#violet montrose

[corallapis]

Henry ‘Chips’ Channon: The Diaries (Vol. 1), 1918-38, entry for 21st September 1923

—

Friday 21st September

Duntreath Castle¹

We motor eighty miles every day to Ayr races, usually in a downpour of rain. Ayr is my favourite meeting, it is so detached and different from the others. Oddly enough it is fashionable especially when the Scottish Derby is run. The members of the Caledonian Club appear in pink coats and top hats, Lord Bute² has a private tent and Lord Lonsdale's³ party arrive in yellow phaetons with outriders. Today⁴ we went to Buchanan⁵ to the Montroses'⁶ for tea. [It is] a glorious position for a castle with a wonderful view of Loch Lomond. The castle itself has been rebuilt recently with the old stone. The exterior has a look of Glamis,⁷ but the interior is frankly barbarously Victorian with paper lampshades. The Duchess is stately and very beautiful, though easily 65.⁸ She was a Graham and is an old friend . . . will she be my aunt I wonder? There were several masculine-looking daughters about, including the one married to the Cameron of Lochiel,⁹ with a flock of perfect children all in kilts and safety pins. The Duke showed us relics of the Great Montrose¹⁰ . . . but conversation was difficult, only grouse and the weather being mentioned.

—

At Blanefield in Stirlingshire, seat of the Edmonstone family.

John Crichton-Stuart (1881-1947), by courtesy Earl of Dumfries until 1900, when he succeeded his father as the 4th Marquess of Bute.

Hugh Cecil Lowther (1857-1944) succeeded his brother as the 5th Earl of Lonsdale in 1882, and squandered the family fortune. He was known as 'the Yellow Earl' because of his fondness for the colour. He was the first President of the Automobile Association, which adopted the colour for its livery.

Presumably Saturday 22nd September.

Buchanan Castle, near Drymen in Stirlingshire.

Douglas Beresford Malise Ronald Graham (1852-1925), by courtesy Marquess of Graham until 1874, when he succeeded his father as 5th Duke of Montrose. He married in 1876 Violet Hermione Graham (1854-1940).

Glamis Castle, in Angus, Scotland, seat of the Earl of Strathmore and Kinghorne.

She was 69.

Colonel Walter Cameron of Lochiel (1876-1951), 25th Chief of Clan Cameron, had married Lady Hermione Emily Graham (1882-1978) in 1906.

James Graham (1612-50), 1st Marquess of Montrose, was a hero of the Royalist side in Scotland during the Civil War. He was hanged and his head placed on a stake in Edinburgh, but he was rehabilitated after the Restoration.

[queenalexandraofdenmark]

Portrait of Violet Graham, Duchess of Montrose, by Philip de László, 1912.

[leifgrandeduchesse]

The choice of the American Consuelo [Duchess of Marlborough] and three other tall duchesses [Winifred Cavendish-Bentinck, Duchess of Portland; Millicent Leveson-Gower, Duchess of Sutherland & Violet Graham, Duchess of Montrose] was orchestrated by Alexandra for effect rather than tradition, as the biographer Tisdall related:

Four of these ladies who were to stand by her throne in the Abbey and 'arrange' her crown, she was going to pick for herself. She was not interested in dusty claims or precedents and was sorry to cause disappointment if somebody had already selected them for her. She would have four Duchesses. The really important thing was that they should all be tall like herself. They must all be beautiful and they must have a certain similarity of appearance. She was not going to have the effect spoiled by some lady who did not match the rest (Tisdall 1953: 201).

According to Edward himself, it was successful, and he wrote that the synchronization of these ladies as they placed their coronets upon their heads when Alix was crowned was 'like a scene from a beautiful ballet' (Fisher 1974: 169).

Source: Inside the Royal Wardrobe, a Dress history of Queen Alexandra by Kate Strasdin

[newtonsheffield]

I want ABC to see Colin Firth with Violet. They thinks he's a little old for Eloise or Francesca.

Lady Danbury Gently (gently for her) suggests that he is not interested in Violets daughters.

The truth slowly dawns on the Bridgertons sons. He is interested in their mama.

What do they do next?

No but just imagine Anthony with his arm in Kate’s, Benedict and Colin nearby laughing at Anthony as he scoffs at every man who approaches his sisters.

“Eloise has seen to Montrose herself. Perhaps I should give her a little extra pin money this month.”

“You know Kate,” Benedict said lazily, “No one would blame you if you saw this and decided to run away.”

Kate rolled her eyes, “If he wasn’t so handsome I might be tempted.”

Anthony grinned smugly as he surveyed the room and his eyes fell on his mother. A middle aged man was stood with her, in rapt conversation. Anthony frowned as the man walked away and his mother looked almost… flushed.

“What on earth is mother thinking, entertaining Dartmouth like that? He’s far too old for either of the girls

A chuckle rose behind them and Lady Danbury sighed, “Whoever said he was interested in your sisters?”

Anthony frowned at her, realization dawning on him, and then Benedict. Anthony took a shuddering breath before he kissed his wife’s cheek.

“I have to go.”

“Anthony, don’t-“

“Dartmouth!”

“If you challenge him,” Kate called out after her husband, stalking across the room like an angry peacock, flanked by his brothers, “Try and sub me in. Or Simon, we’re just better shots than you, Darling!”

“Shouldn’t you stop him?” Lady Danbury asked a little curiously but Kate only shrugged.

“Oh he’ll tire himself out soon enough.”

[the-busy-ghost]

Sometimes she would go out alone and walk through the wet fields towards the river- for the higher reaches of the Lour were almost within sight of the windows at Fullarton- and look at its waters rolling seaward past that bit of country which had held so much for her. She loved it the more fiercely for the thought that she must soon turn her back on it. Once, a skein of wild geese passed over her head on their flight to the tidal marshes beyond Kaims, and the far-away scream in the air held her spellbound. High up, pushing their way to the sea, their necks outstretched as though drawn by a magnet to their goal, they held on their course; and their cry rang with the voice of the north- the voice of the soul of the coast.

"The Interloper" by Violet Jacob

Everything I have read by Violet Jacob so far is drenched in her love for Montrose and the surrounding country (which is not, as some descriptions of this book suggest, in the 'rugged Highlands' at all). Many passages in her books and poems have an evangelical tone in that respect, written by someone secure in the knowledge that her chosen part of Angus is the best place in the world and yet eager to win over as many other people as possible.

