A Sense of Something (Closed)

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

_______________________________________________


I am like a flag in the center of open space.
I sense ahead the wind which is coming, and must live it through.
while the things of the world still do not move:
the doors still close softly, and the chimneys are full of silence,
the windows do not rattle yet, and the dust still lies down.

I already know the storm, and I am troubled as the sea.
I leap out, and fall back,
and throw myself out, and am absolutely alone
in the great storm.

- "Sense of Something," Rilke

_______________________________________________

"My title was bankrupt until recently."

The warehouse was as large as a cathedral. Straw lined the floors, and piled floor to ceiling were crates of every shape and size. Sunlight beamed through the windows, and caught in the rays of light, dust danced in a frenzy of hopeless motion. She stared transfixed at one of the shafts and slowly moved her hand through the angle of glowing white. Her hand blazed colorless out of the gray warehouse. She blinked and withdrew it, turning abruptly to face the young dock lad who had led her to her section. She fished a coin out of her purse and pressed it into his hand. He backed away to take his leave, but she touched him lightly upon the shoulder. With a secretive shake of her head, she held him still long enough to find another. She held it out in her right hand, but only after pressing the index finger of her other hand to her lips. Shhh. The boy's eyes widened to the size of saucers, but he accepted the coin. Nobles were funny like that. Always wishing secrecy for something he wouldn't have bothered talking about anyway.

Rosalind disappeared into the stacks of crates. Several she recognized as those that had made it as far as her room at the inn, boxes that had taken days to sort through. Boxes that had haunted her dreams with streams punctured with cloudbursts of blood, and awoke her far before dawn with beads of cold sweat dripping down her forehead and her bedding kicked onto the floor. She inhaled deeply. And sneezed.

"How long has your leg pained you my lady?" Her voice still held it's sweet lilt but there was worry in her voice.

"It was crushed beneath a wagon wheel some four years prior and reset, but it did not mend properly." Rosalind's voice had lost its innocent tone somewhere between then and now.

"What am I to do with you?" she asked the crates, wrapping her arms around her stomach and allowing her the first moment of self-pity since leaving Aberdeen. She felt tears sting her eyes, but was not so indulgent as to let them fall. She was made of strong stuff. She smudged the edge of her sleeve beneath her eyes and straightened the sturdy fabric of her tabard. She raised her chin a fraction of an inch. Her title was bankrupt no longer. The message, if not the goods, had been delivered.

She swept a hand through her hair, then lifted her skirts. She tucked the extra fabric into her belt, knotted it securely, and climbed onto one of the crates, and then another, steadying herself occasionally upon the heap before her. Her leg did not pain her today, but perhaps she was used to it. The body adapted to pain. She reached the desired box and carefully pulled off the top, placing the slotted wood cover atop its neighbor. She sorted through the straw packaging and lifted the layer of sack cloth.

The answers came no more readily at the top of the pile of crates as at the bottom. Face to face with all that she loathed, she merely blinked, pressed her lips together into a determined line, and pulled free a box no larger than her hand, and no thicker than a deck of playing cards. She shoved it into her pocket, disgusted at the mere sight of it, and repacked the crate. She carefully picked her way down. Once her feet were back on the floor, she loosened the folds of her tucked skirt and pulled off the tabard, used to protect the new fabric of her dress. She kicked the tabard into a corner and left the warehouse, collecting her lady's maid as she went. Her unique gait made her an easy target to pick out among the crowded docks, even if she kept her head down in modesty, and hurried onward to her next destination.

Pain, regret, bitterness and pride -- they ate at the heart and soul like a cancer. But the body adapted to pain. The mind healed eventually. How well they mended was part fate and part diligence. Though Rosalind was whole, the unseen scars remained.[/color][/font]

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

"My lady, he says he will not leave Skye until you go to meet with him. He does not want your money." The lad was puzzled, and it clearly showed upon his face, but he had his pride. He held himself upright as his captain often did and awaited the woman's response. He had been ordered not to leave without her. Assuming the woman would keep quiet about this business, she wouldn't have much choice. Forcibly throwing Angus the cabin boy onto the street might raise some eyebrows.

"And I do not want to give him my money," Rosalind replied with diminishing patience. "Stay where you are. I will return anon." Her lady's maid, a stout girl recently hired from Aberdeen to prepare Rosalind for her introduction to court, popped up as Rosalind entered the boudoir. Anabella armed herself with a hairbrush and quickly plaited Rosalind's long hair, deft fingers flying and lips pursed in silent disapproval. As a widow, Rosalind could escape many social strictures placed upon women, and often had no qualms about using fashion to her advantage. Anabella tucked wayward chestnut strands beneath the tight lining of the wimple, then pulled the linen out to its full width.

