Chapter Sixteen: Progress and Productivity (2)

[manniness]

 

“I envy you, little sister.”

Alice looks up from the embroidery she’s currently butchering. Normally, she wouldn’t have had any patience for it, but as she’d agreed to spending the afternoon with Margaret and Margaret seems to enjoy the domestic torture...

“I’m sorry? What?”

Margaret sighs heavily and, lowering the fabric and needle to her lap, confesses, “Tarrant. I envy you him.”

Alice blinks at her. “I... you... Why would you say that?” For, as surely as Alice knows the sun rises over Mamoreal from Witzend and sets in Queast, she knows that Margaret would never long for – let alone allow! – an impoverished man with wild eyebrows and long hair and a tradesman’s hands to touch her. It’s not vanity or discrimination, Alice believes. It’s simply that Margaret has only ever had an interest in her own kind. And, if there’s one thing Alice has learned from a lifetime of being compared to her older sister, it’s that Margaret is a Lady. And the proper companion for a lady is a gentleman. Which Alice is very thankful Tarrant is not.

“I’m sorry, Alice!” Margaret whispers and Alice sees tears of shame in her sister’s eyes. “I didn’t mean... I don’t...” She stops, takes a deep breath, controls herself. “I meant, I envy your marriage. It’s... it’s a marriage of substance and I wish... I wish Lowell would... would just once speak to me as if... as if...!”

“As if you have at least one interesting thought in your head,” Alice suggests, reaching across the space between their chairs and grasping her sister’s hand.

The tears return and Margaret only nods.

Alice reaches for a handkerchief – one of several she now keeps in her handbag and gently dabs the tumbling tears from her sister’s face. Margaret smiles her thanks and, her gaze darting to the bright blue handkerchief, releases a sobbing laugh.

“There, you see, Alice!” she nearly shouts. “This is exactly my point! Those aren’t your handkerchiefs – I’ve noticed Tarrant handing them to you before. They’re his and he gave them to you, didn’t he? Knowing you’d be away with me and you might need them and he wouldn’t be here himself to offer them to you and do you have any idea what I would give to receive even half that regard from Lowell?”

Alice rubs her sister’s shoulder and does her best to catch as many tears as she can. “Oh, Margaret. You were happy with him once, weren’t you? What happened?” Although, Alice thinks she already knows.

Margaret hiccups and wrestles once again for control. “Winslow happened. My beautiful son... after he was born, Lowell started... or, no, actually I don’t believe that! He no longer bothered to keep his affairs from me. That man makes a mockery of our marriage. Humiliates me with his philandering! Everyone is aware of it! And they probably laughed at me long before I ever suspected!”

Alice hides a wince. I should have told her about that scene at the engagement party...

Yes, she should have.

Damn you, Lowell, for forcing that decision on me.

Yes, she should have told Margaret, but would she have believed her then? Probably not.

“With an heir to the Manchester name, he doesn’t need me anymore,” she says. “It was all a lie, anyway. He never wanted me. He never even wanted to be married. That’s not so much to ask for, is it? For a husband to care for his wife, to want to be married to her?”

Alice shakes her head. “No, no, it’s not an unreasonable request at all. In fact, I’d say it’s your right to expect that.”

Margaret swallows thickly. “We always want what we can never have...”

Alice hesitates to ask the question she knows she has to. No one else will ask it and Margaret desperately needs to Face it. After a moment of awkward silence, she does: “What will you do, dear sister? Will you leave him? Divorce...?”

Margaret emphatically shakes her head. “No. No, I won’t. I won’t do that to you and mother.”

“Margaret, don’t use us and an excuse to delay finding your own happiness. You know I don’t care about what’s proper! And you know mother will support you in your decision, whatever it is! I’ve no doubt she wishes she could have spoken to you about this herself, but you know she can’t. She’s our mother, after all. I’m your rebellious devil-may-care sister, so I can say whatever I please!”

There’s a hysterical note in Margaret’s helpless laughter. Alice smiles for her and waits for her to calm down.

When she does, her sister whispers, “Even if I wanted to... end it, how could I? Winslow...”

Yes, Winslow would stay with his father. Alice is sure the man would never release his son and heir. And, certainly, his family would never permit it even if Lowell himself had no interest in the boy. In fact, Alice is almost completely sure he doesn’t. She’s never seen him touch the child at all, not to pick him up, not to play with him, not to kiss his brow or soothe his tears. No, Winslow is Margaret’s son. Lowell had simply been contracted labor on the part of his conception. It’s quite obvious to Alice that the man believes his job is Done.

Alice sighs. “I hate this place. These rules and restrictions.”

Margaret turns and gawks, utterly gob smacked. “Alice, don’t say such things! This is our home!”

And, however fleeting the thought of inviting her sister to Underland may have been, it no longer matters. It dies, unexplored, unvoiced, in that very moment.

