𝑝𝑠𝑙 — no day occurs that is more celebrated than the fifth of november.

[enswathe]

( true to his word, on the morning of the fourth day at longbourn, he departs. with his impairment restraining him to his bed and room, the three days felt more like a week. mr. bennet visited occasionally to relieve his boredom, but his visits were never enough. and yet — too much, too long in the intimate setting of the bedroom with atticus laid up in bed, his boots removed, and mr. bennet squeezed into the small chair next to him. it was not the convivial visits over strong tea and the table stacked with books where they would debate each other about the correct interpretation of voltaire's candide. meanwhile, miss bennet was like an apparition, visiting him only briefly in the morning at breakfast and then at dinner. not that she could be blamed for her absence. it was her first time as the mistress of the house, and, if she wanted to retain her last visage of virtue, it would be best to limit her time with a man most of the town (including her mother) thought of as a rogue. and, of course, mrs bennet was never seen but always heard, not present, but ever felt. truly, she was the apparition of longbourn, wailing and lamenting her sorrows during all hours of the day. even in the back of the house, atticus did not escape her haunts. what is never mentioned about injuries is that the first day, the day of the beating, is the least painful. in the coming days, the bruises bloom a black or blue (like mould on a piece of bread), the bones ossify, and the muscles tighten. it's as if the body is contracting, returning to a state like that of a baby, to heal and reform to its original state. thusly, atticus took his meals in his room. it was better to separate himself from his fellows and be afflicted in solitude. even now, as he rides his horse with dustros trailing close behind, his bones ache with each step on the dusty trail. promptly, atticus returns to avalon, packs a small knapsack, and departs again. this time to london where he catches a ship to the continent. he spends the next month meandering through the lower saxony, trying to regain some of the vitality lost during his leisurely period at meryton. on the boat trip back to england, atticus feels more vibrant and energetic, like the sun peeking from the horizon after a long storm. travel truly is incredible in how it can return life to that which was once assumed dead. it's the morning of november fifth when he arrives in london. guy faux day. the date and celebration are misplaced in his mind until he sees a group building an effigy and children beating with sticks a wooden pole labelled "guy faux". the air is tinged with smoking hay and smoking meat. a cool wind blows in from the north. with renewed vigour, atticus collects his horse from the stables and gallops to meryton. there too is the promise of celebration in the air, like lightning moments after it strikes, as the buildings turn into trees and the cobblestone street turns to dirt road. his priority should be returning to avalon, but, instead at the fork, he turns east to longbourn. the emotions singing through his veins are meant to be shared not contained or hidden. this is the time to seek out and revel in friendships. quite soon, when the sun is high in the sky, he arrives at longbourn. this being his first guy faux day in meryton, he is unsure of their typical celebratory traditions, but it appears the bennets celebrate it in a reserved fashion. in front of the house stands a humanlike figure (presumably guy faux) made from straw and old clothing tied to a wooden pole. it stands to reason that, when night comes, a crowd will assemble to witness the fake guy faux set alight. nevermind, the bennets do not celebrate this day in a reserved fashion, as atticus spots a pair of servants setting up for fireworks on the gravel road. a stablehand appears to collect his horse. before he's led away, atticus grabs two small parcels from the saddle bag and tucks them in the pockets of his red jacket. neither the master nor mistress of the house come out to greet him. mrs. bennet not coming out is unsurprising, but mr. bennet not coming out is perhaps... not unsurprising as well. it would take a lot more than atticus's appearance after more than a month to get george from his chair and a good book. dustros keeps close to his master's feet as atticus searches for a bennet or a servant. near the entrance of the garden, he spots miss bennet's brown hair through the bare bushes. smiling, he quietly makes his way to her. ) Miss Bennet. ( a breeze blows by just then, carrying his voice across the lawn. with a sweeping motion, he removes his straw hat and bows to greet her. )

Comments

[enswathe]

( smiling in return, he takes her cup and makes his way towards the drink stand. with the festivities fully underway now, atticus must stand in line and wait his turn for refills. but the line moves fairly quickly and, after a few minutes, he has two full goblets again.

when he's halfway back to miss bennet, a strong hand grabs his upper arm and yanks him from the crowd and into the dancing couples. in the dim light, atticus makes out the grinning face of his dance partner. she's the servant to one of the families living just outside meryton. if he recalled, the family was farmers, but not on land big or profitable enough to gain them entry into meryton's society. lister, he thinks but he must confess that he never took particular note of any of the families or citizens. the bennets are enough for him.

but, he thinks her name is rosalie. yes, he seems to recall working alongside a man during harvesttime who spoke of his sister who worked for the lister family. perhaps this is she. with her flaming red hair like the man, she may be. ) Oh, pardon me.