"Why do you not visit your family today?" she suggested. Anabella's look of disapproval didn't disappear, but she could not fight her lady. Rosalind's stubbornness was different from a Scot's. It ran deeper, and far colder. Anabella attributed that to the lady's loss. Four years was a long time for a young widow to go unclaimed. That must have been Rosalind's doing, Anabella concluded. She is still in love with Lamont. If she were marrit again, she might forget him, an' maybe.... Anabella merely curtsied when Rosalind made her leave, rather than complete her thought. She liked the lady. She even aspired to be like the lady, in looks and demeanor. Rosalind had an interesting way of facing the world, accepting what was impossible to alter and staring down the weaker faults of those who yet might. She could not imagine any particularly evil fault in Lady Inveryne, but perhaps the lady's brittleness might find salve with a new man. To Anabella, the notion that a woman could go unmarried in the prime of her life was astoundingly selfish. And remarkably romantic. No, she could not finish her thoughts when Rosalind's quick mind might discern Anabella's unwelcome conclusions. She ducked into the lady's wardrobe and busied herself until she was very sure Rosalind and the boy were well out of range.

Rosalind let the merchant captain's boy course ahead along the streets. Her arrival in Turas Lan had been but a few days before, and these streets were unfamiliar to her. Messengers had traversed the path between her inn and the docks many times before since the merchant captain's arrival, but Rosalind did not yet have the courage to attempt her own explorations. Perhaps this was for the best. No matter what she chose to wear, she would always look like a lady of quality. Her dress could be bloodstained to the elbows, her hair matted beyond salvation, and body greatly diminished by starvation and cold, and she was still recognizably worth a ransom. Fortunately, Rosalind was garbed somewhat better than when she had been recovered by the Campbells in a flattering shade of blue, and in the waning warmth of October, had wrapped herself in a warm woolen shawl the color of mustard. The crisp ivory of her linen wimple covered her dark hair, and occasionally fluttered with the brine-scented wind from the harbor.

When she arrived at the ship, the captain indicated she should follow him aboard. Rosalind stood her ground at first, her voice pitched so low, none but the captain might hear. But the captain was adamant that she see the cargo she was refusing, and seeing no other way around these negotiations, she followed him aboard.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

"Ye ken wha' this is for," Thomas Maitland said, jerking his head in the direction of his cargo. He was a sturdily built man with a barrel chest, a bit short, which would not have been quite so evident if Rosalind was not so tall. Dark blond hair needed washing, but had been tied behind his head. He had a nervous habit of rubbing at his full beard, and Rosalind wondered if the poor man had lice, but the thought was so disgusting that she turned her head instead. "I canna return it."

"You can, and you will," Rosalind said, walking toward the crates and examining the contents that she could see through the slats. "I have paid you well enough. I will not be held hostage by this matter."

"Pay is fine," Maitland growled. "For a man wha' doesna have to deal wi' tha' damned tanist. I've m'ship to think about, my limbs to maintain."

Rosalind glared at him. "Then I pay you to shove off at night, and pray there is a storm that sweeps these crates off the deck and into the sea. The Lord giveth and He taketh away." She squared her shoulders and turned back to Maitland. "Let us be reasonable."

"There is a point, my dear, in which coin is no longer payment enough." Maitland shoved her against the wall, holding her still with his forearm pressed into her neck. He waited to see the fear in her eyes, and was unnerved to find none. She had already come to her conclusions, but he was just stupid enough to vocalize them. He was a tyrant accustomed to power on his own ship. Were they on land, he would never have taken such liberty with the Inveryne witch. "Nay, I dinna mean tha' payment," he said roughly. "Though I migh' verra well enjoy feelin' ye writhe beneath me. Even wi' tha' limp o' yers, ye are a fine, bonnie woman. I have myself to consider."

Loosening his grip, but not yet finished with her, he slammed his fist into her stomach, and smiled with satisfaction when she instinctively collapsed inward, those proud eyes of hers bulging as the wind abandoned her lungs. He dragged her upward by her wimple and twisted her to face the crates in the hold. "Ye would no' be worth the penalty. Tak' the crates and have done with it, woman. Save yer coin." He released her grip on her wimple, and she fell roughly on the floor.

