but he had mislaid it. At 6:30 pm Tanner saw Liz again at the Queen’s Head Public House at 74 Commercial Street. They drank together and then walked back to the lodging house. 

Around 7:00-8:00pm Liz was seen leaving the lodging house by fellow lodger Catherine Lane. She gave Lane a large piece of green velvet and asked her to hold it for her until she returned. Liz then left passing by Thomas Bates, watchman at the lodging house who said she looked quite cheerful. Lane would later state that “I know the deceased had 6d when she left, she showed it to me, stating that the deputy had given it to her.” The weather that evening was showery and windy.

Liz was wearing a black jacket and skirt, with a posy of a red rose in a spray of maidenhair fern or asparagus leaves. Her outfit was complemented by a black crêpe bonnet. 

At 11:00pm two labourers, J. Best and John Gardner were going into the Bricklayer’s Arms Public House on Settles street, north of Commercial Road and almost opposite Berner Street (since renamed Henriques Street). As they went in Liz was leaving with a short man with a dark moustache and sandy eyelashes. The man was wearing a billycock hat, mourning suit and coat. Best said “They had been served in the public house and went out when me and my friends came in. It was raining very fast and they did not appear willing to go out. He was hugging and kissing her, and as he seemed a respectably dressed man, we were rather astonished at the way he was going on at the woman.” Liz and the man stood in the doorway for some time hugging and kissing. The workmen tried to get the man to come in for a drink but he refused. They then called to Liz. “That's Leather Apron getting ‘round you.” The man and Liz moved off towards Commercial Road and Berner Street. “He and the woman went off like a shot soon after eleven.”

At 11:45pm William Marshall, a laborer, saw her on Berner Street. He was standing in the doorway of 64 Berner Street on the west side of the street between Fairclough and Boyd Streets. He noticed her talking to a man in a short black cutaway coat and sailor’s hat outside number 63. They were kissing and carrying on. He heard the man say “You would say anything but your prayers.” A quarter later, at 12:00am, Matthew Packer claimed to have sold Liz and a man grapes.

It was 12:35am when Police Constable William Smith saw Liz and a young man on Berner Street opposite the International Working Men’s Educational Club. The man was described as 28 years old, dark coat and hard deerstalker hat. He was carrying a parcel approximately 6 inches high and 18 inches (45cm) in length and the package was wrapped in newspaper. Between 12:30 and 12:50 a.m., departing club members, who had attended a debate on “The Necessity of Socialism amongst Jews” followed by community singing, had seen nothing amiss in the yard. Mrs. Mortimer, who lived two doors away from the club, had stood in Berner Street to listen to the singing at about the same time, and had not seen anyone enter the yard. Mortimer did report seeing a man with a shiny black bag race past, which was reported widely in the press, but one of the club’s members, Leon Goldstein, identified himself as the man Mortimer had seen and he was eliminated from the inquiry.

Approximately at 12:45am, and quoting Home Office File: “Israel Schwartz of 22 Helen Street, Backchurch Lane, stated that at this hour, turning into Berner Street from Commercial Road, and having gotten as far as the gateway where the murder was committed, he saw a man stop and speak to a woman, who was standing in the gateway. He tried to pull the woman into the street, but he turned her round and threw her down on the footway and the woman screamed three times, but not very loudly. On crossing to the opposite side of the street, he saw a second man lighting his pipe. The man who threw the woman down called out, apparently to the man on the opposite side of the road, “Lipski”, and then Schwartz walked away, but finding that he was followed by the second man, he ran as far as the railway arch, but the man did not follow so far.

Schwartz cannot say whether the two men were together or known to each other. Upon being taken to the mortuary Schwartz identified the body as that of the woman he had seen.“

Later in the deposition:

”It will be observed that allowing for differences of opinion between PC Smith and Schwartz as to the apparent age and height of the man each saw with the woman whose body they both identified, there are serious differences in the description of the dress…so at least it is rendered doubtful that they are describing the same man.

If Schwartz is to be believed, and the police report of his statement casts no doubt upon it, it follows that if they are describing different men that the man Schwartz saw is the more probable of the two to be the murderer…“

Schwartz described the man as about 30 years old, 5’ 5” tall with a fresh complexion, dark hair and small brown moustache. He was dressed in an overcoat and an old black felt hat with a wide brim.

