#Died This Day 1826

[oldbookist]

I was working on a history paper today and found a book from 1826 that seemed promising (though dull) for my topic, on an English Catholic family’s experience moving to France.

And it ended up not really being suitable for my purposes, as it goes. But part of the book is actually devoted to Kenelm, the author’s oldest son…and man, his dad loved him.

Kenelm seems to have had a fairly typical upbringing for a young English gentleman, although he is a bit slow to read. At twelve he’s sent to board at Stoneyhurst College—often the big step towards independence in a boy’s life, as he’ll most likely only see his parents sporadically from now on, and then leave for university.

When he’s sixteen, however, his father moves the whole family to France, so Kenelm gets pulled out of school to be with them again. Shortly after the move, his dad notices that he seems depressed. Kenelm confides in him that he’s been suffering from “scruples” for the last eighteen months—most likely what we’d now call an anxiety disorder.

And his dad is pissed—at the school, because apparently Kenelm had been seeking help there and received none, despite obviously struggling with mental health issues. So his dad takes it seriously. He sets him up to be counseled by a priest—there were no therapists back then—and doesn’t send him away to be boarded again, instead teaching him at home himself.

And his mental health does improve. His dad describes him as well-liked, gentle, pious, kind and eager to please others; at twenty he’s thinking about a career in diplomacy or going into the military—which his dad thinks he is not particularly suited for, considering his favorite pastimes are drawing and reading. He’s excited about his family’s upcoming move to Italy, and he’s been busy learning Italian and teaching it to his siblings.

Henry Kenelm Beste dies of typhus at twenty years, four months, and twenty-five days. That’s how his dad records it. That’s why his dad is telling this story. It’s not an extraordinary story—Kenelm’s story struck me because he sounds so…ordinary, like so many kids today. And he was so, so loved. His dad tried hard to help him compassionately with his mental health at a time where our current knowledge and support systems didn’t exist. You can feel how badly he wanted his son to be remembered and loved, to impress how dearly beloved he was to the people who knew him in life.

I hope he’d be glad to know someone is still thinking of Kenelm over 200 years later.

Anyway, that’s why I’m crying today.

[acheronist]

thomas armitage's life and literacy: the semi unsourced & insane person theory post that maybe three other people on this earth give a shit about

1826 - man can't write (X instead of a signature on his own marriage certificate)

may 1845 - man still can't write (X instead of a signature on his allotment redirection notice before the expedition left. shoutout to cecilia & their FIVE children in chatham who relied on his paycheck)

june 1845 thru march 1847 - ????????????????????? bored as fuck in the arctic ice and probably asked his dear old friend, henry "writes backwards for fun" peglar, if he could teach him some letters while they had fuckall to do and were stuck in the ice after months of being cold miserable middle aged sailors (who both missed when they were in their twenties and were warm and comely and sailing around the equator together and were falling victim to nostalgia)

april 21 1847 - managed to clumsily write most of a common sailor's poem that henry thought was worth keeping in his wallet alongside his own diary and life account and ID papers. which could mean nothing.

1850 ish (give or take) - he decided suicide by exposure was better than any other option left so he got dressed very properly in his stewards uniform, grabbed a clothes brush and a comb and a couple coins, tucked henry's wallet against his chest and walked 30 miles away from main camp until he laid down and died

march 3 1854 - everyone on the franklin expedition declared dead

may 25 1859 - francis leopold mcclintock et al on a search party for the expedition go WHOAAAAHHH A SKELETON!!! wow his coat's all shredded and this wallet is frozen. also illegible and maybe german? whatever i guess we'll take it home but too bad it's a flop and no one cares. 🪦🙏🥶🕊️

1954 - cyriax and jones publish their research into the contents of henry's thawed wallet in the mariner’s mirror

july 16 1973 - the exercise northern quest search party goes walking along king william island's southern coastline to fact-check mcclintock's notes and go WHOAAAAHHH A SKELETON!!! lets gather this dude up and mail him to ottawa for dna testing!!!

late july / early august 1973 - the bones arrive at the national museum of man in ottawa and are immediately misplaced somewhere within the museum, are lost, and are still technically missing to this day

2017 / 2018 ish - amc decides to give this story to JOHN BRIDGENS and THOMAS JOPSON. for some fucking reason.

ok yay

[smilingformoney]

The Eternal Summer

IV. Cowboy Blues

Summary: Elliott Marston/Reader | Judge Turpin/Reader | Elliott makes his intentions clear - just in time for Turpin's arrival.

Read now on Ao3 or below the cut:

It had been the longest, strangest month of your life.

What you and Elliott were, you couldn’t say. But it certainly wasn’t what anyone had envisaged when your husband had ordered you to keep his cousin’s bed warm while he made arrangements in Melbourne.

For one thing, he was only supposed to be a few days behind you. Yet here you were, one month later, still at Elliott’s station with no way of knowing where your husband was, if he was ever coming to collect you, or if he was even still alive.

You begged Elliott to send men to Melbourne to search for news of Judge Turpin, but with Quigley on a rampage in the outback, Elliott’s men were dwindling every day, and he couldn’t spare any until Quigley was put down.

So you were left in limbo, separated from your husband, unable to move on.

All you knew for sure was that you didn’t want to let go of how comfortable you were with Elliott. You welcomed his touch, his kisses, and when he took you, you felt like he was giving you pleasure just as much as he was taking his own.

Yet you still missed your husband, and it made everything so much harder. Your cunt might be on loan to Elliott, but was it even possible for your heart to be too?

One morning, you must have seemed particularly down, because Elliott asked you to accompany him somewhere. He didn’t say where, or why - he simply saddled up his horse, ensured you were securely sat behind him, and rode a few miles west, until he finally slowed the horse to a stop and helped you down.

You looked around. You were at a nearby town, in the graveyard behind the church. Elliott reached into the bag affixed to the saddle and withdrew a bunch of flowers. He took you by the hand and silently led you to a grave.

The gravestone was one of the larger ones like you’d seen in the graveyard of St Dunstan’s in London, which were double the width to accommodate two graves: those of a husband and wife. This gravestone, like some of those, marked one grave and one reserved plot; one spouse had died and waited to be joined by the other.

A wilted dark-crimson rose sat at the foot of the grave. Elliott bent down to clear it away and replaced it with a single pink carnation from the flowers in his hand. As he stood up, you looked at the gravestone and read:

Here lies Victoria Marston 1826 - 1860

Underneath was a blank slate, room reserved for her husband - for Elliott.

“We were only married for a year when the sickness took her,” Elliott said quietly, speaking for the first time since you’d left the station.

You looked up at him. You knew he’d been married before, but only because he’d mentioned it once the first day you met. Otherwise, there was no trace - no belongings left behind, no children. Only this one gravestone, a plot of ground, and the flowers Elliott brought.

“It was five years ago, and still I visit her grave once a month. I loved her very much. I… still love her.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if refusing to let grief take hold of him.

“I will always love her. Every day I spend with you, [Y/n], it’s… the happiest I’ve felt since I lost her. And yet, I feel twisted with guilt, as if I’m betraying her somehow. I know it’s not true, that she’s dead and gone… yet still I feel as if I’m betraying my vows to her.”

He turned to you, eyes looking into yours searchingly.

“I’m telling you this, [Y/n], because I want you to know that I understand how it feels when your heart yearns for something that goes against the vows you made. But sometimes… it’s time to move on.”

He held up the remaining flowers in his hand.

“These ones are for you.”

Red and white roses. One didn’t have to be well-versed in floriography to know what those meant.

“Elliott…”

You glanced at the pink carnation on the grave, then back to the roses in his hands.

“My husband isn’t dead, Elliott. He’s coming for me.”

How did you know? You couldn’t, not really. But a part of you knew, some part of your soul that was intrinsically linked to that of your husband, knew he was alive, and you’d see him again.

“You don’t have to leave with him, [Y/n]. You can stay. Stay here, with me. I’ll keep you safe. From him, from anything — and I would never hurt you.”

“Safe from him?” you echoed, frowning. “He’s my husband, Elliott. He’s not a danger to me.”

“No? Then why are you so frightened of him?”

You ducked your head, ashamed to let Elliott see the truth in your eyes.

“I’m not scared of him,” you lied. “I love him,” you said truthfully.

Elliott took your chin between his fingers and forced you to look at him.

“No good husband offers his wife to another.”

“And does a good man accept the offered wife?”

“I don’t claim to be a good man, [Y/n]. I never did. But I believe I was a good husband to Victoria… and I would be a good husband to you. You could be free, free to be whoever you want to be. I can give you that freedom.”

You shook your head, trying to ignore the tears that were welling in your eyes.

“Even - even if I wanted to stay, Elliott… I can’t marry you.”

“Why, because you’re already married? Petition for divorce. It would be granted on grounds of cruelty, I know it would.”

“Do you think any judge is going to let another judge’s wife divorce him?”

“Then he’ll divorce you. You’re an adulterer, after all.”

You took a step back, wiping an errant tear from your eye.

“He’d never. He loves me, Elliott. He’d fight for me.”

Elliott’s hand twitched near his gun.

“So will I.”

“Don’t you dare! Not everything can be settled with a gun, Elliott. I’d never forgive you.”

“And I’ll never forgive myself if I let you leave with him.”

“Why are you saying this now, Elliott? We’ve been… whatever this is… for a month. What’s changed today?”

Elliott gestured towards the carnation on his wife’s grave.

“I’ll always remember her. But I’m not coming back here. I want to move forward — with you, [Y/n]. We can be a family here, you, me and Tommy.”

You blinked, taken aback. “…Tommy?”

“Of course,” Elliott said as if it were obvious. “You think I’d continue employing him if I married you? From what you tell me, you practically raised him, so we’d adopt him as our own and - mmph!”

You cut him off when you grabbed him by the lapel of his waistcoat and pulled him in for a kiss. He was taken aback for a moment, but he quickly melted into the kiss, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you tight while the other kept hold of the flowers you still hadn’t accepted from him.

You kissed him until your lips were numb, and when you finally parted for breath, your skin was sore from rubbing against his facial hair, but you didn’t care.

“Is it too late to accept those flowers?”

“Was that really all I had to say?” Elliott said breathily, and you laughed.

You took the flowers and held them up to smell them. They were fresh and stunningly beautiful. You had no idea a land as barren as Australia could bloom something so lovely.

“I’m… I’m not saying yes,” you said, your voice hardly more than a whisper. “But I’m not saying no. I need time.”

Elliott nodded.

“I understand. Shall we get home? I’m expecting Quigley to show his face any moment now, and I need to be there when he does.”

Home. Was that not London anymore?

***

You arrived at the station in the mid-afternoon, and while Elliott tied the horse, you made your way into the house to find a vase for your flowers. You heard movement in the house, but you paid it no mind, assuming Elliott’s servant was going about his business. After placing the flowers in a vase from the kitchen, you opened the door to the lounge and let out a yelp of surprise when you saw a figure sitting on the sofa with a book in hand. Your immediate thought was that it was Quigley, waiting for Elliott to get home to shoot him, but as the moment of shock passed, your mind caught up with your situation and you realised that you very much recognised the visitor, even from behind.

“William?”

Your husband turned to you. Yes, it was him, it was really him! His skin had tanned in the sun, but no doubt yours had too.

“Darling,” he said with a smile as he put the book down, and he was hardly to his feet when you threw your arms around him. You recognised his smell, the feel of his body against yours, the low rumble in his chest as he chuckled at your enthusiasm.

