#Garden room Essex

[briggsp34]

Embracing the Outdoors: Enhancing Gardens with Plant Hire in Huddersfield and Garden Rooms in Essex

In recent years, the trend of enhancing our living spaces has expanded from interiors to include the great outdoors. More specifically, the services of plant hire in Huddersfield and the concept of garden rooms in Essex are changing the way people interact with their gardens, providing flexibility, beauty, and functional spaces in the open air. For the inhabitants of Huddersfield, the thrill of a lush, diverse garden without the long-term commitment is achievable through plant hire. This practice involves leasing a variety of plant species for a specified duration, giving you the freedom to adapt the look and feel of your garden as the seasons change or simply as your preference dictates. Local firms such as Briggs and Partner offer this service, providing a vast range of plants, from the more traditional British varieties to intriguing exotic species. They make the process of changing your garden’s appearance hassle-free, handling everything from delivery and setup to routine maintenance. Meanwhile, in Essex, garden rooms are gaining traction. These standalone structures add a versatile, functional space within a garden. This space can serve as a tranquil haven, a home office, an art studio, or even a guest room. In essence, it's a way of expanding your living area in a unique and natural way. Companies such as Wright Sheds offer tailor-made garden room solutions to the residents of Essex. They handle everything from design to installation, ensuring the finished product aligns with your aesthetic preferences and functional requirements. The result is a blend of comfort and functionality that elevates your outdoor living experience. Garden rooms can also be designed with sustainability in mind, incorporating eco-friendly materials and maximising natural light and ventilation. Plus, they can be equipped with modern amenities such as insulation and Wi-Fi, offering year-round comfort and convenience. Pairing the plant hire service in Huddersfield with the concept of garden room Essex presents a delightful opportunity. Imagine a beautifully designed garden room, nestled within an ever-changing arrangement of flora - a perfect sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of daily life, a creative workspace, or a picturesque setting for socialising. In conclusion, the services of plant hire Huddersfield and the garden rooms in Essex are transforming the way we view our outdoor spaces. These services encapsulate a movement towards greener living, merging the cosy indoors with the appeal and health benefits of being outside. Regardless of whether you opt for a vibrant, ever-evolving range of plants or a dedicated outdoor space, the ultimate goal is to enhance your connection to nature, promoting relaxation and enjoyment.

Learn more about the beauty and versatility of diverse plant species through plant hire Huddersfield or explore the potential of a cosy and functional outdoor space with a garden room Essex.

[aawindow]

Extend your Harlow home with our range of home office & garden rooms. These extensions are bespoke built to offer you a year-round space you can enjoy.

[seoladyuk]

Installing a made-to-order garden room is one of the quickest ways to add valuable living space to your Hertfordshire or Essex property. Our workshop is based near Hertford, we hand build extended living modular garden rooms for work and leisure.

If you’re considering moving and want to add significant value to your property, our garden rooms can be built in under 3 weeks with no requirement for planning permission on your private property as a homeowner. Garden Rooms Installed and Made to Order

For those considering a move or seeking to enhance their current living situation, bespoke garden rooms offer a quick and stylish solution. Our workshop not only prides itself on bespoke design but also on rapid installation, often completing the transformation in under three weeks. The best part? No need for the bureaucracy of planning permissions. According to a 2022 Rightmove report, the demand for ‘office,’ ‘workspace,’ or ‘working from home’ spaces has soared by a staggering 326%, making our garden rooms a timely and sought-after addition during lockdown. Designed by you, installed by Outdoor Modular Spaces.

Beyond the speed, our commitment to efficiency ensures minimal disruption to your household, with your new space fully ready within six weeks. Crafted for all-season comfort, our bespoke garden rooms boast full insulation, making them a haven no matter the weather. Imagine basking in the luxury of year-round usability, turning your garden room into a retreat for work or leisure. Enquire now on 020 3978 1200.

Are you a homeowner in Hertfordshire or Essex with an eye for the extraordinary? Consider a bespoke garden room as the unique touch that sets your property apart. These versatile spaces serve a myriad of purposes, each limited only by your imagination.

Transform your garden room into a personal fitness haven. Equip it with exercise gear and take advantage of the private space for uninterrupted workouts.

[woodmines]

Luxury Gazebos built in the U.K. Nationwide delivery. Local fitting. Get in touch at: woodmines@gmail.com 01942 497779 www.woodmines.info

[fannibalmusical]

Large Sun Room

Large contemporary sunroom design idea

[chocolatespacemuffins]

Sun Room in Essex Large trendy sunroom photo

[reaper2187]

Leighton murray x reader

In the hallowed halls of Essex College, a tale unfolds between two vibrant souls: Leighton Murray, the enigmatic and alluring senior, and you, the newly arrived freshman with a heart brimming with both trepidation and anticipation.

As you the campus, your senses are assailed by the vibrant tapestry of college life. Laughter echoes through the dormitories, mingling with the faint scent of coffee and the hum of laptops. It is amidst this vibrant atmosphere that you first encounter Leighton.

Tall and striking, with blonde hair that cascades over her shoulders, Leighton exudes an air of mystery. Her captivating blue eyes hold a tantalizing promise, a hint of untold experiences that pique your curiosity. An older student, she moves with an assured confidence that you find both intoxicating and intimidating.

As fate would have it, your paths cross again and again. In the crowded hallways of the library, you steal furtive glances at her as she pores over textbooks, her lips parted slightly in concentration. At a raucous party, you find yourself drawn to her laughter, a melody that cuts through the din like a silver bell.

One evening, as you sit alone in the common room, lost in a book, Leighton approaches you. With a warm smile, she breaks the ice and introduces herself. As you talk, you discover that beneath her enigmatic exterior lies a complex and intelligent woman. You are captivated by her insights, her quick wit, and the way her eyes seem to sparkle with a mischievous glint.

As the hours turn into a languid summer night, you find yourself drawn to Leighton's alluring charm. Your fingers brush against hers as you reach for a shared book, and electricity courses through your body. In that moment, you know that something profound has sparked between you.

In the weeks that follow, you and Leighton spend countless hours together. You explore the hidden nooks of the campus, from the  library to the  gardens. The bond between you grows stronger with each passing day, as you learn the intricacies of each other's desires and secrets.

Leighton's embrace is warm and inviting, her touch like a feather on your skin. Her kisses ignite a fire within you that consumes all inhibition. As you lie entangled in her arms, you feel a sense of liberation and fulfillment like never before.

However, the world outside of your private paradise threatens to tear you apart. Society's judgment looms over you like a dark cloud, whispering that your love is forbidden. But you refuse to be silenced.

Together, you navigate the choppy waters of college life, facing both adversity and triumphs with unwavering determination. You become each other's strength, a beacon of hope in a world that often tries to extinguish your flames.

In the tapestry of your life, Leighton Murray becomes more than just a lover. She is your confidant, your ally, and the catalyst for a profound transformation within yourself. As you graduate from Essex College, you carry with you the memories of your passionate love, a testament to the enduring power of human connection.

And so, as the pages of your life turn and you venture into the wider world, a piece of Leighton will always linger in your heart, a bittersweet reminder of a love that burned bright against the backdrop of youth and collegiate freedom.

[five-miles-over]

Tom Hiddleston Characters: How They Would Propose (To You)

(Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or images. This is just a fun listicle, not designed to offend anyone. As always, please feel free to leave comments and/or constructive criticism below. Thank you, and without any further ado, please enjoy!)

Characters in this list: Will Ransome, King Henry V, Prince Loki Odinson, Loki of Asgard and Jotunheim, Bill Hazeldine, Coriolanus, Jonathan Pine, Robert Laing, Magnus Martinsson, Oakley, Thomas Sharpe, James Conrad, and Jaguar Villain! Tom Hiddleston.

Also, my sincerest apologies - they all turned into mini-fics.

Will Ransome from The Essex Serpent

Reverend Will would propose to you after a Sunday roast dinner, after your family invited him to your home. You were helping to clear the table with the rest of the ladies in your family when Will coughed to announce his presence. At once, everyone cleared the dining room, leaving you alone with the vicar.

"A word please?" He politely called you by name, his hands clasped in front of him. Will sat you down in one of the empty chairs. Gods how he wanted to reach out and tuck one of your stray hairs behind your ear in that very moment, one of the intimate things that he longed to do with you. Intimate things that would be proper in the eyes of God if you were his lawfully wedded wife. He did not sit down, and gently began talking to you. "For some time, I have been charmed by you. Not just your looks, that is not to say that you are not a lovely woman. You are most lovely, but I have also been charmed by your kindness, your humility, and your…virtue."

Will knelt before you, looking up with the most earnest gaze. "If you will bestow upon me the fortune of being your husband, then in return I shall do everything to keep you safe and comfortable.  I shall speak to your father, and we will be wedded in holy matrimony. You and I shall walk together upon this path of life, and I have no doubt that a virtuous woman like you will aid me in carrying out what the Lord decrees of us. My sweetest, please say that you will marry me."

Henry V from The Hollow Crown

With Henry, there was not much of a proposal to begin with. The marriage between you and the King of England was arranged by your father and his men, along with the king and his men. Still, Henry coaxed your father into having at least one private audience with you before the wedding ceremonies, so that he may properly court you as any suitor would. 

'My dearest lady," Henry began as soon as he was alone with you in his study while your father and his men stood vigil outside. "Lower thy veil, and let me behold your face." He reached forward and removed the hood of your cloak, smiling as he beheld your beauty for the first time. "Cheeks rosier than the flowers that bloom in springtime. Your lips and eyes are so enticing, they call to me like sirens. Yours is a face that I shall never tire of seeing.

I confess to you, my lady, that words are not my greatest strength. Were it so easy that I could simply strap on armor or fire an arrow into a target or vault into my saddle for a wife, I should quickly vault for a wife. Alas, tis not so. For a woman's heart is truly one of the most difficult conquests to embark upon. Nevertheless, tis a conquest that I shall duly pursue if you can deign to love me.

If you can love such a man as me, someone whose words are not their strongest suit and someone whose fidelity to you is true, then take me. Take a soldier, and in taking a soldier, you will take a king." Henry knelt before you and offered you his hand. "Sweetest of all maidens, canst thou love me?"

Prince Loki Odinson of Asgard

"I have called you to discuss a matter of great importance, my lady." Loki enunciated the formal title at the end in an attempt to conceal the butterflies in his stomach. He summoned you to the palace gardens at the house before twilight, when the sky would be decorated with streaks of orange and pink. You walked alongside him through the bushes and the groves of flowers. Loki clasped his hands behind her back, walking as if he ruled every inch of earth on which he stepped. 

He continued, "Yes, tis true that Thor, my brother, is the one whom my father has decreed to ascend the throne of Asgard," The younger prince of Asgard looked forward with a solemn expression while you listened with intrigue. "But he is incompetent." Loki turned to you. "He is idiotic and brash. You know as well as I do that he does not encompass the values of a king.

"Was he not the one who wished to invade Jotunheim alone, my prince?" You stopped in your tracks, just as the sun began setting into the horizon behind you.

"Yes, he was. It was all his idea, my lady." Loki did not bother to include his role in instigating Thor, it would not help him in this moment whatsoever. If he delayed this moment any further, he was convinced the words would be stuck in his throat, forever unable to escape. "You are one of the few people with whom I can share these thoughts, my lady." He sighed, his gaze fixated upon you and your beauty. "It is why I have called you here. In the coming future, I will need to protect Asgard from my brother's foolishness. And for that I should like to have a worthy companion by my side."

Loki conjured a shining dagger with a gold hilt out of thin air and promptly fell to one knee before you. The hilt of the dagger was engraved with the words, 'Min hærr, duonningen av mitt hjerte' (My beloved, Queen of my heart) Still on bended knee, Loki looked up at you with an expression of innocence that you never knew existed within him - wide eyes, baited breath, a meek expression. As if all his life were being wagered on a single thing right now. 

"I wish to make you my wife," Loki declared, his lips trembling. "Should you accept, I will bring my proposal to your family, and then we will be wed with due ceremony. And if you decide otherwise, then I shall…" he swallowed, "I shall respect your choice."

Loki of Asgard and Jotunheim from the Marvel Cinematic Universe

"This looks like something stolen from the Graham Norton Show." You raised an eyebrow when Loki handed you an orange and purple card.

"It's a scavenger hunt." Loki said with a twinkle in his eye. "Every clue leads you to the next one."

"I know how a scavenger hunt works, Loki." You rolled your eyes and flipped over the card. "Was this your idea, or is this some ridiculous team-bonding activity put together by Steve Rogers?"

"No. You see,…I have some errands to do, but at the same time, I have an obligatory excursion with the Lady Valkyrie."

You crossed your arms. "So why the scavenger hunt?"

Loki brightly answered. "Well, it makes the errands all the more fun!"

"Alright, but you owe me, Loki." 

"Good girl." The God of Mischief kissed you not the cheek and disappeared into thin air.

You glanced down and saw that the first card, which told you to pick up six cupcakes ordered under Loki's name. The cupcakes were from a specific café….that just so happened to be the place where you and Loki had your first date, which was set up by a far-too-enthusiastic Thor. The moment you got there, a waiter brought you a "complimentary" cupcake of your favorite flavor…along with another orange and purple card. 

The second card took you to the library, on the pretext of picking up a book that was on hold for Loki. There, the librarian handed you the book - Divine Comedy by Dante - and another book that you recognized. It was Pride and Prejudice, one of the first pieces of "Midgardian literature" that you introduced to Loki, a book that you were all too happy to fangirl over. But inside the book was - yes- another orange and purple card. 

The third card sent you to pick up Loki's dry-cleaning. (Really, Loki? Dry cleaning?) At the dry-cleaners, the person at the register handed you a transparent garment bag containing a black tuxedo with a ruffled white shirt. And then you were given a second garment bag with an emerald green gown embellished with diamonds. You couldn't help but stare a few moments at the pretty, expensive-looking gown. Before the person at the register could hand you another card, you made a mental note to ask Loki about the gown and whom it was for. You guessed it was probably for himself for the times he was feeling fabulous. Actually, Loki also liked to wear absolutely nothing when he was feeling his most fabulous…but that didn't matter right now.