In 'Flemington', set during the '45, Montrose appears under its own name because of the relevance to the plot of certain historical events which took place in the town during the ill-fated rising. However in the 1904 novel The Interloper' it is transformed into the town of Kaims- as if, even though she had decided to create a fictional town for the purposes of plot, Jacob still could not imagine a better country than Montrose and its surroundings.

The geese here seem especially relevant since the return of thousands upon thousands of pink-footed geese to Montrose Basin, which occurs in early autumn every year, is a famous natural phenomenon in Scotland. The Lour too appears to be a thinly disguised version of the North Esk. I have to wonder whether the experience that Jacob gives to the fictional character Cecilia in the quote above was one which she had frequently had herself, as the daughter of Erskine of Dun, prior to her marriage and departure for India.

Anyway regardless of how this book turns out and my confusion over some of the plotting, Jacob's evident enthusiasm for her native Angus will always endear her works to me.

[suitsusboth]

I assume Edwina's new... relationship status goes public very quickly after the wedding. Whether announced by Edwina or discovered by Whistledown, I'm sure people have a LOT to say about that. Does Edwina remain ignorant for long or she gonna deal with the snide comments from the ton about her this time around? And are Kate and Anthony judged harshly too by Edwina's scandal or is it only Edwina and Bagwell (potentially Mary and Danbury too?)

Oh, yes. Like wildfire.

But the mantra of the Bridgerton/Sharma family for that afternoon is thus: Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss. Aka the Violet Bridgerton method of dealing with a scandal.

“Have you met my brother-in-law, Bagwell? Interesting fellow, very bright. A wealth of knowledge about Ancient Greece. Quite remarkable.”

“He helped recover a majority of Montrose’s private collection, you know.”

“They met at the museum, where Mr. Bagwell held lectures. My sister was endlessly fascinated, they could talk for hours about philosophy and history. It really just naturally went from there.”

“They’re so well suited. Very similar temperaments.”

“It would not surprise me if Bagwell’s discoveries and observations were of some serious note in the future.”

Edwina’s going to hear the snide comments, and while some of the might hurt, she’s found a new sense of freedom from these people. She already knows she’s going to live a life outside this society. All she really cares about is her family (who will come around) and the queen (mostly because no one wants to piss off a monarch, but at the end of the day what can she do? She can’t order anyone to marry or not marry).

Edwina and Bagwell are still welcome at the Bridgerton homes, as well as LD (surprisingly to everyone) and that’s really all that matters.

At first, people pity the Bridgertons. They must have been clueless to this marriage (but also, none of them are breathing a word about it? No one can account for when this happened or where the marriage took place. Was she even sick? And none of the Bridgertons seem to hold any resentment against the new Viscountess or her mother. It’s all very odd, no one can make sense of what happened here.)

(“Lovesick,” Edwina would laugh with Kate later on as they read the LW paper. “My goodness, they must have thought I was on deaths door being abed that long!”)

Edwina and Bagwell do leave London as the season is closing, everyone in agreement that out of sight, out of mind is the best solution for now.

There will be talk for a long while, but nothing anyone would dare to say within earshot of a Bridgerton.

[violeteyedkiller]

Continued from X

@abracaxfuckxyou​

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time he’s ever come across such a scene. And if he was honest, it probably wouldn’t be the last. Violet eyes glance back up from the body, getting a good look at that odd mask of the other. 

   “No. I don’t think you can. Or, more accurately, you’re not going to get a chance to explain. This city has a very strict no murder rule.”

Fingers shift to long, white, knife sharp claws, poised. Unfortunately for Montrose, Stan’s retired. 

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

The Duke and the Dressmaker by Eva Devon

Once Upon a Wallflower #2

Surviving childhood was not easy for Lily or James. Their losses were great, their hardships difficult, and their hearts became guarded and protected to avoid further pain. Whether or not they will be able to let go of the past and be open to a future filled with love and happiness is the question.

What I liked: * James Blakefield, American ship captain, wealthy, Duke of Ashbridge, man of duty, action, and routine, seeks change, difficult childhood, guarded

* Lily Martin: seamstress, caretaker of younger sister, survivor, escaped the French Revolution, abused by the woman she worked for, guarded

* Violet Martin: Lily’s little sister, musical, bright, didn’t have a big part but was James’s ward

* Earl of Derby: good friend who advises both James and Lily

* The Duke and Duchess of Montrose: met in first book and have an impact in this one, too

* That there was a happy ending for the main characters but also for those that they eventually helped

* Wondering who will show up in book three

What I didn’t like:

* Who and what I was meant not to like

* Thinking about the wide disparity between the classes and how difficult some living was for some in comparison to others

Did I like this book? Yes, it was okay – think I enjoyed book one more but do look forward to reading the next in the series when it comes out.

Thank you to NetGalley and Entagnled Publishing for the ARC – This is my honest review.

3-4 Stars

BLURB

A duke becomes unraveled by love in this delightful historical romance from USA Today bestselling author Eva Devon… Dressmaker Miss Lily Martin knows too well the sordid dealings of London’s corrupt underbelly. She should have known borrowing from one of the city’s most reviled moneylenders was risky. Horribly so. Now the loan has come due—and there’s nothing standing between Miss Lily and her darling sister’s ruin. Until a dashing American with flashing, defiant eyes intervenes… Ship captain James Blakefield may be the new Duke of Ashbridge, but he’s only in London for six weeks to secure his estate before returning to America, and far from the watchful eye of the ton. He’ll be damned if he’ll attend another society event where eligible ladies fling themselves at his title. But when he discovers Miss Lily’s desperate predicament, James realizes he might have the perfect arrangement. By assuming the legal guardianship of Lily’s sister, he can keep them both safe and ensure someone cares for the estate. But it means having Lily under the same roof for the next six weeks. No chaperones. No betrothal. As their undeniable attraction charges the very air between them, both propriety and restraint are threatened. But scandal is the least of their concerns when James’s secret threatens to pull everything apart at the seams...

[guthrie-odonto]

An accurate approximation of my reaction to October 6th, 2022

(*passes out*)

[scotianostra]

On September 1st 1863 the Angus poet Violet Jacob, author of “The Wild Geese” was born at the House of Dun near Montrose.

Her full name, take a deep breath, was Violet Augusta Mary Frederica Kennedy-Erskine, known for her novels of Scottish history and her poetry written in the rich dialect of Angus, Violet was born into an aristocratic family, and lived her adult life as an officer’s wife in England and abroad, the majority of her work however was from around Montrose, and Dun, the seat of her Family.

Perhaps here most famous work is the poem The Wild Geese a sad poem of longing for home, Violet is honoured at Makars Court just off the Lawnmarket, Royal mile with the line from the poem below “There’s muckle lyin’ ‘yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life.”