“Oh, Will, I was so scared,” you cried, head buried against his chest. “I thought you’d died or - or decided you didn’t want me anymore…”

“Oh, bunny, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m sorry I took so long to come for you. The administration in Melbourne is a nightmare, it took a week just to get a house, and another two until I was satisfied it was hospitable enough for you. Did you miss me, then?”

You sniffed and looked up at him. “Very much so. I don’t want to be parted from you for so long ever again.”

William smiled. “You won’t, I swear it. I need my bunny, after all. Won’t you greet your husband with a kiss?”

You squealed happily and lifted yourself on your tip-toes to kiss him. You’d missed this so much, his warmth, his touch, his taste. William wrapped his arms around your waist and held you close against him, his tongue desperately seeking yours, as if a month without you had parched him desperately.

Hearing movement and voices from within his house, Elliott kept his hand over the barrel of his gun as it sat in its holster, ready to whip it out at a moment’s notice. When he pushed open the door and saw another man holding you close, lips and tongue accosting yours, he nearly did draw his gun - until he realised who it was.

He was still tempted to shoot him down.

“Finally arrived, then, cousin,” Elliott said instead, leaning back against the doorframe with his arms folded, as if it were a perfectly normal scene for him to walk on.

You made a muffled grunt of surprise, as if you’d completely forgotten whose house you were in. William finally withdrew his tongue from you, panting heavily, his eyes blown with lust as he looked down at you with a hungry grin.

“Elliott!” you exclaimed, looking over to him, and you felt a pang of guilt when you saw the way he was watching you. “So sorry for the lack of decorum. But isn’t it wonderful? William’s finally here, and he’s alright!”

“Yes. Wonderful.”

“You could be happier to see me, Elliott,” William said with a raised eyebrow, finally tearing his eyes from you to address his cousin. “You’ll no longer be encumbered with hosting duties. I do apologise for stretching your hospitality so far.”

“Nonsense, [Y/n]'s been excellent company,” Elliott replied with a nonchalant shrug. “She’s patched up all my clothes, and my men’s, and fulfilled all the duties she would if she were my own wife.”

“Yes, I bet she has. Well, we’ll be off soon, so you won’t have to bear her company much longer.”

“Do we leave very soon, my love?” you enquired, fear suddenly striking your heart that you might find yourself leaving Elliott too soon.

“Not tonight, obviously, it’s getting dark. And I’m not just here for you, darling, I have other matters to attend to. This Quigley business, Elliott, we’re hearing all about it in Melbourne and he’s stirring up quite a storm. If he shows up here, I’ll arrest him and bring him in for trial myself.”

“Oh, no need to trouble yourself with Quigley, William, I’m expecting him soon enough and I’ve got it quite in hand.”

Elliott patted the gun on his hip with a confident smirk.

“You’re aware of the arrangement I have with Major Ashley-Pitt?”

“Yes, well, if you kill him, so be it. It’ll be much less hassle than escorting him back to Melbourne. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long ride and I’d like some rest. Do you have suitable quarters?”

Elliott scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Well, there’s the men’s quarters, but that’s not good enough for a man of your standing, I suppose. The only bed I’d imagine is suitable would be my own. Go ahead and make use of it, I can bear to sleep in the lodge for a night.”

“Very gracious of you, Elliott, thank you.”

“Of course. Get yourself rested up, William, I’ll get the servant to make dinner for three tonight.”

“Excellent. Come along, [Y/n].”

William placed a hand on your lower back. You glanced at Elliott apologetically, then allowed your husband to guide you to the bedroom.

“Lord have mercy, [Y/n], the hold you have on me,” William said with a groan of relief as he pushed the door closed behind him. “I’ve been unable to sleep without you by my side. Dress off, darling, I need to see you.”

He assisted you with the lace of your dress, although his method seemed to involve a lot more breast-fondling than your own. You let the dress fall away, and William let out a moan of desire when your breasts popped out of the bodice. He grabbed at the waistband of your bloomers and pushed them to the floor, then stood back to get a good look at you.

“Even more beautiful than I remembered. Have you lost weight?”

You looked down and examined your figure. “I suppose I have,” you mused. “The food isn’t as luxurious out here as it is in London.”

“Hmm, I hope Elliott’s been feeding you properly. I won’t have my wife wasting away.”

William placed his hands on your hips as he looked you up and down appraisingly. He smirked in satisfaction, then turned you around to look at you from behind. He ran his hands over your rear, and you shivered with anticipation. William hummed with approval, then pulled your body against him, his hard cock pressing against you through his trousers.

“Oh, I have missed this. Have you missed me, bunny?”

“Yes, yes, I missed you so much, my teddy bear,” you mumbled, then gasped when William slid a hand between your legs and pushed a finger into your folds. He slipped in with ease, and you heard the familiar squelching noise that betrayed your arousal.

“Mmm, you must think me such a cruel husband, getting you addicted to my cock then taking it away for a month. How your cunt must have cried out for me. No matter… I’m here now, and I’m going to live in your cunt until you swell with child. Get on the bed, darling, else I won’t be able to contain myself much longer.”

“How do you want me, sir?” you asked obediently as William stepped back from you to undress himself.

“However you want, darling. It’s the least I can do after starving you for so long.”

He was letting you choose the position? Perhaps a month in Australia had changed him, too.

You climbed onto the bed and laid on your back, head on the pillows, your legs open and ready for him.

“Ah, classic missionary, is it? If my bunny insists.”

“I want to see you, Will.”

William grinned. “Good. I want to watch your face as I fuck you again. I had to take the whores in Melbourne from behind, I couldn’t stand looking at their faces knowing they weren’t you.”

Your heart dropped, and you shrunk into yourself slightly. William, meanwhile, finished undressing himself and climbed on top of you, apparently unaware of the effect of what he’d said.

“You… took whores in Melbourne?” you asked quietly.

“Of course I did,” William replied curtly, as if the question were obvious and bothersome. “You know how hot-blooded I am, darling. Did you expect me to abstain for a month? Don’t worry, I didn’t finish inside any of them. Now, keep your legs nice and wide for me, bunny…”

You obeyed, although your heart wasn’t in it anymore. He slipped inside you with ease, and you whined as you felt him stretching you out, and though you’d ached to see his blissful face again, now you felt nothing but anguish knowing he’d shared that same intimacy with however many whores he’d found in Melbourne.

You wished now you’d asked him to take you from behind so you could hide your face from him. You settled instead for wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and burying your face in his neck, letting him think it an act of intimacy, when really you were hiding the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes.

It had been a long time since you’d tried to hide your anguish as William fucked you into the bed, uncaring if he even noticed your feelings, but it was a skill you’d picked up early and one you remembered now as easy as breathing.

He was grunting loudly with each thrust, and if you didn’t know any better, you might have thought he was being loud on purpose, making sure that Elliott could hear you from the lounge, reminding him that he was your husband, reclaiming your cunt that had merely been on loan.

Elliott could, indeed, hear his cousin’s passions through the walls. He heard William’s grunts, the squeaking of the bedsprings, the thud of the headboard against the wall, the slapping of skin against skin. But what he distinctly didn’t hear was you. He knew how vocal you were; with the intensity of the way you were being fucked right now, you should have been moaning too. So why weren’t you?

He knew he should leave. He could sit out on the porch, practise shooting, get some work done around the station. He had no cause to sit at his desk as he was now, staring blankly at his ledger, fooling himself that he intended to work when all he could do was sit and listen to another man taking you in his own bed.

Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He thought that if he did, William might know somehow that he wasn’t there to protect you, and what was now just selfish lovemaking would turn into something worse.

So he stayed, staring blankly at the ledger, and when half an hour had passed, Elliott had to give his cousin credit where it was due - he had considerable stamina for his age.

Eventually, Elliott became so used to the noise that it became background noise, and he was actually able to get some work done. By the time the noise stopped and William’s grunts were shortly replaced by his snoring, an hour had passed.

Elliott closed his ledger with a sigh, then stood up to stretch his legs. Just as he did so, the bedroom door opened, and he spotted you in a nightgown scurrying across the hall to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, you emerged, and you jumped when you opened the door to find Elliott standing against the doorframe, waiting for you.

“Sorry, it’s all yours,” you mumbled, thinking he wanted the bathroom. You stepped aside to let him in, but instead Elliott wrapped both arms around your waist and pulled you in close.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, so quietly you almost couldn’t hear him, even with his lips pressed against your ear.

“No,” you replied softly.

“Then why are your legs shaking?”

You glanced down and realised that your legs were indeed shaking, as if you were a newborn foal walking for the first time.

“I’m just tired. I need to rest.”

“Come and sit down.”

“…Alright.”

Elliott led you back into the lounge and sat you down on the sofa. He disappeared into the kitchen for a few moments, then returned with a glass of water, which you took gratefully.

“I’m surprised you can ever sleep at home with those snores,” Elliott commented as he sat down next to you and delicately wrapped an arm around your waist.

You smiled. “It took some getting used to, but now I can’t sleep without the sound of snoring. That’s why I never complain about yours.”

“I don’t snore!” Elliott protested, and you laughed.

“Not as loud as that, but you do. It’s fine, I told you, I like it. Especially when I wake up first and I can feel your breath on my neck… and even in your sleep, as soon as I move you pull me in close and kiss me…”

You smiled, blushing, then your heart dropped slightly when you realised you’d probably never wake up next to him again.

Elliott looked at you, saw the sadness in your eyes, and made a decision. He took your glass from your hand and set it aside, then crouched down on one knee in front of you, taking your hands in his.

“It doesn’t have to end, [Y/n]. Stay with me.”

You closed your eyes, willing the tears not to spill.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

“[Y/n], I just had to sit here and listen to that man fuck you for an hour solid, and not once did I hear a peep from you. He doesn’t even know how to please you! You think he cares about your happiness? I can give you so much more, [Y/n]. I can give you freedom. Freedom to be who you want to be. To discover who you want to be. Tommy too, we’ll adopt him and he’ll be free from his service. Don’t you want that?”

“It’s not that simple, Elliott,” you said with a shake of your head. “I love my husband, I’d never hurt him.”

“Then let me hurt him.”

You looked up at him in disbelief through watery eyes, and you could tell from the hard look in his eyes that he was being completely serious.

“No,” you said firmly. “Not everything can be solved with a gun, Elliott.”

“Then how do we solve this?”

“Don’t you see? We don’t! We can’t. There’s no resolution here that doesn’t break my heart.”

Elliott sighed, closed his eyes resolutely, then bowed his head to steel himself. It was now or never.

He looked at you. You, with your eyes full of tears, holding them back even now in an attempt to be strong. You, who had done nothing wrong in your life, and was being punished for it with a marriage to a man you thought you loved, but when you spoke of how he treated you, how could you love a man like that?

Only a heart strong enough to love a man like Judge Turpin could be capable of loving Elliott Marston.

That was the irony of it all. If you weren’t married to his cousin, you’d be free - but you’d have never come to Australia. You’d never have met.

There was no way your love could be anything but doomed.

But it was real. He loved you, and he knew you loved him. You proved it every day with your sweet words, your blushes and smiles, your kisses and your embraces.

But you’d never say it, not while married to another man, not when to admit it was to break your own heart.

Well, his heart was breaking anyway. He might as well go all the way.

Elliott reached up to cup your face in his hands, his thumb wiping away an errant tear.