The fourth card took you to the park where Loki confessed his love for you for the first time, on the pretext of picking up Loki's forgotten jacket and buying a bouquet of white flowers.

The fifth card took you across the city just to get a particular bottle of liquor that Loki had liked. Okay, now this guy was having a little too much fun with you right now. 

You were relieved when the sixth card, given to you by the liquor store clerk, led you back to the Avengers compound, to the same room where you began this entire scavenger hunt. You huffed a little, setting the box of cupcakes, the books, the two garment bags, Loki's jacket, the flowers, and liquor gently on a table. "Loki? Loki, where are you?"

Loki stood in the middle of the Avengers' common room, wearing polished gold armor over a black and green leather tunic with long, dark trousers. His hair was combed perfectly in place, and his hands clasped behind his back. He stood surrounded by a few candles and fairy lights hanging against the curtains.

"Okay, I need answers…" You sighed, already tired from running around all afternoon. "Loki, I got your things, just tell me what the gown is for and the…the liquor and the…Are you throwing a party or something?"

"I'm getting married."

"What?!" You gulped, reaching for the nearest couch. "I…what? You're getting married, why didn't you tell me? And…" You felt your head start to spin, preparing yourself for the worst. Whatever happened to all the times he said he loved you? Was he just using you to put together some kind of romantic gesture for someone else, just a tool?! Perhaps this is what you get for letting the God of Mischief into your life. Betrayal. "Well, I hope they make you happy, Loki." You relented, putting your head in your hands.

"She does." 

"Good." You murmured, trying your best not to cry in this moment. That was the last thing you wanted him to see. "Is that gown for her too?"

"Hm-hm. Of course, it'll probably end up on the floor after the engagement party, hehe."

"Loki, I am in no mood for your jokes right now." After a few moments, you looked up. 

"Come on,…have a sense of humor."

"NO!" You yelled, getting up from the couch. "No, I will not have a sense of humor right now! You used me! You used me, and lied to me. You told me to do all of these errands, like picking up dry cleaning, and buying liquor, without telling me that you were going to propose to someone else! You could have at least told me, just so I'd have some kind of closure. But no, you couldn't even think to do that. You told me it was a scavenger hunt, like I wasn't worth knowing the truth.

I...I did this because I care about you, Loki! I care about you like some kind of idiot who actually thought that you might like me the same way that I liked you. That right there, making me like you might just be the worst thing you have ever done me." You took a moment to breathe, and ran your hands through your hair. 

"Ugh…And you made me even pick up her engagement dress! What kind of person makes someone do that?!" You couldn't even think about the words you were spitting out, too busy with the hot tears clouding your vision. 

"The kind of person who knows how good it'll look when you wear it."

"What?!" You were taken aback all of a sudden. 

Loki approached you with a hint of nervousness. "Darling, you are one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I know I'm not easy to be with, that I drive you mad sometimes, and I make you put up with a lot. I...I should've practiced this more." He laughed under his breath. "Why didn't I?" Blinking, he pushed his hair back before continuing. 

"What I'm trying to say is,...my life has never been the same since I met you. You're the most steadfast ally, a wonderful friend, and best of all, you are the most passionate and loyal person I have ever known. I could never imagine my life without you, and I never want to. That's how much I love you."

The God of Mischief fell to one knee, and held up a small emerald ring with a gold band.

"Will you marry me?"

Bil Hazeldine from Suburban Shootout

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Bill pulled his father's car into a driveway, and took your hand. "Just close your eyes, alright?"

"Alright…" After a few steps, you could hear Bill opening a door and the sound of a shopkeeper's bell, along with the muted conversations of various patrons. The scents of vanilla and grease reached you almost immediately. 

Bill held you close and whispered that you could open your eyes now.

When you opened your eyes, you laughed a little. "We haven't been here in a while…"

"You remember it?"

"How could I ever forget?" You kissed him on the cheek, and let him find a table for you. 

Bill's proposal began with him taking you to the milkshake diner where the two of you had your first date. After a bit of small talk over a banana split, Bill not-so-discretely excused himself. While you sat at the table with your spoon and checked your phone, Bill made his way to the jukebox with his hands in his jeans' pockets, feeling the small box inside. He'd almost thought about wearing a suit for this occasion, but his mum said it would make you suspicious. And his father suggested hiding the ring inside your ice cream to be more romantic , but Bill was terrified by the idea of you accidentally choking. Yes, keeping the ring with him was a better idea.

Bill took a deep breath and slipped a coin into the jukebox, flipping through the various tracks to find one of the songs you enjoyed. When he found one, he pressed play and called your name. Bill extended his hand out, offering to dance with you. He twirled you, and the two of you swayed in time with the music, smiling all the while. At the end of the song, Bill proudly kissed you on the lips.

He gently said your name, and pushed a bit of hair out of your face. "You're the one I want to dance with to every song…There's just no one like you, no one I could ever dream of that's just as wonderful as you are." Bill reached in his pocket for the small box, and fell to one knee, not caring who might be watching you in the diner. Inside the small box was a 0.3-carat diamond ring with a silver band. "Would you make me the happiest man in the whole world, and marry me?"

Caius Martius Coriolanus from Coriolanus

Coriolanus invited your family to dine with him and his mother one night on the pretext of an important matter concerning two important families of Roman nobility. It was not the first time he'd done such a thing, inviting your family to break bread with him and his mother. He had even visited your father's home before, sharing wine with your father and your brothers from time to time. It was through those meetings that Coriolanus fell more in love with your smile, the way you bit your lip when you were thinking,…and even the way your laugh infected him like a plague. And if there was anything more deadly to him than your simple, unadulterated laughter, then it was your beauty which had him fighting the urge to smile whenever you walked into a room or whenever he heard your voice.

But despite his best efforts, it became quickly aware to everyone in your family how besotted the general was with you. The way his head unintentionally bowed whenever he was in your presence, as if you were the sun and he would go blind if he looked you straight in the eye, never went unnoticed. The fact that you were the only person who could make him laugh, and that the simple mention of your name was enough to make the powerful General and conqueror of Corioles lower his usual barking voice made your family - and anyone else in the general's presence - giggle under their breath.

So when everyone had finished the prima mensa, Coriolanus stood up and raised his cup. "I have called you here tonight, to make a proposition," he declares with the same voice that he would use to speak to the Senate. "An alliance between our families…" The general turned his gaze to you for a moment, and exhaled to calm his racing heart, which only quickened when you looked back up at him. "If you will bestow upon me this honor, I wish to make your daughter…my wife. She is virtuous, and kind,…endowed with a noble background."

He waved for two of the servants of his household to present your mother and father with gifts of imported silk and valuable coins. And for you, the general had his servant gift place a set of golden jewelry - a girdle, five bracelets, and a layered necklace with rubies - in your lap. Underneath the girdle was a small piece of parchment with the words,

"I long to see you wearing these on our wedding night, my lady. Only these."

You turned red, and looked up and the general, politely expressing your thanks. 

"Should you accept," Coriolanus gave you a nod and turned to your family. "We shall make our alliance official in the presence of the gods. Your daughter shall be my wife, and I her husband. I will defend her from harm and protect her, as I have defended Rome time and time again. Your daughter will be cared for, and all I ask for in return, is your fidelity. Pledge to me your allegiance, for I shall need your influence when the time comes for the elections in the Senate.

Instead of a dowry give me your loyalty, and I swear that your priceless gem of a daughter will want for nothing for as long as I live. Do I have your word?"

Oakley from Unrelated

"Let's get married." Oakley off-handedly said while the two of you stood outside, leaning against the wall while he smoked a cigarette. 

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you kidding?"

"No." He took another drag of his cigarette and turned to you with his ocean blue eyes and tousled, dirty blond curls. "We should get married."

"Who are you and what have you done with Oakley?" 

"What, you don't think I'm good enough to marry you?" He protested. 

Shaking your head, you laughed. "No, it's not that…"

"Well, then what is it?" Oakley crossed his arms and furrowed his brow at the sight of you laughing. "We have fun together, we make each other laugh,…we look good together, especially when naked-"

That was enough for you to playfully hit him on the shoulder, causing him to chuckle. He continued, "We like each other. We have this great relationship."

"But are you sure this is what you want?" You asked. "Don't you want to explore, try things? Do stuff before you're tied down?"

"Why would I do that? When there's this…beautiful, funny, smart, and sexy girl right there with me, I'm not even looking at anyone else." Oakley simply countered. "I like what we have, and i don't want to let it go. We can travel, explore the world, and I'll do it all with you." There was no sign of hesitation in his voice, but maybe it was just the cigarette fueling his courage. He came closer to you, and looked dead serious. "I don't want what we have to be just something we try for as long as we can, something we leave up to chance. I want forever with you."

"Forever?"

"Forever." Oakley knelt before you, his eyes going from a vivid cyan to a soft, almost pale bag blue. "I don't have a ring but…" He removed his necklace and presented it to you like an offering at an altar, calling your name. "Marry me."

Jonathan Pine from The Night Manager

Jonathan had been working with MI-6 for almost two years, embarking on various mission for them after he gained acclamation for helping to carry out Operation Limpet. He, along with officer Angela Burr, took down the infamous arms dealer Richard Roper once and for all.

Since then, Jonathan found himself a new home in London and got back in touch with you, the one who stole his heart back when he was still working as a night manager. He didn't know how much he truly missed you until you answered his letter, telling him about the twists and turns your life had taken since your last encounter with Pine. After about three weeks of exchanging handwritten letters - simply because they reminded you both of a simpler time and felt more personal - with Jonathan using a pseudonym to protect you, he invited you to visit London for a holiday. 

And those five days you spent in London were some of the best five days of Jonathan's life. He delighted in your innocence, the way you happily took his arm and strolled through the city, randomly surprising him with kisses. Arm in arm, without a care in the world except for each other, enjoying all that life would have to offer…This is how it should be, Jonathan thought to himself as he gazed at the sparkle in your eyes, the color in your cheeks. He listened as you talked about everything you liked about London, everything that disgusted you, and everything you hoped for in the future, simply taking in the opportunity to just be with you. 

After a few moments, you asked him about what he wanted in the future, and all Jonathan had to say was one word.

"You."

You looked up from your cup of tea. "Me?"

He took a breath. "Yes." Jonathan affectionately said your name, and reached for your hand. "I never grew up in a house with both parents, doting on me." He told you about how his life up until joining MI-6 was an abominable quest for order. How his time in the military and working in the hotel business was part of an aim to find a direction in his life, and how little happiness it truly brought him. How alone he felt whenever his life wasn't being threatened. 

Jonathan sighed, not used to telling so much about himself in a single conversation, laying his heart out on the table to be cut into and devoured. "I promised myself that I would find the one person that I could care deeply for, and love them. I promised myself that I would make friends, find a home…a place to belong. Maybe someday become a parent."

You looked upon him lovingly. "That's beautiful, Jonathan."

He raised your hand to his lips and kissed it. "I want all of those things, and I want them with you." Jonathan declared, quiet enough for the two of you to hear. "These past days with you have been…incredible. When I look at you, I see everything that I have wanted, the life that I want to be living five years from now, ten years from now." 

He continued, "You make me believe in a future that's worth building. The way you smile…, the way you look upon me and everyone with stars in your eyes…I want to be the one who keeps that smile on your face, the one who makes you laugh. I want to be the one who kisses you good night, and the first one you see in the morning. I want to be the one you come home to every evening, the shoulder you lean on." 

Jonathan stroked the back of your hand with his calloused thumb. "I know it's soon, but if there is anything that I've learned, it's that when you see something worth keeping in your life, you do everything you can not to let her go. You just do it." He looked into your eyes. "Marry me?"

James Conrad from Kong: Skull Island

It was the third time this week James had a nightmare. After thrashing and groaning, fighting an invisible beast, James found it in himself to call you - his neighbor whom he'd been dating for two years - on the telephone. His forehead and his chest were dripping with sweat, his expression one of agony, when you approached his bed. It was obvious that he had been in a lot of pain. 

James wasn't the type of person who wanted to expound upon the terrors he was feeling; he was a man of action who preferred expressing his emotions nonverbally. So, you respected that and simply talked about mundane things, things about civilian life that would temporarily distract James. As you both fell asleep, you made a mental note to remind James setting another appointment with his therapist, the one MONARCH had prescribed for him.

You woke up to an empty bed. It wasn't unusual for James to go out on an early morning walk to be alone with his thoughts. It was one of the things he'd learned from his therapist when he asked about how to be a better sweetheart to you while recovering from his trauma. You washed your face and brushed your teeth with a heavy heart, hoping it wouldn't be too long before you saw James again. 

While you styled your hair, you heard the door unlock. James walked inside, carrying a bag of breakfast pastries. "Good morning." He greeted you in a low, casual voice. 

"Good morning…" You would've asked if he slept well, but given the events of last night, that question made no sense. "I'm sorry I stayed over."

"No need to apologize." James set the pastries down and placed a kettle on the stove. While the water rose to a boil, James unwrapped the two chocolate croissants he bought, and glanced up to find you standing in the kitchen. You walked up to him slowly, and without missing a beat, James gently kissed you with an arm gently holding your waist. He murmured your name again, his breath warm against your lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." 

James gave you a chaste kiss on your forehead before going into his bedroom. "I brought breakfast for us both. Should I make us some eggs?"

"No need…" You watched James open one of his drawers. "Before I forget, do you want to make an appointment with your therapist?"

"Uh, I will." James returned to the kitchen with a small box in his right hand. "Thanks for reminding me."

"What is that?"

James took a deep breath. "Just something to thank you for last night,…and for everything you've done."

"James, you really didn't have to-"

"No. I've been wanting to do this for a year, it's time." 

