#isaiah darlington

[aheathen-conceivably]

Dearest Zelda,

First let me say what a joy it was to receive your latest letter! Truly I was so delighted upon seeing it in the mailbox that I ran straight for Isaiah. He is not one to worry, but when our latest contact to the address we had for you in New Orleans once again went unanswered, I fear even he had begun to grow concerned. 

I am delighted to read that your silence was not without good reason, and to see the wedding portrait you sent of you and Antoine as well as the photo of your daughter. How she has grown since we last saw her! She is not much younger than our eldest now, who I fear every day is so like your brother there is simply no one thing in this world that can tame her.

It does sound like your Violette is much the same, and how much joy it brings me to think that perhaps it is Florence’s spirit manifesting through them.

Our youngest have also begun to grow like weeds, much to my chagrin. Does it ever seem like sometimes you awaken and it’s as though the grass has grown a foot overnight? That is oft how I feel looking at them, and Rosalie seems to desire all the independence of her namesake. 

She wasn’t but a day over six when she began poking into Rosella’s old room, curiously pulling forth toys and books from the gathered dust like a miniature treasure hunter. Truthfully, I could not tell you why your brother and I had yet to bring the room back into the light of day. Once you took the portrait from it it was like a pall had lifted, but I feared that stirring it would upset your brother’s long-standing grief over your mother, so I daren’t say a word. 

But as children often do, Rosalie saw little of that other than a space to call her own, and we have now finally found the heart through her to give it a new life. I do hope your sister would love to see her in there, playing dolls and writing grand romantic stories for them aloud to her ever attentive twin. It is a joy to see them rediscover the beauty in the world that pain often hides, is it not?

Have you written to Virginia as well? I fear she may not be quite as conscious of the time that has gone by. With the dissolution of The Women’s Political and Social Union, her work has turned increasingly to involvement with the Women’s Labor League, eventually coming to the attention of the Labor Party themselves. 

I will admit that I am not as informed on the goings on of London as I perhaps should be, but even still it came as no surprise when the party nominated her as their candidate for Member of Parliament. As she so painstakingly explained it, the party itself has suffered great losses from their prominence in the 20s, what with the general bias of their associations with the communists and their seeming inability to stop the rampant unemployment that has taken hold even here. 

I suppose she is fully aware that this was the cause for her nomination, as she was able to run more on the merit of her charitable associations than the negative reputation the party has recently taken on. Yet if she was surprised that this platform worked, she has never let on; but her work in the House of Commons has all but taken over her life since her election in 1931. How I do miss her and Wally, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing that she keeps her seat in the upcoming election of ‘35, even if it means we will see less of them than ever.

I imagine that what little free time she has is now spent nearby at Oxford, where Wally was accepted upon his graduation from secondary school. While I’m sure being the son of a governing member of parliament was not a mark against him, I have no doubt he was accepted there on the merits of his intelligence alone. Even from the small amount of time he spent here in his teen years, it was clear to me what a bright boy he was. 

I am told he is majoring in physics there, a field that even in the briefest explanations Virginia has given me is quite beyond my comprehension. I suppose what else are we to expect with Virginia as his mother? I’m sure he’s had but the most informative, intellectual upbringing, even when it must have been colored by the high expectations that I can only imagine your sister set for him.

Despite her near constant work and best attempts to shield her vulnerability, there are moments when we speak and it seems as though Wally's departure brought forth much of the buried sentimentality within her. I suppose under it all she is but a mother like us all, proud of her child and yet sorrowful as his life grows beyond her own.

Before I sign off your brother has instructed me to ask you to include the most minute of details regarding your predicaments with the soil in your next letter. He has also asked me to attach a veritable field guide of advice, although I have told him that everything you have written points to the fact that you are in waters we could not navigate any better even if we tried.

I must admit that when I hear the word soil I think simply of the ground beneath verdant green grasses or darkened Bramblewood canopies. It makes me realize just how little of the world I have seen, but also how lucky we have been even in the throes of what seem to be such tumultuous times. I can only hope that such good fortune will last in England for many years to come, and that some of our knowledge may bring success to your efforts as well.

I must once again thank you for the photo of you and Antoine on your wedding day. We’ve placed it in our living room next to the photo of your mother and father when they were wed, as seems only right. In return I have also included a photo of all of us when we were last together to visit Wally’s new home in Oxford; although I’ll be the first to admit I do hope we spend the next high holiday together in Henford instead. Anything that close to London makes me long for the forest more than anything else.