“[Y/n]… I love you.”

And there it was. The truth of the matter, laid out in three simple words.

I love you too, Elliott. Let’s get married tomorrow. We’ll adopt Tommy, have more children of our own and live out our lives together as far from London as we can get.

That was what you wanted to say. And maybe you would have but for the fact of your husband, asleep in the other room. Yes, he could be cruel, and he cared more for his own pleasure than your comfort, but without him you’d not be here at all. You’d still be on the streets of London, Tommy would have hung from the gallows, and you’d be all alone, if you were even alive.

How could you repay that with heartbreak?

So instead, you closed your eyes, not wanting to look at Elliott as you broke his heart and your own instead.

“You can’t,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, Elliott.”

“[Y/n] —”

“The lady said no, Elliott.”

Your heart dropped when you heard the familiar sound of your husband’s voice. When had the snoring stopped? How long had he been standing there in the doorway, listening to Elliott pour his heart out to you?

Elliott stood and whirled around, his hand instinctively jumping to the gun on his hip.

William had apparently been awake long enough to dress himself, although in the Australian heat he had forgone the cravat and waistcoat over his shirt.

“I let you fuck my wife for a few weeks, and this is how you repay me? By trying to steal her from me? You may have borrowed her cunt, Elliott, but her heart is mine.”

Elliott sneered, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of his gun.

“Of course she thinks she loves you, William. She had to convince herself of it, because the alternative was hating you.”

William glanced at Elliott’s hand that gripped the gun, and he smirked.

“Are you going to shoot me, cousin?”

“Here and now? No. I’d not do you the dishonour of shooting you unarmed. But if you don’t have a gun with you, I’ll lend you my second revolver.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

Elliott stepped towards him menacingly, fingers twitching as he resisted pulling the gun out there and then.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to duel you for her.”

***

You hadn’t dressed in such a hurry in all your life. You were fairly certain you hadn’t laced your bodice up fully, but that was hardly your main concern right now.

You rushed outside to find the two men pacing around, each checking their guns. A small crowd of Elliott’s men had formed, jostling and laughing with each other, as if they were getting ready to watch a sports match.

You ran up to Elliott and grabbed his arm.

“Elliott, don’t do this, please!”

He looked up at you, a fierce look in his eyes.

“He’ll never let you go, [Y/n]. You know that. This is the only way.”

“I’ll never forgive you if you kill him.”

“I won’t shoot to kill. I just want to hurt him.”

You sniffed. “You’re hurting me, El.”

Elliott frowned, looking imploringly into your eyes, desperate for you to understand him, but you couldn’t.

What you did understand was that he and your husband were men, and men always did what they wanted, regardless of your feelings. This was no different.

So you stepped away, retreated to the porch, and sought comfort in Tommy, who was waiting for you there.

“Don’t look, Tommy,” you said dully, unable to tear your eyes away from the scene in front of you.

“I’ve seen loads of duels by now.”

You didn’t argue. Tommy was still a child, but he was growing into a man, and he’d do what he wanted too.

The men took their marks. Elliott had promised not to shoot to kill, but what of William? He held no issue with sending men to the gallows, but would he fire the shot himself?

Did either of them really expect you to want to be with him if he killed the other?

“This is the last chance,” called Cavanagh, who was apparently officiating the duel, as William and Elliott took their stances. “Lord Turpin, do you forfeit the duel and give your wife up to Mr Marston?”

“Of course I bloody don’t,” William snapped.

“Mr Marston, do you forfeit the duel and give up your pursuit of Lord Turpin’s wife?”

“Never.”

“Alright, then. Count of three. One, two… three.”

BANG-BANG!

The sand at Elliott’s feet blew in the air, and he laughed as he realised the shot hadn’t landed.

Your relief that Elliott was unharmed was short-lived when you looked over to William and saw that he’d fallen onto his side.

“Will!”

You ran to his side as fast as your legs would carry you over the sand, and skidded to your knees next to him. William was cradling his shin, which was bleeding profusely, and you immediately tore apart his trouser leg to expose the wound.

“Fucking bastard! He shot me! Your fucking boyfriend shot me!”

“I know, I know, I saw! Just hold still and let me look at it.”

Bloody Elliott and his bloody perfect aim. The bullet had just grazed the lower leg, and was probably lying around in the dirt somewhere. Even so, you knew from your own experience that it was a painful wound, so you didn’t begrudge the stream of swear words currently spewing from your husband’s mouth.

You tore a strip off your dress and wrapped it around his thigh to keep the bleeding as limited as you could to allow you to get him inside. You turned to Elliott’s men, who were still gawking, and shouted, “One of you help me get him inside!”

They hesitated, but behind you, Elliott nodded, so Cavanagh jogged over to pull William to his feet and let him lean on his shoulder as he hobbled back into the house.

You watched them go, fraught with worry for your husband, then turned to Elliott.

“Happy now?!”

Elliott shrugged. “I told you I wouldn’t shoot to kill. Just be glad I didn’t shoot him in the dick.”

You scoffed, then turned your back on him to follow William into the house. Cavanagh had just sat him on the sofa when you came in, and the servant poked his head around the door.

“Do you know how to clean a wound?” you asked him.

The servant nodded - why hadn’t you ever learnt his name? - and sat down on the floor, already with a cloth and bowl in his hands. How many times had he cleaned up a victim of Elliott’s gun-happy rages?

“I don’t care what he thinks his duel means,” William hissed, gritting his teeth against the pain as you knelt by his side. “He won’t have you.”

“No, of - of course not. I’m still your wife, William. I’ll always be your wife.”

“Try and leave here with her, and I won’t aim for the leg,” Elliott said from the doorway, his voice dripping with venom.

“Try it, you bloody bedswerver!” William shouted back. Whether it was the pain in his leg or the emotions of the whole situation, you couldn’t tell, but any sense of decorum your husband had was long gone. “I swear, I’ll drag you to court and sentence you myself - bloody hell, man, be careful!” he shouted at the servant, who was now dabbing rubbing alcohol on the wound.

“The only way you’ll leave here is alone or in a casket!”

“Stop it, both of you!”

You surprised even yourself. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d raised your voice - and it had certainly never been at a man.

You stood, fighting back the tears that were welling in your eyes.

“It’s always the same with you men, fighting over who has control! I’m sick of it! You both claim to love me, yet neither of you seem to give a damn what I want!”

Elliott stepped towards you, looking you in the eyes earnestly.

“Then tell us what you want, [Y/n],” he said calmly, with none of the anger he’d been showing your husband. “Look me in the eye and tell me truly you want to leave here with him, and I won’t stop you.”

You hesitated.

“I… I don’t know what I want,” you said truthfully.

William scoffed. “You never know what you want.”

“Have you ever asked her?!” Elliott spat.

“I don’t need to ask her, Elliott, I know what she wants. Better than she does! Don’t let this man poison your mind, [Y/n] —”

“Poison her mind? With what, independent thought? God forbid.”

William grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, his leg now wrapped in a bandage. He and Elliott stared daggers at each other, both men’s faces twisted with hatred. William put a possessive hand on your shoulder.

“Very well. Let her choose. She won’t choose you anyway, Elliott. What, marry you and live out here, in this backwater desert? We live a life of luxury in London, don’t we, [Y/n]? In a few months we’ll be on our way back there and this whole debacle will be behind us. You’ll be nothing but a memory to her.”

Elliott sneered, then glanced at you, and his expression softened when he saw the tears in your eyes. He looked back at William.

“We’ll sort this Quigley business, then I want you out of here. Whether or not she leaves with you… that’s up to her.”

William considered the proposal, then nodded curtly.

“Very well. Until then.”

***

Dinner that evening was the most awkward affair you could have envisaged.

You were grateful that the servant, more observant than perhaps Elliott gave him credit for, had moved your chair to be seated next to your husband, making for you the awkward decision of whether to sit with Elliott as you always had, or to move next to William.

You did your best to fill the awkward silence, asking William about Melbourne, his work, the house he’d taken so much time and care to find for the two of you.

“And how do you find Australia herself?” Elliott asked, speaking for the first time since you’d all sat down. “She’s a harsh mistress, not every man can handle her.”

“Far too hot, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’ve certainly tanned, darling,” you said, raising a hand to gently touch William’s cheek. “I always thought you don’t get nearly enough sunlight cooped up in court all day. You look healthier now.”

William looked at you and swelled with pride at the compliment, then raised an eyebrow at you.

“And you, my dear, appear to have burnt. Did you overcook yourself?”

You withdrew your hand and blushed, although there wasn’t much skin to turn red that wasn’t already.

“I… sat out on the ridge too long. I was - um - waiting for you. Elliott had to bring me back before I roasted completely.”

William glanced over at Elliott. “I’m surprised you let her burn as much as she has, Elliott. Or do you like your girls crispy?”

Elliott’s jaw twitched. Before he could speak, there was a knock on the door, and one of his men let himself in to ask him about the reward for Quigley.

“Do you suppose he’ll be here shortly?” William asked with mild interest when the man left.

“Yes, I think so. I’ve got what’s left of my men guarding the whole station. That does beg the question, however, of what I’m going to do with the two of you.” Elliott pointed at you with his fork. “That man’s not getting remotely near you, that’s for sure. You’re staying inside.” He chewed thoughtfully, then said, “I suppose we don’t want you dying either, William.”

“I don’t intend on putting myself on the front line to protect your station, Elliott,” William scoffed. He placed a hand over yours. “I’ll look after [Y/n].”

Elliott didn’t seem to approve of that, but he said nothing about it.

“And what about you, Elliott?” you asked, your voice laced with worry. “I don’t want you dying either.”

Elliott smirked with self-assuredness you prayed wasn’t misplaced.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll kill Quigley before he has a chance to blink.”

After dinner, William retired for an early night, not having taken the nap he’d meant to take earlier on account of spending an hour fucking you instead. Although you weren’t tired, you obligingly went to bed with him, and when he fell asleep two orgasms later, you slipped out of his tight grip and got back into your dress.

You followed the sounds of gunshots to find Elliott around the back of the house, shooting at apparently nothing.

“What are you doing?”

Elliott turned around, and smiled when he saw you were alone.

“Just emptying my revolver. I want it freshly loaded when our visitor shows up. And I couldn’t stand to listen to William fucking you again, so I thought I’d pretend these fence posts are his dick.”

“Elliott, you shouldn’t say that,” you said in hushed tones, glancing around as if your sleeping husband could hear you from inside the house.

Elliott chuckled and wrapped his spare arm around your waist to pull you in close. You hesitated, but your body reacted to his so naturally, you found yourself melting into his embrace. He smiled and kissed the top of your head.

“Everything’s going to be alright, [Y/n]. I promise you.”

You looked up at him, desperate to say the words you never could, your heart aching from being torn in two.

“You said you’re sleeping in the lodge tonight?”

Elliott nodded questioningly.

“Maybe we could… go there now? Together, I mean…”

A devilish grin broke out across his face, and you ducked your head in embarrassment at your own forwardness.

“Well, well, well… sweet Lady Turpin, sneaking out of bed to proposition another man while her husband sleeps. You have grown bold, haven’t you?”

“I… we don’t have to… I don’t mean — I just want to be alone with you for a bit. Is there something wrong with seeking a bit of companionship?”

Elliott leaned down to kiss you, but then a shot rang out in the distance, and you were both jolted out of the moment, both of you turning towards the direction the shot came from.