Your breath caught in your throat as James opened the box to reveal a small, simple sapphire ring. He began, "I should've done this sooner, and I'm a fool for not doing so." James fell to one knee, and you gasped. "Darling,…Over the years I've known you, you have helped me…become a man again. You've remained by my side as I've made attempts to return to civilian life. You've comforted me during my worst hours, and you have given me something worth living for."

"James…"

"You're someone worth fighting for." He laughs a little. "I love you. And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life making you feel loved and caring for you in the ways that you have cared for me.

Darling, will you marry me?"

Magnus Martinsson from Wallander

"Marry me." Magnus groaned with relief when you brought him a plate of eggs, some coffee, and an aspirin. He was laying on your couch, hungover after a night out with you and some of his mates from the police station.

You simply rolled your eyes and laughed a little. "Eat your eggs, you'll feel better with some food inside you."

Magnus kept his eyes on you while you both drank coffee, his headache slowly diminishing. "That a yes?"

"No, Magnus." You flatly said. "You had a lot to drink last night. Just…eat your eggs and finish your coffee. I'm not saying yes to a guy that passed out on my couch after throwing up into the bushes outside."

He grimaced. "I did that?…Sorry." Magnus looked down and shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "Whatever, it was just a question, not like I meant it or anything." He pretended to brush off the matter. "You doing anything else today?"

"Tidying the house. You?"

Magnus closed his eyes for a moment to taste the savory flavor of the eggs. "i have a few things to do at the station for Kurt. Won't take long."

You and Magnus finished breakfast in silence before Magnus thanked you for letting him crash on your couch. "I'll see you soon." He said, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

You almost found it funny, the way he groaned for you to marry him, and chuckled to yourself. For all of his sarcastic quips and his cold exterior, there were times Magnus was an unintentional sweetheart. You'd known him for about seven months, how endearing he was whenever he tried to show off at darts or pool. You thought about the time he brought you soup every night when you had a flu that lasted for a week. And during that one time he showed up late to one of your date nights because of a case, he spent the rest of the evening simply snuggling with you until you fell asleep in each others' arms. It was one of the first times you'd ever seen him smiling so blissfully like a newborn baby.

About a few hours later, you could hear it rain outside, a bolt of thunder rumbling across the sky. While caught up in some trashy television, you heard a knock on the door. 

There was Magnus, standing outside drenched from head to toe. 

"Magnus, what are you-"

"I meant it." He confessed while the raindrops rolled down the sides of his face. "Marry me." He repeated when you asked him what he was talking about. Magnus reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small gold ring with three tiny diamonds. "You're the most perfect person in this entire world. And it's not just because you make the best eggs." He said, making you laugh. "You're stunning, even when you've just woken up. You put up with a lot, and…I can't really say what it is you do to me, but I can't help it. I…I…"

"I love you too, you crazy detective!" You finished.

"So, is that a yes?" Magnus asked again, with a big grin on his face as he presented the ring to you. 

Robert Laing from High-Rise

"We need to talk." Robert broke the silence while the two of you shared a candlelit dinner in your flat. 

All traces of a smile disappeared from your face instantly. Usually nothing good ever followed those four words. 

You put your fork down. "What did you want to talk about?"

Robert looked you in the eye. "I moved to this high-rise to be alone, to be away from people. This…a relationship was the last thing that I wanted." He blinked, looking down at his plate for a moment. Then, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. 

You tensed in your seat, preparing for the worst. God, Robert. If he was trying to break up with you, then he just picked the worst time possible. 

The doctor stood up. "I thought I wasn't built for love…So I tried to be alone as much as I could, avoiding every chance to be attached to someone." He swallowed. "And then you came."

You let out a sigh, assuming that Robert was going to say something awful about your relationship. 

"It was like I couldn't even recognize myself anymore. What you did to me…" Robert called your name and walked over to you. "I cannot go a day without hearing your quippy words…, without seeing you when I come home,…without kissing you. It's more than anything I have felt in years." He confessed, his fingers tracing the back of your chair. "If you were to disappear from my life, it would feel like losing everything I've ever known. And…truthfully, the idea of that terrifies me. Maybe I could live without you,…but I don't know if I would be able to call it living.

"So what are you trying to say?" You murmured.

Robert sighed. "Forgive me, I'm not used to having these conversations."

"It's okay."

"You did it again." The doctor remarked. "You're making me fall in love with you, sweetheart." Robert went to the coat closet where he kept his blazer, and pulled a small box from one of the pockets. He returned to your side. "What I'm trying to say is,…that I'm in love with you. I'm in love not only with you, but with the way that you make me…feel things. The way that you remind me that there's a future ahead of us both. A future that can be much more than just dreary parties and squabbles between the upper floors and lower floors. You make me very happy, darling, and I think that you should know that." 

Robert took a deep breath and fell to one knee, next to your chair with the box opened to reveal a silver ring with a diamond heart. "Would you marry me, and make me an even happier man?"

Thomas Sharpe from Crimson Peak

You were sitting on the swing set in the garden of your family estate, enjoying the mid-morning sun and the gentle breeze. Idly moving your legs back and forth, you played with a small cluster of Baby's Breath in your lap. It was nice to be away from the bustling drama and the incessant gossip, and instead be surrounded by fresh air. 

"My lady." You were awoken from your reverie by a smooth, vaguely familiar baritone that belonged to none other than Thomas Sharpe. He was a guest who'd been staying at an inn near your family's home, having joined your family for supper at least ten times in the past two weeks. In your eyes, he seemed mysterious and yet full of stories to tell, always having an anecdote about a place he'd visited or a trick to show you and your siblings. There was something about him that made you drawn to him as soon as he walked into a room, you were unable to articulate what it was. 

"Good morning. What brings you here, Baronet?" 

The baronet gave you a smile, and leaned against a tree, watching you enjoy yourself on the swings. "I was speaking to your father and his, erm, associates about a business venture."

"About clay, right? Mining it?"

Thomas nodded. "Precisely, my lady. And you, have you been enjoying your morning?"

You blushed as he took a step closer. "Yes, Baronet."

"No need for such formal titles now, my lady. We're not at a ball, nor are we at supper. ''Thomas' will do." He gently said. "May I share your company for a while, my lady, if it would not be much of a bother for you?"

You allowed him, giving the Baby's Breath to him as a token of affection. No, not a token of affection. Simply a nice gesture that would hopefully give you a place in Thomas's good books. Maybe he might even ask you for a dance at the next ball.

"Will you be attending the ball this Saturday, Bar- I mean, Thomas?"

He nodded, taking a moment to smell the flowers. "You?"

"I will." 

"And have you chosen a gown, my lady?" Thomas decided to humor you a little. He smiled while you sheepishly described the dress that you had your eye on for that special occasion. "Well, I'm sure you will look divine wearing it, my lady. Do you often spend time here in the gardens, all by yourself."

"Yes. I enjoy the flowers, and the breeze. It's beautiful when the weather is pleasant."

"I can imagine, my lady. It's been a long time since I have relaxed in a garden." Thomas places the Baby's breath in his front pocket. "My lady, there is something I wish to know of you."

You stopped swinging, and asked him what it was.

"I would like to know if you would be interested in marrying me." Thomas knelt by your side, looking up at you with eyes that bore the same hue as a cloudless sky. "For some time, my lady, I have admired your numerous charms from afar. And with each passing day, my affections for you have grown stronger. I find myself thinking about you at the most unpropitious times of day." He sighs, "While I may not be a man of great fame or great brawn or of great wealth, I am a man of dignity." Thomas promised you, despite knowing it was a blatant lie. "I will make sure that you lack nothing as my wife. And to treat you with nothing but the compassion and the love that you deserve. All I ask in return, is that you try to find it in your heart to give me even an iota of your affections.

Would you be willing to do that, my lady?"

Jaguar Villain!Tom Hiddleston

Ever since you moved into the flat Mr. Hiddleston bought for you, the most powerful man in London always had a designated town car sent to pick you up from work or school every day. His favorite chauffeur would show up at the same time every weekday, give you a friendly greeting, and drop you off at your flat. And once you got there, you'd be greeted by a doorman that Mr. Hiddleston personally hired to make sure that you reached safely.

Today, however, the chauffeur did not drop you off at your flat. At least, not right away. "Monsieur Hiddleston had something different in mind for today," he said with a small grin, like he knew something was going on. The chauffeur dropped you off at the nail salon for a manicure paid for by your powerful beau. 

After being pampered by the nail technician for about forty-five minutes, you returned to the town car to find a bag in the backseat with the word 'Harrods' on it. "You went shopping?" You asked the chauffeur while he drove you to your flat.

"Non, it was all Monsieur Hiddleston. He was keeping this dress on hold, and asked me to pick it up for you. He would like you to wear it tonight."

You thanked the chauffeur with a smile. Inside the bag was a beautiful Carolina Herrera gown in your favorite color. And right on cue, your phone buzzed with a text from your beau, asking if you liked his gift. As always, you texted back saying that it was perfect. 

The chauffeur dropped you off at your flat, and asked you to be ready by seven-thirty…but not before taking a good look at your manicured nails and saying an early 'congratulations'.

"Gordon owes me a favor," Mr. Hiddleston bragged a little when he arrived in front of your building at seven-thirty sharp. He opened the door of his favorite black Jaguar, and helped you inside the front passenger seat. "You look stunning tonight, darling."

"You look amazing too," you couldn't help but say. It was the truth after all. "When you said Gordon, did you mean…?"

"We're going to the River Restaurant in the Savoy Hotel, darling." He kept one hand on the steering wheel, placing the other one on your knee. "Hungry?"

"Nervous," you sheepishly said.

"I'm here, nothing can harm you." He turned his eyes to the road. "Your fears are far behind you."

The moment you arrived, the host of the restaurant immediately led you both to one of the outdoor terraces, where there was a table for two set up. Mr. Hiddleston pulled the chair for you before sitting down, and a waiter poured both of you some Dom Pérignon. 

"This is beautiful." You gushed, watching the most powerful man in London raise an invisible toast. You clinked your glass against his. 

 He replied with a dramatic flair.  "Nothing compared to you."

"So…what did you to get this favor?" You leaned in and asked him while the waiter placed a charcuterie board for the two of you to share. "This is a seafood place, charcuterie isn't on the menu."

A twinkle in his cerulean eyes, Mr, Hiddleston fed you a piece of cheese. "That's confidential, darling. Just enjoy the night."

"I will."

The two of you made small talk about your day, and about Mr. Hiddleston's upcoming business trip to Paris. You would be going with him of course, Mr. Hiddleston would make sure of that. The waiter refilled your champagne, and your beau discretely gave him a twenty-pound note, whispering that it was time for the main course.

The waiter took about fifteen minutes to bring your elegantly-arranged entrees out onto the terrace. And as he came out, you could hear an orchestra from inside the hotel begin to play "All I Ask of You" from Phantom of the Opera.

"Enjoying yourself?" Mr. Hiddleston leaned forward with a smirk as he noticed you listening to the music.

You admitted this was one of the songs you enjoyed, and said it reminded you of the first time you'd ever heard of the musical. How much you wanted to be Christine in that moment, serenaded with the promise of a life with no more darkness.

"Well there's one more thing I have for you tonight, darling." With a smirk, Mr. Hiddleston reached into the pocket of his blazer, retrieving a small box labeled 'Harry Winston'. He slowly got out of his chair and made his way towards you. 

You gasped, covering your mouth almost immediately. You swore you could feel your heart stop just for a moment when his eyes met yours. It all made sense now: the manicure, the accidental 'congratulations', the gown,…

 "Oh my god…"

Mr. Hiddleston fell to one knee and opened the box, which contained a 1-carat diamond ring with a platinum band. "Love me. It's all I ask of you."

Tag list: @thatdummy-girl @icytrickster17  @mischievoushiddleston,@lokischambermaid , @lady-rose-moon , @lokisgoodgirl  , @lokisninerealms  @jennyggggrrr  ,, @tom-hiddleston-imagines  , @lokiismineforever  @smolvenger  @winterfrostlovetriangle  , @the-haven-of-fiction  , @turniptitaness   @cakesandtom  ,@sallymagnoliaposts  @leahs-reading-nook  @holdmytesseract  @muddyorbsblr @evelyn-kingsley @anukulee @acidcasualties @lotsoflokilove23 @caffiend-queen