Your mother once told me that she sent you every photo we took, and that you have been collecting them over the years. I hope this can make a welcome addition to such a tradition, and do always know that you are welcome here should you ever find need of solace in the place you once called home. 

Your sister in marriage,

 Summer Darlington

[pavspatch]

Tigers and Nash seek FA Cup glory

CURZON Ashton and Hyde United should in the peak of condition for tomorrow (Saturday's) FA Cup fourth qualifying round ties. Both are rested and at full strength.

The Tigers' scheduled league game at Whitby was called off on Tuesday, which allowed for a rehabilitation session which manager Nick Spooner described as really useful. Two masseurs were brought in to assist physio Lucy Graves with stretching and recovery exercises.

Curzon faced neighbours Ashton United in the Manchester Premier Cup. But, making no secret of his priorities, boss Adam Lakeland fielded what was effectively a youth XI only to be delighted with their performance in holding the Robins to a 1-1 draw before losing on penalties.

Post-match, Lakeland told the in-house media team: "I thought we were outstanding. I think everybody connected to our club should be incredibly proud of all those who played tonight against a pretty-much full-strength line-up.

"It was a game we could have probably done without but the young lads who played needed the minutes and it was an opportunity for us to have a look at some of them. Now, I'm please that we played the game.

"The lads who weren't involved trained and worked hard and now we go into our final preparations. We've got to work hard and make sure we're ready to go come 3 o'clock on Saturday.

"It's a really important game, one that we're looking forward to, but one that we know will be very, very difficult for us. We're going there as the underdogs, but we're 90 minutes from the first round proper and we've got to go there and give everything we've got."

Earlier today, Lakeland tersely confirmed his squad's status for the trip to the Bee Arena as "full squad, full bill of health".

Peterborough Sports, who were promoted to National League North at the end of last season via the Southern League play-offs after finishing second in the premier division, go into the tie on the back of three consecutive victories and having won their last six home games.

Sports, nicknamed the Turbines, have centre-back Connor Johnson available after he completed a three-game ban last weekend. They are also hoping right-back Isaiah Bazeley will be fit to return after injury.

Manager Jimmy Dean has signed Australian right-back Luca Doorbar-Baptist on a two-week trial and the former Nottingham Forest youngster could be involved against Curzon. Former Italian Serie C midfielder Diadier Camara appeared for Sports in Tuesday's 4-0 Hillier Cup defeat of Wellingborough.

Dean told the Peterborough Telegraph: "Curzon will be tough. They are enjoying a similar season to us and they obviously have big performances in them as they’ve won at Kidderminster and knocked out Scarborough in the last round. "We have played well against good sides as well and we are on a great run at home so hopefully that will work in our favour."

The Turbines' top scorers are former Gainsborough Mark Jones, with seven goals, and winger Jordan Nicholson with six. Jones has an impressive pedigree having played for Peterborough United, Nuneaton, Barnet, Brackley and Darlington.

HYDE UNITED fans will be looking for a much more upbeat performance than their team provided last Saturday when they lost 3-2 to Colne at the Project Solar UK Stadium. The general feeling was that the players were distracted, with their minds on the FA Cup tie at Buxton rather than the FA Trophy tie they were involved in.

Questions were also asked about Spooner's decision to drop popular left-back Javid Neavin to the bench, replacing him with new signing Josh Askew. Craig Ellison came into the side for star keeper Gio Bellagambi who had been recalled by parent club Huddersfield who promptly loaned him to Spennymoor. However, this morning, the Yorkshiremen supplied the Tigers with a new loanee, 18-year-old midfielder Sonny Whittingham.

Spooner insists his full-strength squad are ready for the fray after their restful week, adding: "We're really looking forward to the cup-tie. We know we're underdogs but it's a great opportunity for the lads to win and go through to the first round where they could come up against a professional club from the EFL. They're raring to go."

When the draw was made, Buxton looked to be beatable opponents. Promoted last season as NPL champions, their form was mixed and they were hovering above the relegation places. However, a 1-0 win at Spennymoor — their first away victory of the season — has transformed the atmosphere at the Tarmac Silverlands and provided an injection of confidence.

A lot of the credit was given to former Notts County midfielder Sam Osborne who was making his first appearance after being signed from Fylde.