Violet Jacob was described by a fellow Scottish poet Hugh MacDiarmid as “the most considerable of contemporary vernacular poets”.

She died of heart disease on 9th September 1946 and was buried beside her husband at the graveyard at Dun kirk.

There are many versions of this online but the best by far is by the late Dundee folk singer  Jim Reid, please if you are going to listen to and watch one wee video today, make it this one, it’s only 3 minutes of your day and it’s worth it just for the spoken intro, rarely will you hear an Angus accent so rich. The song isnae twa bad either.

Norlan’ Wind (The Wild Geese)

This sad poem of longing for home, by Angus poet Violet Jacob, was set to music and popularised by Angus singer and songmaker Jim Reid.

Oh tell me what was on your road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind, As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind? My feet they traivel England, but I’m deein’ for the north. My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o Forth”

Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa’ and rise, And fain I’d feel the creepin’ mist on yonder shore that lies, But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way? My man, I rocked the rovin’ gulls that sail abune the Tay.

But saw ye naething, leein’ Wind, afore ye cam’ to Fife? There’s muckle lyin’ ‘yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life. My man, I swept the Angus braes ye ha’ena trod for years. O Wind, forgi’e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!

And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee, A lang, lang skein o’ beatin’ wings wi’ their heids towards the sea, And aye their cryin’ voices trailed ahint them on the air – O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!

The lyric is a conversation between the poet and the North Wind.

[fic-al]

BERNS NIGHT.

This has been a Poplar-on-Tweaven production brought to you by the Crown Inn and sponsored by Mount Busby Farm based on original characters from Call the Midwife.

CHAPTER FIVE: Ae Fond Kiss.

“Who Shall Say That Fortune Grieves Him. While The Star of Hope She Leaves Him?” Ae Fond Kiss, Robert Burns 1791

“I Pictured A Rainbow, You Held It In Your Hands.” The Whole of the Moon, The Waterboys 1985

Bernie grabbed Val’s arm to steady herself. Paddy stood in front of her fidgeting with the cobalt blue fabric with a wide green check overlayed with a thinner gold and black one. His fiddling pulled at the kilt pin, weighing the piece of cloth down at the knee. The tiny silver dagger bearing his clan crest caught the light from the hall where Bernie remained, stood stock still in the doorway.

Paddy then reached for the frilly white lace jabot fastened around his neck, pulling at the lace with one hand, as if it was choking him. The other hand straightened the black waistcoat with the three silver buttons, matching the three on the sleeves of the Montrose jacket. They, in turn, matched those perfectly polished down the front of both sides of the centre of that waist length black jacket.

Bernie’s dropped jaw started to quiver as a chuckle threatened to emerge. Paddy shot a look of accusation at Val, who intern nipped Bernie’s arm. Her friend regained her composure.

“I told you she would think I look ridiculous,” Paddy spat at Val as if Bernie wasn’t in the room. It was however, Bernie who responded as Val’s confidence appeared to waver.

“No, you don’t. It’s just a bit of a shock. I am not quite sure what’s going on.”

“We..well, some people thought it might be nice to put on a Burns Supper. Like we used to…before-” Paddy started to falter as he noticed Bernie’s eyes mist over.

“For your birthday.” Piped in Val, trying to help Paddy out and regaining her confidence. “I will leave you to it. I’ve left Jack behind the bar, and well, he is still pretty green. If anyone asks for a cocktail, we may be in danger of losing our licence.”

On Val’s departure, Bernie moved towards Paddy. The forgotten scarf Trixie had placed around her friend’s shoulders fell to the floor. Paddy bent down to pick it up.

“Oops, be careful, good job there is no-one stood behind you.”

Paddy straightened up swiftly and stroked down the back of his kilt. Bernie allowed a relief filled giggle as she saw Paddy’s frown soften. Taking the scarf from Paddy, she sighed. The pattern matched the tablecloths downstairs. “My mother’s tartan. They haven’t missed a trick, have they?”

“Trixie was most put out when her attempts to discover the Mannion tartan drew a blank.”

“Mannion is an Irish name, sorry.” Bernie wasn’t quite sure why she was apologising for her name, but it felt appropriate.

“We all know that now,” laughed Paddy.

“How did you find the Home clan tartan?”

“Violet and Evie poured over hundreds of samples and narrowed it down to a few, which they matched to old photos of Wilf’s kilt. They figured that was how the wily old bugger had got round it, using your mam’s tartan.”

“Everyone has gone to so much trouble, I feel like such a fraud. I just wanted an evening alone with you in Appleby Thornton.” Bernie blushed, feeling even more guilty.

Sensing her confusion, Paddy cupped her cheeks in his hands. “We can go out any night.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow at Paddy’s optimism. Even though Jack had turned eighteen and could now serve behind the bar, Paddy still found it difficult to let go. Most of their evenings were spent working or propping up the bar.

Any further discussion of their work-play balance would have to wait. The sound of familiar footsteps running up the stairs alerted them their presence was required in the bar. Paddy and Bernie followed Tim into a cacophony of noise, the sound of fiddle, banjo, and accordion mixed with laughter and the pounding of feet on the wooden floor.

Tim grinned and nodded as Bernie asked, “Isn’t that the Bridges that come in on a Thursday night?”

“Apparently, before they were married, they used to go to Scottish dancing on Thursday nights.”

Kevin and the Tweaven Folk band sounded like a group of musicians who were enjoying a successful long awaited reunion, rather than strangers that had only met a few days ago. Apparently, Kevin didn’t just play the Bagpipes but was going to town on the harmonica. Mac had found refuge in Reggie and they had settled on a bench seat with the dog’s head resting on the lad’s lap.

Alan Bridges and his wife Yvonne broke from each other and flew off in different directions to persuade, grab and drag the people sitting at the tables onto the makeshift dance floor. Fred was up first, taking hold of Vi, who had pushed her nose out of the kitchen to sneak a peek at the fun. She protested, explaining she couldn’t leave her post, but Evie chased her onto the dance floor with a tea towel.

Bernie smiled at Patsy and Delia. She had never seen anyone quick step to the Gay Gordons before. Phyllis’ face was flushed as she tried to stay in time, partnered by a very light on her feet, Lucille. Bernie grinned as Paddy dug his son in the ribs and Tim scowled, shaking his head in protest. Her smugness was short-lived when Alan Bridges took hold of her hand and dragged her onto the floor. She groaned to herself, realising she should have seen it coming. But she knew she wasn’t the only one who had been distracted and let their guard down. As Alan swung her around, she glimpsed a determined Yvonne pulling a very reluctant Paddy to the centre of the room. A massive cheer went up, and it wasn’t for his dancing prowess, but the first view of the crowd of Paddy in his Highland Dress.

