James Winchester Posted August 29 Share Posted August 29 (edited) Quote Hen's Toes, Room#7 - A small but clean guest room. A single bed with an old oak dresser adorned the room. A very small watercloset was adjacent to the room. A single window looked out through skeletal tree limbs towards the icy river. The slop pot was emptied twice a day. The four ravens roosting in the bare branches outside the small window slept with their heads under their wings, all but one who peered in at James with a dark eye as he sat and stared in turn. A maid had hastily stoked up the fire and changed the sheets on the narrow bed, something which James had acquired in this overbooked town through the simple expedient of offering money until someone decided that the coins were worth more to them than their room was. He'd never done such a thing before, and a part of him was disgusted by the arrogance of the move, but another part of him needed to be here, whatever it took, and it was a need that had enlivened him as nothing else had these past weeks. Behind him Cecil unpacked his meagre things, setting up the small room as comfortably as possible, whilst his master stared silently out of the window, seeing another time and another place. He shouldn't have been here alone. His hand strayed for the hundredth time to the pocket that held a frilly handkerchief with the monogram 'MW' in beautiful embroidery, and a little cloth bonnet with an edge of lace. James felt the fabric beneath his fingers and screwed his eyes shut against the sudden heat and prickle that threatened yet more tears. He didn't think he had any left. Why? He asked the question a thousand times, and had no answer other than his own thoughts. Because these things happen. It had started all so innocently. Mignonette had travelled to Newport to do some shopping, whilst James had gone in the opposite direction to Monmouth and onwards to talk with some of his neighbouring lords. Newport was, naturally, a port and there was talk of a ship from the east with fine fabrics to sell. What there hadn't been talk of was what else the ship had brought. It had been two weeks later that the letter had found James, informing him that his wife was terribly ill with some sort of pox, and his daughter was also unwell. By the time he made it home to Wentwood, both were dead. It was clearly smallpox, James recognised the symptoms, and cursed fate that he had not been present, though in truth he knew that there was little he could do as a physican once the infection had set in. But he didn't want to be logical, or reasonable, not with his darling Noni lying there, still and ashen, her skin all covered in spots. He'd looked at her and just felt... empty. Such a waste of a vibrant soul. But he hadn't wept then, and later a dark little thought had asked whether he'd truly loved her, or just wanted to rescue her. Then a duller thought asked, did it matter? But James knew; perhaps he wasn't the passionate kind of man in the stories people liked, but he'd adored Noni in his own way. Marriages didn't have to have love, but they'd been very fond of each other, and seeing her so happy as she decorated their house and planned their gardens and hosted tea parties had warmed him in a way nothing else had. He hadn't cried then. It had been the moment when he'd held his daughter's still body in his arms that had broken him. His darling little Marie Rachelle, who seemed to embody the best of both of them. She'd not even been two years old. He knew, intellectually he knew, that the mortality rate of young children was high. He was a doctor after all. Every family lost children. They caught so many diseases, had so many accidents. But now it had happened to him, and both his wife and his only child were gone. James had stood in Wentwood Hall, his grand house all decorated in pastels and bows as per Noni's whims, situated on his Barony's estate as gifted by the King himself as a wedding present, with it's greater lands and estates as purchased with Noni's dowry to ensure them a very comfortable standard of living and one day to augment Rachelle's dowry, and felt as though someone had cut the centre out of him, and left nothing but a hole. It had all been for them. Everything here, everything he had achieved, he'd done for Noni and then for Rachelle. Now they were gone, and he was left with nothing that meant anything to him. But they hadn't been the only ones who'd been ill. James had caught some sort of pox as a child after playing with a milkmaid's son at his father's estate of Moulsford, and he knew one didn't catch it twice. He'd shucked his formal attire - all pastels and bows, as chosen by Noni - and had Cedric drag out his old charcoal wools from the chest in the attic whence his wife had banished them. They were a bit tight, but over the weeks as he worked feverishly to save those he could - and forget, however temporarily, those he could not - the fit became less snug, and finally loose. Until one day all who'd had the pox were either recovering, or passed on to their peace. Then James just... stopped. It had been two days later that Cecil, in an effort to get James out of bed, had brought him along with his tea tray a notice which he'd glanced at some time ago - how long? the days and weeks all ran together - and then ignored. "Perhaps Sir would like to reconsider this," the old retainer had murmured, before excusing himself. James had glanced at it listlessly, noting the announcement of the Christening of the young Prince, Charles Henry, to occur in Windsor. He flicked the paper idly. Charles Henry. Only months old. The hope of peace and stability of the nation. The son of the Queen (and the King, of course) to whom he was nominally still one of the Royal Physicians. He'd sat bolt upright and spilled his tea, before yanking on the bell pull so hard that he'd nearly disconnected the thing, and brought staff running. Why did he have a bell pull? Since when did he have staff? Ah yes, these were all things belonging to Baron Wentwood, husband of Lady Mignonette nee de la Rovere, a Princess of the French line, and father of Marie Rachelle, of the same line. He was husband and father no longer, but he was still a physician. And whilst he couldn't save his own child, he could do all he could to ensure that his monarchs, and the country, did not suffer the same loss. So here they were. He'd travelled light with minimal staff, greasing their path with coin in a way he never would have before, all to get himself and Cecil to Windsor before Sunday. And here they were. Now the urge that had driven him had nowhere to drive, and left James feeling depressed and deflated once again. There was nothing more to do until the morrow. "Would Sir care for a bath?" Asked his manservant. Quite where they were going to fit the tub in this small room James wasn't sure, but he nodded anyway. Thank God for Cecil. Thank God the man hadn't taken sick; he was of some considerable age and probably would have died. Mind you, James had heard some of the younger staff maintain that he already had, he simply wouldn't hold still long enough to be buried. James had mentioned it once to the man himself in jest, in happier times, and Cecil had simply given him that patient, upward-turn of the lips that meant he was vaguely amused if Sir was, and went about his business. Outside the window, the raven watched through the glass as the firelight flickered and the bath was drawn, whilst the cold wind ruffled it's feathers. Edited August 29 by James Winchester Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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