[enbysiriusblack]

childhoods of marauder characters:

james- grew up in a wealthy neighbourhood in liverpool with occasional trips to mumbai to visit family. other than the trips to india where he could hang out with his cousins his age, he didn't have other friends and grew up very lonely before marlene moved next door when they were about eight, and she became his first non-family member friend. he mostly played quidditch or walked around the garden playing make-belief, very outdoorsy kid. mcgonagall is his godmother/his mum's best friend and ex, so she was around fairly often and he loved trying to play pranks on her (and always failing). his parents gave him anything he asked for and tried (but struggled) keeping up/playing with him. so he didn't really understand not getting his way or what he wants. he grew up with the idea of love being an unconditional thing, and if you love someone then you give them everything you have and are

remus- grew up in a small village in wales with no other kids around. he never travelled very far, other than to the nearest town when they needed something they couldn't get from neighbours or make themselves. his friends were the neighbour's sheep and dog, and his family's chickens. he struggled knowing how to act around people, and his parents didn't really want him around people as they were very overprotective for his safety after greyback bit him, and he was very separated from popular culture. he spent most days indoors reading, knitting with his mum, or watching and talking to the sheep, and doing household chores. he grew up thinking people would hurt him if he got close or he in turn would hurt them, and knowing that he'd have to try twice as hard as the other kids to have a good future

peter- grew up in either essex or kent in a seaside town. he was raised by his mum with his dad out of the picture, but his mum took in homeless/run away kids and taught them life skills and found them jobs, so she didn't give him much attention and expected him to be able to look after himself. so he spent his days walking around town and the beach, collecting stones and shells and painting on them. he was constantly surrounded by people, but never got attention from them. the people his mum took in also had a lot of mental health issues or addictions, so he learned a lot of more adult things quite young, as well as having a paper round when he was 10 to be able to spend time at the arcade instead of just walking around the street. he grew up with the idea that childhood was very fleeting so he valued that more than anything, as well as growing up with the idea that he had to put his life into his own hands and no one else would look out for him but himself

sirius- grew up in islington, london. occasionally going to france or other countries for holidays or special events they were invited to- like charity galas and annual balls. grew up in a family that were losing their money, with the aristocratic class fading away, but were desperately trying to cling onto upper class lifestyle. was expected to be quiet and polite and act like a grownup, but never did. had prospective friends visit all the time but he never got on with them (evan rosier being one of them), which made his parents give up after a while. his parents wanted him to be quiet and studying constantly (if not socialising with other respectable families) so it gave him an easy way to pretend he's studying in his room whilst sneaking out to explore the muggle world. he grew up thinking he was shameful to the people around him, which only made him want to be more shameful cause fuck em, since he was also taught just by being born, he was superior to others (which he slowly unlearnt)

regulus- grew up in islington, london. occasionally going to France or other countries for holidays or special events they were invited to- like charity galas and annual balls. grew up in a family that were losing their money, with the aristocratic class fading away, but were desperately trying to cling onto upper class lifestyle. was expected to be quiet and polite and act like a grownup, which he did. unlike, sirius he did not have prospective friends visit as he wasn't the heir and his parents thought him too strange and awkward for other respectable families. his parents wanted him to be quiet and study constantly so he did just that, other than when he played piano or cello which he had permission by his parents to do anyway. he grew up thinking he had to constantly impress his parents to live up to sirius' easy charming personality and brains, as well as being taught that just by being born, he was superior to others (which he never unlearnt)

lily- grew up in a small town nearby woods (i like the idea of her being scottish but i cannot imagine a scottish severus, so maybe her family is scottish but moved to midlands of england). her parents both worked full time and did a lot of overtime/work out of hours so petunia looked after lily and the house most of the time, leaving lily to go out and play. she was very outdoors-y and hated being at home all day, unlike petunia, so she'd go out to the woods to find severus and play with him, or visit the nice old ladies down the round or go to the park (big fan of the swings) or collect bugs. petunia always seemed so much more grown up than her, and when she did more and more magic, they grew even more separated and lily spent less and less time at home. she grew up with the idea she had to be mature and high achieving to get petunia to want to hang out with her, and that the world in general could seem like a scary or dangerous place but that there was really goodness and kindness and nice things in it all

mary- grew up in plymouth, devon. her dad was in the fishing industry and had quite unreliable hours, which made her more close to her mum, but she still got on well with both of them. she had an older sister who got on with them less, since she was a goth and a lesbian and didn't care what people thought, and their parents are a bit more traditional, but tried being openminded- mary looked up to her a lot despite being very different people. she had a lot of friends and went to a lot of kids clubs (like gymnastics, arts & crafts, performing arts, etc.) also i see her as muggleborn, so she went to primary school obviously and had lots of friends from there). grew up with the idea people are people and you should accept them for their differences (cue friendship with alt butch lesbian autistic marlene), and you should always do what you think is best for you, despite what other people want from you

marlene- scottish but moved to liverpool at around eight years old and met james. is the youngest, and has a few older brothers. her family is very traditional so her mum tries to spend the most time with marlene and teach her feminine qualities, although marlene just wants to go out and play quidditch or go to james' and throw mud at each other for 5 hours. grew up catholic and kept her faith, goes to church every Sunday and does confessions when shes old enough. had meltdowns often as a kid, especially having undiagnosed autism with a mum who wants you to do the opposite of what you want all the time, and she'd run over to the potter's to calm down. grew up thinking she was 'too much' (my beloved quinni variant) and had a lot of religious issues to work through (especially concerning her sexuality)

dorcas- grew up in belfast with their dad. she'd accompany him to building sites (her dad's a builder) often when no one was available to look after her, and they'd play around in the safe areas and the other builders would go talk to her/play with her whilst on their breaks. grew up in a flat with a lot of friendly neighbours in the building who helped raise them. their dad would go out with workmates to the pub after work, when they could, so she spent a lot of time there and always got given free juice and crisps (kids going to pubs is a very normal thing in the uk btw!) had a large sense of community, but not much experience with making friends their own age. grew up with the idea that the world was a dangerous place (its northern ireland in the 60s...) but also that change comes from the people and she could do whatever she could to help others

emmeline- grew up in south korea at a young age but moved to scotland to live with her grandparents (on dad's side) at around six/seven to learn english and prepare to go to hogwarts (her dad grew up in scotland and went to hogwarts). her parents expected her to be studying in the years before hogwarts started, but she never really did (other than her grandfather teaching her english and her grandmother teaching her a few charms). went to a 'bright futures' club and made a few friends there, as well as her fake order of merlin that she began carrying everywhere. she sent letters to her dad constantly, lying about her fast progress and only received a few letters back. grew up thinking she had to achieve greatness or she was worthless, and had to constantly get attention from loved ones by whatever means she could

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Chapter Two

by Loysark The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse) Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus) Unfinished PG-13 (for now) Unbeta’d

*

“Remarkable,” Doctor Henrietta Butler says, freezing mid-handshake when she meets Hob’s eyes. “Just remarkable, the resemblance–”

“I’ve heard that a lot today,” Hob tries to interrupt, embarrassed by how much two separate BBC Historics production assistants have already gushed over him in the short walk from the Broadcast House lobby to this back office. 

“I imagine so,” Henrietta laughs. She’s a sturdy woman in her mid-fifties, hair long and steel-grey, shot through with the last clinging vestiges of the mouse-brown. Her hands are at least as calloused as his, from so many years of demonstrating cheese presses, and butter churns, and laundry manglers. The smile lines around her eyes are deep, her laughter comes often and easy, and Hob likes her immediately.

She reminds him of his older sister Matilda.

The memory comes with a sudden hankering for Matty’s rabbit stewed in verjuice. He wonders, if he remembers it in enough detail, would Henrietta be able to recreate it for him? Her years of study overlap with Hob’s. Or maybe Morpheus could, in the Dreaming.

“Sit, sit, please,” Henrietta says, waving him toward one of the cushy office chairs. They’re in a well-appointed meeting room, not much larger than Hob’s office at the university, but significantly tidier. It’s staged to look a bit like a gentleman’s study, and Hob vaguely recalls a chat show from the sixties that used similar furniture. He wonders if it’s been repurposed.

It’s the BBC and they never seem to have enough money, so yeah, likely.

Henrietta goes through the deeply British ritual of pouring out the tea that some assistant has left on a spindly little table in the middle of the hodgepodge of leather chairs.

Oh Christ in his Heaven, Hob realizes as he accepts his mug from Henrietta. I’m going to have to live without tea for months. I don’t know if I can go back to posset.

They chat aimlessly about Hob’s journey to Broadcasting House that morning. Henrietta is delighted to learn that Hob walked in from Wapping rather than take the tube. While motorcars and handsom cabs are handy when you want to go far, Hob’s still got enough of the sellsword peasant soldier in him to prefer a good long march to clear his head over a stuffy, cramped, loud journey shoved into a metal can with a thousand other people.

The hour and half’s stroll along the water, through the oldest part of the city, had reminded Hob of what had changed since his time as Robert Gadlen the Third. He’d made it a game with Matthew, who had joined him for part of the walk, to describe what had been there before the Great Fire. 

Hob remembers when Chalk Fields was still a field, Forest Gate had a gate one passed through to leave the city and enter a forest, and Haymarket was a place to purchase hay.

Gadlen House had survived the inferno simply by virtue of not being in the fashionable part of town. It’s across the river in what is now the Hither Green neighborhood, overlooking what the National Trust had named Manor Park after the House itself when they’d taken control of the estate. At the time, Hob didn’t care about fashionable neighborhoods, or that it was outside the Walls. It was close to Greenwich and the Depford docks, through which much of Hob’s wealth had passed back then, and that’s what mattered. 

And he’d wanted space for his paradise-on-earth. He’d predicted, and predicted right, that the city would one day consume the south bank. He’d wanted to carve out his piece of it before that happened. He’d ensured that there was plenty of room for parkland, orchards, and gardens. Hob had grown up in green and hilly Essex back when his village was so small that everyone could fit inside the church. He preferred space and verdant nature where he could get it, even when he had to live in a city.

He’d done the same when he’d bought the White Horse and as much of the land surrounding it in Wapping as he could winkle out of the estate agents. His current little patch of city has a fine view of the Pool of London (and the Bridge and Tower, if you crane your head up river), but is nowhere near as dominated by buildings and rushing pedestrians and racing cars as the rest of old London Town. On purpose, of course. And despite all the development real estate offers he’d received and turned down (some less politely than others, and one with a baseball bat and a bloody grin when they’d foolishly sent a pack of hooligans to try to intimidate Hob), he intends to keep it that way.

Hob’s walked past Broadcasting House before, too, of course. He's wandered every road in London at one time or another, but its place on Regent's Street between the Thames and Marleboyne means he's walked the Cambridge borough more times than he can count.

Once Henrietta is settled with her own cuppa, Hob jumps straight to his first question: "So where did the historians dig me up? How?"

Henrietta laughs again, easy and generous. “Nothing so difficult–Google, just like everything else in this day and age, I’m afraid. We’d already gotten permission from the National Trust to film at Gadlen House–”

It’s my home, you should have asked my permission, Hob thinks, but the possessiveness flits away as quickly as it had appeared. It’s not his home any more, and that’s something he’s had to come to grips with more than once in his long, long life.

“--and as Glenn and are focused on the downstairs manner of things, we had thought it might be fun to have an actor or two play the upstairs folks, you know.”

“Downtown Abbey-like,” Hob surmises.

“Precisely. But then of course a research assistant was looking into the last owner, Robert Gadlen the Third, sending the portrait to casting directors, and your name popped up in an internet search. Historian at the University of York, same name, remarkable family resemblance…”

Hob tugs on his ear, annoyed again, and aware that there’s no one to blame but himself on this one. “But how did you trace the lineage?” he asks, because that’s the real issue here. The lesson he has to learn from, and the mistake he has to make sure he doesn’t accidentally repeat next time.

“One of the privileges of the show,” Henrietta allows. “They let us get into all sorts of archives and records that the public can’t access. Looks like there was a brother, some years back. Probably estranged, for as little he’s talked of in the surviving correspondence. But he claimed what little fortune there was left of the Gadlen Estate in 1703 and parlayed it into the triangle trade–”

"You mean the kidnapping, murder, and enslavement of other human beings," Hob says flatly. "It's alright—call it what it was. I'm sure my ancestor is as ashamed of it as I am."

Henrietta offers him a thoughtful glance at his bluntness. “I wonder. At any rate, from there it was a matter of following the line of inheritance, and once the researchers realized that your ancestors had a fondness for ‘Robert’ or some variation thereof for their eldest sons, and a chronic inability to spell their own surnames in any sort of consistent manner, it led us to you. Robert Gadlen the Sixth, or thereabouts.”

“And of course, what with my area of expertise being what it is…” Hob finishes that thought with a shrug and a gesture at himself. 

“It’s almost too perfect,” Henrietta agrees. 

“But who’s to say I’m the right choice of presenter?” Hob pushes. “What if I’m terrible at it? It’d be a huge waste of time and money.”

“I’ve seen videos of your lectures,” Henrietta replies with a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “You’ll do fine.”

“The Everyday Histories series?” Hob groans. “I thought they replaced those videos with this year’s speakers.”

“Nothing ever truly goes away on the internet,” Henrietta reminds him, which is part of the problem. But that's Future Hob's concern. “So what do you say, Doctor Gadlen? Three experts instead of two this time around, and an actual descendant of the original Master of the House to boot. Feels like destiny, wouldn’t you say?”

It bloody well better not be, Hob thinks. He makes a mental note to tell Morpheus to pass on a polite request to Destiny to butt out of his life. He’s already had enough of Despair’s fish hook in the last few centuries. And, though he’s still reluctant to admit it to his Stranger, Hob thinks he’s been the center of Desire’s attention a little too often lately, as well. All that hand-holding is giving Hob ideas that he has to be very careful not to allow to become daydreams around his friend. The last thing Hob needs is the eldest Endless ganging up on him, too.

“If I agree to this,” Hob says, “what would be expected? I mean, I love your work, and my friends Matthew and Morph… Murphy are big fans of what you do, but just because I look like the guy,” here he enjoys the irony of gesturing at the color print-out on the table between them of the portrait of his own face. “It doesn’t mean I have to pretend to actually be him, right? I’m no actor.”

“No,” Henrietta assures him. “We’re not going to write scenes and have you speak as Robert Gadlen. It’ll be the same as Glenn and I, the assumption of a general role and class in society–you as the patriarch and master of the household, Glenn will be the gamekeeper and groundsman, do the gardens, and the orchards, and the shooting, and the like. I’ll be juggling the roles of head cook and housekeeper this time.”

“The cook was an Italian man,” Hob corrects before his brain catches up with his mouth.

“Was he?” Henrietta says, delighted. She sits forward. “Done a lot of research into the Witch Knight then, have you?”

Hob winces at the unkind nickname. "I mean, I know who Robert Gadlen the Third was, of course I do. It's like Anne Hathaway not knowing Shakespeare, even though she's an actor, when she has the same name as his wife. You can't not be aware when it's your field. I just… I guess I never thought that I was actually related to the guy."

Henrietta nods. “Makes sense. I’ll admit I haven’t done the deep dive yet, so I’ll defer to you on that detail.”

I’m going to have to figure out how to back myself up if I’m going to get my way as much as I want, Hob realizes. Any documents or paperwork he’d had in his study the night he'd been dragged away had likely been long ago pilfered or burned up. And Hob hadn’t been in the habit of maintaining a daily journal any more. He’d started one under Caxton, to help learn his letters, but realized fairly quickly that putting proof of his immortality on paper might invite the very accusations and executions that he’d actually suffered.

“I don’t think Glenn wouldn’t mind being the head cook this time, then,” Henrietta says over Hob’s musing. “I can manage the gardens. For the game, maybe we could–”

“I can hunt,” Hob says. “I can ride, too. Though it’s been a while. And I haven’t held a bow since–” –firearms became more ubiquitous in the late seventeenth century– “undergrad.”