( but, despite his best efforts to extricate himself from the woman's grip, atticus is pulled deeper into the makeshift dance floor. the drinks slosh from the cups, almost landing on his boots and trousers several times because of the movements. the once-full goblets are now halfway empty. )

[moralized]

[ Left to her thoughts, Mary thinks back on times with her young cousins and she contemplates if her memories wouldn't be half so fond if they hadn't been so well behaved. From there her thoughts shift to Mr. Cartwright and the good humor he's displayed today. She's had so little experience conversing with men, but with a well-educated man who enjoys music it feels easy. Natural, even.

And from there her thoughts shift to wonder why he hasn't yet returned. It's not something she suspects is a grand mystery. At a party such as this he is sure to have been waylaid by conversation or a queue at the stand. Still, she casts her eyes in that direction to check only to spot him dancing instead. An odd sensation blooms through her in all directions. It's as if a brief flame shoots up across her face while at the same time a lead weight drops into her stomach. It is not an entirely foreign feeling, but it's one she doesn't like to feel. Disappointment and jealousy are sensations she's known and dealt with as best she could while putting on a brave face and a sense of superiority to ease the sting. Tonight however, when she's felt such ease and happiness that are so rare for her, the sudden image of him ignoring her company for someone else's is almost too much to bear. She hardly knows how to deal with these feelings as she has in the past, when it was her parents or acquaintances ignoring her for her sisters. This feels so much more personal.

Her feet move in the direction of the dancers almost without her willing it so. The excitement and festive atmosphere feel like they're happening far away as the world closes in around her. Mary should not care. This is the thought that whispers across her mind. She should not care what a gentleman does, as there is no person on Earth more free to do as he likes than such a man. And yet for some reason being left and seemingly forgotten by him hurts.

Once she's close enough to properly see the dancers and Mr. Cartwright in particular, she's puzzled to see the goblets he carries in either hand. And it looks less like he's dancing and more like he's being pulled about to and fro. Whatever strange inclination possessed her to move over this way in the first place instead of flee into the house has her now marching her way out among the revelers, pushing around pairs and stepping on a heel here and there until she's reached Mr. Cartwright's side. Her chin lifts, her eyes are piercing, and she takes one of the goblets from his hand before firmly winding her arm around the crook of his elbow. Her jealousy has never caused her to react so quickly and decisively before. Like a flame burning bright, she feels as though nothing can touch her in this moment, but who can say for how much longer the candle will burn. ]

It appears you became lost on your way back to me, Mr. Cartwright.

[ Rosalie places her hands on her hips in irritation at this interruption from her good time. She certainly hadn't expected Miss Bennet to turn up all but claiming the gentleman as her own. Maybe what people have been saying about the two of them are true after all, though Rosalie doesn't want to risk her family losing their livelihood because she gave voice to it. She's smarter than that.

For her part, Mary - though not as smart as she'd like to think herself - has taken a breath and realized her blunder. It's true that she doesn't care what people think of her anymore, but much like Rosalie does, Mary thinks of her mother and father and how they wouldn't approve of her behavior right now. Eyes lower to her goblet before she can find the words to speak again. This time there is more thought behind them instead of blind emotion. ]

I thank you for my drink, sir. Shall I leave you to your dancing?

[ Her gaze lifts and despite her best efforts there is a vulnerability there. She is young, unsure, but full of some sort of feelings that have been bruised. Her expression says what she cannot give voice to: Or will you come with me? ]

[enswathe]

( if it wasn't for the years of dance lessons, atticus would've tripped over his feet due to the woman's quick enthusiasm. fortunately, he can keep pace with her even with goblets in his hands and a grim expression creasing his features. he was never one for dancing. clearly, not because he lacked the skill, but because of sheer dislike. playing his violin for his acquaintances is one thing while reciting a speech in front of peers is another. those are written within a social contract that he, while not willingly consenting to it, are tasks that he has performed enough times to do, even reluctantly. it is expected of him as a baron's son, a fellow, an associate, a lieutenant, and a man.

but he will never consent to dance, mainly because of the implications entangled in the act. while not always a stage towards matrimony, from his observations, it usually is and he has no interest in that either.

it's only out of politeness, surprise, and not wanting to spill any drink on himself that atticus hasn't pushed the woman away. he can feel the eyes of their neighbours and his cheeks burn hotter than the bonfire still licking at guy faux's effigy. just when he believes the song is at an end, the song continues and continues, only prolonging his misery and the likelihood of his trousers getting wet.

to his relief, however, someone stops their dancing and, to his surprise, it's miss bennet. she takes a goblet from him and tucks her arm around the crook of his elbow firmly like the hook in a fish's mouth. he is entirely too relieved and embarrassed to look at miss bennet or rosalie, instead keeping his gaze fixed on a hedgerow far off behind a group of revellers. this time he doesn't have an injured rib to focus on so he looks rather bewildered and stilted like his mind is running and tripping around a ship's deck during a storm. )

I should take my leave now, thank you. If you would be so kind, Miss Bennet, as to escort me to your father so I may say my farewells. I believe I saw him slip inside the house.