Bernie couldn’t deny she felt a tingle as the lights dimmed and Paddy stood behind the tressel table. She could see how nervous he was, his thumb working against the forefinger of his left hand, the right hand turning over his phone on the table. Voices were hushed, sensing a level of anticipation in the air. She hoped he could see her reassuring smile. When he returned her wink, she knew he understood.

Everyone instinctively got to their feet as the sound of the pipes flooded the room. Kevin slowly marched into the bar from the kitchen playing, Mac following at his feet, ears pricked. A few steps behind walked Violet, beaming proudly, carrying a silver tray with her pride and joy in prime position. She placed the dish in front of a very pale but focused landlord. Bernie noticed Vi gently touch Paddy’s hand after she had laid down her burden.

Paddy cleared his throat, and everyone sat. Bernie held her breath. She was relieved when he started reading from his phone in his own soft Northern English twang and didn’t attempt a Scottish accent. He did struggle a little with more than the odd word and she noticed it was in parts an English translation of Burns’s Address to a Haggis. She thought her dad would be shaking his head and laughing if he were watching these antics held in his memory. As a shiver left her, she wondered if Marianne was also looking down with pride and amusement.

Bernie bit her lip. This was the difficult bit, if trying to read an 18th century Scottish poem out loud wasn’t hard enough. She knew from years of experience Paddy had to keep reciting while removing the Sgian-dubh from his woolly knee-length socks. He then had to pull the small dagger out of its black leather holder and plunge the blade into the Haggis at just the right moment in the text. She went to hold on to her chair but was surprised when a long, thin hand grabbed hers. Tim’s hand was cold, but sweaty at the same time, and she squeezed it back.

The verbal response of the audience to Paddy whipping the blade out of its sheath made Bernie giggle, and she heard a snort from her neighbour. The following stab and slash into the unsuspecting pudding received equal responses of gasps and murmurs. She felt the boy’s hand slacken in her own and his breath released from his chest at the same time she let her lungs relax. Bernie felt Paddy was doing the same, pausing as the crowd regained its collective composure. He dared to give her a quick glance, and she beamed in approval. She wished she could go over to him and push back the wayward kink of hair that had fallen over his face during the dramatics.

Paddy finished the poem with ease, following the tricky bit. He didn’t seem to mind stumbling over some of the unfamiliar words. It wasn’t like anyone was going to correct him. There was much relief all around when he finally toasted the Haggis, and everyone could raise the complimentary whisky they had been nursing since the beginning of the festivities. Not everyone had been patient, and some found they were toasting with an empty glass, supping air. A nervous Bernie would have been included in this number, but Trixie had passed on her dram so she could at least properly take part in the toast. Paddy received a standing ovation. He didn't appear to be deceived it was for his faultless performance, but more for effort or maybe they were just hungry and glad it was finally over.

The assembled guests ate their fill of Scottish Fayre. The whisky sauce may have proved more popular than the spicy offal and oatmeal pudding. Although Violet did remark that Poplar’s vegan population had seemed to increase dramatically overnight. Buckle’s Breweries Burns Bernie Beers proved very popular. Ale Fond Kiss, Red Red Rose Ruby Ale and Auld Lang Stout all sold out.

The dancing recommenced to the Tweaven Folk band and its newest member. The Bridges and the lead singer tried to engineer a ceilidh of sorts. This resulted in a room full of mostly English people flinging themselves and each other about in an attempt at the longest communal twizzy world record. The highlight being every time Paddy spun around in his kilt, a large cheer went up as it splayed out.

Eventually he refused to dance and Bernie gave up, too. She found him outside smoking one of her roll-ups. She just grinned, knowing he deserved one. Bernie hugged Trixie’s scarf around her.

“Aren’t you cold in…erm that?”

Paddy smoothed the kilt under him, between his bare legs and the cool wood of Peggy and Frank’s memorial bench. Bernie grinned and went back indoors.

She returned with two Abhainn Dearg malt whiskies and one of the tartan tablecloths. She wrapped it around Paddy’s shoulders before perching herself on his chilly knees, flipping his sporran up out of the way. Paddy took over the blanket duties and wrapped the cover round her.

Cold fingers fumbled over sharing the dying cigarette and they sipped from the same whisky tumbler. From where she had placed them, Bernie could only reach one glass without leaving the warmth of the tablecloth and Paddy’s arms. Paddy had long since dispensed with the faffy lace ruff and wore a cream open neck Jacobite shirt, again courtesy of connections of Patsy. As Bernie playfully twisted the string ties around the fingers of one hand. She slowly ran the fingers of her other hand along the hem of the kilt.

“Is this Turner tartan, then?”

“No, the Turners are from Liverpool, probably some Irish in there somewhere too, but my mother’s family hailed from Fife.” Paddy softly answered.

Bernie wriggled on his knee, trying to gain a bunch of the fabric of the kilt in her hand, as the band broke into Deacon Blue’s Dignity.

“So which clan…ayyyyyeah!” She quickly jumped up, vigorously rubbing the flesh between her boot and the hem of her dress on her right thigh. Paddy stared at her in confusion and concern.

“Something bit me.”

“It’s January.”

“Am I bleeding? Is there a bump?” Bernie turned her back to Paddy and lifted up her skirt. Paddy started to wonder whose birthday it was. He used his phone as a torch and took his time giving a thorough examination of her right thigh. The eventual diagnosis was no injury to her person, but there was a nasty snag in her new-on tights.

Paddy also identified the culprit, pointing to the clan dagger attached to the front of his kilt. “I think you sat on this?”

“You stabbed me.”

“You stabbed you.”

She leant down and carefully unfastened the pin from the front apron of the kilt. She recovered her position now free from hazards. Scrutinising the tiny weapon in her hands under the light of Paddy’s phone,

“Aww, the crest is the world below a rainbow between two clouds. What does the motto say?”

“At Spes Infracta.”

“Oooh, you’re getting the hang of these ancient tongues, aren’t you?” Bernie giggled, “what does it mean in boring old English?”

Paddy, who had been laughing with her, fell serious.

“It means, Yet My Hope is Unbroken.” He gently tipped her chin forward with his thumb and forefinger and kissed her.

“That’s beautiful.” Bernie caught her breath. “What was your mam’s maiden name?”

“Hope.”

“Home and Hope,” smiled Bernie, partly to herself.