Henrietta laughs again, clearly beyond pleased. “And how’s your late Middle English?”

“Impeccable,” Hob says, because you know what? Hob still has an ego, and if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right.

*

Once they’ve finished their tea, signed a few non-disclosure agreements, and collected up the folder of reference photos, Henrietta leads Hob further into the bowels of Broadcast House.

Hob feels like a minor celebrity when they walk between the rows of cubicles belonging to the Historics research team. They pop up, one after the other, like meerkats to get a good look at him, then drop back into their seats and whisper about how handsome and uncanny he is in much louder tones than he thinks they realize. Hob wishes Matthew could be here for this, he’d find it hilarious. 

Maybe Hob can convince Henrietta that he used to keep a massive, mouthy raven as a pet so Matthew could ride his shoulder around the set.

Hob is led to a back wall absolutely smothered in fabric swatches, photocopies of old hand-written recipes, food lists, architectural drawings, gardening layouts, sketches of Manor Park, lighting references, plans for riding tack, and a multitude of other documents that Hob hasn’t got the experience or time to parse. Dead centre of the board are life-size copies of the three extant portraits of Robert Gadlen the Third. 

The first is of Hob alone. He doesn’t remember which year it was or the name of the artist. But he remembers that it was pig-hot in the artist’s salon and that he’d damn near keeled over from heatstroke on the first sitting. That had been before he’d met Eleanor, and the painter had been some former apprentice of Hans Holbien the Younger, and very much in demand. Hob had wanted to wear his Stranger’s colors, for the portrait. He wanted to proclaim his gratitude and allegiance to the creature he’d thought of then as his patron. But the black velvet had been smothering, and the scarlet embroidered trim had crumpled unappealingly, and the starched ruff had scratched so appallingly that Hob had begged the artist to let him take it off if it wasn’t being painted in that exact moment.

The second portrait was of Hob and Eleanor. Hob ignores the scarecrowish figure of himself hovering at Eleanor’s side, in a stately parlor. He holds a glove in one hand to indicate that he is master of his estate, a sword on his hip along with his heraldic badge on his breast to indicate his knighthood, and a view of the shipyards where he’d made his fortune out the arched window behind him. Instead, he focuses on his wife.

Eleanor is plump and buxom, cheeks filled with roses and hair the deep gold color of flax. She looks young, God's wounds, she looks no older than his students. How old was she when they married? Twenty? Twenty-two? And he an eternal thirty-three. But Lord Above in All His Splendor, had he loved her on first sight. Maid-of-a-maid in Elizabeth's court, low-down daughter of a low-down courier, nobody of import. She professional enough to remain quiet and bold enough to openly drink the leftover wine that her mistress had abandoned.

She'd met his eyes over the rim of the goblet, launched a challenging eyebrow in his direction, and that was that for Hob Gadling and his heart.

She’d had a little dog when they married, a dumb fluffy white thing with a heart as generous as El’s but breath like a week-old fish pie. She’d loved the bloody thing like a child. It was sitting by her feet in the portrait, pink tongue lolling, staring up lovingly at its mistress, sporting a ridiculous flax-yellow bow. In her lap, Eleanor cradles the lute Hob had given her as his first courting gift. She'd loved music, but hadn't an instrument of her own, and Hob hated how she'd sighed over how lovely the queen's was.

In the portrait Eleanor's dress is the color of a robin’s egg, and so are her eyes.

(Morpheus' eyes too, Hob realizes with a start as he studies the portrait.)

Hob remembers the almighty row they’d had over the dress, when he’d been handed the mantua-makers’ bill. How it was the first time he’d yelled at El, the first time he’d seen the tears well up in her eyes and the mottled, shamed flush creep up her bosom and neck. And how it had made him feel like an absolute monster.

He’d thrown himself at her feet, literally, right there in the solar, and kissed her slippers and apologized. Then he’d kissed her ankles. Then her calves, and her knees. By the time he’d kissed all the way up, and spent a dozen humid moments with her thighs clamped hard around his ears, she was happy to forgive him on the understanding that he was to never again raise his voice to her. It was a promise Hob had kept, because honor was something he clung to, as well.

If your life was such that sometimes all you could call your own as you moved onto a new life was your name and your word, then you didn't break the latter easily.

And the final portrait was the one from the National Gallery, commissioned just months before his son died. This time, Hob is the one seated, taking his ease with a pair of hunting hounds sprawling at his feet and whose names, he is utterly ashamed to realize, he's forgotten. They are outside, Hob on a park bench, under the great wide apple tree Hob had planted in the Park in private memory of his brother John, and the rest of his lost family. Hob is dressed for leisure, as if he's just walked out of the doors of his study and into the garden, still in his wrapper and cap. 

Robyn is the real star of the portrait, as Hob meant him to be.

Standing beside him, leaning on a long, skinny matchlock musket, Robyn looks exactly like he had the day he'd died. He's wearing different clothes of course—fine hunting kit, decorated with more lace and embroidery than would ever be practical in real life. But the rest is just as Hob remembers. The cheekbones finally emerging from the last of his baby fat, the cowl's lick in the swoop of golden-brown hair at the center of his forehead, which he'd inherited from El, the cleft chin, the start of laughter lines around his sparking- dark eyes.

The only difference is that on the night he'd died, Robyn had been sporting his first atrocious, patchy goatee. Attempting to look like his father.

Hob gives in to the urge to run his fingers along the edges of their faces, first El’s then Rob’s. The photo paper is glossy to the touch, but he can remember the smoothness of her cheek, and the peach-fuzz prickle of his. He swallows hard, determined not to allow the emotions throttling him.

"And there he is, our Witch Knight and his tragic family."  Henrietta lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It must be very moving, to see them now that you know that they are your tragic family."

Tragic family, Hob repeats to himself. He had sometimes wondered if El, and Robyn, and wee John had died so young in payment for his everlasting life. He had not passed on his immortality. The thought that he had inadvertently stolen their years for himself had been hard on his mind in the many decades he'd begged and starved on the streets.

His Stranger had reassured him in 1689 that it had not been the case. Hob, who had not tasted ale or wine in over a decade, and as a result had no longer been in practice being intoxicated, had burst into tears of relief at the table.

His Stranger had let him cry, without mocking or abandoning him. When the proprietor made noises about closing up for the night, Hob had found a purse heavy with enough fantastical coins ("Pulled from the dreams of children on a pirate adventure," Morpheus had explained centuries later) that Hob could pay the evening's tab, as well as for a room and a wash.

Hob had disdained the tub the proprietor's wife had dragged in, with no desire submerged again any time soon, but he'd scrubbed himself and his clothes as best he could. In the morning, he had appealed to the proprietor for work, and when the man had learned that Hob knew his letters, sent him to his brother's vegetable stall in the nearby market. Hob was too old to be a proper delivery boy, but he could read the lists, and assemble the orders, and knew the city like nobody else.

With his feet back under him, and his belly not eternally consuming itself, Hob was able to make himself decent enough to pursue what little wealth may still be in banking for him (or in the little caches he'd buried all over his hometown), and start again.

And look how that turned out, Hob remembers, tugging his ear.

"Must we call him the Witch Knight?" Hob asks, as Henrietta moves off to point out the bits of fabric pinned to the board all around the portraits. "Only, it doesn't seem like a very kind nickname. He wasn't a witch."

"You sound sure of that," Henrietta says, with a little chuckle. "While of course we can debunk it in the show, it is the most commonly known moniker for your semi-famous ancestor. People know it. It's on all the Gadlen House tourist pamphlets."

Uhg, Hob thinks. He should have visited the house at least once since it was handed over to the National Trust. Maybe he could have stopped the nickname before it got popular.

Instead he'd stayed away completely, certain that his heart couldn't take seeing what the courtiers who had been gifted the estate had done to the place. Nor what 'improvements' their own ancestors may have torturously imposed on his paradise-on-earth.

"Witch Knight," Hob mutters, shaking his head.

*

One of the most important things that Hob has learned about his Stranger in the last year is that Morpheus is an absolute sucker for a bet.

Maybe it’s part of being… whatever it is, actually that An Endless is. Immutable, bound to the laws of the universe, and unable to turn down a wager on a cellular level. It seems that all the Endless were like that, based on Morpheus’ sparse stories. As Hob understands it, once an Endless shakes on it, they are pathologically compelled to see their little bets through, no matter how inane or ridiculous, or what harm it may cause one another. Or what regret and rifts in the love between siblings.

So of course the first thing Hob says when he falls asleep that night is: "If you're so keen for me to do this show, I bet you can't find me a book that still exists that I can use a primary source."

"Oh-ho-ho!" Merv had shouts, from where he's trying to shove a massive potted arrangement  of red carnations, blue cornflowers, and poppies into a corner of the throne room. It's an unusual combination. Hob doesn't know the language of flowers, but the sharp juxtaposition of the blooms looked a little violent to him. "You're betting the boss?"

"Decorum," Morpheus scolds the pumpkinhead waspishly, but without any real heat. He stands from where he was lounging on the bottom steps of his dias, clearly waiting for Hob to enter the Dreaming. "Your wager is accepted. What do you forfeit if I locate the necessary texts in the Waking world for you?"

Morpheus strides towards the Library, and Hob trots after him, his slippers a whisper against the blackhole-dark marble. "I'll put that homemade spanakopita and saganaki you like on the menu at The New Inn."

Hob's been trying to get Dennis to agree to it for months, anyway, but his co-manager is extremely opposed to dishes that a) take literal hours of laminating and metric tons of butter to create and b) are brought to the table on fire. If Morpheus provides him with government documents, or a servant's old journal, or even letters that Hob or Eleanor had written, though, Hob's willing to throw down with Dennis over his sudden desire to shift the menu from Upscale Pub Grub to Classical Greek in the most literal sense.

Morpheus gets that little starry-eyed (also literally) far-away look he sometimes sports when thinking of his originating culture. Morpheus had, after all, been thought into being when humans were still doing the OG version of the Mediterranean diet. Though he didn't eat, the sorts of foods that might have appeared on his altars—warm olives and flatbread, oil and vinegar, tart goat's cheese and yogurt, grapes and sugared nuts—could always entice him into a nibble or five.

"Hmm, agreed," Morpheus says, holding open the Library door for Hob. "And should the task prove fruitless, what do you ask in recompense?"

A kiss, Hob thinks, and then swiftly squashes it down.

"You invite Death to our next Tuesday hang. I haven't had the chance to thank her properly yet."

Morpheus looks sour about that, the possessive prat, which is why Hob had picked it. He's been hinting that he wanted to meet at least this mysterious sister who whom he owes his immortality for a while now.

"Very well," Morpheus agrees mulishly. "This way."

He leads them towards The Shelves of Books That Are, which is where Hob would have started, too. The Shelves of Books that Were might help too, if Hob could convince Morpheus to allow him to bring a physical copy into the Waking. Regrettably the Shelves of Books That Have Yet To Come and the Shelves of Books That Never Will Be would be off-limits for this little project.

Maybe, if they do have to magick a book back into existence, the Bookseller of Soho could see fit to help him with the little ruse. He’d always seemed the sort of a nice spot of drama, and the Bently Snake was always down for a bit of heist when needed.

They chat a bit about their days—Morpheus about the section of the Dreaming he's building to celebrate the many vivid and creative imaginings of the growing legions of fan writers and artists, and Hob about his first meeting with Henrietta.

"Witch knight!" Hob repeats in disgust as he relays the conversation. "As if I was—" he gestures at himself, and his scarlet silk pajamas darken and spread, like ink in water, until he's wearing the most ridiculous anime-esque spiky gothic armor he can think up.

He's getting better and better at this lucid dreaming schtick.

"Peace, Hob," Morpheus entreats, waving away his nightmarish outfit. His clothes become pajamas once more, though the King of the Dreaming has added a cozy, blowsy banyan in cloth-of-gold. Hob rather likes it—it billows and trails behind him just like Morpheus's own cloak of galaxies. "It was not meant as an insult. It is merely another story."

"But stories hold power, you said so," Hob says, jogging along to catch up with his friend. "And I'd like to find something else to outshine that one."

Morpheus is always taller than Hob in the Dreaming, and far more eldritch too. His pale eyes are instead the deep velvet black of space, filled with a field of stars. He is skinnier, sharper, arms and fingers just slightly too long, hair more wild and clothing always moving as if he has his own private breeze to make sure his cloak is always shown to best advantage.

He probably does, the vain ponce.

He's a gorgeous nightmare, and he knows it.

And so he peers down at Hob from his lofty snobbish height. Then with a dramatic flourish, he plucks a book down off a shelf that's definitely too high up for Hob to reach.

"I win," Morpheus says smugly.

PREVIOUS | NEXT

[aziraphales-library]

hello! do you have any fic recs for a slow burn fic? can be during or after canon, I just want it to be cannon/cannon-divergent

Hi. We have a shed load of fics already recommended on our #slow burn tag, so do be sure to check those out. Here are even more to add to the ever-growing collection...

i once believed love would be burning red, but it’s golden by ajdumpsherstories (T)

Unbeknownst to anyone, Crowley remembers love.

Not that Crowley will tell anyone that; he has a pride, for Satan’s sake.

Or; Crowley begins a long journey down Love Lane.

Senses & Sensitivity by AFrenchFanWriter (T)

Aziraphale doesn't like it when Crowley calls him "over-sensitive". But maybe the demon is right (as he usually is)...

A study of Aziraphale's six senses, including memorable events over the course of history - from the Garden of Eden to the very first day of the rest of their lives.

Featuring a certain demon, a lot of gifts and meaningful glances, as well as repressed feelings... until they aren't any more.