“Maybe Scotty’s got Quigley,” suggested one man as he came jogging around the corner.

Elliott rolled his eyes, then took your hand and wordlessly pulled you away towards the lodge.

“They’ll warn me when he’s here,” he said, his voice low with the darkness that he saved for his men but dissipated when he looked at you. “Until then… you’re right. A bit of companionship is just what we both need.”

The lodge was a cabin near the back of the station, nothing as comfortable as Elliott’s house, but it was much better than the men’s quarters, and when the door closed behind you, you could almost forget you were anywhere at all. The lodge was the world as far as you cared, and nothing mattered to you in that moment but Elliott and his wandering hands as he pushed you up against the wall and kissed you as if he could only breathe air from your lungs.

You clung to him desperately, any sense of propriety or reservation forgotten the moment you closed the door.

Elliott grabbed hungrily at your bodice, pulling it down to release your breasts, and you whined into the kiss when he began pawing at you with desperation, as if it was his last chance to touch you and he might be interrupted at any moment.

You finally gasped for air when Elliott pulled away, your already sore skin stinging from the friction of his facial hair, but you didn’t care.

Elliott dropped to his knees in front of you and pulled your dress down past your hips. He let out a hungry growl when he saw your cunt, and you gasped when he buried his face between your legs, tongue desperately seeking the sweetest spots that he knew only took well.

The fact that his cousin had finished inside you only a short while ago did nothing to deter Elliott as he passionately made out with your cunt, and you felt your stress melting away with each lick, each contented hum from Elliott’s lips that betrayed the pleasure he found in worshipping you.

When his tongue began caressing your sweet spot with gentle yet rapid caresses, your orgasm came over you like an explosion. Elliott held your thighs firmly in his large hands, steadying you as your legs buckled beneath you, and he took your weight with no protest as you shuddered through your high, only pulling back when he was satisfied you were completely sated.

You were so lightheaded that at first you didn’t realise Elliott was making no move to take his own clothes off, and in fact it wasn’t until he was guiding your arms through your sleeves that you realised he was redressing you.

“Aren’t you going to fuck me?��� you asked, feeling a little dejected that he apparently had no interest in you.

“I don’t need to fuck you to show you how I feel,” Elliott said softly. He took your hand and led you over to the nearby couch, and when you settled into his arms, you felt like you could fall asleep there and then.

“You’re right,” he murmured in your ear. “I just want to be alone with you for a bit.”

“Then why did you use your tongue if not to ready me for you?”

Elliott chuckled, his warm breath tickling your ear.

“You’ve been fucked enough today, [Y/n]. I wanted to make you feel good. Did it feel good?”

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Good. That’s all I care about anymore.”

You must have dozed off for a bit, because before you knew it, night had fallen and you were awoken when Elliott lifted you gently to move away from you. You blinked, bleary-eyed, wondering why Elliott was leaving. He opened the door and you heard the noise of a galloping horse, prompting you to shake yourself awake and follow Elliott outside.

The horse came to a stop in the middle of the station and you caught up with Elliott just as he met up with the half a dozen men that had gathered around the riderless horse.

A piece of paper was pinned to the horse’s saddle. One man tore it off and opened it to read, “Anyone can leave safely before dawn except Marston. The girl will not be harmed. Yours cordially, Matthew Quigley.”

Elliott snatched the paper from the man’s hand and screwed it up in anger. “He must think I’m stupid! This just means he’s gonna spring something on us in the night. Alright - nobody sleeps.”

He grabbed his hat from Cavanagh’s head. “Give me that!” he snarled, taking the jacket too, before taking you by the arm and leading you back towards the house.

“Come on, we’ve got to get you safe.”

“But the note said —”

“I know what the note says. Don’t believe a word of it. A monster like him, he’ll shoot anyone in sight, innocent or no. Go back to bed with your useless lump of a husband, meanwhile I’ll keep the monster at bay.”

“You expect me to sleep now?” you asked as you crossed the threshold, and Elliott stopped in his tracks, clearly not intending to follow you in.

“Sleep, read, fuck, whatever you want. Just stay safe. Quigley wants me, which means for once you’re not safe by my side. The only other man I trust to protect you, God help me, is William. Promise me you’ll stay inside.”

“I promise, El. Just - be careful, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

He smiled smugly. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll outfox this snake if it’s the last thing I do.”

[whencyclopedia]

Robert Schumann

Robert Schumann (1810-1856) was a German composer of Romantic music, particularly piano and orchestral works, as well as over 250 songs or lieder. He was also a musical critic and founded his own magazine. His wife Clara Schumann (1819-1896), a concert pianist and composer of renown in her own right, inspired Robert to attempt larger-scale works such as symphonies.

Schumann's work was not especially popular in his own lifetime, and he was continuously troubled by the spectre of mental illness. He attempted suicide, and, suffering from hallucinations, he ended his days in an asylum. Robert Schumann is today considered one of the greatest exponents of Romantic music, where emphasis is given to personal artistic expression and experimentation, often with inspiration coming from art, literature, and nature.

Early Life

Robert Schumann was born in Zwickau, Saxony, on 8 June 1810. His father, August Schumann, was a bookseller, but his interest went far deeper than merely selling literature, for he translated into German the complete works of Lord Byron (1788-1822) and Walter Scott (1771-1832). This perhaps explains Robert's life-long passion for literature, especially the work of Romantic writers like Jean Paul Richter (1763-1825), his personal favourite. Robert studied at the Zwickau Lyceum in an uneventful youth in terms of academic achievement.

Robert's life turned upside down when his father died in 1826 after suffering some sort of inner mental turmoil. There was further family tragedy when Robert's sister Emilie, who had also been troubled by mental problems, committed suicide. Robert thereafter lived in perpetual fear that he, too, would one day succumb to such an illness. Spoilt by his mother, Robert was "allowed to indulge in such expensive tastes as champagne and cigars while still at school" (Arnold, 1647). Robert had written his own music while still a child, and his skills merited taking private piano lessons in Leipzig where he also studied law from 1828. Unsettled in his studies – it was his mother who had pushed for him to study law – Robert moved on to the University of Heidelberg in 1829. Still not impressing his tutors and still showing little interest in law, which he described as "chilly jurisprudence with its ice-cold definitions", Robert decided to go on a grand tour to see the cultural sights of Switzerland and Italy (Steen, 400).

Schumann did not particularly impress with his piano playing. His hopes of becoming a concert pianist were, in any case, dashed early on in a bizarre accident involving a device he himself designed to strengthen his fingers. That is, at least, the traditional view. Some more modern historians present the theory that the injury came about as a result of a mercury treatment for syphilis (which is noted in his medical records). Whatever the real cause, Schumann certainly suffered a debilitating and permanent hand injury. Instead, then, Schumann turned to music criticism and creating his own compositions. Here he was to have much more success. At last, he had found his vocation. As Schumann himself remarked on completing his first compositions: "On sleepless nights I am conscious of a mission which rises before me like a distant peak" (Schonberg, 182).

Robert Schumann's Birthplace

Unknown Artist (Public Domain)

Continue reading...

[deadpresidents]

"You and I ought not to die, before We have explained ourselves to each other."

-- John Adams to Thomas Jefferson, July 15, 1813, during an exchange in their remarkable post-Presidency correspondence, which lasted until they died just hours apart from one another on the same exact day, which also happened to be the 50th Anniversary of Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1826.

[chrlxx]

I’m finally back from shadowban, but did not return empty-handed and brought you some kind of "review" of a historical novel I’ve just read because it was such fun that I can’t help but share it with some educated people and because I love nagging about historical inaccuracies.

🚨SPOILER ALERT🚨

The rest you will find under the cut

The book I’m talking about is Cinq-Mars by de Vigny. This novel was published in 1826 and is centred around the conspiracy of Louis XIII’s last favourite, Marquis de Cinq-Mars, against Cardinal de Richelieu. Cinq-Mars was the first important historical fiction in French and derived much of its popularity at the time from the enormous vogue of the novels of Walter Scott. After 1831, when Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris was published, Vigny was pushed back from the first positions, and his Cinq-Mars was forgotten. At the same time, critics of subsequent eras state that from a purely literary point of view, Cinq-Mars is a much better work than Hugo's novel.

Since Henri d’Effiat is a main character, Vigny portrays him as a hero, a noble man surrounded by scoundrels and therefore doomed. Louis and Richelieu, on the contrary, are negative characters. If you want to get a better understanding of Vigny’s attitude towards them, take Dumas’ interpretation and multiply it, let’s say, by three — after that you will have a proper comprehension of their portrayal. I can’t resist providing one quotation, though: "the tyrant Richelieu, who does not cease to humiliate good old nobility and the parliaments, and to sap the foundations of the edifice upon which the State reposes".

But the biggest meme of this book is Father Joseph. Surprised? Me too. First, his character is so far from reality that it made me want to cry. I happened to read Huxley’s Grey Eminence right before this novel, so the contrast was…prominent. I was ready for many things, but not for Joseph eager to betray and poison Richelieu for a red biretta. Besides, the author does not describe him in a very pleasant way: "The monk looked upon the ground with the stupid eye of some base animal". Second, historical François Leclerc du Tremblay died in December 1638, before the events described in the book began. Lower the curtain.

Since I have already started talking about historical inaccuracies, I will continue with this topic. For some reason, Vigny likes to introduce characters who should be languishing in the Bastille or other prison at that time. The story begins in the summer of 1639 in the chateau of Cinq-Mars’ family. At the farewell dinner on the occasion of Cinq-Mars’ send-off — he is heading to Perpignan (which is under siege) to be introduced to the King — Marshal de Bassompierre is present. Real Bassompierre, however, was arrested back in February 1631, shortly after the "Day of the Dupes", and definitely wouldn’t have been able to participate in the occasion. But his arrest still takes place at the end of the first chapter. Besides, Marshal de Vitry and Duc de Puylaurens, who also appear in the novel, should have been incarcerated by then as well: Vitry was imprisoned in 1637, and Puylaurens — in 1635. The latter, by the way, died in Vincennes the same year, so his presence in the story becomes even more strange…

According to Cinq-Mars, many interesting things happened in 1639; so many that in reality it took circa 10 years. I have already mentioned Bassompierre’s arrest (1631) and the siege of Perpignan, which actually took place in 1641-1642, but this is only a small part. On his way to the King’s camp, Cinq-Mars passes through Loudun, where, surprisingly (or, perhaps, unsurprisingly?), the case of Urbain Grandier is in full swing. I’m not an expert in this particular field and cannot fully judge the accuracy of the events described (yet), but some details are historically correct, and some are definitely not. The most eye-catching is the fact that all this tremendous commotion actually began in 1632 and ended in 1634, not 1639. In a while, after Henri’s arrival to Perpignan, it turns out that Marie de Medici has already died. She was too hasty with this, I must say — it should have happened three years later, in July 1642. There are many many more minor inaccuracies, such as someone saying that the Long Parliament in England is still sitting when its session hasn’t even begun or Louis asking Richelieu why he hates Marie de Medici so much, as if it wasn’t Louis himself who sent her into exile for her constant intrigues. Or the premiere of Mirame, which takes place after the execution of Cinq-Mars, in September 1642, although in fact it was January 1641. Such an abundance of events in such a short time makes me think about how boring my life is.