Paddy reached inside his sporran and handed Bernie a small tartan box with a gold bow on top.

“But, this was my present.” She smiled, pulling on his shirt strings.

Paddy shone his phone torch on the box as Bernie opened it and carefully took out a silver brooch. She got hold of Paddy’s hand and shone it on a silver V bending inwards to make the shape of a heart with an emerald at the base just below the Home clan crest.

“That is a very fierce-looking lion. Why am I not surprised.” Bernie didn’t need the torch to see the glint in Paddy’s eye as he spoke. “I nearly got you the Hope rainbow one instead….but I wasn’t sure.”

Bernie smiled, “Maybe next year?”

“You are still very presumptuous after all these years. This was a one night only kinda thing,” Paddy choked, then swiftly changing the subject, “I liked the motto on the Hume crest, anyway.”

Bernie was impressed with his correct Scottish pronunciation of Home. She read aloud the words around the lion’s head A Home, A Home, A Home, that is the slogan, but the motto is actually True To The End .”

“Well, I think the matriarchy has it tonight.”

“Do you know Robbie Burns was a great supporter of women’s rights as well as being a romantic? He wrote a poem about it.”

“From what I’ve heard, he was very fond of women indeed. Counting the number of children he fathered.”

“Yes, that as well,” muttered Bernie, “but just for tonight I am going to be Shelagh Bernadette Mannion-Home and you can be Patrick Turner-Hope.

The traditional music of the Corries was now interspersed with more recent Scottish poetry, as the band played tunes by the likes of Travis and Franz Ferdinand. The Proclaimers, I’m Gonna Be 500 miles, filtered through the door leading to the beer garden. The accompanying laughter, the sound of leather and man-made sole stomping on polished oak convinced the two in the beer garden they weren’t being missed.

“One thing I can’t get my head around is how Val convinced you to do this?”

“She just reminded me of every time you have stepped out of your comfort zone for me. How many times you have had to embrace a part of yourself that you didn’t know existed or had thought you had left behind.”

Bernie rubbed her thumb over the slogan on her new brooch as Paddy continued.

“Basically how many times you have put me, us, our hope of a life, a home together before the person who you thought you were and believed yourself to be.”

“Val said that?”

“Sort of, maybe a bit more colourful, and there was some violence involved, but I did agree with the sentiment.”

“I think our mams would have approved of Val.”

“Are you true to the end, Shelagh Bernadette?”

“Well, you just better hope this isn’t the end, Patrick.”

The sounds of Auld Lang Syne filled the night and Paddy leaned forward for another kiss, suddenly aware Bernie had very cold hands had chosen not to replace the kilt pin.

[bandstolookup]

ihsahn

mutilation

leviathan

amesoeurs

panopticon

deafheaven

liturgy

alcest

funeralbloom

altar of plagues

five.bolt.main.

The Danse Society

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[weshallc]

Thank you so much for putting up with me, I feel back in a Bernie state of mind now (I was far too chilled). Let’s see where we go from here.

BERNS NIGHT (revisited)

This has been a Poplar-on-Tweaven production brought to you by the Crown Inn and sponsored by Mount Busby Farm based on original characters from Call the Midwife.

CHAPTER FIVE: Ae Fond Kiss.

“Who Shall Say That Fortune Grieves Him. While The Star of Hope She Leaves Him?” Ae Fond Kiss, Robert Burns 1791

“I Pictured A Rainbow, You Held It In Your Hands.” The Whole of the Moon, The Waterboys 1985

Bernie grabbed Val’s arm to steady herself. Paddy stood in front of her fidgeting with the cobalt blue fabric with a wide green check overlayed with a thinner gold and black one. His fiddling pulled at the kilt pin weighing the piece of cloth down at the knee. The tiny silver dagger bearing his clan crest caught the light from the hall where Bernie remained stood stock still in the doorway.

Paddy then reached for the frilly white lace jabot fastened around his neck, pulling at the lace with one hand, as if it was choking him. The other hand straightened the black waistcoat with the three silver buttons, matching the three on the sleeves of the Montrose jacket. They in turn matched those perfectly polished down the front of both sides of the centre of that waist length black jacket.

Bernie’s dropped jaw started to quiver as a chuckle threatened to emerge. Paddy shot a look of accusation at Val who intern nipped Bernie’s arm. Her friend regained her composure.

“I told you she would think I look ridiculous,” Paddy spat at Val as if Bernie wasn’t in the room. It was however Bernie who responded as Val’s confidence appeared to waver.

“No, you don’t. It’s just a bit of a shock. I am not quite sure what’s going on.”

“We..well some people thought it might be nice to put on a Burns Supper. Like we used to...before-” Paddy started to falter as he noticed Bernie’s eyes mist over.

“For your birthday.” Piped in Val, trying to help Paddy out and regaining her confidence. “I will leave you to it, I’ve left Jack behind the bar and well he is still pretty green, if anyone asks for a cocktail we may be in danger of losing our licence.”

On Val’s departure, Bernie moved towards Paddy. The forgotten scarf Trixie had placed around her friend’s shoulders fell to the floor. Paddy bent down to pick it up.

“Oops, be careful, good job there is no-one stood behind you.”

Paddy straightened up swiftly and stroked down the back of his kilt. Bernie allowed a relief filled giggle as she saw Paddy’s frown soften. Taking the scarf from Paddy, she sighed. The pattern matched the tablecloths downstairs. “My mother’s tartan, they haven’t missed a trick, have they?”

“Trixie was most put out when her attempts to discover the Mannion tartan drew a blank.”

“Mannion is an Irish name, sorry.” Bernie wasn’t quite sure why she was apologising for her name, but it felt appropriate.

“We all know that now,” laughed Paddy.

“How did you find the Home clan tartan?”

“Violet and Evie poured over hundreds of samples and narrowed it down to a few which they matched to old photos of Wilf’s kilt. They figured that was how the wily old bugger had got round it, using your mam’s tartan.”

“Everyone has gone to so much trouble, I feel like such a fraud. I just wanted an evening alone with you in Appleby Thornton.” Bernie blushed, feeling even more guilty.

Sensing her confusion, Paddy cupped her cheeks in his hands. “We can go out any night.” 

Bernie raised an eyebrow at Paddy’s optimism. Even though Jack had turned eighteen and could now serve behind the bar, Paddy still found it difficult to let go. Most of their evenings were spent working or propping up the bar.

Any further discussion of their work-play balance would have to wait. The sound of familiar footsteps running up the stairs alerted them their presence was required in the bar. Paddy and Bernie followed Tim into a cacophony of noise, the sound of fiddle, banjo and accordion mixed with laughter and the pounding of feet on the wooden floor.