Manager Jamie Vermiglio, who admitted he was impressed by Osbone's debut, put the much-needed victory down to spirit, saying: "We weren't brilliant with the ball. There were moments when we were really sloppy, but fans could see the desire, the heart, the roll your sleeves up mentality, and that's what wins you football matches."

He sees the FA Cup as a means of providing the team with some momentum to propel them up the league table but has warned that Hyde mustn't be underestimated.

The tie will be segregated and Tigers fans should enter the ground by the Mill Cliff turnstiles. Given the importance of the match, Hyde and Buxton being relatively close to each other, and a history of meetings that dates back to 1891, a big crowd is expected.

Winning clubs receive £9,375 while losers get £3,125.

[footballers-wags-kids]

Happy birthday Felicia Nagbe 🎉🎂🎁💕🎊

Pic: Darlington Nagbe , Felicia Nagbe

[republicstandard]

Woman Bishop sets out to Castrate God in the name of Equality

Take a red pill, Bishop Rachel, before you set female prisoners free.

Rachel Treweek, Bishop of Gloucester, is an über-feminist. On Sunday, she called for the God of the Bible to undergo Gender Reassignment Surgery. “I don’t want young girls or young boys to hear us constantly refer to God as he,” she told The Telegraph.

Jesus, the Son of God, called God his Father. Treweek grew up praying the Lord’s Prayer and calling God “Our Father”. But now, as the most senior female bishop in the Church of England and a member of the House of Lords, our Rachel has inside information that God wishes to transition to a non-gendered being.

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The “mind your language” bishop, oddly enough, hasn’t yet objected to the masculine nomenclature of the House of “Lords” or to the masculine form of “bishop” – she threw her miter at me after I called her a “bishopess”. Of course, she believes bubble-gum popping tweens and teens will come flooding into the Church of England if we stopped calling God by his preferred choice of pronoun.

Once Treweek gets rids of God the Father’s toxic masculinity, her next project will be to persuade God the Son to put his name on the NHS waiting list for Hormone Therapy. Jesus can have a second incarnation as a woman and Treweek can re-brand Jesus Christ as Jessie Christa.

“I am very hot about saying can we always look at what we are communicating,” she says. Treweek is also very hot on setting prisoners free – she intends to implement the Nazareth manifesto from Luke’s gospel, where Jesus, reading from the prophet Isaiah, announces that God has called him “to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound”.

Now that Treweek is Bishop for Women’s Prisons she’s flagged off her campaign for prison reform in the House of Lords last week. Surely that’s not a bad thing? But before you raise a toast and sing She’s a jolly good fellow (sexist, eh?) to this reincarnation of Elizabeth Fry, take a deep breath and listen to the whole story.

Treweek doesn’t want all prisoners to go free. There are around 4,000 female prisoners in Her Majesty’s Prisons and her heart bleeds for these victims of the patriarchal society, which is, no doubt, to blame for women committing crimes. Treweek wants only the guilty women to be let loose. The male prisoners can rot in Wormwood Scrubs for all she cares (unless they self-identify as women).

After all, she’s a feminist. But isn’t feminism all about equal rights for women? My dictionary defines “feminism” as “the advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.” So Rachel, by your own standards, women, and men are equal. Men and women are equal before God – in creation and salvation (which is why Treweek was one of the pioneering campaigners for women’s ordination). If Treweek wants us to treat women as equal to men, why is she launching a campaign that is predicated entirely on special pleading for women?

Is she taking us back to the dreadful days of patriarchal hegemony where women were considered the weaker sex? If women can fight in commando units like the SAS in the Her Majesty’s Army, surely they aren’t complaining just because they have to do “equal time for equal crime” as the men in Her Majesty’s Prisons?

So why is Bishop Rachel calling for a change to the way women are sentenced? Why is she calling for a review of short prison sentences and asking for consideration of community-based orders and rehabilitation for women with less serious offenses? Why is she calling for women offenders to be given more lenient sentences?

Her first reason is that “these women present a distinct set of needs and their imprisonment has a significant impact on communities and society as a whole”. Well, don’t men have an equally distinct set of needs? Doesn’t throwing them behind bars also have a significant impact particularly on the family? What if the man of the family is the only breadwinner? What if he is an activist who is not around to protect them from Muslim rape squad threats as reportedly happened in the case of Tommy Robinson’s wife and two small children?