“It’s not Society’s fault I’m trapped in this loveless marriage, that my husband shames me, that he treats me as if I’m a nothing more than a fixture of this house! I did this to myself, Alice. I saw what I wanted to see in him.” Margaret sighs. “I almost wish I’d never found out. I wonder how long the dream could have lasted if I hadn’t. Or if I’d borne a daughter first before Winslow...”

“Those aren’t very helpful thoughts to be having,” Alice gently scolds her. “What’s done is done. Now you have to think of Winslow. And, I’m sorry to say this, Margaret, but Lowell isn’t much of a father to him, and he needs one.”

Margaret nods, her shoulders slumping in dejection. “I know. I’d ask Lowell’s father to spend more time with him except...”

Alice sighs right along with her this time. “Yes, I know.” The man obviously hadn’t had much of a hand in his own son’s upbringing, not with the veritable empire he’d built out of what had once been a modest family business.

“If only papa were...”

Alice feels tears come to her own eyes at that. “Don’t, Margaret,” she manages through the painful tightening of her own throat. She wants to say more, to beg her sister not to torture both of them with such thoughts, but she can’t.

“I’m sorry.”

Alice nods.

The clock ticks. They sniffle and soak Tarrant’s borrowed handkerchiefs in tears. And when it seems like the morning has been completely ruined beyond repair, Margaret sits up and takes a deep breath.

“Well, this is getting maudlin. Come with me, Alice. There was a reason I asked you over today.”

Curious and still dabbing at escaping tears, Alice follows Margaret out of the small sunroom and into the parlor. Margaret smiles as she picks up a wicker basket and sets it on the sofa. Alice joins her.

“What’re those?”

Margaret lifts out the tiniest baby bunting Alice has ever seen. “Winslow’s baby clothes,” she says. “I thought you could use them... I know you and Tarrant don’t have much money with you...”

Alice doesn’t even have the presence of mind to search for something to say out of gratitude. Instead, she idiotically observes, “They’re so... small.”

Margaret laughs. “It certainly doesn’t feel like it when they’re on their way into the world!”

Alice hears a small, frantic snort and assumes she must have been the one to make it. However, her attention is focused on a boot. A little fur boot. For an impossibly small foot. Hands shaking, she reaches for it and lifts it and its partner from the neat stack.

“For winter,” Margaret explains unnecessarily.

Alice nods, feeling the burn of tears again. “It’s... so... so...”

Dear Fates, her and Tarrant’s child – their child, still within her – will wear this tiny, precious, unbelievably sweet pair of boots to keep tiny toes warm from the chill and tiny ankles from getting chapped by the wind and tiny shins from becoming...

“Alice? Are you all right?”

And then it’s Margaret’s turn to hold the handkerchief to her sister’s cheek.

“I’m—sorry—Margaret—I don’t—know—what’s wrong—with me?!” she sobs.

And of course, as that’s the moment when Alice is most decidedly Not Together and her emotions are scattered and floundering like fish out of water, the front door opens and a voice calls out, “Hello? I hope it’s all right that we’ve let ourselves in!”

Brangergain i’tall! Hamish.

“Alice?!”

And Tarrant. Naturally. Well and truly, thoroughly panicking from her sudden loss of Control.

“We’re in here!” Margaret calls too helpfully. Alice wishes she had the fortitude to summon a glare at her.

But then it’s too late to bother with it because Tarrant fairly runs into the room. And Alice feels a stab of panic-relief-confusion! from him before he’s there, wrapping her in his arms. And, useless fool that she is, she clutches the pair of fur boots and sobs onto his shoulder.

“Alice? Wha’s th’matter, lass?!”

“N-n-nothing!” she babbles.

“It’s only the boots,” Margaret supplies as Hamish walks into the room.

“Wha’ boots? Alice? Is there sommat wrong wi’yer boots, love?” He leans over to inspect her feet.

Marshalling herself, Alice thumps the little fur boots against his chest. “Th-these b-b-boots!”

He blinks at them, a puzzled frown pulling at his brows. “I’m sorry, Alice, but I fear even I can’t adjust those to fit you. Not with the size you’re currently at. They’re far, far too small for your right-proper-Alice–”

And whatever composure she’d managed to gather is dashed to bits at the reminder of how small and helpless and precious these boots are and their child will be!

“What in the name of the queen is going on in here? Alice? Are you all right?”

“Of course she is!” Alice hears her sister reply. “She’s expecting. She’s allowed to marvel at the miracle of life!”

“The miracle of...!” There’s a slight pause and then Hamish blusters, “You gave Hightopp a right scare, Alice! Now calm yourself before the man loses his mind with worry! And here we thought you were upset over something important.”

Margaret, bless her, comes to her little sister’s rescue. “Important? Important, Hamish? What could be more important that realizing one’s a part of bringing new life into the world?”

Hamish flounders.