( that may or may not be the truth, atticus doesn't know. he lost track of mr. bennet pretty immediately after joining the festivities and hasn't seen him since. it would, however, give them both the opportunity to escape prying eyes and wagging tongues and collect themselves enough so atticus can leave. but it wouldn't be surprising if mr. bennet had slipped inside the house. )

[moralized]

Of course.

[ Rosalie doesn't bother protesting and when she catches the eye of a handsome young farmhand she's off again to enjoy herself. This leaves the pair of gentry to remove themselves from the makeshift dance area, which Mary does without delay, guiding Mr. Cartwright with her hand still pressed to the crook of his elbow.

Despite being woefully naive sometimes, even Mary can tell that he's out of sorts from the recent experience and she admonishes herself for thinking he left their conversation to enjoy himself with someone else. He has seemed taciturn and unamused before, but he's never before in her presence seemed unsure or embarrassed before tonight.

Once they are no longer crowded in by people and have the light of lanterns to follow to the front door, she gently lets her hand slip away to her side. There is a moment of thought for her drink, but she decides against it. She suddenly finds herself no longer thirsty. It's a quick trip to the house and once inside Mary sets both goblet and bonnet on the front table as she calls out: "Papa?" His library is the first door on the left so if he is within he's surely within range of hearing her. But no response comes. Almost as if expecting it to be so, Mary moves in that direction as she removes her gloves. ]

He often ignores my calls, so I will check if he is within, sir.

[ At this angle it's difficult to see if there is light coming out from under the door, and even if there is, that could be the light of the bonfire outside coming through the windows. Stepping up to the door, she knocks gently, calls for him again, and slowly opens the door. ]

[enswathe]

( the further he's from the crowd, the lighter atticus feels; the weight of stares lifting from his shoulders. when they reach the house and miss bennet removes her arm from his, the ultimate weight is gone, but it's... cold. like taking off a heavy coat and exposing oneself to the chilly biting wind.

he lingers by the entrance, sure that they are the only two in the entire house and that transversing further in would only invite more uncertainties about the pair. for the townsfolk, there are no uncertainties and there is little atticus can say or do (aside from leaving) to dissuade their inferences. frankly, seen from an outside perspective, it's easy to see their friendship and assign meaning and importance to interactions where there are none. however, what is beginning to worry atticus, is if miss bennet has uncertainties and if she's assigning meaning and importance to their interactions. he does not want to encourage her and lead her to believe that he sees her as more than a friend. the last thing he wants to do is to hurt her.

but that's a subject he's afraid to broach. since she's stopped caring about others' opinions, perhaps she hasn't heard their gossip, though that would be naïve for him to think so. the biggest gossip in town lives in her home, of course, she knows. maybe like him, she has no uncertainties and sees him as only a friend. the possibility of that makes it more difficult to find the confidence to speak to her because if she has only a friendly impression of him, talk of romance may spoil their friendship, like adding salt to cream. and he doesn't want that either.

in any case, they will have to speak. sooner rather than later, before mr. bennet's hand is forced, and the threat of marriage is introduced.

when miss bennet knocks on the door to the library, atticus steps further into the house so his voice can remain low as he calls out to her. ) Do not trouble yourself, Miss Bennet. Forgive me, but I was deceptive when I said I saw your father come inside. ( he softly chuckles as a small smile pulls at his mouth. ) Though I wouldn't have put it past the old chap to slip away. Regardless, the lie was created so we could remove ourselves from the situation without causing further trouble. For that, I am sorry. And I am sorry for what happened outside.

( of course, it was not atticus's doing, but he feels obligated to apologise anyway. ) However, I wasn't lying when I said that I should be leaving.

[moralized]

[ Mary hasn't opened the door enough to slip through before he calls out to her and she turns back to listen. ]

You have done nothing wrong, sir.

[ There is a moment where she considers confessing her relief that he hadn't truly abandoned her for another, but in taking a moment to consider how to word it, she also thinks better of it. It feels too... intimate a confession. And to reveal such a thing would make her feel far too vulnerable. ]

And of course. It is late and you have only just arrived home from your trip.

[ She takes a few steps closer before dipping into a polite curtsy. It would be for the best if he goes, because - as he has predicted - she is wrestling with some uncertainties at the moment. No doubt they will keep her up long into the night. ]

Good night, Mr. Cartwright.