Writing Letters Addressed to the Fire by Bluemask (T)

This is the problem of human beings, Crowley ponders; they never know when to stop. “Good Lord,” a familiar voice suddenly sighs on his left, close enough to be heard clearly despite the ongoing revolt. “What have you done this time?” Crowley forces himself to ignore the headache that has begun to squeeze his skull again. “You wound me, angel.” He turns just enough to get a glimpse of Aziraphale’s blonde hair and rich clothes, grinning sharply. “Do you really think all this mess is my fault?” Aziraphale rolls his eyes and takes a couple of steps to join Crowley. “How could it not be?” He asks. “As usual, you’re up to no good.” “What is good and what is evil, anyway..." [Essex, 1381] - Just an angel and a demon Falling in love throughout History, Time and Space. Nothing new, really.

Between Times by abirdonalilactree (T)

In the beginning there were an angel and a demon and it would take them way too many years to realize, to understand and ultimately to confess their undying love for another.

The space between us by MyOwnName123 (T)

Crowley took exactly seven seconds to fall madly in love with Aziraphale, but he knows it's a terrible idea to actually do anything about it so instead he spends thousands of years pining away silently. Besides, what does love even mean?

This Is For Your Own Good by CaffeineChic (M)

Aziraphale reached the free seat and sat. The chair wheel squeaked awkwardly, disturbing the soundless air of the room. A misshapen laugh broke out of him, fell in his lap as he fidgeted.

It was joined by no one else's. He felt his face redden.

(This wasn't the first time.

How many times had it been that he had tried to join in a joke, to find joy with the other angels only to find himself stared at in discomforting quiet, told to take things more seriously.

They were right.

He should.

He should take things more seriously.

He wasn't funny anyway. They never laughed.)

- Mod D

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[smolvenger]

Stella of Essex or The Vicar's Wife Betrayed- Chapter Three: Red Roses

Chapter Word Count: 7K (Pretty Thick, prepare yourselves, get some water)

Paring: Some Stella/William (but focusing on the tragedy of his infidelity)and eventually Stella/Male OC

Series Summary: The Essex Serpent is reimagined and told from the perspective of Stella Ransome. And with a new ending. A portrait of a woman who became The Ideal Lady her time and marriage required her to be. A picture of a marriage of love and bliss torn apart by a husband's infidelity. And Stella herself in the center of it all, torn between a wife's duty and her own quiet but present rage. Where in the midst of devastating heartbreak she gains her strength, finds her voice, and dares to seek freedom, hope...and even revenge.

Chapter Summary: The Courtship, Betrothal, and Early Marriage of Miss Stella by her admirer, the Curate and later Vicar William Ransome. A sinister omen appears in her garden.

Warnings: Eventual Major Character Death, Mentions of sex but no actual smut. Slow Burn to the Drama (tm), Lots of very bittersweet with the foregone conclusion from the prologue fluff, and foreshadowing. Religion, victorian era attitudes, marriage. Eventually being Anti-W*lliam and Anti-C*ra so if you like them or that pairing I wouldn't recommend this fic.

A03 Link

Prologue//Chapter One//Chapter Two

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REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!!!!

Her, the most excellent of all, The best half of creation’s best, Its heart to feel, its eye to see, The crown and complex of the rest, Its aim and its epitome. Nay, might I utter my conceit, 'Twere after all a vulgar song, For she's so simply, subtly sweet, My deepest rapture does her wrong. Yet is it now my chosen task To sing her worth as Maid and Wife; Nor happier post than this I ask, To live her laureate all my life.

— Part I, Book I, Canto II: I.25–I.44 The Angel in The House by Coventry Patmore

"[The perfect wife] was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed daily. [...] Above all, she was pure." — Virginia Woolf, "Professions for Women"

“Pinkerton:...Either in love or insane,

It may be just an infatuation,

She's enchanted me with her innocent charms,

Delicate and fragile as blown glass...

With a sudden movement,

she frees herself like a butterfly,

She flutters and settles

with such quiet grace

that a madness seizes me to pursue her,

even though I might tear off her wings"- Madama Butterfly, English Translation

As we returned home, life carried on as usual. My brothers- two elder, Elliott, Brian, and one younger, Dante- went out to work while my little sister- another light-haired Harris girl christened Edith, and I stayed home, doing chores. It never seemed to end. There was always laundry to do, things to cook, things to clean, and the occasional guest to attend to. Not that I minded that too much. It seemed a better option than laboring with scythes for hours under a brutal sun. I would much rather water the beanstalks and tend to my flowers under that same sun. I would also venture to say there is something oddly beautiful about seeing a dirty floor made shiny with soap and water or bread rising to fullness.

There was one evening when I was tasked with baking the bread for dinner. However, when I pulled it out of the oven and cut it to see the result, I saw that although it was baked thoroughly, part of it was burned black. Dinner was arriving soon with no extra time to bake another. My father insisted bread be served at every meal. I had no choice but to set it on the table.

Everyone piled into the dining room, and I took my usual seat next to my brother, Elliott. Dinner began with my father’s prayer for a blessing. Then silverware clicked as we began to eat. Dante began passing the bread plate across and each member took their slices, opting for the bread that was a lighter shade. It went through my parents, past Edith, and Brian, before it arrived to me.

The only sides left were one slice of the properly done and the other of the burnt side. As I reached a hand for the lighter half, my mother’s voice interjected. “Stella! Why are you reaching for that part?”

“Because that is the bread I would like to eat, Mama.”

“But look at your brother’s face, he clearly wants it…”

Glancing, I could see my brother’s small eyes flicker hungrily toward that half.

“He’s been working hard in the field all day, he’s so hungry! The farmers worked him for six hours without a bite! Shouldn’t you feel some pity for him? Why should he get the burnt half?”

“But I made this bread, and I don’t want to eat the burnt half…” I replied quietly.

I heard a deep exhale from my mother. Eyes were turning towards us in tension.

“Give the lighter half to your bother, Stella, please…”

I gave in and passed the plate to him. He took the lighter bread that I coveted.

“That is a good girl, how kind of you Stella…” my mother praised, her shoulders relaxing.

Elliott took the slice of bread and slathered it with butter before wolfing it down. He was sunburnt, his forehead still sweaty. Perhaps he did deserve it. Perhaps I made his life a little easier.

He passed the plate back to me. There was only black bread. And the little pink butter plate was completely empty. I ate it- though the charring felt bitter on my tongue.

“Stella, you did something very sweet for your brother…” my father began.

“Once you are a married woman, Stella, once you are a mother…Edith, you too- listen this is important,”

Edith took the last bite of pickled beef to listen.

“You must learn to leave behind anything you may want for yourself. You must sacrifice yourself for your children, and most especially for your husband.”

“How come?” my sister asked.

I washed down the aftertaste of the burnt bread with my water.

“There is something sweet about sacrifice, love, no matter how small. You must learn to put others before yourself- how else will they feel loved after everything they give you?”

“It’s the Christian thing to do, girls” my father pointed out.

“Your father works very, very hard at the mill to keep a roof over our head and bread on our table so we all may have a comfortable life and for that, I have always made sure I was an obedient, faithful, and devoted wife. I made sure that food was cooked, and the house was clean, and that all of you would be in line…and in turn, you both will have a happy marriage and a fulfilling life…”

Edith blinked and I saw a slight frown. My mother turned to me.

“Stella, as you are the elder sister, you must make sure your sister follows your example! Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“As women, we cannot be ungrateful for what our husbands provide us, so we must sacrifice ourselves daily for them. Or how else will we fulfill our duties as wives? How will they know we love them or show any gratitude? That is what love is for a woman to a man, sacrifice and devotion to his happiness above all else. That is the secret to a fulfilling marriage and to being a wife,” she said.

I nodded.

“I’ll make sure to do that mama,” I replied, quietly cutting my meat into slices before eating it.

Edith tilted her head in thought.

After dinner, we gathered around the fire to sew, drink tea, and hear a book. We even had a piano and Dante, the musician of the family would often play something. That night I began to press a dandelion I found that afternoon into my book as my father opened a collection of mythologies.

“A little pagan, I know, but the stories are most entertaining, dears…here…let me read of the myth of Theseus and the princess Ariadne…”

He began to read it in his sonorous voice. I felt a nudge on my elbow.

It was Elliott, he leaned close to me over his tea and whispered, “Thank you for the bread, Stella, I was actually very, very hungry and it was a hard day for me….”

“I’m glad I could help…” I voiced.

The next month, over breakfast, my parents made a startling announcement. The owner of the mill was so impressed with our father’s work, that he was being promoted. There was another, growing mill in Aldwinter. The very town Elizabeth and Fanny lived! The very place I visited earlier! The job there would pay far more than it did here, and there was already a house for us. The family was going to move to Aldwinter for good.

Packing was all in an excited and tearful rush. Wishing our neighbors goodbye and promises to write seemed to happen hourly. I had to go and have a last tea with Miss Greene, thanking her for teaching me so young about flower pressing. But despite such tears for the change and separation, my mother was joyful. She was going to be near Elizabeth with her grey-streaked hair, dark eyes, joyful laugh, and affinity for card games and picnics, as well as Fanny. We would not be strangers in a strange land.

When the day arrived, we gathered all our things in our boxes onto the first of two carriages. Then we hopped onto another one, squishing in seven people, and set off for a day’s ride to our new home. It was late nightfall by the time we arrived. Edith and I lay on our new bed in our new shared room and slept in until noon. I jumped at the time, dressed, and immediately set to unpacking as she followed my suit, albeit more leisurely in pace.

But my sister and I barely had our clothes out of our boxes and into our chests when there was a knock and then a creak at the door. There were some hearty male voices from downstairs- one sounded familiar, and another was my father's.

My mother rushed inside our room in excitement.

“Girls- we have guests! It’s the parish vicar and his curate! They’ve come to welcome us!”

My heart skipped a hundred beats despite the slowness I had as I walked down the stairs.

Was it? Was it him? I wondered.

It was. There stood the Vicar, and his curate was still Mister Ransome in their black with white collars to greet us. A cake was in the vicar’s hand, claiming his wife was the most excellent baker. Mister Ransome greeted the other five family members but there was a softening of familiarity with my mother. And at me as well.

This was the first of several visits. There was only one church in Aldwinter and only one parish. Now that we were new members, it was the Vicar’s duty to greet us and make us feel like old friends of the congregation. His wife herself would sometimes visit us as well. And as his apprentice, William had to be there every time. And what were we to do? Refuse them and turn them away?

There was one evening, where among our plates, heads turned away from the current vicar’s grey head to the handsome, reddish blonde head of William. Even my sister seemed charmed by him, batting her thick eyelashes when he looked her way.

Edith asked him “Where do you get ideas for sermons so much? I think it must be so hard!”

He gave a half laugh and a smile.

“Well, he’s not the one who has to speak most Sundays!” the current Vicar pointed out. His wife smiled and held his hand.

“You find ideas for sermons everywhere- in nature especially. I go on so many walks. I like metaphors I find in nature- such as the ocean tide by the stony beach on a cloudy day. The sun through the clouds after a storm. One sermon I hope to give someday is about a field of sunflowers I saw here…”

“Sunflowers?” I asked.

He looked at me with a smile that made my stomach drop.

“How they turn always to the sun no matter where it is.”

“Where did you find Sunflowers?” I questioned, batting my mouth with the napkin before returning it to my lap.

‘They grow in a field by Mr. Morrison’s pasture…” he explained. “It’s quite a sight.”

I turned around to my parents.

“Mama…sometimes soon, may you accompany us to the field soon? And Mister Ransome, where is this Mr. Morrison? I must ask his permission to collect one, please.”

“Collect? You collect flowers?” he repeated, eyebrows raised in interest.

“I…I like to press flowers into a book. I grow them and then press them inside, so they are preserved forever. It is my hobby.”

My mother reached over closer to Mr. Ransome, “our Stella has developed quite a collection of books full of her flowers and a gift for gardening too,” she boasted.

“I want to see the sunflowers too!” Edith protested.

“Then… then with your permission, Mrs. Harris, we will accompany your daughters to see the sunflowers next Friday…especially if it’s for Miss Harris’s book,” he offered.

My mother looked between him and me. There was a flash in her eye that made me drop my head back down to her napkin.

“Then we shall have to do that.”

We went on that trip. Notably, my mother looped her arm around Edith’s and walked her a further distance away giving me time to walk by Mister Ransome’s side and speak about the weather with him. And indeed, I was given permission to pluck a smaller sunflower to press into one of my beloved books.

Secretly, I was grateful for my mother. I found myself in private admiring Mister Ransome. I am sure I was far from the only one, being a handsome, charismatic, single man with a stable occupation. And especially since he was required to be at the church, he would not be single for long. Especially in that small Essex village with limited options for ladies.

But…who was I, I wondered? He was so intelligent and good. Was I really worthy of him?

The first time my sister and I went to the town hall for dances with all the other young people, I and William danced only one together. Then we partnered with others.

He wouldn’t like me like that, I convinced myself. I was counting myself lucky with the sunflower trip and one dance.

I would toss and turn at night, thinking of him as my sister snored next to me. There were other, more confident, bold, beautiful women, and then there was me. I had to content myself with the odd visit to that village, the church, the occasional event in the church, and only speaking with him there before he moved on to the next ambitious pair of mother and daughter.

Besides, as I recalled our first meeting and the conversations, I had with Elizabeth that day, I had to repeat it like a prayer in my head-Minsters. Aren’t. Romantic. Perhaps I could do better and would meet another man in the town.

Sometime later, there was a parish picnic. It was warm and sunny, a September giving its last farewell to summer before the slow wilt of Autumn. People gathered to sit on their blankets and bring baskets. Children played while laughing as their mothers yelled after them. Men laid down to smoke their pipes. Cakes slowly melted into the plates beneath the sunshine. Sighs accompanied breezes from overindulging in pies baked by the mothers and grandmothers.

I sat with my family on our red and white picnic blanket. The basket was empty of sweetmeats, and everyone was mingling. My brothers and sister were helping to participate in cricket. My parents only sat idly chatting with each other about the new mill.

I was only watching the sky from beneath my blue parasol. How dreamily the clouds shifted- they changed shapes, gathered, and divided from the wind. How eternal it looked and how beautiful. Thank goodness for the shade or else the blare of the sun, despite its warmth, would have blocked such a vision.