Speaking of time, its passage in the book is very unique. The first chapter begins in 1639, and the fourteenth chapter with line "we will at once pass over the space of two hundred leagues and the period of two years" suddenly brings us to December 4, 1642. Math? No, never heard about it. What’s more, it is actually the date of Richelieu’s death, but the conspiracy against him hasn’t started yet. Then, the twenty-fifth chapter featuring execution of Cinq-Mars and de Thou begins with words "In the middle of a night of the month of September", but in the original french version the same line sounds like "Au milieu d’une nuit du mois de septembre 1642". One could chalk such strangeness up to misprint and claim that the 4th of December 1642 must be 4th of December 1641 — in that case everything makes sense. However, de Vigny points to December 1642 several times.

What I like most about this book is a list of King’s duties dictated by Richelieu, which, according to the author, has come down to us:

Lovely, isn’t it? The eighth one is definitely my favourite. Frankly speaking, I’d like to be in prime minister’s shoes myself…

Lastly, I would like to mark an amusing detail. In twenty-fourth chapter de Vigny makes an allusion to a famous phrase about six lines ("If you give me six lines written by the hand of the most honest of men, I will find something in them which will hang him"), which is frequently attributed to Richelieu. In Cinq-Mars, though, he says, "For four lines in a man’s handwriting he might be criminally tried".

In any case, this piece of literature is good in its genre and worth reading. If you’re not so familiar with the historical part, you won’t grumble about every single incorrect detail in the conspiracy and will even be able to enjoy the story… But still remember: Cinq-Mars was a bi—

[scotianostra]

September 6th 1826 saw the birth of Alison “Eilley” Oram Bowers at a farm near Forfar.

I learned about this extraordinary lady a few years ago, what a life she had, after marrying the first of her three husbands at aged just 15, she emigrated to America at 17 and during the next 60 years she became one of the richest, and most talked about women in the US, outlived three husbands and her children and reinvent herself, after becoming bankrupt as a fortune teller they called The “Seeress of Washoe”.

It is said Alison joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints as means to get across the Atlantic, and so it was after marrying the first of her three husbands, Stephen Hunter at aged just 15, she emigrated to America at 17. Other sources say she never became an actual follower of the Mormons, as they are generally known nowadays, but her Husband was baptised into the faith. I admit a lot of her life story is conjecture and on every occasion I have researched her new information arises.

Following the Mormon custom of her day, her husband, Stephen Hunter, took several wives after they had settled in Utah. Eilley, however, did not enjoy the polygamous lifestyle and soon divorced Hunter. In 1853, she married Alexander Cowan.

The two moved to the Carson Valley where they purchased 300 acres in Washoe Valley. In 1857, Cowan, who was also Mormon, returned to Salt Lake City during troubles between the church and the U.S. government.

Eilley chose to divorce Cowan rather than return to Utah and moved to Johntown, a mining camp below Virginia City, where she opened a boardinghouse.

During this time, she acquired a handful of mining claims from boarders unable to pay their debts and met a Comstock miner, Lemuel “Sandy” Bowers, who would become her third husband.

The two combined their mining holdings and, as luck would have it, ended up owning one of the Comstock’s earliest major silver strikes. Within a short time, the Bowers were among Nevada’s first mining millionaires.

Deciding to spend their seemingly limitless wealth, in 1864, the Bowers’ began building the huge stone mansion on Eilley’s acreage in Washoe Valley. While the home was under construction, they traveled to Europe to purchase furnishings. When it was completed, the mansion was one of the most magnificent homes in the state and the Bowers were willing party hosts. During the next four years, they indulged themselves on the finest clothing, furniture, and collectables.

In 1868, however, Sandy Bowers suddenly died of silicosis at the age of 35. By then, the original mine had become tapped out and he had invested much of their money in several unprofitable mining ventures.

After the estate was finally settled, Eilley found herself penniless. Despite her best efforts to hold on to the mansion, she was unable to keep it. Her misfortune continued when, in 1874, her adopted daughter, Persia, died at the age of 12. Since her days in Salt Lake City, Eilley had been intrigued by the occult.

Apparently during that time she acquired a crystal ball for fortune telling and had prognosticated for friends, although other sources say she brought the “Seer Stone” from her home in Scotland.

In 1875, following her many financial and personal setbacks, Eilley set up shop in Virginia City as the “Washoe Seeress.” Despite skeptics, she practiced her arcane arts for nearly a decade, until the decline of the Comstock.

In the 1880s, she moved to San Francisco, where she worked in various jobs, including–as she had so many years before operating a small boardinghouse. In 1898, she was placed in a rest home in Oakland, where she died in 1903 at the age of 77.

The Bowers Mansion survives and in 1946, it was purchased by Washoe County with the assistance of the Reno Women’s Civic Club and public donations; 20 years later, the property was updated and renovated. Today, it’s Bowers Mansion Regional Park. The home has been restored and refurbished with historic pieces donated by Nevada residents. The grounds contain hiking trails, picnic areas, spring-fed swimming pools, a playground, an amphitheater, and more.

Read more about this Eilley’s story here https://www.nevadawomen.org/research-center/biographies-alphabetical/alison-eilley-oram-bowers/

[virescent-v]

Part II:

Summary: Emily talks more with Addie as time winds down on her decision. Warnings: none -- our ladies just talk Word count: 2.5k

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck? 

Emily tried to calm her racing mind, wishing she could bring her hands up and rub at her temple. Pros and cons flitted through her mind at a rapid pace, not really allowing her to focus on anything. 

Either way, she figured, she was dead. 

There wasn’t much to a life living as a vampire, was there? 

She knew that she would have to talk to Addie more to get some questions answered before she could reasonably make an informed decision, but she wanted to have some idea of what her mind was thinking. 

As the virus slowly took over her body, Emily tried to piece together what was happening internally. She closed her eyes, taking an internal catalog. Her head was pounding, a thickness that ebbed and flowed with her pulse, which was irregular and fast. Her entire body ached, as if she had run a marathon the day before. Her stomach felt queasy, that weird sensation where you can’t tell if you’re going to throw up or if you need to eat. 

Overall, she felt like shit. 

Her brain tried to rationalize what was going on, but she still couldn’t believe that vampires were real. That she would be one if she decided to be. 

But she still wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. 

As the sun began to set, Emily had a list of questions ready for Addie’s return to the room. She was fairly certain that she didn’t want to die die, to cease to exist from this world completely. She still felt like she had so much left to do, so much left to see. 

But. 

On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to be a vampire either. 

Emily’s mind was convoluted with media-based stories of the mythical creatures. Flashes of Twilight and Underworld vampires running through her mind. It couldn’t be like that, though, right? Never allowed out in the sun, blood thirsty, impossible speed? 

But, she really needed to talk to Addie first, to clarify everything, to get her perspective on the way she was living her life. 

Speaking of Addie, Emily questioned how the woman was near her in the warehouse at all. Had she been responsible for some of the murders? Was she an ally to the unsub? 

Could Emily even trust her? 

As Emily’s mind continued to question the woman’s existence, there was a quiet knock at the door.  

Emily tilted her head in the direction of the knock, watching as the door slid slowly open. Addie peaked her head in, glancing curiously at Emily before entering and closing the door behind her. 

Emily finally took Addie in, watching the way the woman carried herself. 

Addie was slightly shorter than Emily, and curvier. Her skin was pale, but still looked sun-kissed, somehow. She had long, wavy, auburn hair that complimented her strikingly beautiful eyes. Her face seemed perfectly structured, as if she was carved from marble. Each step she took towards Emily reverberated throughout the room, her heels commanding attention. She walked with a grace that echoed years of existing. 

Pulling over a chair she had snagged from the desk by the corner, Addie sat down with a long sigh. She smoothed her hands over her thighs. “I can tell by the look on your face that you have a lot of questions for me.” She met Emily’s eyes. “Before you ask them, I figured we could skip some and I can just tell you a little about me.” 

Emily scanned the other woman’s face. She found no trace of anything that raised Emily’s internal alarms, so she just nodded. 

Addie smoothed the skirt of her black dress down, crossing her legs at the ankles and relaxed back into the chair. “As I said before, my name is Adelaide Turner. But, I’ve been known by many other names.” She shrugged. “An issue with being alive as long as I have.” 

Addie played with a loose thread on her skirt. “I was born in May of 1826. I died in late autumn of 1861. I’ve been thirty-five for well over one-hundred and fifty years.” 

Emily felt her eyes widened, disbelieving. 

“I know. I don’t look a day over one-hundred and twenty,” she winked, chuckling lightly at Emily’s facial expressions. 

“I grew up in America, to a wealthy family. My father worked in trade, owned land, and later worked in politics. I’ve continued to build onto his fortune since his passing. I have many business ventures, which I will not get into right now,” she trailed off. 

Emily quirked an eyebrow at her, silently asking about the most pressing question. Why was Addie in the warehouse? 

As if able to read her mind, Addie shook her head. “I won’t be answering questions about the warehouse. Not yet at least. Just know that I am one of the good ones, Emily. But, there are a lot of us out there that are not,” she said, disgust written across her face. 

Another deep sigh. “I got sick– pneumonia. The doctors couldn’t do anything. They were expecting me to die within the night. But, my father brought this man to my bedside. His name was Charlie. He claimed he could cure me and I jumped at the chance. The rest is…well, a very extensive history.” 

Addie looked at Emily as the brunette tried to piece together what information she had. Not that it was much. Something about this woman was captivating, alluring in a mysterious way. Emily felt like she could listen to her for ages. 

“What was the turning process like?” Emily asked. 

Addie’s eyebrows shot up, surprised. “Not the first question I thought that you’d ask, but an important one, I suppose.” Addie leaned forward, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “It’s not pleasant. I won’t lie to you. In the next day, you’ll start having fevers, your headache will worsen, there will be sensitivity to light, not just the sun. Eventually, you will begin to thirst for blood, an insatiable need.” 

Emily gasped slightly. The one thing that truly worried her. She wasn’t sure she could kill people to fulfill her hunger, becoming like one of the people she spent her career chasing down. 

“Don’t worry about the blood, Emily. It’s locally sourced, with consent from volunteers.” 

Emily just gaped, awaiting further explanation. 

“There are people in this world that are human and know of our kind. They volunteer their bodies to us to feed from. Some of them like to be bitten, some just donate blood.” Addie smiled mischievously. “We drink blood from pouches. Like Capri-Suns,” she giggled. 

Emily caught herself almost smiling, enjoying the way this woman carried herself, finding humor and laughs in the midst of a heavy conversation. Quickly, though, her smile faded. 

“Why would they do that, though?” 

Addie’s laughter faded out. “Well, sometimes, they need something from us. Protection, money, whatever.” She shrugged, “Some just enjoy it, as it can be a sort of… sexually charged phenomenon. Others do it hoping one day they’ll get turned, too. Death is a fear felt by many.” 

Emily brought her lip between her teeth. “Why am I tied down?” 

Addie tilted her head. “For your protection, and ours. If you decide to go through with the transformation, once the blood lust kicks in, you will be almost impossible to stop. You will go after anything with blood, including us.” 

Emily’s face screwed up again. “Even you?” 

Addie smirked, a common occurrence for her. “I still have blood, Emily. I just don’t need my heart to pump it. It’s constantly being produced by my bone marrow. Vamps can actually feed off of each other. But if we’re not careful, it can create a blood bond.” She waved her hand dismissively. “A topic for another time.” 

Emily opened and closed her fists a few times, feeling her blood and the virus pumping through her. The tingling, burning sensation was growing steadily, working its way towards her chest. Taking a deep breath, she refocused on Adelaide, pulling her lip between her teeth. “What should I do?” Emily whispered. 