At the same time (ca. 12:45am), James Brown said he saw Liz (or someone else matching her description) with a man as he was going home with his supper down Fairclough Street. She was leaning against the wall talking to a stoutish man about 5’ 7” tall in a long black coat that reached to his heels. He has his arm against the wall and she was saying “No, not tonight, some other night.” A note in the margin of the Home Office files on the case points out that there was time for Stride to meet another man between the latest sightings of her and her murder.

Discovery

Elizabeth's body was discovered close to 1 a.m. on Sunday 30 September 1888 by Louis Diemschutz, a salesman of jewellery, entered Dutfield’s Yard driving his cart and pony. Immediately at the entrance, his pony shied and refused to proceed – Diemschutz suspected something was in the way but could not see since the yard was utterly pitch black. He probed forward with his whip and came into contact with a body, whom he initially believed to be either drunk or asleep. He entered the International Working Men’s Educational Club to get some help in rousing the woman, and upon returning to the yard with Isaac Kozebrodsky and Morris Eagle, the three discovered that she had been murdered, her throat cut. It was believed that Diemschutz’s arrival frightened the killer, causing him to flee before he performed the mutilations. Diemschutz himself stated that he believed the murderer was still in the yard when he had entered, due to the warm temperature of the body and the continuingly odd behaviour of his pony.

Dr. Frederick Blackwell of 100 Commercial Road was called; he arrived at 1.16am and pronounced Elizabeth dead at the scene. She was found clutching a packet of Cachous pills in her hand. Cachous was a pill used by smokers to sweeten their breath. Shortly after, Dr George Bagster Phillips, who had handled the case of a previous Whitechapel murder victim Annie Chapman and would also handle the later Mary Jane Kelly case, arrived. 

At the time of her murder she was 45 years old. She had a pale complexion, light grey eyes and had curly dark brown hair. All the teeth in her lower left jaw were missing and she stood five foot five inches tall.

Catherine Eddowes was murdered within walking distance less than an hour later (between 1:35 and 1:45 am), both had lived in Flower and Dean Street. Their murders sent London into a panic, as it was the first time that two murders ascribed to the Whitechapel murderer had occurred in one night (known as ”The Double Event”).

The police searched the remaining members of the club, and the adjacent properties, and interviewed the residents of the area. 

No money was found on Elizabeth's body, so it is possible that her night's takings were stolen from her, either in the attack seen by Schwartz, or by her murderer. Either way she seems to have gone into the yard with her murderer alive, presumably on the basis that he was a client.

Phillips's official documents pertaining to his examination of the decedent, the crime scene, and subsequent post-mortem state:

"The body was lying on the near side, with the face turned toward the wall, the head up the yard and the feet toward the street. The left arm was extended and there was a packet of cachous in the left hand. ... The right arm was over the belly; the back of the hand and wrist had on it clotted blood. The legs were drawn up with the feet close to the wall. The body and face were warm and the hand cold. The legs were quite warm. The deceased had a silk handkerchief round her neck, and it appeared to be slightly torn. I have since ascertained it was cut. This corresponded with the right angle of the jaw. The throat was deeply gashed, and there was an abrasion of the skin about one and a quarter inches in diameter, apparently stained with blood, under her right brow. At 3 p.m. on Monday [October 1] at St. George-in-the-East Mortuary, Dr Blackwell and I made a post-mortem examination. Rigor mortis was still thoroughly marked. There was mud on the left side of the face and it was matted in the head. ... The body was fairly nourished. Over both shoulders, especially the right, and under the collarbone and in front of the chest there was a blueish discolouration, which I have watched and have seen on two occasions since. There was a clear-cut incision on the neck. It was six inches in length and commenced two and a half inches in a straight line below the angle of the jaw, three quarters of an inch over an undivided muscle, and then, becoming deeper, dividing the sheath. The cut was very clean and deviated a little downwards. The arteries and other vessels contained in the sheath were all cut through. The cut through the tissues on the right side was more superficial, and tailed off to about two inches below the right angle of the jaw. The deep vessels on that side were uninjured. From this it was evident that the haemorrhage was caused through the partial severance of the left carotid artery and a small bladed knife could have been used. Decomposition had commenced in the skin. Dark brown spots were on the anterior surface of the left chin. There was a deformity in the bones of the right leg, which was not straight, but bowed forwards. There was no recent external injury save to the neck. The body being washed more thoroughly, I could see some healing sores. The lobe of the left ear was torn as if from the removal or wearing through of an earring, but it was thoroughly healed. On removing the scalp there was no sign of bruising or extravasation of blood. ... The heart was small, the left ventricle firmly contracted, and the right slightly so. There was no clot in the pulmonary artery, but the right ventricle was full of dark clot. The left was firmly contracted as to be absolutely empty. The stomach was large and the mucous membrane only congested. It contained partly digested food, apparently consisting of cheese, potato, and farinaceous powder [flour or milled grain]. All the teeth on the lower left jaw were absent."