We know that a pregnant woman presents a distinct set of needs. But what if this is used as a get-out card as in the case of Natalie Williams from Darlington, County Durham, who after she was arrested, deliberately got pregnant with a new boyfriend – to stay out of prison?

Treweek talks about “the vulnerabilities and challenges of women in prison” but does not name them. Yes, some women, like some men, would certainly be more vulnerable and face more challenges than others. But, surely, to label an entire group on the basis of their gender as “vulnerable” is the most offensive kind of gender stereotyping, isn’t it, Rachel?

At the recent Fourth International Conference for Men’s Rights, where I was invited as a speaker, I heard the testimony of boxer and physical trainer Ramon Sosa, a Puerto Rican who became an American citizen. Using photographs and FBI reports, Sosa narrated how a stunningly beautiful Mexican illegal immigrant lured him into marriage and used him to legalize her immigration status. When the couple were on the verge of divorce, she got his best friend to hire a hit man to kill him for $12,000 so she could inherit his business. The FBI staged his death and arrested his wife. She escaped a life sentence and is doing 20 years in jail.

Bishop Rachel, I do wish you would send Mrs. Sosa a bottle of Chanel, a bouquet of flowers and a “Get Out Soon” card.

What is Treweek’s justification for privileging women offenders over their men counterparts? ABUSE! Yes! “Unfortunately, the majority of women offenders have experienced some sort of abuse, whether from a partner or a family member,” she laments in her speech to the House of Lords.

Treweek cites Women in Prison, who typically blame “abuse, marginalization and poverty” as “the root of so much of women’s offending”. She parrots their statistics:

“53% of women in jail report having experienced physical, emotional or sexual abuse during childhood; 46% report having suffered domestic violence; and over 30% spent time in local authority care as a child.”

But does “abuse” justify criminal behavior? Also, would Bishop Rachel support lighter sentences for male offenders if they were abused or orphaned?

Alan Dershowitz, leading criminal lawyer, Harvard Law School professor, and a staunch liberal, lambasts what he calls “the abuse excuse”. In his book The Abuse Excuse and other Cop-Outs, Sob Stories and Evasions of Responsibility, Dershowitz argues that excuses that are gender-specific, send a “dangerous double message of irresponsibility, especially about women. After all, if women who have been abused are not responsible for their violence, then does it not follow that such women are irresponsible and thus untrustworthy?”

Unlike Treweek, Dershowitz really believes in women’s equality. He contends that the kind of “generalization” perpetuated by Treweek and Women in Prison, “if accepted – would contribute a major setback for abused women, and for women in general. It would confirm the sexist stereotype of the woman out of control. Such a generalization would also be an insult to the thousands of abused women who obey the law – who have not engaged in violence,” because “the truth is that the vast majority of women (and men) who have been abused are entirely capable of controlling their behavior and complying with the law”.

Perhaps the next time Treweek calls for women to be admitted to so-called Women’s centers rather than prison for their crimes, she could buttress her case by throwing in the premenstrual syndrome defense. Orthopedic surgeon Geraldine Richter got away with drunken driving and assaultive behavior after arguing it was premenstrual syndrome, not drunkenness, which caused her crime. This stigmatizes all women with PMS who do not drive drunk or engage in physical violence during the pre-menstrual part of their cycle.

What would Treweek do with 24-year-old Lorena Bobbit who took a knife and cut of her husband John’s penis when he was fast asleep, took the penis and fled in her car, tossing it out on the highway? “He always have orgasm, and he doesn't wait for me to have orgasm,” the Ecuadorian-born Lorena complained. “He's selfish.” Lorena also claimed that John raped her. A jury of nine women and three men acquitted John. Searching for his penis, though, was like looking for a needle in a haystack. It was finally found and reattached to John.

Treweek needs to take a red pill before she puts her feminist Nazareth manifesto into operation. The red pill, a popular cultural meme, derived from The Matrix, represents the brutal truths of reality. In 2016, journalist Cassie Jaye produced a documentary called The Red Pill. Jaye, a feminist, set out to debunk men’s rights movements. Jaye was red pilled by her investigations: men, not women, are the real victims of discrimination in the West, she concluded.