Addie uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her gaze heavy on Emily’s. “I cannot answer that for you. There are pros and cons to both. You will be nearly immortal – there are ways for us to die – and you will watch everyone you love die as you remain the same. There are very strict rules for our kind, ones that prevent us from just turning whoever we want.” 

Emily furrowed her brow, again, for what felt like the millionth time in the past few minutes. “Why did you choose me, then?” 

Addie leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been watching you, Emily. For reasons I cannot – will not – get into right now. Just know, you have been on our list for quite some time. Finding you in that warehouse was almost an act of fate. However, the choice is still yours. I refuse to turn anyone without their consent, without the knowledge of what this really means for you.” 

Emily looked at the auburn-haired woman’s expression, her nonverbal cues. Being a profiler was a hard skill to turn off sometimes. There was a disdain there, which Emily figured as much by the consent comment. A trauma hidden under years of emotional walls. Emily found herself wanting to know more, wanting to know all of the intimate knowledge of the mysterious woman’s life. 

Emily chose to not dig deeper, not wanting to sully the woman’s playful spirit. Emily glanced towards Addie, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So,” Emily smirked, watching Addie’s attention divide between her eyes and smile. “Is this like Twilight?” 

At that, Addie’s head fell back in full belly laughter, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. It was a deep rumble, melodic almost. A sound that Emily realized she wanted to hear more. 

Through her laughter, “No, Emily, I don’t sparkle in the sun.” She wiped an errant tear from her eye. She shook her head from side to side, enjoying the banter to lighten the mood a little. 

Emily’s eyes grew, lit up a little. “If I turn, do I get powers?” 

Addie rolled her eyes, but did not seem surprised by the question. “Our profile on you said you had your childish moments, liked to joke, but you are far exceeding my expectations.” 

Emily smiled widely, but then paused. “Profile?” 

Addie lifted a brow. “I told you, I’ve been watching you, Agent Prentiss.” 

Emily continued to stare at the woman, waiting for an answer to her original question. Adelaide sighed, “There are certain…perks, yes. Some of the myths and stories about us are based on facts, you know.” 

In a moment, a swift blur moved some of Emily’s hair. Within a flash, Addie was across the room near the fireplace, looking composed. “We can move quickly, that is true.” She picked up the iron poker and swiftly bent it in half. “We are stronger than you can imagine.” In another flash, she was back at Emily’s side, her face close to the brunette’s. 

Emily’s breath stuttered, her body caught off guard by the quick movements and closeness. It felt like every hair on her body stood up. 

Addie’s eyes seemed to almost glow gold, connecting with Emily’s in an almost trance. “We have the ability to dominate human minds, sending people into an almost trance-like state. We can read the minds of people we feed from, harness their memories, but only if we bite them. Depending on the human’s will, they can hold us off on entering their minds, but not forever. We can destroy their sanity if we want. But, again, that’s one of our heavily enforced rules.” She tilted her head a little, her eyes glancing past Emily through the door, a little lost almost. “We can communicate with each other telepathically if we share a blood bond.” Emily wondered what that was about. 

Coming back to herself, Addie trailed her hand down Emily’s arm, sending shivers through her. “We have greater sensitivity – to sounds, to touch, to cold and hot. It can make for some…interesting moments.” As Addie’s hand brushed Emily’s, the innuendo was apparent. It was intriguing to say the least. 

Addie walked around Emily, settling back into the chair. “As we age and mature, we can gain what you call powers,” she rolled her eyes again. “But they aren’t like Twilight. Simplistic elemental changes, mind control, the ability to defy gravity. Nothing crazy like Bella’s shield or Jane’s pain illusion.” 

Emily looked confused. “Everything you’re telling me sounds like a win, really. Immortality, super speed, strength, mind control? Doesn’t seem like many downsides, really.” 

Addie just tilted her head, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “Humans,” she muttered. “Such simplistic beings.” She cleared her throat, leaning forward in the chair again, making sure Emily was paying attention. 

“There are downsides, Emily. You have to keep them in mind. We are semi-immortal. Yes, we live forever, but we can still die. There are ways to kill us. We are hunted by those that do not agree with our existence.” Addie’s face seemed to fall, more saddened and serious than Emily had seen. “Your friends and family cannot know of your status as a vamp, Emily. You can still visit them for a little after you turn, but eventually you will have to leave them. They will continue to age and you will not. They will die and you won’t be allowed near them. Everyone you know today will be dead. Any human you meet will die and you will still be here.” 

Emily pondered that for a moment. She didn’t have many family – her relationship with her mother was already strained. Her only true family was her team. She wasn’t sure she could watch them die. She looked at Addie, trying to piece together the missing pieces. “You said human. You must have other vamps that you are close with?” 

Addie chewed on her lip, her eyes downcast. Her voice sounded more raw, more emotional than Emily had seen. “Yes, of course. Vampires usually belong to a coven, an order. They become your family.” A stifled sniffle. When Addie looked up, her eyes were red-rimmed. “We aren’t invincible, Emily. We lose each other, too.” 

Emily knew not to push. The emotion barely hidden behind the strong facade Adelaide put out. Asking for more details right now wouldn’t get her far, and she didn’t want to push her luck with the woman who held her life in her hands. 

Addie cleared her throat, trying to shove the emotion back down. “Do you have any other questions?” 

“You said you were watching me, chose me. That your presence in the warehouse was almost fate-like. Why? Why me? What do you want with me?” 

Addie once again rose from the chair and looked out the window. “We’re running out of time for your decision.” She walked to the door and paused in the entryway. She tried to smile a little, tried to convey everything to Emily in a single look. “This life is full of… interesting characters. It’s my job to keep them in line. I figured I could use your help, Agent Prentiss. Are you up for the challenge?” She asked, eyebrow lifted once more.

With that, Addie closed the door and left Emily to her thoughts, her decision looming over her.

[thoughtfulfoxllama]

My Pioneer Heritage

So, my Biological Family has pioneers in it. Matta Maria Rosenlund (who went by her Middle Name when she got to Utah) & her husband Daniel Dewey Corbett are among them

Daniel Corbett

Daniel was born in Maine on May 16 1807. He and his wife joined the Church in 1839. They moved to Nauvoo in 1844, and only learned about the Martyrdom when he was en route (which means, unfortunately, they never saw the Prophet personally). He was ordained as a Seventy when he arrived in Nauvoo, and used his skill as a Cobbler to help finish the Nauvoo Temple. They received their "partial Endowments" (I am unsure what this means, but if you're familiar with the Endowment, he got at least the Adam part) on January 12, 1846, before they & their family were forced from Nauvoo

They moved Kanesville, Iowa for years. They were able to plant & harvest their own crops, and even had a daughter who would later marry Martin Harris Jr. On July 5, 1849 the family joined the Allen Taylor company, and completed the journey to Salt Lake

When they arrived, they were allotted land between 4-5 East & 6-7 South. In the early years, he was extremely charitable (given the hardship of all the Saints during this era). He would make & mend shoes for little to no charge, collected firewood for widows, and gave what flour they could spare to those in need (they would take a brass kettle of flour to them as their Fast Offerings)

They wore homespun clothes, dying & spinning the yarn, then sending it to the mill to be made into cloth. They ate Pork, Cornbread, Jonnie Cakes, and Sugar Cane Molasses. They fasted on Thursday Morning (Fast Day was Thursday in the Early Church)

He lived close to the school, and was one of the few Saints who had a clock, so students were often sent to his home to determine the time. Daniel's family was unable to afford the 25¢ a week cost, so like many students, they paid it with vegetables

Daniel loved his wife, Elmira (born 1811). They were Sealed by Brigham Young on June 30, 1853. Unfortunately, she passed in February the next year. This lead Daniel to have to care for 6 children (ages 5-24, with the oldest being married the year before). He remarried Ann Jones, an English Convert, on November 8, 1861. Ann was married before she immigrated in 1849, but it is unknown if she was widowed or divorced. Ann had poor health, and was infertile. As her health became worse, she told Daniel to find a Second Wife, to help care for her & the 2 children left at home. This wife was Matta Rosenlund. Ann died in December 1888, and always held love for her sister-wife (although we know more about Elmira & Matta, Ann is relatively unknown, possibly because she had no children to tell her story. I hope, when the Resurrection occurs, I will be able to learn at the feet of the woman who brought my 3rd Great-grandmother into her family)

He lived many years, supporting his family, and living the Gospel until his passing on June 26, 1892. He was buried next to Ann

Matta Maria Rosenlund

Matta was born November 1, 1826 in Malmöhus, Sweden. She was the first born of Wilhelm Jonas Rosenlund & Boel Jonsson. She had 2 sisters & a brother: Anna (March 20, 1829-? She survived to Adulthood), Hannah (May 25, 1831- May 25, 1832), and Johan Wilhelm (April 10, 1834-October 2, 1836)

Both of her parents died of Cholera in Stockholm when she was 13, leading her & 10 year old Anna being placed in an Orphanage. Despite this, Matta (and presumably Anna) were educated at the King's School, given her father's illustrious military career (being the equivalent of a 4-Star General by age 30). After her education, she got a job in a bakery before marrying Ockar Victor Leonard Svansberg on May 29, 1849

Oscar was a French Sculptor & a Mason "of high degree." She was seen as more Spiritually inclined, while her husband was more Worldly. However, they were often seen together at high society events, such as Masonic Balls ("where Mr. Svansberg was usually the leader because of his pleasing appearance and personality")

Together, they had 4 Children in Stockholm: Victor Mauritz (June 25, 1850-), Maria Lovisa (July 4, 185è-), Oscar A. (1853-? Died in Infancy), and Hilma Ida Constance (May 4, 1863-)

Maria was a faithful Lutheran, but joined the Church in 1859. She spent the next 5 years trying to bring her husband to the Church. When he wouldn't join, she left him, and brought their daughters (Lovisa age 11, Ida under 1) to England with her. They sailed on the Monarch of the Sea under the direction of John Smith (Church Patriarch)

The journey was treacherous. They sailed from April 28, 1864 to June 3, 1864. There were 973 immigrants, and they were provided with little water and whatever provisions the Church could gather (Hardtack, Pork, Peas, and a little White Flour, Sugar, Coffee, and a few other things). The next day, they saw the logistical errors of feeding nearly 1,000 people when it took them 8 hours to get everyone Rice. It was also on this day the first baby died on Measles. Ida was the only baby to survive the voyage, with the other 20 either dying from the disease, or being thrown to sea. The Capitan was determined to throw Ida to sea as well, but Matta hid Ida in her Shawl. In addition to sickness, the sea was so violent that the sickbay was often full of people injured by being thrown around, and there were days when the cook was unable to safely cook (meaning there was no food those days)

After arriving in New York, she took a number of trains until she arrived in Nebraska. On July 4, 1864, Matta & her Daughters joined with the William B Preston Company, arriving in Salt Lake on September 15th, 1864. Her grandson reported that "although Zion did not appear to her as she had anticipated, she many times made the remark that when she set her feet on Utah soil it was the happiest moment of her life. The struggle to exist was a very difficult one, but she seemed obsessed with the desire to make good, and through toil, struggle, and undying faith she succeeded." Soon after her arrival, she heard from friends back in Sweden of the death of her husband