Blackwell opined his belief that Stride's murderer may have pulled her backwards on to the ground by her neckerchief (the bow of which was observed to be markedly tight) before cutting her throat. Phillips concurred with this opinion, stating that Stride had most likely been lying supine upon the ground when she was killed by a single, swift slash wound inflicted left to right across her neck, strongly indicating her murderer had been right-handed. Bruising on her chest also supports the forensic deduction that Stride's torso had been pinned to the ground prior to the wound to her neck being inflicted by her assailant.

That morning Mrs Mary Malcolm, believing the Berner St victim to be her sister, Mrs Elizabeth Watts, also nicknamed “Long Liz”, went to the mortuary. She was unable to identify the body. That evening: Schwartz voluntarily gave a statement at Leman Street Police Station. He was then taken to the mortuary. He identified Elizabeth’s body as that of the woman he had seen.

On 1 October, Michael Kidney had walked drunk into Leman Street police station and decried police incompetence. If he were the policeman on duty in Berner Street that night, he had said, he would have shot himself. The following year he appears in the records of Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary three times: for syphilis in June, lumbago in August and dyspepsia in October. Kidney had come under suspicion for the murder, because of their turbulent relationship, and there is no record of his alibi. Police, however, appear to have eliminated him from the inquiry, and his decline in health and distress at the police station indicate that he took her passing badly.

The day after the murder, a citizen mob formed outside of Berner Street protesting the continuation of the murders and the seemingly slipshod work of the police to catch the killer. From here on in, the murderer is public enemy number one, and Home Office begins to consider offering awards for his capture and arrest.

Inquest

The inquest was opened on 1 October, at the Vestry Hall, Cable Street, St George's in the East, by the Middlesex coroner, Wynne Edwin Baxter.  On viewing the body, Dr. Barnardo recognized Liz instantly as one of the women in the kitchen of 32 Flower and Dean Street lodging house. Priest Johannes Palmér wrote a letter written to the clerk Sven Olsson, asking him to go down to the mortuary at St George-in-the-East to view the body and give information to the police. Palmér was frequently in contact with Dr Barnardo, discussing the situation of poor and sick people in the East End. Marshall also identified Elizabeth’s body as that of the woman he had seen.  

The following day conflicting testimony as to Stride's identity was heard. The police seemed certain that Stride was the Swede Elisabeth Gustafsdotter, but Mrs Mary Malcolm swore the body was that of her sister, Elizabeth Watts. Over the course of the inquest, other witnesses identified the dead woman as Elizabeth Stride, including the clerk of the Swedish Church in Prince's Square, Sven Olsson. Malcolm's story was only finally dismissed on 24 October when Elizabeth Watts disproved her sister's story by appearing personally at the inquest as living proof that she was not dead and PC Walter Stride (Stride's nephew-by-marriage) confirmed her identity.