Tim grinned and nodded as Bernie asked, “Isn’t that the Bridges that come in on a Thursday night?”

“Apparently, before they were married, they used to go to Scottish dancing on Thursday nights.”

Kevin and the Tweaven Folk band sounded like a group of musicians who were enjoying a successful long awaited reunion, rather than strangers that had only met a few days ago. Apparently Kevin didn’t just play the Bagpipes but was going to town on the harmonica.  Mac had found refuge in Reggie and had settled on a bench seat with the dog's head resting on the lad’s lap.

Alan Bridges and his wife Yvonne broke from each other and flew off in different directions to persuade, grab and drag the people sitting at the tables onto the makeshift dance floor. Fred was up first, taking hold of Vi who had pushed her nose out of the kitchen to sneak a peek at the fun. She protested, explaining she couldn’t leave her post, but Evie chased her onto the dance floor with a tea towel.

Bernie smiled at Patsy and Delia. She had never seen anyone quick step to the Gay Gordons before. Phyllis’ face was flushed as she tried to stay in time, partnered by a very light on her feet Lucille. Bernie grinned as Paddy dug his son in the ribs and Tim scowled, shaking his head in protest. Her smugness was short-lived when Alan Bridges took hold of her hand and dragged her onto the floor. She groaned to herself, realising she should have seen it coming. But she knew she wasn’t the only one who had been distracted and let their guard down. As Alan swung her around, she glimpsed a determined Yvonne pulling a very reluctant Paddy to the centre of the room. A massive cheer went up, and it wasn’t for his dancing prowess, but the first view of the crowd of Paddy in his Highland Dress.

Bernie couldn’t deny she felt a tingle as the lights dimmed and Paddy stood behind the tressel table. She could see how nervous he was, his thumb working against the forefinger of his left hand, the right hand turning over his phone on the table. Voices were hushed, sensing a level of anticipation in the air. She hoped he could see her reassuring smile. When he returned her wink she knew he understood.

Everyone instinctively got to their feet as the sound of the pipes flooded the room. Kevin slowly marched into the bar from the kitchen playing, Mac following at his feet, ears pricked. A few steps behind walked Violet, beaming proudly, carrying a silver tray with her pride and joy in prime position. She placed the dish in front of a very pale but focused landlord. Bernie noticed Vi gently touch Paddy’s hand after she had laid down her burden.

Paddy cleared his throat, and everyone sat. Bernie held her breath, she was relieved when he started reading from his phone in his own soft Northern English twang and didn't attempt a Scottish accent. He did struggle a little with more than the odd word and she noticed it was in parts an English translation of Burns’s Address to a Haggis. She did think her dad would be shaking his head and laughing if he was watching these antics held in his memory. As a shiver left her, she wondered if Marianne was also looking down with pride and amusement.

Bernie bit her lip. This was the difficult bit, if trying to read a 18th century Scottish poem out loud wasn’t hard enough. She knew from years of experience Paddy had to keep reciting while removing the Sgian-dubh from his woolly knee-length socks. He then had to pull the small dagger out of its black leather holder and plunge the blade into the Haggis at just the right moment in the text. She went to hold on to her chair but was surprised when a long thin hand grabbed hers. Tim’s hand was cold, but sweaty at the same time, and she squeezed it back.

The verbal response of the audience to Paddy whipping the blade out of its sheath made Bernie giggle, and she heard a snort from her neighbour. The following stab and slash into the unsuspecting pudding received equal responses of gasps and murmurs. She felt the boy’s hand slacken in her own and his breath released from his chest at the same time she let her lungs relax. Bernie felt Paddy was doing the same, pausing as the crowd regained its collective composure. He dared to give her a quick glance, and she beamed in approval. She wished she could go over to him and push back the wayward kink of hair that had fallen over his face during the dramatics.

Paddy finished the poem with ease following the tricky bit. He didn’t seem to mind stumbling over some of the unfamiliar words. It wasn’t like anyone was going to correct him. There was much relief all around when he finally toasted the Haggis, and everyone could raise the complimentary whisky they had been nursing since the beginning of the festivities. Not everyone had been patient and some found they were toasting with an empty glass, supping air. A nervous Bernie would have been included in this number, but Trixie had passed on her dram so she could at least properly take part in the toast. Paddy received a standing ovation. He wasn’t deceived it was for his faultless performance, but more for effort or maybe they were just hungry and glad it was finally over.

The assembled guests ate their fill of Scottish Fayre. The whisky sauce may have proved more popular than the spicy offal and oatmeal pudding. Although Violet did remark that Poplar’s vegan population had seemed to increase dramatically overnight. Buckle’s Breweries Burns Bernie Beers proved very popular. Ale Fond Kiss, Red Red Rose Ruby Ale and Auld Lang Stout all sold out.

The dancing recommenced to the Tweaven Folk band and its newest member. The Bridges and the lead singer tried to engineer a ceilidh of sorts. This resulted in a room full of mostly English people flinging themselves and each other about in an attempt at the longest communal twizzy world record. The highlight being every time Paddy spun around in his kilt, a large cheer went up as it splayed out.

Eventually he refused to dance and Bernie gave up too. She found him outside smoking one of her roll-ups. She just grinned, knowing he deserved one. Bernie hugged Trixie’s scarf around her.

“Aren’t you cold in...erm that?”

Paddy smoothed the kilt under him, between his bare legs and the cool wood of Peggy and Frank’s memorial bench. Bernie grinned and went back indoors.

She returned with two Abhainn Dearg malt whiskies and one of the tartan tablecloths. She wrapped it around Paddy’s shoulders before perching herself on his chilly knees, flipping his sporran up out of the way. Paddy took over the blanket duties and wrapped the cover round her.

Cold fingers fumbled over sharing the dying cigarette and they sipped from the same whisky tumbler. From where she had placed them, Bernie could only reach one glass without leaving the warmth of the tablecloth and Paddy’s arms. Paddy had long since dispensed with the faffy lace ruff and wore a cream open neck Jacobite shirt, again courtesy of connections of Patsy. As Bernie playfully twisted the string ties around the fingers of one hand. She slowly ran the fingers of her other hand along the hem of the kilt.

“Is this Turner tartan, then?”

“No, the Turners are from Liverpool, probably some Irish in there somewhere too, but my mother’s family hailed from Fife.” Paddy softly answered.

Bernie wriggled on his knee, trying to gain a bunch of the fabric of the kilt in her hand, as the band broke into Deacon Blue’s, Dignity.