Gender equality activist Elizabeth Hobson contacted me with political dynamite about Treweek’s claims. Men are the real victims of the UK criminal justice system. Flogging as a punishment for female criminals was banned in 1820 but continued for men until 1967. Currently, men account for around 95% of the total prison population despite only committing 3.4 times more crimes than women. For the same crimes, men are given longer sentences than women and women are paroled earlier than men (despite being more likely to be disciplined for bad behavior whilst incarcerated), Hobson informed me.

Philip Davies, MP for Shipley, who has sat on the Justice Select Committee and the Women and Equalities Committee, slams the rampant sexist “bias towards women” when it comes to sentencing in British courts. Sexism in the justice system is evidenced by the fact men are more likely to be sent to prison than women, despite committing the same crimes. 61 percent of men found guilty of robbery are sent into custody, while only 32 percent of women suffer the same fate,” says Davies, courageously battling the tide of political correctness.

“Men have to wear uniforms in prison but women do not ‘because it’s bad for their self-esteem’. The inequality in the justice system is breathtaking. I’m arguing for equality – the justice system should be gender-blind,” argues Davies.

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Davies is bang on target. Consider the case of aspiring heart surgeon Lavinia Woodward, a student at Christ Church, Oxford University. Woodward dosed on drugs, punched her boyfriend in the face, stabbed him with a bread knife, hurled a laptop at him, then followed up with a glass and a jam jar. The judge let her off the hook because she was an “extraordinarily able young lady”.

Contrast this with the case of Samuel Bunyan, who sexually assaulted a fellow undergrad as she slept. His victim admitted she was “seven out of ten drunk” when she invited him back to her flat “to watch movies”. The judge ordered the young man instantly to prison, and put him “indefinitely” on a sex offender register rendering him unemployable in a normal graduate job.

The next time Bishop Rachel trots out the psychobabble of the “abuse excuse” and blames amorphous structures like poverty or sexism or patriarchy, rather than sinful individuals for their actions, she should turn to the first pages of the Bible where the first recorded excuses appear.

Adam blames Eve and Eve blames the serpent. She tells God, “Don’t blame me, blame the serpent, he deceived me.” God, who happens to be a “he” in the book of Genesis, rejects Eve’s defense. Is this why Bishop Rachel is mad at God and so determined to emasculate Him?

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine https://ift.tt/2xsQsEp via IFTTT

[aheathen-conceivably]

The English Darlingtons in early 1933 on the grounds of Oxford, where Wally Webber now attends university. Pictured is also his adoptive mother Virginia Darlington, who lives in nearby London, as well as Isaiah and Summer Darlington and their three children, who have made the trip from rural Henford-on-Bagley.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Back at the cottage, the sound of playing children and laughter could be heard from nearly every room of the house. Summer and Isaiah’s children were just as rambunctious as Zelda expected, roping Violette into all of their games and lifting the remaining melancholia from the air.

Even Wally, who would usually rather read alone than engage in such joviality, found the energy infectious; so he stayed amidst the noise rather than seek out the studious quiet that he and Virginia were used to in their own home.

The sounds echoed up the stairs into the small second story hallway, where Virginia and Zelda were standing outside of Rosella’s old room. They were both staring at the door as though it sheltered a trove of terrifying secrets, silently daring the other to be the first to open it.

Zelda went forward, her hand on the knob before Virginia could say a word. She turned the handle and eased open the door, letting out the smell of dust collecting in the sunshine.

They stopped in the doorway, marveling at the accumulation of toys and memorabilia, before Zelda pushed the door open wider and walked into the center of the room, “Goodness, Virginia. Have Mother and Isaiah been using it for storage all these years? With brother’s growing family you do think they would have need of it, perhaps transformed it into something more useful.”

Zelda’s question snapped Virginia back to reality and she followed her sister into the room. Her characteristically sharp countenance returned to her face as though the fear had never been there, “I see the new world has made you a bit bolder hasn’t it, sister? We can’t all be so comfortable around things that continue to pain us.”

She turned away before Zelda could respond, searching the room for what she had come for, “Hell, where is it? So many trinkets amongst so few people. I could have sworn they told me it was up here somewhere…”

“Ah-ha! Here it is,” Virginia bent down, moving books and toys out of her way, “I wouldn’t think that you had heard, but a few years ago Harrington Estate fell on hard times….”

