#face in hands purely and utterly disappointed and ambivalent

[bluestonewings]

Mission of make new friends done so successfully that I’ve actually critically doomed myself to failure in the musical endeavor

[marlosbooknook]

In the Depths of the Sea- Ch.2

Read the Previous Chapters Here or Here

Hi all! Sorry it’s been such a long time since I’ve updated. Things have been crazy with schoolwork, but now that summer is quickly approaching, expect far more frequent updates from me! As always, massive thank you’s to my honorary moms, @mibasiamille and @internallydeceased, for listening to me co plain and attempt to write this chapter for 2+ weeks.

Also, as a piece of shameless self-promotion, you can read more of my work, as well as that of my two pals mentioned above on our joint blog @turtlesoupstories!

Enjoy!

Claire’s heart dropped like a rock. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was completely and utterly speechless. She was not sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry, scream, or pummel her Uncle to the brink of death. Never, in all of the years she had been in Lamb’s care, could she have expected him to proceed so thoughtlessly. She felt betrayed, orphaned all over again, as the one person she thought that she could always count on gave her away like a piece of property.

I thought Uncle Lamb was better than this, she thought to herself. I cannot- I will not marry Frank Randall, and there is no way he can make me.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted-”

“You know bloody well that this isn’t what I wanted!” Claire spat, the anger seeping into her voice.

“If you would give me the opportunity to explain myself, Claire-” He attempted to pacify her. With spiraling curls spilling out wildly around her face and her amber eyes blazing with rage, she looked like a lioness, and Lamb found himself in the unfortunate position of the gazelle.

“Save your explanation,” Claire retorted sharply. “There is nothing that you can say or do that will make me marry Frank Randall. I barely know the man!”

“It will be a good match. You’re both extremely bright, and Professor Randall has taken an interest in you after speaking to you at the University Ball last month.”

Claire could only remember the aforementioned ball in bits and pieces. She had needed to consume a copious amount of champagne in order to survive the stuffy, academic evening. She had been standing alone in the corner of the room, nursing her glass, when Professor Randall had taken the opportunity to stroll to her side. The pair stood in silence for a moment and Claire prayed to every deity she could think of that the lack of conversation would be enough to persuade Randall to leave her to her own devices. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

Clearing his throat, Professor Randall shattered the wall. “Miss Beauchamp,” he began, nodding his head as though he just noticed her standing beside him.

Jesus H. Christ this man has no social grace! Claire thought to herself.

“Professor Randall,” she replied, repressing a wine derived hiccup as she bobbed in a quick curtsey.

Should I say something? Claire pondered as she struggled to ease the awkward tension of the situation. Perhaps she should just excuse herself, and put them both out of their misery. Just as she was preparing to make her escape, Randall opened his mouth once more

“You know, I just returned from London. I was assisting in the curation of an exhibition for the King himself. It was a collection of South American antiquities we acquired from Spain in their hoard of conquistadorian artifacts…”

The rest of the conversation was a blank spot in Claire’s memory. But what she could recall soured her perception of Professor Randall. Aloof, conceited, and an altogether bore were the terms Claire thought best to describe him. He was so centered in his own exploits, he never once paused to allow Claire a word of reply. It only lent further credence in her refusal to marry the man.

Uncle Lamb was still trying to speak, the sweat beading on his brow, from a mixture of the Caribbean summer heat and nerves, as he attempted to talk to his niece. He knew that this wasn't going to go over smoothly, but the unadulterated rage that lay before him was beyond even his most extreme expectations. He could understand Claire’s anger. After all, she had spent the majority of her childhood traveling the world, engaging in activities almost the entirety of polished society would deem unsuitable for a girl of noble birth. But Lambert let her. His leash was loose, and he allowed Claire to do as she pleased. Seeing her happy brought him joy; she was the closest thing he had ever had to a daughter.

Yet, in this moment, he couldn’t breathe a word of this to Claire.

His thoughts were broken by the punctuated statement from Claire, whose words were so sharp they pierced his heart like a dagger.

“If you loved me, you would not make me do this. I will not marry Frank Randall.”

Though her statement was simple, a million thoughts were coursing through Claire’s mind. What have I done to deserve this? Her composure slipped, and she fractured into a thousand shards as she watched her uncle's face change from one of moderated sympathy to one of pure stone. Her pointed jab had crossed a line, and as he hardened, she saw a coldness in him that she never could have imagined.

“This is not a matter you have a choice in, Claire. You are marrying Professor Randall because I am ordering you to, and that is final!” His voice grew to a mighty roar. Lamb had never yelled before, and hearing the pure unfettered anger in his voice left Claire at a loss for words.

The silence in the air was suffocating. Tears were flowing openly down Claire’s face, leaving luminescent, sparkling tracks on her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, but found that only the barest hint of a sound could escape her lips. She tried to look up, to meet her uncle’s eye, but he had already turned and walked out of the shed, slamming the flimsy wooden door behind him.

Claire raced after him, her nails digging into the soft skin of her hands until they began to draw blood. Blinded by anger and betrayal, she pushed her way into the outside, the bright Barbados sun blinding her as she fell to the ground and shrieked, “Do not walk away from me! I will not go through with this!”

So she lay in the grass spotted sand, her only comfort the distant sound of the surf crashing on the shore and the gulls overhead. She could have spent hours like that, in her own little bubble to process the events that had just occurred. But, a hand on her shoulder caused an abrupt end to her idealistic contemplation.

“Claire? Are you alright?”