Rosalind found herself on all fours, unable to inhale, unable to think. Finally, air flooded her lungs and she wheezed in appreciation. She rolled back onto her heels and rose slowly. "Did your employer give you instructions on my treatment?" she asked instead, her tone neutral despite her spinning head. She put a hand to the wall behind her for balance, the only concession she was willing to make.

"Aye," Maitland said, folding his arms behind his back. "That he did. He sent ye a message as well, knowin' ye wouldna be likely reading his letters."

Rosalind smiled. "He was right in that regard. Well. I cannot outrun you. I cannot outfight you. I thought you a tyrant on our first meeting and I hardly dare hope you might yet prove me wrong."

"Were only all me customers as pragmatic as ye," Maitland said, his tone somewhat civil, despite the malicious gleam in his eyes. He curled his fingers into a fist. Little known to either combatant, Maitland's cabin boy chose that moment to creep quietly away from the door. Though he had lived nearly his entire life upon the ship, and was as deft as any of the older men, something prevented him from moving as quickly today, as if his two feet were stuck in the mire. To his horror, he heard another meaty punch and a soft, distinctly feminine grunt of pain before he was able to climb up the hatch and onto the deck.

Angus waited for what seemed like hours before the lady climbed back out on deck. To his surprise, she seemed as put together as when she had arrived. Save for the slightly askew wimple, which the lady fixed discreetly, she looked none the worse for wear. Angus had been on the receiving end of a number of punches and wallopings in his young life to have distinct admiration for Rosalind as she made her way back onto the docks. When Captain Maitland approached Angus, the boy had little idea of what to expect. Certainly, he didn't think the captain could have any unfinished business with the lady. He opened his mouth to protest when Maitland sent him after Rosalind, but the dangerous look in the captain's eyes did not bode well for him. He gulped, nodded his head quickly, and dashed off after the lady.

Maitland wanted this business finished. Rosalind would not settle to his terms in private, so they would take it to a public forum. He had been warned by a much wiser man than he on the handling of the Lamont woman.

[Lady Rosalind Avalle]

Little things in day-to-day life began to take on a significance that others would find bewildering. But Anabella noticed. She began to wonder how many of Rosalind's flaws were flaws at all. Everything had a purpose in Rosalind's life, even defects of the heart, body, and soul. She used each to her advantage, allowing none to hamper her, unless defeat itself aligned with her plans.

She was surprised when Rosalind returned late that day, but said nothing as she prepared the lady's bath. While Rosalind soaked, Anabella ran down to the apothecary and found the necessary supplies for dressing the woman's bruises. Rosalind said nothing and Anabella did not inquire, but one of those bruises, splayed across her pale arm, was in the shape of a man's hand. Why did Rosalind not rail at the abuse? Call the guard? Demand justice?

Rosalind never brought up that day again. New friends were growing used to Rosalind's lame leg; an extra grimace at the tenderness of bruises barely raised an eyebrow. No one asked, which suited Rosalind, because she would not lie.

As the days passed, she put her dealings with the merchant captain behind her and focused upon her upcoming presentation to the Duchess's court. When she was welcomed into the castle, Rosalind's relief was nearly palpable. Anabella helped her move her few possessions into her new quarters, and soon enough, Rosalind settled into a routine she was comfortable with. The Duchess was not particularly demanding of her ladies, though it was in Rosalind's nature to busy herself with all manner of tasks.

It was during one lazy afternoon that Anabella brought a letter to Rosalind regarding the supplies in the warehouse waiting for Rosalind's attention. After Maitland lost his fingers to the Spanish captain's sword, Rosalind had nearly put the entire affair out of her head. She had sent proper recompense to the captain's employer. He deserved as much -- though justice had been served, he was now without an able sea captain. Though other letters had arrived from Scotland, Rosalind had been remiss in reading them. She needed no further reminder that her position was well known to those she had left behind in Scotland than Maitland's arrival. She knew her past would find her eventually. She would brave the storm when it came, but she did not look forward to its arrival.

"Place it in auction," Rosalind told Anabella. "I have no further need of it." True, her wardrobe was now fitting of her station. She could afford all the necessary staff, and it was no longer so apparent she came of a bankrupt title. She was not reveling in income, but she was living somewhat more comfortably than she had while taking Lady Mary's charity in Aberdeen. It was time to be quit of this business at the docks. Though she knew the captain's employer would not accept the returned goods, she doubted he would be adverse to accepting their value in gold.

And her hands, washed of blood, could finally be put to meaningful work.