Alice barks out a laugh, which, oddly enough helps her get her tears under control. She leans away from Tarrant and laughs. “Boots for our Hightopp,” she informs him, holding them up properly.

Tarrant’s suddenly misty-eyed stare as he looks at the little shoes in her grasp nearly sends her into an over-emotional bout of insanity... again.

However, he manfully blinks back his own tears and, looking up, smiles. “I like ‘em!”

He says nothing about their size or how they will fit their child or the important role they will play during winter... and for that, Alice damns convention, wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses him in her sister’s parlor.

“Now,” Alice says decisively, knowing that Tarrant will never allow her to apologize for crying on his jacket, “What did you and Hamish do while you were out?”

“Yes,” Margaret says. “Let’s have some tea and then you boys can tell us all about your manly activities that have nothing whatsoever to do with babies.”

Tarrant giggles.

Hamish narrows his blue eyes at him. “Don’t say it, Hightopp. I forbid you.”

“So sorry! Must! Alice must know!” he snorts out, shaking with laughter.

“I must know what?” she demands, looking from her husband to Hamish and then back again.

“We bought a bassinet,” he whispers out in a high-pitched voice just this side of insane cackling.

“A bassinet? Whatever for?”

He sighs and gives her a long-suffering Look.

“No, I meant, why so soon? We’ve months yet.” Over three of them, if she’s counted correctly.

“Perhaps I was merely attempting to be productive.”

“Was fencing not?”

He snorts. “Fencing. The most utterly useless, senseless, nonsensical...!” He sighs and gives her a wry smile. “You will realize exactly how much I love you once you are able to permit me to teach you this... custom.”

“I can hardly wait!” She grins back, delighted.

“Yes, let’s tell Alice how very much you enjoy contradicting the instructor and then stomping on my toes, Hightopp. Very sportsmanlike of you.”

Tarrant doesn’t deny it.

Alice laughs.

Hamish harrumphs.

Margaret pats his shoulder. “Let’s get that tea on, then.”

Hamish glances down at her hand in the instant before she pulls away. “While the offer is very welcome, madam, I’m afraid I must be following Hightopp’s example – just this once!” he asserts with a mild glare in Tarrant’s direction. “– and attempt to accomplish something... productive this afternoon.”

Alice is a little surprised by the fact that Tarrant suddenly straightens. His green eyes narrow as he examines Hamish in contemplative silence.

“Well,” Margaret replies, ignorant of Tarrant’s sudden change in mood. “Far be it from me to attempt to waylay a gentleman on a mission. I’ll see you out.”

“Thank you, madam.” He turns toward Tarrant and Alice. “Will you borrow the Manchester carriage to get home or...?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Alice tells him. “The Kingsleigh carriage should be coming around on the hour.”

“Ah. Very good. Until Friday, Hightopp.”

“I look forward to it, Ascot,” Tarrant replies amiably but with a sly grin tickling the corner of his mouth.

Alice waits until her sister and Hamish have moved out of the room and down the hall. “What is it?” she asks him.

“Something productive,” Tarrant replies.

“What about it?”

“I suggested that very course of action to him earlier today.”

“Did you? How is that odd?” she asks for, by the look on his face, he had most assuredly not expected Hamish to seriously consider the suggestion at all.

“Because, Raven,” he answers, giving her a delighted yet slithy-mad smile, “I made it in reference to your sister and her... unfortunate choice of spouse.”

Alice feels her mouth drop open as Comprehension begins to dawn. First in lime green, then buttercup yellow, and then blushing rose...

She chokes, “You... you...”

And at the sound of the front door closing, Alice finds coherency and whispers urgently. “You don’t think he’d do anything... rash would you?”

“Out of my presence? I certainly hope not! I’ve been rather looking forward to seeing how Rashness suits him!”

“Tarrant!” she hisses.

His brows arc and his expression morphs into the epitome of Innocence. “Yes, love?”

Alice sighs through a grin that’s quickly becoming one of Wonder. “You are Mad.”

He giggles. “I’m glad to hear you say so, my Alice. Very glad!”

“Oh dear,” she muses. “I’m afraid we’ve made a rhyme.”

And when Margaret steps back into the room, she’s greeted with the sight of her sister and brother-in-law knee-deep in tears of helpless mirth on her sofa with a pair of baby’s winter boots still held in their hands between them.

Alice imagines they must be quite the sight if Margaret’s teary smile is anything to go by.


 

*~*~*~*

Notes:

1. A BIG Thank You to wanderamaranth  for sharing her research on divorce in the Victorian Era with me!  Actually, in the event of a divorce, Margaret might be awarded custody of her son (because he’s under the age of seven) but I decided that, in a legal battle and with no male representation (i.e., Charles Kingsleigh) to back Margaret, the Manchesters would probably be able to take custody of Winslow.  It’s half Artistic License and half pessimistic realism on my part.

2. The part with the little baby booties was inspired by broomclosetkink .  Here's your request, sweetie!  (^__~)b