Dear God, not now- It was the last voice she wanted to hear, the last person she wanted to see after all of this. She forced herself to raise her head.

“Professor Randall,” she said, she tried to say it as stoically as possible, but she found her voice quivering.

“Please, call me Frank.��� He attempted to help Claire onto her feet, but she shrugged him off, and turned away. She felt silly; she prided herself on being mature, keeping her emotions hidden. The Bridgetown locals whispered about her being made of ice. It was what made her so good at her job. She harbored no resentments, and presented as a granite statue to the world, unable to be shaken. Until now…

“I heard a commotion from the patio, and, well, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Claire responded, pushing past Frank as she made her way back to the main house. “I just feel unwell.”

Frank grabbed her wrist as she began to walk.

“Wait.” He said, “Walk with me. I would like to talk to you.”

Every fiber of Claire’s being wanted to refuse, but she found herself nodding her head as she and Frank began to make their way down the winding path towards the shore.

Goddamit Beauchamp! She thought as her body mechanically moved against her will.

They were seated silently on a rocky outcropping looking over the surf. Claire’s head flew in front of her face. They had passed the past hour in silence. Frank had tried to make conversation, talking about some new discovery, how they may have uncovered the body of Richard III back in England,  but he gave up as Claire just stared ahead, her eyes glazed over as she washed the waves crash on the shore. There was a storm coming in, and it was as though Claire’s inner turmoil seeped its way out to the sea, where it manifested in the malevolent clouds.

“You like the ocean?” Frank attempted to inquire. He found mild satisfaction in the slight nod he received from Claire as response. “I never much liked the sea myself. It’s far too aggressive; it can’t decide what it wants to be. There’s just too much disorder. I prefer the solid Earth.”

That single statement only further validated Claire’s feelings. Her and Frank Randall were two complete opposites, and differed in ways too monumental to result in happiness. Her chaos, her spontaneity, would be smothered in his closeted library. It was time to put him out of his misery.

“Profess- Frank,” she began, “I know that you were hoping-”

Frank interrupted her. “If I may, Claire. I would like an opportunity to plead my case.” Claire found herself resolved to passive silence as he continued. “I have known your Uncle for many years, and in the years since I’ve been on this island, I have watched you mature into a, well, into a simply ravishing woman, and I am hoping that you will accept my proposal personally. Then we can leave this dreadful place and go back to civilized society.”

“Professor Randall, I do not want to go back to England. My life is here, my friends, and my purpose are here. And if you are unwilling to accept that, then I sincerely doubt that I can make you happy as a wife, and to be completely honest, I remain fairly certain that you will disappoint me equally as a husband.”

Frank was left speechless. Claire’s words were laced with an utter ambivalence that he could never have. Claire, on the other hand, felt a swell of confidence. She was taking her life into her own hands, and her plans did not include Frank Randall.

“Claire. If I’ve offended you in some way, I sincerely apologize, but I do not believe I have done nothing to deserve such hostility from you.”

“You have done nothing, and that is exactly why I will not marry you. We are thoroughly incompatible. This entire conversation, you haven’t let me get in a single bloody word, and now you make yourself the victim.”

Claire was on a natural high, speaking her mind. She was not going to let Frank Randall bully her into being his wife. She stood up to walk away, but Frank rose up to stop her.

“Wait!” he pleaded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped parcel. “This is for you. I didn’t have time to get an engagement ring, and this matches your eyes perfectly. Keep it, and think about my offer.”

Claire unwrapped the package to discover a smooth amber pendant, with a dragonfly trapped with wings spread in the middle. As much as Claire hated to admit it, it was extremely beautiful.

“Thank you,” Claire responded, rubbing her thumb over the glistening surface.

“It was much bigger originally.” Frank made a palm sized shape. “But I had it slimmed and buffed for you. I hope you will wear it and consider my proposal.”

Claire wrapped the amber pack in its cloth covering, and slipped it into her pocket.

“Goodbye, Professor Randall.”

“Wait- are you sure you don’t want me to walk you back-”

But Claire was already gone, off the rocks, and walking barefoot along the shore.

Claire walked until the sun began to set in the horizon, lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t want to go back home, to face the wrath of her uncle. She felt a pang of remorse.

The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt him, or disappoint him… she thought. But it was short lived, as the sight of her uncle’s enraged face flashed into her memory, the thought of his unabashed fury bringing tears to her eyes. I am Claire Beauchamp and I will not marry Frank Randall. She repeated that mantra over and over again, the force of the words propelling her further and further away from her home and the main hub of Bridgetown. I am Claire Beauchamp and I will not marry Frank Randall.

The storm clouds continued to close in above Claire’s head, and the surf began to grow, lukewarm tendrils of water lapping at Claire’s stockinged toes before quickly receding back to the sea. The wind whipped the ribbon out of Claire’s hair and blew it out of view, sending her curls flying in front of her face. Claire knew that she ought to turn back, but an unknown force kept pushing her forward. She pushed on, unwilling to even turn to see how far she had walked along the coast.

In the distance, she saw a dark mass on the shore. A piece of driftwood was not unusual on the tropical coast, but something deep in the pit of her stomach told Claire that there was something more. The invisible tether continued to pull her forward, and she didn't feel herself break into a run, hiking up her skirts as her feet pounded into the damp sand.

Claire stopped in her tracks and stared at the sight before her.

A flash of fiery red.

A subtle movement.

A limp hand.

 Jesus H. Christ.... Claire thought as she stared helplessly at the man lying motionless in the surf.