I was in such admiration of it I didn’t hear footsteps in the grass towards me.

“Miss Harris, I hoped you would be here.”

I blinked and jumped a little, but the sight of Mister Ransome was welcome.

“It is nice to see you too. It’s a pleasant day for a picnic...and look up! Look at the clouds in the sky. That one seems like an evergreen- and that one a whisp of wheat. I always found it beautiful…” I began.

“Picnic days should be beautiful.”

There was a pause. When I looked back down at him, I saw one hand behind his back.

“I am here because I have a gift for you…” he announced, leaning down on his knees so his eyes would meet mine.

“For me. Why?”

“Because I thought you would like it. I found it and saved it just for you.

From behind his back, he pulled out something long and thin, wrapped in brown tissue paper. He gave it to me. I opened it to be a beautiful white gardenia. It still even smelt fresh.

“It’s for your books, so you may press it.” He said it.

My parents halted in their conversations to watch as if we were a play and they were the audience.

“Mister Ransome…thank you. Thank you very much. It will…remind me of you and how…how good you have been to our family in your parish and how kind your gift was,” I thanked.

We spent that time talking about things other than the weather. Discussing what we thought of God as clouds moved by us in white, fluffy droves. I held the gardenia gently, never letting the flower go or letting it out of my sight. I pressed it once I got home.

We spoke every Sunday from then on and even on the street. And visit us at meals and tea far more frequently.

And the times when we danced increased to two per party.

It was late winter when the snow was melting. I was mending a stocking when my mother walked into the room. She was smiling.

“Stella…you have a letter…” she began.

“Oh, from home? I bet it’s Miss Greene.” I suggested.

She shook her pale head.

“It’s from Mister Ransome,” she explained.

Edith practically threw away her sewing in excitement.

“I knew it, oh I knew it!!” she cheered.

“What do you mean?” I asked sternly.

“Isn’t it obvious?!” she squealed, leaning closer.

I slowly opened the letter and read its contents silently. I heard the sharp exhale and giggles of Edith next to me. My own breath stopped in my body once the contents had registered. I had to reread it again to make sure I was not dreaming.

“Miss Harris, I must confess between the time of our first meeting and when you arrived in Aldwinter to now, I have grown fond of you. Very, very fond. And I confess these feelings have grown to where I can no longer deny it. I cannot deny why I walked with you to the sunflowers or gave you that gift. I cannot deny the real reason I gave you the flower. I love and admire you…”

“He certainly knows how to write a good letter! How romantic!!” my sister exclaimed.

I looked up at my mother’s face. She held out a hand and I gave her the letter for her to read as well.

Edith ran over to the end of the steps to yell out the news at Father and our brothers.

“Mister Ransome loves Stella! Mister Ransome loves Stella!” Edith cried.

I hushed her, practically dragging her back to the parlor.

“Why can’t that happen to me, yet Mama??” she complained.

“Edith, you’re only seventeen…you have so much time before you! I’m twenty-four…. just sixty years ago some would have called me a spinster,” I advised.

“I just want someone to love me, now!” she protested.

“Mama, papa, your brothers, and I love you…” I tried to reason.

“But Stella, it’s just not the same!”

“Well…you’re right, it’s not…but someday, you’ll have your turn,” I playfully pinched her cheek “you’re too pretty to be a spinster, anyway!”

She laughed and nursed the spot I pinched her.

“Oh, I must tell Fanny! This is too exciting!” She rushed out to happily gossip to anyone within her ear’s reach.

My mother handed back the letter. “It is a lovely letter. You should feel very, very fortunate a man like him has taken interest in you, my dear.”

I felt dizzy with joy. He loved me! He loved me!

“May I… may I please have the writing desk?” I asked. “I…I would like to write a response.”

“Of course,” my mother replied, beaming.

Immediately I wrote down my response, saying that I felt the same. Once the contents had my mother’s consent, we sent it. I could hardly wait the hours until Sunday morning in my giddiness. It was everything I could to distract myself from my excited impatience.

Once that Sunday morning arrived, I made sure my hair was done as neat as it could be and picked my nicest dress. Any stray strand of hair was tucked and pinned away. When I saw him, we made our glances all throughout the service. Our confirmations of love had to be accompanied by my family in the far corner of that church to give us the illusion of privacy.

“So, you do feel the same, Miss Harris?” he asked. "Truly?"

“You read my letter. I do…and I feel the same to you…would you join us for tea today?” I asked.

“Yes, I shall.”

Finally, the next afternoon as My mother and I were ironing an apron, Mister Ransome knocked on the door and announced himself. But the vicar was not with him for a typical tea.

“Mrs. Harris and Miss Harris, good day…”

“Good day…” we repeated.

His eyes were large and bright with urgency.

“Mrs. Harris, where is your husband? Is he working right now?”

We froze. Only the ticking of the clock in our parlor could be heard.

“He is home now. He’s upstairs in his study, I think,’ my mother answered.

“I would like to speak to him alone, with your permission.”

Another tick, tick, tick from the clock. I nearly dropped the iron in my hand.

My mother accompanied him upstairs as I stayed put. Then she returned to me.

“Come Stella …we need to check on the laundry drying.” She spoke. “And we need to make some tea for our guest…”

She placed a kettle on the stove as a welcome distraction from the voices upstairs. We walked outside to feel the rush of the cold air as we pulled shirts from the line out in our backyard.

I saw a glimpse of his curly head in the window. And he was speaking with my father. They were smiling. I forced my eyes away to the straw basket on the ground.

“What are they discussing?” I asked nervously.

I was no fool, I only wanted confirmation. To get out of my racing mind and feel the earth on my feet and the words from another person and not my imagination. That it all was real.

My mother neatly folded the bedsheet on top of the blanket. Then she approached me and cupped my face gently.

“Mister Ransome is a man of stability for the parish that picks him. And yes, he is handsome and charming but…. If this Is what I think it is…whatever happens, whoever he… decides on is lucky but…there will much responsibility. But you have always been a good, responsible girl. Stella. What matters most now is do you like him?” she asked.

I blinked, a few tears coming out of my eyes despite myself.

“If I didn’t, I’d reject his letter. I like him. More than I can say….” I found myself confessing.

She smiled and kissed my forehead. Saying no other word.

It wasn’t long until Mister Ransome walked out from the back door and approached us.

“Mrs. Harris…will you give me permission to speak in private to Miss Harris in the parlor? It won’t be very long.”

My heart leaped to my throat. I stayed still and yet the world was spinning.

“You may. The tea needs finishing,” She spoke. We were led inside. She briefly squeezed my arm and retreated to the kitchen.

He approached me. He opened his hand for mine. I trembled as I placed mine in his.

“Miss Harris… the current vicar is going to retire in a month. And it is his wish for me to take his place as Vicar for the Aldwinter parish. If I am going to do so…It will be expected of me to marry. Stella I…I would like you to be my wife.”

Before I could answer, he carried on.

“I think of all the women here, you would be the best suited to be a minister’s wife. You’re everything I could ever want my wife to be, what a wife should be. Your father agrees with this and has granted me permission, should you say yes. You will make the most incredible example of a good woman for Aldwinter and…and if that’s not enough, I love you too…”

“Did you forget? I love you too, Mister Ransome…” I was able to voice.

“Could you please call me William, from now on?”

“Alright, then William, I accept you!”

Two rings were pulled from his pocket, and one slipped onto my finger perfectly. He gave me our first kiss then and there. Albeit quickly and chastely- my mother was no doubt listening from the door. We held hands as we walked into the kitchen to confirm the news to my mother and each family member who would return.

Three afternoons later, the current vicar and his wife called. They brought earl grey tea, fresh walnut cake, and a lecture.

“Now, Miss Harris…you are about the become wife to the next vicar of the Aldwinter parish. Are there any ministers in your family at all?” the husband asked, hardly touching the drink.

“There aren’t, really” my father answered.

“Marriage to a head of the church is not to be taken lightly, Miss Harris…” the vicar said.

They went on to explain that marrying William meant marrying the church and the parish. The day he wrote that letter it had been in my mind constantly. He had even discussed this and the decision to make me his wife was not a choice given lightly.

“Miss Harris…” the current vicar’s wife voiced. She was tall and slender. Her brown hair had not greyed much. She held herself straight and looked down on me as a queen might from her throne.

“I shall make it easy for you…I shall give you a list of everything you will need to know as a vicar’s wife, and everything you must do in addition to any wife’s duties…here, I have written them down. And I must see you read each aloud and copy it down as well…”

She handed me a small journal bound in red. I opened it to read the list. Then I fetched my own pen and paper and in front of them, read them aloud and copied them down from her clear, beautiful handwriting.

1. No matter what, you must overall support your husband in his ministry, friendship, and partner with him for a loving home atmosphere.

2. You are to maintain daily prayer with God

(Which I already had since childhood)

3. Support him in his emotions without complaint

4. Encourage his advancements while maintaining the balance of his home and family.

It struck me and I paused, a small blot of ink spilling. Did they think I was unable to do so? Would they force the engagement off? Were they testing me? If I failed these, would they find another far more worthy? And would William replace me with another woman, worst of all?? Oh God, God help me! I would prove to them I was worthy to be his wife no matter what, I resolved!

5. Visit members of the congregation as able.

6. Build relationships with women in the church to support, encourage and model Godliness to them.

“That one is especially important, Miss Harris”, she warned “Every woman in Aldwinter will look to you as an example of a Godly woman. It is not that you aren’t Godly, but this will increase. Their eyes will all be watching you as to what to do with their own lives, homes, and marriages. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied.

7. Reach out to those on the outside and facilitate relationships with all women or men in the congregation or otherwise.

8. Pray intently for your husband’s strength to withstand opposition, temptation, and arrogance

“William is a good, Christian man- that will not be hard, you won’t suffer any grave sin from him” the vicar assured me.

I went down to carefully copy the last ones.

9. Attend Sunday services regularly and sit visibly so your husband always knows he has at least one ally in the congregation.

10. Stay after service to allow people to get to know you.

11. Be consistently humble; appreciating everything while demanding very little.

12. Be a blessing to the women in the church; encourage others to do the same.

14. Raise healthy, well-balanced children and be present for them.

15. Stay married.

Once I wrote the “d” of married, I looked up to them, almost pleading, but staying as calm as I could.

“I will be happy to. For William, it will be my joy to do all these things!”

The vicar’s wife placed a hand under my chin and tipped it to face her in her large blue eyes.

“And still with that loving, sweet spirit of yours, Miss Harris?” she asked kindly.

“Yes, I promise.” And that list I always kept in the pocket of my reticule and read each night before I slept.

In a way her apprentice as her husband and William were. She showed me everywhere around the church and introduced me to the various married women of the congregation. I was now no longer a child or an actress for their private romantic melodramas of local courtship. She let me sit beside her at church in the front row and take note of everything she did.

It felt daunting, but I found comfort in prayer. At last, at long last, my prayer for love and romance was answered! And now that was what I had to do. It was longer than what I initially thought, but so be it. William would know every day that I loved him and would give my life for him, even if it meant staying a little longer in the church. And even after he performed the duties of a curate during the service, he would walk down to that row. We were permitted to hold hands during the service. It was a blissful five months. William alone, no Vicar at his tail, was present for tea and every meal and promenade after, leaving his final, and sweetest goodbye to me. By then the sun cracked the ice so that the rivers, lakes, and ocean would flow again. He was permitted to be in a rowboat with me on lakeside picnics. We would walk by the beach during visits to the sea.

Despite the gossip-hungry eyes of the parish noting our every breath, we were in our own world, smiling. Of course, we exchanged numerous letters. Each one he wrote me was more beautiful and romantic than the last. Of course, these were still checked by my mother for anything inappropriate and then returned to me. Of all the men in that town, he was expected the least to stray from anything improper. And of all the women, I was the one least allowed to be out of line now. Not that one word of his letters during our engagement implied anything at all. They didn’t need to. If he did become a writer, I was convinced, he would make the world fall in love with the power he held in his pen.

He gave me small gifts such as flowers, new books, new journals to press my blooms, gloves, and such. We exchanged our photographs and locks of our hair. I kept his photograph and that reddish-blonde curl on the same page with the gardenia. Now when there was a local dance, we could have three.

That is as well as usual wedding planning. Invitations. Shopping. Recipes and ribbons and the like.

The final two months before the wedding the current vicar retired. Now it was William who was weekly on the pulpit. He immediately won over the parish. His words could move the hardest of hearts and he was immediately beloved. And I was there, on the front row, smiling with his ring on my finger. Counting down until that day of all days. Four weeks. Three weeks.

“I must say, I’m so used to performing weddings I must restrain myself from the speech!” he would whisper with excitement to me at dinner.

Two weeks. One week. Five days. Two. One.

Finally, the wedding arrived. I recall my white dress had a high collar and long sleeves for modesty for the other women to take note of. Modest, but still pretty. My father seemed to glow as he walked me down the aisle of the stone church. I felt genuine that I was beautiful. Beautiful enough that William smiled ear to ear when he turned to see me.

The regional bishop cleared his throat before he began to recite the wedding ceremony, prayers, hymns, and all.

Finally, came the vows. We stood to face each other

I heard the bishop intone:

“William, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife to live in God’s ordinance of the Holy State of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, honor her, keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others keep only her if you both shall live?”

He inhaled deeply and replied, “I will.”

The bishop turned to me.

“Stella, wilt thou have this man to be they wedded husband to live in God’s ordinance of the Holy State of Matrimony? Wilt thou love him, obey him, keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others keep only him as long as you both shall live?”

“I will” I said without a second’s hesitation.

More was said. It seemed that I blinked and then rings were exchanged, and he signaled to the congregation.

“I now present to you, under God and this congregation, man and wife, William, and Stella Ransome. William, you may kiss your bride.”

As simple as that. I was married.