Virginia paused momentarily to allow herself a triumphant, gloating smile, “Modernity finally caught up with the old ways, I suppose. Lord Harrington had to break up the whole thing and sell it off piece by piece. During the process he sent a servant down here with this package...”

Without an ounce of the fanfare that the moment called for, Virginia pulled a bright, gilded frame from behind the dresser and propped it up on a trunk, “He said they found this in one of the rooms, thought we might like to have it after what happened.”

The very gravity of the room seemed to shift, recentering itself on the pair of bright green eyes looking off into the distance longingly. Throughout the last seventeen years Zelda had only seen Rosella in a handful of family photos; but none of them compared to this: her sister lovingly painted in a fine formal gown, her curls flowing over her shoulders and rubies draped around her neck.

The painting was rendered in exacting, lifelike colors that Zelda could hardly recall looking at the sepia photographs of their youth, giving the illusion that Rosella was once again back in her room with her sisters, telling them stories of her life at the manor.

Zelda stared forward, unbelieving, “Virginia, I don’t…I don’t understand. What was this doing there? For god’s sake who would have painted it? And how utterly strange that her hair is down; she never would wear it down, even at home. You must remember that, don’t you?”

Virginia didn’t take her eyes off the painting, perhaps so that her own expression wouldn’t give away what she knew of the Harringtons. In answer she kept her gaze averted and shrugged her shoulders, “Whatever it may be, I thought you might like to have it. Perhaps you’re the only one left who can really still look at it and feel joy.”

Zelda eyes shined, “You’re right, sister. And it gives me another idea.”

(My immense and immeasurable thanks to the amazing @scythesms for this lovely painting. Without you this scene would be nothing more than an idea and I appreciate you greatly ❤️)

[aheathen-conceivably]

Summer and Isaiah Darlington with their three children Annabelle, Rosalie, and Olivier in the Bramblewood during the Spring of 1928.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 The Woods 🎶

The sun broke over the tree line of Henford-on-Bagley, illuminating the remaining mist in the air and sending a shimmer of iridescence along the river. From outside, life at Darlington cottage had seemingly continued unchanged for decades.

Yet inside, Florence had been in and out of consciousness for days. Her body was slowly trying to let go, but she wouldn’t let it.

She could hear the constant low hum coming from the living room that accompanied any death bed. My death bed, she thought with a small sigh. She turned to look at Oliver, is this how you felt my love? Knowing they were all out there, just waiting for something to happen?

Although the photo was even more faded now than when it was first taken, she could still see how blue his eyes had been. They called out to her from across time, making her painfully aware of how long it had been since she’d heard his voice. Not yet, my love. Not yet. There were voices that she didn’t hear in the hum outside her room, voices that she had to hold on just a bit longer to hear.

But no matter how much she tried, there was one voice that she wouldn’t be able to hear. Rosella. Rosella should be here, huddled in the living room with her siblings, playing with her nieces and nephews the way that she had once loved to play with Zelda and Isaiah.

Florence shut her eyes tightly against the tears that clouded her vision and engulfed her in dreams of the way that night could have gone. If only she had been more caring, more reassuring, then maybe her daughter would never have left, maybe she would still be alive…

No, Florence told herself. She had tread that path of regret her whole life, she wouldn’t tread it on her death bed too. Besides maybe, just maybe, she would see her daughter again soon; then she could hold her and stroke her hair the way that she should have that night, the night that she walked out the door never to return.

Florence was jolted from her reveries by the sound of the front door of the cottage. Suddenly, the hum outside the room grew louder, the voices tinged with the merry tones of reunion, forgetting why they were all gathered there in the first place.

Florence pushed herself up on the bed. Finally, it was time.

Part 1/2

(The ~vibes~ today are heartbreaking please indulge me and click the little 🎶)

[aheathen-conceivably]

In the early months of 1929 the Darlingtons gathered at St. Sophie’s Cathedral in the Bramblewood for the burial of their mother Florence. The family had been together in this cemetery twice before: once for the burial of their sister Rosella and again for the internment of their father Oliver.

Although deep in grief, there was less sadness in the churchyard that day than either of the burials they remembered from their youth. Florence’s tomb near that of her husband and daughter gave the impression that she was at rest, and that her death came as a peaceful sleep rather than a life cut short.

Once the last handful of dirt had been thrown over the coffin and the final roses placed near the headstone, the family left the church yard to return to Darlington cottage. As they crossed the entrance gates, Virginia realized that Zelda wasn’t amongst them.