Coroner Baxter believed that Stride had been attacked with a swift, sudden action. The murderer could have taken advantage of a checked scarf she was wearing to grab her from behind before slitting her throat, as was suggested by Blackwell. Baxter, however, thought the absence of a shout for assistance and the lack of obvious marks of a struggle indicated that she lay down willingly. She was still holding a packet of cachous (breath freshening sweets) in her left hand when she was discovered, indicating that she had not had time to defend herself. A grocer, Matthew Packer, implied to two private detectives employed by the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, Le Grand and Batchelor, that he had sold some grapes to Stride and the murderer; however, he had told police sergeant Stephen White that he had shut his shop without seeing anything suspicious. At the inquest, the pathologists stated emphatically that Elizabeth had not held, swallowed or consumed grapes. They described her stomach contents as "cheese, potatoes and farinaceous powder". Nevertheless, Packer's story appeared in the press, and private detectives did discover a grape stalk in the yard. When re-interviewed by the police, Packer described the man as aged between 25 and 30, slightly taller than her and wearing a soft felt hat, but he had told the private detectives that the man was middle-aged and heavy set. Neither of his descriptions matched the statements by other witnesses who may have seen her with men shortly before her murder, but all the descriptions differed.

Further doubt is cast on the story by the character of Le Grand, also known as Charles Grand, Charles Grandy, Charles Grant, Christian Neilson, and Christian Nelson, one of the men hired by the Vigilance Committee to investigate the crimes. He had an extensive criminal record, which included assault on a prostitute and conviction for theft. In 1889, he was convicted of conspiracy to defraud and served two years’ imprisonment. After his release, he was arrested in possession of a revolver and charged with demanding money with menace, a crime for which he was sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment. The overall commander of the Whitechapel murders investigation, Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, noted “any statement [made by Packer] would be rendered almost valueless as evidence”.

Israel Schwartz did not testify at the inquest on Stride, possibly because he was Hungarian and spoke very little if any English.

Funeral & aftermath

Elizabeth Stride was buried on Saturday 6 October 1888 in the East London Cemetery Plaistow, London, in grave #15509, square 37. The sparse funeral was provided at the expense of the parish by the undertaker, Mr Hawkes.

On 19 October, Chief Inspector Swanson wrote a report detailing that 80,000 leaflets requesting information had been distributed to the neighbourhood and 2000 lodgers had been examined, among other lines of inquiry.

Elizabeth’s brother, Carl Bernhard, died in 1908 and is buried together with his wife, Olena, b. 1837, who died in 1917. Elizabeth’s sister Anna Cristin died in 1916. Her grave, a pauper’s gave, no longer exists. Neither does that of Bernhard Olsson, Elizabeth’s brother in law, who died in 1907/1908. (He was buried 3rd Jan 1908.)

Stefan Rantzow, Swedish musician and historian, visited St George’s in 2008 with descendants of Elizabeth Stride. Articles about their visit appeared in the Swedish press. On July 2015 he arranged a meeting with the Jacobson brothers and Sally and John Edmonds – Sally is related to John Stride. Joined by local historians and representatives of the newspaper Torslanda Tidningen, they visited sites in Gothenburg, starting at the church where Elizabeth was baptized (and her parents Gustaf Ericsson and Beata Carlsdotter were buried: their graves are gone, but the grave of the priest who baptized her, Carl Gustaf Schoug, is still there). They visited the house nearby in Stora Tumlehed where she was born – currently vacant but they had access to the keys – and then the suburbs of Gothenburg where she worked before leaving to London.

Photos from: Escrito en Sangre blogspot, Crimenes de Whitechapel blogspot, Fanpop, Jack the Ripper Walk, Casebook, Retrocards, WhitechapelJack & Wikipedia

***

To know more:

Casebook website - Casebook wiki - Casebook timeline - Casebook message boards - Casebook Forums

Wikipedia

Find a Grave

JTR Forums

Elisabeth Gustafsdotters' last Stride - Casebook

Jack the Ripper map

The Jack the ripper tour (.co.uk)

Jack the Ripper 1888 - The final Sighting - The murder of Elizabeth Stride

Elizabeth Stride - ripper vision

Ripper Tour

The Jack the Ripper tour (.com)

Whitechapel Society

Whitechapel Jack - Whitechapel Jack (Double Event)

Jack Ripper

Jack the Ripper time Blogspot

All things Crime Blog

Saucy Jacky

Kent Online

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