There was much jaunty celebration in the town hall afterwards, fitting the marriage of a minster of a small town. Thankfully, there seemed to be no open ill will from the local female admirers of my husbands. In fact, I got more invitations to tea than I ever thought I would get in my lifetime. I must have shaken hands and been congratulated by every person in England on that day.

Dante cheerfully offered to be one of the musicians for my day for free. As William reached to hold my hand as we greeted his side of the family, Dante began to play one sweet tune with descending notes full of joy. They sparkled and giggled it seemed.

My mother walked over to him, and I overheard their conversation, “what is that song?”

“I got it from a music book in London- it’s an aria called Caro Nome by some Verdi chap, it’s from his opera about a hunchbacked jester, mother!”

She shot him a bemused look.

“The song’s about love! It seemed fitting for today!”

“Well, it is charming…” she said.

After the last line, a violin picked up. Dante played something even faster.

“Oh, we must at our wedding- Dance with me, Stella! Please!” William begged.

As I nodded, he pulled me onto the floor with the other couples.

I can tell you now that I was his most experienced of partners, he wasn’t the best of dancers, but a passionate one, pouring his all as he swayed and swirled me around. The music was the most beautiful I had ever heard. Smiles upon all of us watching how much he loved me despite his feet landing mere centimeters from my toes.

But I felt like I could fly. I never felt more loved from him than in that moment. We danced so much and talked and greeted and celebrated so much we even nearly forgot to eat our own cake.

Now I must recall this. Please do not think I am a certain kind of woman or forward or crude. You know how I began my story. The Marital act and my experience joining William Ransome’s bed must be recalled. But I will refrain from specifics out of politeness. You will understand why I even write at all about our bed later, I hope.

When it came to that evening, the guests were starting to leave. My mother walked up to me.

“Do you have…any last questions before…before tonight?” She asked.

I looked around. No one was listening in. William was splitting a congratulatory pipe with my brothers.

“I don’t mama…I know everything I need for now…” I confirmed.

The sky was black, and the last guest waved goodbye.

He led me to his house. I had never been inside, propriety forbidding of course. It was a tall white house in the middle of a field. Inside was cozy and brown- wooden floors, walls, and steps with not a bit of paint or wallpaper. A small, tight kitchen. A living room with two chairs. And stairs leading to the second floor.

He offered his hand to help me upstairs. Then placed his hand on the knob of a brown door.

“Here, this will be our room from now on.”

It was a bare room. There was a desk, windows, bookshelves, and Knick knacks like that. In the center was a large, blue bed.

I sat on the bed in my wedding gown, yet to undo a button as he knelt to start a kindle in the fireplace for warmth. My heart was starting to race with nerves.

Once he sat down next to me, he turned to me and offered his hand. I accepted it. Then he leaned forward, and I closed my eyes.

He began to kiss me but…differently. It was passionate. Forward. I was surprised a holy man could even kiss like that. He hands wandered down to my waist. He had never done that before and it shot me with electricity. He practically grabbing my dress to pull me onto him as he continued kissing. All my life, I was told to stay away from such desires. The risk of being alone with a man of bad character. The risk of ruin. Now it was no longer a sin, but a required ceremony between a husband and wife.

And that was one of many tests I had to pass for him to be happy. Every bit as much as the list saying to pray for him.

He stopped. His hands landed on my skirt.

He looked at me and said “we…we can wait, Stella, it doesn’t have to be tonight.” I could tell he wished for it to be tonight, but said nothing.

My heart was picking up. We turned away to watch the fire.

It struck me.

I wasn’t afraid of lovemaking. Not at all now. In fact, I wanted it. And I wanted it from him.

I raised my skirt and led his hand to be on my leg. I began to unbutton my dress quickly and his eyes grew into large, blue saucers.

“William, I’d like it to be tonight…” I spoke.

And that was all he needed.

I was delightfully surprised how much I loved it. We fell soundly asleep and the next night we did it again.

I recall that second night he gathered my hair as I laid in bed and played with it, propping the strands on top of my head in a kind of messy bun.

“You are a saint, an angel, Stella, and even your hair is a halo…” he said lovingly.

The following night after that we did it twice.

It was an odd contrast. In the mornings I would help to plan and run the events in the church. I followed the list to the letter. I would attend and even often lead the Bible study of the local women and visit their teas for well-behaved conversations. But once I returned, William and I were anything but well-behaved. But we were married now! How could that be sinful?

I understand many who might read this admire and lust for my husband. Especially for his handsomeness and good character. I will let you imagine privately what it was like in that bed if it pleases you- and I ask your sympathy, for you to understand how much I loved and desired him as a wife. Anything you might imagine was possibly done and correct.

By days, I had my own duties to fulfill. Meals had to be cooked (though legally it was his, he wasn't the cook-my own kitchen! With any recipe William or I wanted!), the house had to be kept tidy (yes it was his but it felt like my own house!), gardening (legally his, but my own garden!), laundry (only mine and Williams!) as well as daily attendance of prayer, scripture reading, as well as visiting and attending all events, ceremonies, and services of the church while keeping visits from the women of town- Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Rogers, Mrs. Finch. Mrs. Bennett, Mrs. Franklin, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Elliott, and so many other names that it made my head spin. However, nights were a different matter.

Anything that could be done in that bed in our marriage that could be done was done. Especially any act that pleased him. I wanted badly to please him. I did please him in any way he wanted. Then in turn, he wanted to please me. And his desire for me was not unwelcomed. He could not finish a sermon on that desk as soon as I was in that room undoing a button of my dress.

Before we slept each night, we did it. After I visited some of the local women and the afternoon was free, we did it. When we were returning home from visits and errands, we did it. We did it before dinner, after dinner, and rainy days, snowy days, sunny days, and even right before church in the early Sunday mornings. Often resulting in secret smiles during the service right after between us two. William had an appetite that could never be quenched.

I was convinced that was for me and me alone, especially as his wife.

One warm night, he kissed the top of my head after the bliss had spiraled down. He then put on his robe and gave me a blanket to cover myself. He walked to the window, gesturing me to follow. He opened the curtains to show the clear night sky. Not one cloud was in sight and there were stars in the thousands.

“Do you see that, all of those stars up there?” he asked, pointing up.

I gasped in awe. He leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“Those are for you, Stella. Your name is Star…they’re for you tonight.”

We embraced, watching the sky. He then turned to me.

“Tomorrow, since my meeting with the choir boys were canceled, there’s a spot I’d like to take you…” he offered.

“Take me there, Will, please!” I replied.

The next afternoon, he led me by his hand as we walked through the woods. We ducked under branches and leaves crunched beneath my shoes. He showed me a trail he had marked and then turned a corner. There was a pond, clear as a mirror right in front of us.

“This is my own spot…I’ve never shown it or discussed it to anyone…except now you,” he said.

“It’s beautiful!” I cried.

He began shedding off his shirt and pants. And he was not stopping at his undergarments.

“Wh…what are you doing?” I asked nervously.

“I’m going swimming…” he answered simply.

“Here!? Without any of your clothes?”

“You can’t swim with clothes on!” he protested.

“But…”

“No one will see us or find us, Stella!” he assured.

He disrobed until not a thing was on him. By then I was used to his attractive nakedness. But it was the sight of his bare torso among the leaves, unroofed sky, and the chatter of birds that shocked me.

“How long have you done this?” I asked.

“As long as I’ve been curate!” He walked down into the water.

“And no one caught you?” I asked.

“None!”

He began to glide through as effortlessly as a dolphin.

“Come Stella! Swim!”

“I…I just…”

I stared down at how the ground was wet with water beneath my shoes.

“Can you swim?”

“I can swim…only…I never have been…not like this!”

“Try it, Stella! Please! The water’s amazing!”

I sighed and nodded.

He got out of the pond and with wet hands helped me out of my dress, stockings, shoes, petticoats, and corset. God forbid a member of our parish pick the place to picnic now, I thought. But I insisted that at least I would be in my shift rather than completely bare, like him. So, help me, should someone see and recognize us, they would think at least I was decent.

He led me into the waters, at a certain depth I slipped and let him catch me as he laughed. We waded and swam joyfully. He was right, it felt amazing. He even placed his arms above my waist, wading up above the depths, he twirled me around. Our wet hair was clinging to our faces as we held each other and kissed as we waded. And no, no one caught us. It was much worth redressing with a wet shift beneath me. Such experiences were two of his many gifts.

Oh yes, He was generous and that expanded in our marriage. Since he knew through our letters and conversations that my favorite color was blue, our room was made to be blue. It was striking considering the rest of that plain house, but it was beautiful. It felt, in a way, like I had my own touch. That it was my room as much as his.

After his payment, he would spare some of it to buy me flower seeds. He gave me flower seeds to plant and water and tend to. Flowers that would bloom into those colorful blooms I adored so much and wished to press in my collection.

One unique flower seed he gave me was that for a Star Lily (“A star for the lady whose name is star!” he said). I planted it and in time it grew into one beautiful, full, white blossom. It was the pride and joy of my flower garden at the time.

One summer day, after watering the vegetables, I turned to my section with flowers to water them. Every rose, peony, and daisy were as normal. I looked everywhere for the Star Lily and could not find it.

Once my head ducked down, I realized why.

There was green Garden Snake right twisting around the Star Lily with its long body. Its weight bent down and broke the stem. It squeezed the flower, like one wringing a cloth. Then it was opening its mouth, eating, and tearing at the petals.

I gave a horrified shriek and retreated a few steps. The creature terrified me so much I could not even as much as find a stick and poke it away. Uselessly, I stood there and watched. William was away, unable to help or hear me.

It slithered further over the flower. The hearty stem grew weak and shriveled. It continued to bite and tear and squeeze the life out of the Star Lily. The tramped petals fell on the brown dirt. The petals beauty was now only memory.

[mirandamosley]

Miranda Mosley CV

Professional Resume 

2018 - PRESENT Piano teaching/accompanying. Demo CD Handel & Bach. Local concerts; folk music research.

2018 – COMMUNITY ACTION, London. Campaign to removal two Telegraph Masts from Local Community. One successful. [collecting signatures, letters to power – and meetings aiding Constituents in lawsuit against telecoms company].

2015-16 SHADOW CABINET GOVERNMENT - Assistant to Welsh Labour MP; incl. Organised music concerts, events & meetings.

2014 - ART FOR SCHOOLS - Designed all posters and leaflets for two years; Created two theatre sets for drama productions.

2010-15 MUSICAL ACCOMPANIST; Accompanist, privately for instrumentalists and singers, mostly classical and musical theatre, and also for a time at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music, London. Accompanist, for female student a’capella group, choirs incl. at Dance Works; incl. musical theatre auditions and working with actors. Organist & choir rehearsal organiser/director - St Edmunds Church, Loughton, Essex;

Rehearsal pianist/recording for theatre piece - Frieda and Diego the musical (Ivo Mosley) Recording of Yiddish folk songs at RADA for Jacob Gordin Project with singer, and working with players for Mozart operas, chorus singing and choir rehearsals for the Dorset Opera and The University of Bristol (*Bristol Music Club, Victoria Rooms*; soprano and piano concerts at Selwyn College Cambridge and Southwark Cathedral. Piano concerts in Loughton, raising money for Children in Need. Accompanist for comedy group at comedy club in North London, Little Venice. At St Paul’s Covent Garden – Keyboard for singer for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

Piano meeting – Italy - San Danielle Del Fruili – Solo piano lessons and concert; solo concerts in Orkney, on Orkey radio and St Andrews; Repetiteur/accompanist - Italian Opera Summer School in Puglia.

MUSIC TEACHING Piano teaching to children – privately and at Cameron House School in London. Basic singing & music theory teaching.

ADMINISTRATIVE; Apprentice; The House of Commons Library, and administrative assistant for Art Curator’s Office. Accompanist for Library Choir including fundraisers and at Speaker’s House.

Student pub worker; Bristol. 

2007 University of Cardiff MA in Keyboard Studies (incl. develop’t of keyboard instruments)

2006 University of Bristol BA Music (2.1) [organised, publicity and performed in concerts]. Russian literature (Dostoevsky) and French language open unit.

Awards and bursaries

Winner of Concerto Competition 2003 – piano soloist with orchestra in Krakow Polish Academy of Music.

Recipient of Ladyman Bequest 2006

Recipient of Draper’s Company bursary 2006

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning!  I hope you slept well and feel rested?  Currently sitting in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day.

Initially, The Trouble didn’t like this truism but I think she’s finally coming around to it.  People will do what they want to do.  Ultimately, people do what they want to do.  And, if they don’t want to do it … they don’t!

We all get numerous invitations and, if we want to go, we go!  If we don’t want to go, we don’t!  If you have space for 50, invite 100, because there will always be 50% of people who can’t go or don’t want to go.

And so it was on Sunday for our garden party!  We invited twice as many people as we had room for.  If they’d all turned-up, we’d have been f*cked but, as expected, 50% dropped out.  It was perfect!

They came from far and wide: Stevenage, Eastbourne, Essex and, of course, deepest, darkest South London.  They got on buses and trains and more buses but, those that wanted to be there, arrived in style, bearing gifts and delicious food.  We had macaroni cheese, tandoori chicken, callaloo spring rolls, saltfish quiche, beef patties, BBQ chicken wings, saltfish fritters, fried dumplings, chicken curry, chilli, Irish stew with dumplings, rice & peas, BBQ spare ribs, assorted delicious salads, assorted scrumptious cakes and, of course, my Wray & Nephew trifle.  People were stuffed (but went back for seconds later!)

In truth, I am still smiling.  Such gatherings are good for the soul.    We had beautiful weather all day and didn’t the rain stay away until Monday?  The Gods Of The Good Time were with us!

The company?  Ah, what people we know!  Knowledge, wit, wisdom; anecdotes, jokes, insight.  Our friends are the bestest! 

Having said all that, there was one criticism from a young lady who complained that there weren’t enough male of the species!  Gentlemen, I beseech you, please join us next time and feast your eyes on a veritable bevy of beauties!  

Okay, I’ve finished talking about our garden party.  Until next year.

Have a tremendous and tumultuous Tuesday.  I love you all.