“So which clan...ayyyyyeah!” She quickly jumped up vigorously rubbing the flesh between her boot and the hem of her dress on her right thigh. Paddy stared at her in confusion and concern.

“Something bit me.”

“It’s January.”

“Am I bleeding, is there a bump?” Bernie turned her back to Paddy and lifted up her skirt. Paddy started to wonder whose birthday it was. He used his phone as a torch and took his time giving a thorough examination of her right thigh. The eventual diagnosis was no injury to her person, but there was a nasty snag in her new-on tights.

Paddy also identified the culprit pointing to the clan dagger attached to the front of his kilt. “I think you sat on this?”

“You stabbed me.”

“You stabbed you.”

She leant down and carefully unfastened the pin from the front apron of the kilt. She recovered her position now free from hazards. Scrutinising the tiny weapon in her hands under the light of Paddy’s phone,

“Aww, the crest is the world below a rainbow between two clouds. What does the motto say?”

“At Spes Infracta.”

“Oooh, you're getting the hang of these ancient tongues, aren’t you?” Bernie giggled, “what does it mean in boring old English?”

Paddy, who had been laughing with her, fell serious.

“It means Yet My Hope is Unbroken.” He gently tipped her chin forward with his thumb and forefinger and kissed her.

“That’s beautiful.” Bernie caught her breath. “What was your mam’s maiden name?”

“Hope.”

“Home and Hope,” smiled Bernie, partly to herself.

Paddy reached inside his sporran and handed Bernie a small tartan box with a gold bow on top.

“But this was my present.” She smiled, pulling on his shirt strings.

Paddy shone his phone torch on the box as Bernie opened it and carefully took out a silver brooch. She got hold of Paddy’s hand and shone it on a silver V bending inwards to make the shape of a heart with an emerald at the base just below the Home clan crest.

“That is a very fierce looking lion, why am I not surprised.” Bernie didn’t need the torch to see the glint in Paddy’s eye as he spoke. “I nearly got you the Hope rainbow one instead....but I wasn’t sure.”

Bernie smiled, “Maybe next year?”

“You are still very presumptuous after all these years. This was a one night only kinda thing,” Paddy choked, then swiftly changing the subject, “I liked the motto on the Hume crest, anyway.”

Bernie was impressed with his correct Scottish pronunciation of Home. She read aloud the words around the lion's head A Home, A Home, A Home, that is the slogan, but the motto is actually True To The End .”

“Well, I think the matriarchy has it tonight.”

“Do you know Robbie Burns was a great supporter of women's rights as well as being a romantic? He wrote a poem about it.”

“From what I’ve heard, he was very fond of women indeed. Counting the number of children he fathered.”

“Yes, that as well,” muttered Bernie, “but just for tonight I am going to be Shelagh Bernadette Mannion-Home and you can be Patrick Turner-Hope.

The traditional music of the Corries was now interspersed with more recent Scottish poetry, as the band played tunes by the likes of Travis and Franz Ferdinand. The Proclaimers, I’m Gonna Be 500 miles, filtered through the door leading to the beer garden. The accompanying laughter, the sound of leather and man-made sole stomping on polished oak convinced the two in the beer garden they weren’t being missed.

“One thing I can’t get my head around is how Val convinced you to do this?”

“She just reminded me of every time you have stepped out of your comfort zone for me. How many times you have had to embrace a part of yourself that you didn’t know existed or had thought you had left behind.”

Bernie rubbed her thumb over the slogan on her new brooch as Paddy continued.

“Basically how many times you have put me, us, our hope of a life, a home together before the person who you thought you were and believed yourself to be.”

“Val said that?”

“Sort of, maybe a bit more colourful and there was some violence involved, but I did agree with the sentiment.”

“I think our mams would have approved of Val.”

“Are you true to the end, Shelagh Bernadette?”

“Well, you just better hope this isn’t the end, Patrick.”

The sounds of Auld Lang Syne filled the night and Paddy leaned forward for another kiss, suddenly aware Bernie had very cold hands and had chosen not to replace the kilt pin.

[the-busy-ghost]

Honestly it wasn’t the greatest work of literature in the English and Scots languages but Flemington was pretty good (and broke me a little inside) and the fact that it is so underrated is a CRIME and this makes me Seethe

[moonb-eam]

Hi 🤗 I hope not annoy you with this (feel completly free to not answer) but reading all the Eliott's POV you are sharing make me want to read all again in his perspective, so... Can you share what was Eliott's thoughts when Lucas rejected him and what he felt when he found him in the garden (under the stars 🥰 where he knew he would find him 🥰)? Anyway, I love your work 🖤 sending you lots of love ✨

hello darling!! 💛💛 oh my gosh you are not annoying me at all!!! I appreciate your curiosity!😚

oh gosh, okay, well this might not be the most fun answer, because it really, really hurt

Eliott left his aunt’s house filled with hope, more than he had dared to let himself have before, and when he ran into Lucas, in the middle of a thunderstorm, on the edge of his aunt’s property, Eliott thought, Surely this is fate, and he was so nervously and so happy that he felt delirious with it.

But it doesn’t take long before he realizes he was wrong. His confession is met with scorn, his pleadings met with vitriol, and when Lucas begins to lay out every grievance he has with Eliott, everything he blames him for, Eliott’s heart shatters, because it’s at once so clear, how much Lucas hates him.

And there’s Eliott, once a fool, always a fool, trying to pick up the shards of his heart, cutting clumsy hands on their sharp corners, and thinking, How is it possible I got this so wrong?

The worst part of it all is that, even then, even when Eliott is bleeding out hopelessness and Lucas is staring him down with contempt, Eliott is taken in by the fierceness he sees in Lucas’ eyes, the stubborn curve to his mouth, and Eliott wants to kiss him. Somehow, still, he wants to hold him, wants to brush away the rainwater on his cheeks with his fingers, and he wants to say, Please listen to me. You’re wrong about me, Lucas, I promise.

He can’t say these things, though. Lucas is a storm furious enough to rival the one raging overhead, and Eliott doesn’t think he can do this much longer, stand before him and listen as Lucas cuts his character down to nothing. He thinks he might cry, and he doesn’t want Lucas to see that, so he gives some flat pleasant in parting and he flees.

He doesn’t stop walking until he makes it back to Montrose, doesn’t let himself break until he’s back inside of his room, and then he presses his back into the door and slides to the ground, burying his face in his hands, his entire body trembling.

He doesn’t move for hours.

When he does, it’s to bathe, to change into something dry, and to sit at his desk, staring blankly out of the window.