Her son, Victor wanted to join his mother & sisters on their journey, but was unable to due to his service in the Swedish Military. He arrived on July 14, 1877 (after a mere 3-weeks journey). He lived with his mother for 2 years, before disappearing without a trace

When in Utah, she became a Nurse, and helped Ann Jones. Ann & Matta (platonically) loved each other, and Ann asked Daniel to take Matta as a Plural Wife. This marriage resulted in 2 Children: George Q (November 28, 1866-September 20, 1867) & Otis (December 21, 1868-Febuary 4, 1940). Ann helped watch the Children when she was away from home, and adored all of Daniel's Children (as well as Matta's Children from her first marriage) like they were her own

Matta continued her career for over 20 years, sometimes accompanying Ella Shipp (honestly, I can write a whole essay about this badass female doctor, but you'll have to Google her for now). She was eternally optimistic, and was known for helping her patients recover rapidly. She delivered hundreds of children

I love learning about family history because of the lessons we can learn from those who came before

Daniel was a loving man. He never had much, but he was generous with what he did have. Maybe he only had a kettle of flour, but he gave that flour to those who needed it more. Although Matta's Children weren't his own, he loved them unconditionally, and gave whatever he could

Ann may have been infertile, and invalid, but she didn't let either stop her. She rejoiced in all the children of her husband's wives. She cared for them when she could muster up the strength

And Matta went through a lot. Orphaned at 13 & having to care for a sister, fearing having your daughter thrown overboard, having a son go missing without a trace, and being constantly surrounded by sickness. But she never lost hope. She was born in high society, and married into it. But her happiest moment was after she gave it up. She fought for everything she had, and that brought her joy, because she knew she had earned every blessing

I want these stories to be known. Every story deserves to be told, to live through the Ages, to inspire the Children of Men to do better

I want to hear your stories. I chose my Pioneer Ancestors because they speak to me the most. But I want to hear about the people who's stories you most value, whether your parents' story, or some obscure knight in the 12th century.

𐐔𐐰𐑌𐐷𐐲𐑊 𐐔𐐭𐐨 𐐗𐐫𐑉𐐺𐐮𐐻- 𐐕𐐰𐑉𐐮𐐻𐐨 𐐮𐑆 𐑄 𐐑𐐷𐐳𐑉 𐐢𐐲𐑂 𐐲𐑂 𐐗𐑉𐐴𐑅𐐻

𐐣𐐰𐐻𐐲 𐐣𐐲𐑉𐐨𐐲 Rosenlund (unsure how to pronounce her last name...)- 𐐆𐑁 𐐷𐐨 𐐸𐐰𐑂 𐑁𐐩𐑃 𐐰𐑆 𐐩 𐑀𐑉𐐩𐑌 𐐲𐑂 𐑋𐐲𐑅𐐻𐐲𐑉𐐼 𐑅𐐨𐐼, 𐑌𐐲𐑃𐐮𐑍 𐑇𐐰𐑊 𐐺𐐨 𐐮𐑋𐐹𐐪𐑅𐐲𐐺𐐲𐑊 𐐲𐑌𐐻𐐭 𐐷𐐭

[ltwilliammowett]

A light on a reef

Until the end of the 17th century one of the threats facing shipping heading to Plymouth on the southern coast of England was the isolated and treacherous Eddystone reef, 23km directly offshore. Much of the hazard is underwater, creating complex currents, and extraordinarily high seas are often kicked up when conditions are very windy. In 1620 Captain Christopher Jones, master of Mayflower described the reef: "Twenty-three rust red [...] ragged stones around which the sea constantly eddies, a great danger [...] for if any vessel makes too far to the south [...] she will be swept to her doom on these evil rocks." As trade with America increased during the 1600s a growing number of ships approaching the English Channel from the west were wrecked on the Eddystone reef.

King William III and Queen Mary were petitioned that something be done about marking the infamous hazard. Plan to erect a warning light by funding the project with a penny a ton charge on all vessels passing initially foundered. Then an enterprising character called Henry Winstanley stepped forward and took on the most adventurous marine construction job the world had ever seen. Work commenced on the mainly wooden structure in July 1696. England was again at war, and such was the importance of the project that the Admiralty provided a man-o-war for protection.

The Winstanley Lighthouse, by English School, 17th century (x)

On one day, however, HMS Terrible did not arrive and a passing French privateer seized Winstanley and carried him off to France. When Louis XIV heard of the incident he ordered his release. " France is at war with England, not humanity," said the King. Winstanley's was the first lighthouse to be built in the open sea. It was a true feat of human endeavour. Work could only be undertaken in summer and for the first two years nothing could be left on the rock or it would be swept away. There was some assistance from Terrible in transporting the building materials, but much had to be rowed out in an open four-oared boat in a journey that could take nine hours each way. Winstanley's lighthouse was swept away after less that five years, during the great storm of 1703.

John Rudyerd's wooden lighthouse of 1708, by Issac Sailmaker, c. 1708 (x)

Winstanley was in it at the time supervising some repairs- he had said that he wished to be there during " the greatest storm that ever was." The next lighthouse was built by John Rudyerd and lit in 1709. Also made largely of timber and with granite ballast, it gave good service for nearly half a century until destroyed by fire in 1755. During the blaze the lead cupola began to melt, and as the duty keeper, 94- old Henry Hall, was throwing water upwards from a bucket he accidentally swallowed 200g of the molten metal. No one believed his incredible tale, but when he died 12 days later doctors found a lump of lead in his stomach.

Smeaton's Eddystone Lighthouse, by John Lynn (active 1826-1869) (x)

John Smeaton, Britian's first great civil engineer, was the next to rise to the challenge of Eddystone. He took the English oak as his design inspiration - a broad base narrowing in a gentle curve. The 22m high lighthouse was built using solid discs of stone dovetailed together. Work began in 1756, and from start to finish the work took three years, nine weeks and three days. Small boats transported nearly 1000 tons of granite and Portland stone along with all the equipment and men.

  Sir James N. Douglass's Eddystone Lighthouse, Plymouth, England, photochrome print, c. 1890–1900. The remnants of John Smeaton's lighthouse are at left. (x)

The Smeaton lighthouse stood for over 100 years. In the end it was not the lighthouse that failed; rather that the sea was found to have eaten away the rock beneath the structure. In 1882 it was dismantled and brought back to Plymouth, where it was re-erected stone on the Hoe as a memorial, and where it still stands.

The Eddystone lighthouse today (x)

It had already been replaced by a new lighthouse, twice as tall and four and a half times as large, designed by James Douglas, which now gives mariners a beacon of light visible for 22 nautical miles (40,78km).

[archivist-crow]

On this day:

THE HERMIT TSAR

On November 19, 1825, in southern Russia, Tsar Alexander I officially died—or did he? Rumors abounded, saying that the disillusioned emperor had faked his death, substituting the corpse of a soldier to be his proxy for the death certificate. Apparently Alexander had become sick in mid-November and, refusing to take any medication for his ills, died an undetermined number of days later. Four people testified to witnessing his death: his wife, the Empress Consort; his aide-de-camp; his personal physician; and a court physician. Unfortunately, the testimonies contradicted one another, and the pages from the Empress's diary written at the time of his illness went missing altogether.

Nicholas I, Alexander's successor, had royal documents from Alexander's last reigning year demolished. The emperor's autopsy report, signed by ten doctors, including the royal surgeon, described a body that had appeared to suffer from diseases, such as syphilis, which the tsar had never had. The royal surgeon later denied signing an autopsy report even though his signature could be seen on the paper. In 1827 the tsar's tomb was opened in the dead of night by order of the imperial court. His casket contained only lead bars.

In 1826 a pauper known as Fedor Kuzmich appeared in Kransnophinsk, Russia, was arrested for vagrancy, and was then sent to Siberia. The stately looking beggar, with a secret past, became a hermit and soon earned a reputation for his healing powers. People journeyed great distances for his solace. Among the pilgrims were two servants, exiled from the royal palace and relegated to Siberia. When one of them became ill, the other found a guide to take him to Kuzmich, the healer for medicine. The comrade was reportedly astonished to recognize Kuzmich's voice as that of the former Tsar Alexander and promptly fainted. The guide was advised to tell the fainter that his friend would recover and that they should both forget the incident entirely. Kuzmich died in 1864, whispering, "God knows my real name."

Text from: Almanac of the Infamous, the Incredible, and the Ignored by Juanita Rose Violins, published by Weiser Books, 2009

[maridemira]

Thomas Morgan: What Happened to Him?

Welcome or welcome back to a Beechey post. In this essay, we'll take a look at Thomas Morgan and what happened to him. He was a sailor in a rescue mission sent to find Franklin and his crew and was famously buried in Beechey Island becoming the fourth grave of the island. But what do we know about him exactly? Stick around as we dive deep into this mysterious somewhat forgotten man.

We know very little of Thomas Morgan, but according to a post here, Morgan was 33 years old when he died. This information can immediately tell his estimated birth year which can be dated to around 1820 to 1821. He was reportedly a sailor since he was 6 years old for reasons unknown. He doesn't appear in records again until much later in life when he became a crew member of the HMS Investigator which accompanied the HMS Enterprise. This ship was abandoned in 1853 after it was beset in ice. After a period of being abandoned, the ship sunk at an unknown date but it was still upright in 1854, reportedly.

The crew of HMS Investigator were rescued by the HMS Resolute and were brought aboard the North Star after the HMS Resolute became beset. It was here that the more trouble began for Thomas Morgan. In the post I mentioned, according to the ship's doctor Alexander Armstrong, who provided an unofficial yet detailed account of what happened during those 4 years, Morgan had a tumor removed in 1852 and spent more than 110 days in medical observation. He was reportedly very weak that he had to be carried in a makeshift cot on a dog sledge. On May 22, 1854, he died at the age of 33 and was buried on Beechey Island 4 days later. He was never disinterred nor his coffin was opened.

Now, much of this came from the post mentioned above but I did read and skim through Dr. Armstrong's account and he did state that Morgan died after a long illness, so it goes in line with how long he has been ill for. So based on what we know, let's try to make a timeline for Morgan:

1820: Possible earliest birth year, most likely late 1820.

1821: Possible latest birth year, most likely early 1821.

1826-1827: Employed as a sailor at the age of 6.

1848: Set sail to find Franklin and his men

1854: Death and burial at the age of 33.

Please note this timeline may have some errors

This timeline may be very short but it does give some insight into his life before the failed rescue attempts. And as a thanks for the information, I will tag @petoskeystones and hopefully you found this post interesting.

Sources: Alexander Armstrong's unofficial narrative, the post.

[lunarcovehq]

Georgiana Ortiz is a Vampire that currently resides in Celestial Hills and has been a Lunar Cove resident for 169 years, though a fangtastic latte recipe isn't the only thing she is digging up.

ITS THE END OF THE WORLD

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis Woman, She/Her

DATE OF BIRTH: July 22, 1826

OCCUPATION: Archeologist and Owner of The Caffine Crypt

FACECLAIM: Victoria Justice

AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE

SPECIES: Vampire

CLAN POSITION: Member 

AGE AT TRANSFORMATION: 29

WELCOME TO LUNAR COVE, GEORGIANA ORTIZ

Trigger Warnings: Death, Child Death, Arranged Marriage, War, Childbirth 

Georgiana Luisa Ortiz Davis de Taylor; born the year of her birth country’s half-century celebration on a July evening in 1826. The fifth child and first daughter of a coffee trader from Puerto Rico and his beloved wife, in the colony of Georgia’s first city; Savannah. It was picturesque and serene. The nation’s first planned city with wide streets, public squares, and parks. Also a port town, Savannah’s proximity to the sea made it possible for the Ortiz family’s trade ventures to thrive. Each son was given his own delegations and all the daughters married off. Which included Georgiana.

It wasn’t love at first sight but a deep appreciation for the heart of a good man who was always kind and generous. Edward Taylor, a friend of her older brother’s, a shipping merchant like her father, and a local to Savannah just like her. They shared eight children together over the course of a decade; only five survived into adulthood. It was the greatest ache Georgiana ever knew; the death of a child. There were no words that existed that she knew to describe such a loss. An insurmountable grief, deaths that she would mourn for all of time.

Eight children took their toll. After her youngest’s birth, Georgiana's human body grew weak. Dizzy spells and the occasional fainting weren’t uncommon. Her family, friends, and neighbors all expressed their concern. Their fears made reality the day Georgiana collapsed at the top of the stairs during a dinner party. Her body tumbled down the wooden steps til it smacked the bottom in front of all her guests. She was dead before her head hit the floor. Hours passed, her body cleaned and redressed, left on the parlor table for her burial the next day. In private, her husband and their children said their goodbyes. A small mercy Georgiana would be grateful for later when it came to giving them closure. 

By morning, Georgiana was in a carriage, leaving Savannah; the only home she’d ever known. Headed North, to a town called Lunar Cove, with her maker for a new life as a Vampire.The one who saved her. A friend of a friend in attendance that night who had slipped his blood into her wine, only hoping to cure the lady of the house of what ailed her after hearing the whispers of concern from her friends. It came as much a shock to him as everyone else in attendance when Georgiana died, still he took the time to welcome her into an immortal life.

In the New England town, Georgiana learned how to be a vampire; to curb cravings, to compel, to live this new life she had been given. Though a better alternative than death, it was a life full of grief for her family. In the solace of a friend, Georgiana found a new family; a chosen one. Meena Raja, who at the time was second in command to the town’s vampire clan, quickly became Georgiana’s closest friend. Both women grew up in society, though a continent and a few decades apart. They shared a love for fashion, music and all the arts, as well as an affinity for gossip like any aristocrat. Georgiana recovered a piece of her humanity in her dear friend Meena. A gift she would not know again for some decades until she returned to Savannah for her son. 

During the American Civil War Georgiana’s former husband and two of their sons died, leaving only her daughters and eldest boy alive. No measure of time passing made those losses easier, not during her tenure as a human or her eternity as a vampire. It was an eternal, forever kind of ache for each and every single one.

Two and a half decades came and went. Georgiana did not age but still changed with every rise and fall of the sun. Receiving an education, a real education, for the first time equipped her with the ability to guide her family from afar. To ensure their prosperity in business and their safety when it counted. She kept a careful eye on them throughout the years, especially her children. No longer babies but men and mothers, too. It was a different kind of ache; watching life go on without you. 

When word arrived that her only son left alive had been thrown from his horse and was fast approaching death, she left her new home for her old one. Upon arrival, the hospital pronounced him dead, but Georgiana heard his heart beating, faintly, the moment she entered the morgue. Inaudible to human ears, yet it was the loudest, most profound sound she’d ever heard; since the day of his birth when Georgiana heard the first cries of her first child.

Peter thought his mother was an angel, returned to Savannah to take him home when she offered him life everlasting. Only part of which was true.

The years came easier with Peter at Georgiana’s side. They mourned together, their mortal family’s lives. First within the safety of a supernatural home but venturing abroad at the turn of the century in pursuit of education, experience, and travel.

Georgiana attended universities across the Euro-Asia continents until the start of the first world war. They did what they could to help the allies. It was a long four years. When peace returned to the world, Georgiana and her son went home. Lunar Cove was a soft place to land after the trials of war. She was grateful for the peace, finally able to return to her studies and reunite with her cherished, chosen family.

In honor of her parents, Georgiana opened a cafe. Her father was a shipping merchant who met her mother through a business associate in the Puerto Rican coffee trade. She named the shop sardonically for the creature she’d become. The Caffine Crypt became a second home away from her estate in Celestial Hills. She relished the days of working in its corners, appreciating the smell of fresh ground beans, as she put ink to paper. Cataloging her life, her work, her thoughts. 

The second world war came and went. Georgiana found a place in her mind where the bloodshed lived. A survivor of three wars, now. The blessing and curse of her life; to watch as all the world moved by.

 After many years of interest, Georgiana found herself in the dirt. An archeologist with her own team, searching for things they’d never find. At least, not publicly. Georgiana kept the best treasures for the town. More than just human tokens, too, but magical relics that amazed a woman who was born no more than human. Safely stored in Lunar Cove, awaiting use should the town ever need. 

For more than a century and a half, Georgiana has maintained an estate in Celestial Hills. A home she often returns to, to spend the stretch of years between extensive bouts of intense research, to reunite with her family. Her son, Peter, and her dearest friend Meena; no longer second in command but leader of their clan and mayor of Lunar Cove. Feast Georgiana took to celebrating with the most elaborate of parties. An ode to their days of girlhood in the upper echelon. 

Over the years, much has changed about the world and the safe haven she calls home, but Georgina fears not war or death. A survivor of both, too many times to count. No threat could keep her out of Lunar Cove.

[deadpresidents]

When did Adams and Jefferson last see each other in person?

I don't think they saw each other in person again after 1801 -- following Jefferson's election as President but before his inauguration because Adams left town before Jefferson was sworn in. Their friendship started to fall apart when Washington was President and really started to fray during the 1796 election, when Adams defeated Jefferson, which meant Jefferson ended up as Vice President under Adams because the system for electing the President and Vice President was ridiculous prior to the enactment of the 12th Amendment. The 1800 election was even nastier than 1796, and Adams retired to Massachusetts without sticking around for Jefferson's inauguration and they completely fell out of contact for over a decade.

Fellow Founding Father Benjamin Rush tried to get Adams and Jefferson to reconcile once Jefferson left office in 1809, but was unsuccessful until one of Jefferson's neighbors told him that he had visited Adams and Adams had said, "I always loved Jefferson and still love him," which led Jefferson to let Rush know that any beef that he had towards Adams was definitely squashed and that he'd respond if Adams wrote to him. Adams sent Jefferson a letter on January 1, 1812, Jefferson responded on January 21, and they restarted their remarkable correspondence and kept writing each other until they both died on the very same day, July 4, 1826, which also happened to be the 50th anniversary of the ratification of the Declaration of Independence, which will always be one of the craziest coincidences in the history of human existence.

[the-draculas-daughter]

• Mary Shelley 🖤📖🕯🥀

• Mary Shelley is best knowing for her gothic horror novel "Frankenstein", or "The Mordern Prometheus". She was also married to the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Shelley didn't only wrote Frankenstein, there's more books including Valperga (1823), The Last Man (1826), the autobiographical Lodore (1835) and the posthumously published Mathilde.

• She was born as Mary Wollstonecraft Godwing on August 30, 1797, in London England. She was daughter to philosopher and political writer William Gowdin and her mother was a famous feminist writer as well (she was author of the book 'The Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792). Shelley never really knew her mother, she died after Shelley's birth.

• Mary Shelley didn't had a formal education but reading books was her passion, she was always daydreaming in her personal father's library and her mother's grave. She did it as a form of escape of her chaotic home life. She was very creative, she once explained that "As a child, I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given for recreation, was to 'write stories'."

• She was married to the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley whom they had a very turbulent relantionship. Mary and Percy after years together decided to travel to Europe for a time. In the following summer they were in Switzerland with famous names as Jane Clairmont, Lord Byron and John Polidori. The group entertained themselves on a rainy day by reading horror stories. It was a time that Mary Shelley started working on what would become her famous gothic novel "Frankenstein".

• Shelley died of brain cancer on February 1, 1851, at the age of 53, in London, England.

• Shelley was an amazing woman and writer, she's an inspiration to me. 🖤🥀

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[labuenosairesfrancaise]

Ortiz Basualdo Anchorena Palace

Hi Guys! I leave this residence here. Could not find the floorplan, so I took some building liberties.

As always, you  will need lots of CC for it to work properly, mostly from Felixandre, TheJim, SYB, Aggresivve Kitty, among others.

Thanks to my patreons for all the support! I really appreciate your participation and gives me a boost of confidence!

Please let me know if you like it :)

Enjoy!

DOWNLOAD: https://www.patreon.com/posts/81865201

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A little bit of context and history:

The disappeared Ortiz Basualdo Anchorena Palace (better known as the Ortiz Basualdo Palace) was a luxurious residence that existed facing the San Martin Plaza in the neighborhood of Retiro, Buenos Aires.

This grand mansion, which occupied half a block bounded by Basavilbaso, Maipú, and Arenales streets, was designed by Belgian architect Jules Dormal at the request of Mrs. Magdalena Dorrego de Ortiz Basualdo (1826-1905) for her eldest daughter, Inés Ortiz Basualdo (1853-1922), widow of Estanislao Peña y Lezica, and her youngest son, Carlos Ortiz Basualdo (1863-1910) married to Matilde de Anchorena Castellanos, all members of important aristocratic families of late 19th century Argentina.

The mansion was completed in 1904, and that year, the Municipality of Buenos Aires awarded it the First Prize for Best Façade in its annual competition. This palace should not be confused with the one built in 1912 for Daniel Ortiz Basualdo (1860-1935), the second son of Mrs. Dorrego de Ortiz Basualdo, married to Mercedes Zapiola, at the corner of Cerrito and Avenida Alvear, now the Embassy of France.

The Ortiz Basualdo Palace, which appeared as a single unit, actually contained two important adjacent but independent residences. One with an entrance at Arenales 733, with a grand porte cochère, was that of Inés Ortiz Basualdo de Peña, who, already a widow, moved into it with her daughter Elisa Peña de Uribelarrea (1878-1943), newly married to Manuel Adrián de Uribelarrea Anchorena, a marriage that had ten children. In 1943, Elisa Peña de Uribelarrea died, already a widow, and the executor of the estate entered into negotiations to sell her part of the palace to the Russian embassy, which finally bought the house of Celedonio Pereda on Rodriguez Peña street.

The other great residence with an entrance at Maipú 1210 was that of Carlos Ortiz Basualdo, married to Matilde de Anchorena Castellanos in 1896. Carlos Ortiz Basualdo died in 1910, after having five children, four boys and one girl. Matilde de Anchorena Castellanos married François Verstraeten Dunois in 1914, with whom she had a son and a daughter. Her son, Francisco Verstraeten de Anchorena, married Raquel Terán Etchecopar in 1942, and her daughter, Elena Verstraeten de Anchorena, married Enrique Ibarguren in 1941. The Verstraeten Anchorena family lived in the palace until their last days. After the death of Doña Matilde de Anchorena Castellanos de Verstraeten in 1969, the remaining part of the palace was auctioned and demolished.

The Ortiz Basualdo Palace was one of the most important examples of the palaces and mansions that emerged in the early 20th century in the neighborhoods of Retiro, Recoleta, and Palermo. These mansions were clustered around the San Martin Plaza, along Avenida Alvear and adjacent streets. Until the crisis of 1930, family successions and the emergence of rationalism in architecture definitively put an end to them, both in aesthetic exhaustion and economic reality.

Credit:

Argentina de Antaño