The more he thinks about it, the heavier his soul feels.

Lucas is wrong about him, but has Eliott ever actually given him evidence to the contrary? Eliott throughly he was slowly revealing pieces of himself for Lucas to see, but then he thinks of how cold he was to him at their first meeting, and how awkward he was at every subsequent meeting, and his head drops down to his desk with a thud.

“Fuck,” he says aloud, shutting his eyes tightly.

Perhaps he made a mistake with separating Sofiane and Miss Bakhellal.

Eliott never wanted to hurt Miss Bakhellal. He likes her. He thinks she’s clever, and funny, but he also really thought she was indifferent. He thought Sofiane was on a path to getting his heartbroken yet again, but it never occurred to him that Miss Bakhellal was also on that path.

He never thought she felt the same. But Lucas would know far better than Eliott would, wouldn’t he?

His face burns with regret. Oh God. What have I done?

He would be angry with himself too, if he were Lucas.

He has to explain it to him.

In a rush of movement, he pulls out a spare piece of paper, reaches for his ink pot, but then he stops, hand hovering in the air.

If he wants to try and have Lucas understand, if he really wants to explain himself, then Eliott will have to tell him everything.

Everything. About Charles, about Daphné, and about me.

The thought is terrifying.

And yet, there’s something about it that’s also strangely liberating. Eliott can be honest, truly honest, with Lucas, and then that will be it. The truth will be out, and Lucas can do with it what he will, but no matter what, Eliott won’t have to hide.

He likes the idea of Lucas knowing him.

He may not ever love him, Eliott can see that now. It’s a truth that hurts to acknowledge, a throbbing pain in his chest, at his temples, but the blow of it is softened by the simple possibility of Lucas being able to know him, as he really is.

So, he writes. He writes until he has to find another page. He writes until the sun has sun and the sky becomes a murky canvas of violet and indigo. He writes until he can see the stars, just a little, and it makes him smile because it makes him think of Lucas: of all the times Eliott has seen him tilt his head back to watch the stars, of how he always seems to be able to breathe but easier when he does.

The sweetness of the memory of him makes Eliott write one final line:

I have a feeling that, if I find you, you will be looking at the stars.

And then, because it’s true, he signs it:

Yours,

Eliott Demaury

He sneaks out of the house again, leaving by the kitchen so he can find some food on the way, and he tucks the letter into his coat pocket, when he steps out into the night that it’s still there, then checking again when he catches sight of Chloé’s home.

It is, in all likeliness, a terrible idea to go looking for Lucas so soon after their argument. Eliott isn’t even sure Lucas will read the letter, but he wants him to, desperately. He’s not expecting for Lucas to suddenly change his mind and accept Eliott’s proposal. All he wants is to tell Lucas everything he can, to lay out himself and his life as plainly as possible, and to leave the truth, as he knows it, in Lucas’s hands. He has faith it will be kept safe there.

Here I am, is what his letter really says. I have made mistakes. I have my own struggles, my own past, and my own shame. I understand you more than you know. I only hope you can understand me as well.

When he sees Lucas in the garden at the back of house, wrapped in a blanket and gazing at the stars, he feels himself smile, just a little.

The moonlight gently kisses Lucas’ skin, lighting him like the surface of a still lake, and even now, Eliott is stunned by the sight of him, by how utterly beautiful he is.

“How did I know I would find you here?” He asks softly. Lucas doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at him, and Eliott knows that he can’t push Lucas, that he’s well within his right to never speak to Eliott again, so he only sighs, and leaves the letter on a stone bench at the edge of the garden.

“I have written this,” he says, “for you. Please read it.” He swallows, and he can feel his throat closing. All he manages to say is another choked, “Please,” and then he leaves, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and striding across the damp grass

He lets himself look back once, just before he disappears into the tree line, but Lucas is already gone, and the house is dark.

Eliott tilts his head back towards the stars, eyes dancing across constellations he can’t name, and he sends a thought there, to any celestial body that may be listening in on the tragic follies of humans: I hope he reads it.

The stars have nothing to tell him, but he lingers there still, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

Eliott wanted to be entirely honest with Lucas in that letter, and he was, where it mattered, and he also wasn’t, in another place where it mattered.

Everything Eliott wrote about Sofiane, Miss Bakhellal, Daphné, and Charles was true. Everything he wrote about his father and himself was true. He wrote, I don’t believe that either of us should ever be ashamed, and it was true.

But when Eliott wrote, I hope soon, those feelings will not weigh so heavily in my heart, and that was a lie.

Eliott can hope you have his feels change like the face of a waning moon, but he knows, deep within himself, that it won’t happen.

Because when he saw Lucas’ moonlit face, all he could think was, I love you. Still. Now. And likely, forever.

But that’s a truth that Eliott doesn’t need to tell.

[thatbadassbree]

So boom...Lovecraft Country episode 9 aired tonight. I have some thoughts...(SPOILER ALERT/SPOILERS AHEAD!!!)

Ruby was right, THEY are all to blame for what happened to Dee. No one was watching her. No one was protecting her.

Thank the STARS that Hippolyta returned. She came in and took control of an out of control situation.

The fact that the Police Chief was using Black people as literally patch work for his body is BEYOND disgusting. I hope his ass is dead forreal now. Especially for what he did to Dee.

Going back to Tulsa in 1921 before the massacre occured was a triggering experience for Montrose. Not only because of the racist violence but, the painful memories abuse that he faced at the hands of his Father all came rushing back. The fact that he even had to view it all again...WHEW. I hated seeing him be beaten with a switch. That is child abuse.

The gang really had to be careful since they went back in time, anything they did would effect the future..their present. Montrose had a lot of trouble understanding that you simply cannot fuck up in the past...it will mess up the future.

There was A LOT of feels in episode, a lot. Tic finding out that Uncle George was his biological Father, Leti thinking that she may have something to do with Tic's foreseeable death, Ruby confronting Christina, The bombings, Montrose seeing his first love again, there was a so much going on.

Leti got the book of names, saved the day once again, walked literally through the flames and was completely traumatized (once again). There is in fact a limit for how much one person can take.

Michael K Williams is an ACTOR ok.

I like how both Watchmen and Lovecraft Country have brought attention to the Tusla Massacre and how easy it was for America to bomb an area because its inhabitants were Black. People do not even know that this actually happened, it is not taught in schools (not much of value is really taught to be honest).

Hippolyta's hair changing color after being drained of her energy source was pretty cool. Now she's violet, like the Aliens.

Next week is the season finale. What spoils are in store for us next? Can't wait to find out.