She turned to look for her and was shocked to see her sister walking in the other direction, holding her child’s hand as she wandered amongst the verdant spring flowers. With a sudden jolt, Virginia remembered their father’s funeral, and how much Zelda had avoided cemeteries after that; so she told her own son to go with his uncle and followed her sister through the graves.

Virginia kept her footfall light, trying to ensure that her heels didn’t make a sound in the grass below her feet. She followed Zelda to the other end of the graveyard, where she sat down near a tombstone that Virginia hadn’t visited in years.

As she got closer Virginia could hear Zelda talking to Violette, “This, my little love, is your Aunt Ella! She would be 37 now! How you would have loved her stories. They were always so glamorous and grand, I just know that you would have loved her more than anyone else.”

Virginia watched silently, tears forming in her eyes before she could stop them. She had never been one to speak her emotions or really ever bond with the rest of her family, and here Zelda was, showing more honesty and bravery than she had ever mustered at their sister’s grave. It was clear that she was a different person than she had been a decade ago, one capable of bearing life’s sadness more than Virginia could have expected.

“Zelda?” Virginia asked quietly.

Zelda turned, a bit surprised, but her face nonetheless peaceful and happy. Virginia was stunned. She sat next to her sister as Violette walked to Rosella’s grave, speaking a quiet but empathetic hello to the aunt she would never get to meet. Virginia watched her for a moment before she turned her attention back to Zelda, “I think there’s something back at the cottage you would like to see, sister. I didn’t quite realize until this moment, but I believe it belongs to you.”

Part 1/2

[aheathen-conceivably]

Not long after the death of their mother, the Darlington siblings had a portrait of themselves and their children taken in front of their childhood home. They didn’t know when, or if, they would ever be together again, so they each kept a copy, that way they could always be with one another in some manner.

[aheathen-conceivably]

My dearest Zelda,

I write to you once again with happy news. Although the seeds were planted in 1918, women now well and truly have the right to vote in our beloved England! No one is as ecstatic as your sister Virginia, who never backed down from a fight for the cause.

The suffragette party hosted a grand rally in London to celebrate the victory and they invited Virginia to speak on her achievements in philanthropy. They also arranged for her to tour the city from one end to another, speaking to crowds at universities and union halls about the wins gained and what has yet to be achieved.

After the lecture tour, Virginia and Wally stayed in the city’s university district to look at townhouses. You see, Virginia has also agreed to the women’s political and social union’s offer to run their alms hours in the city.

Unfortunately, this means that she and Wally will be moving to London full time. I will be so sad to see them go, but I know that the city offers so much more for brilliant minds like your sister and her dear Wally than a small town like ours ever could.

But nonetheless life here in Henford remains full and happy. We have had an entire slate of birthdays recently, but it still seems as though it were only yesterday that Annabelle and the twins were born.

Now they can all move about the farmyard or through the Brambewood on their own. I fear that Summer and your brother may give them too much freedom in this regard, but with their own wild spirits, I cannot say that I am much surprised or even in any way disappointed in their choices as parents.

While I do love Olivier and Wally with all of my heart, I must admit I have thought so much of Rosalie, Annabelle, and your Violette these last few months. Your grandmother Adelia once jested that the Darlington name has long been afflicted with the curse of the girl child. As I now grow old, I will admit that I once wished for a boy, only because I thought his choices in life would come easier than they have for you, Virginia, and even my Rosella, would she have been with us long enough to make them.

As I think now of this supposed curse, with the world widening before us and the freedoms we have increasing by the year, I am filled with nothing but hope for each of my young granddaughters, that they may reap the fruits and gains that were so hard fought for them by the woman of the last generations. I feel at peace knowing that they shall have the lives they deserve, and that I may live out the rest of my days seeing them grow into women that will make us all proud.

Forever your loving mother,

Florence Darlington

[aheathen-conceivably]

Zelda,

I appreciate your correspondence throughout my pregnancy more than I can express, especially all of the new book titles that you recommended.

On your mother’s insistence, I spent most of my final months on bed rest. Everything about this pregnancy was simply worse than my first, and I spent many long, nauseous hours with nothing to distract me but a novel. Your brother, ever the man that I fell in love with, brought home a stray dog named Bertie in the sixth month of my pregnancy.

He is so marvelously calm, content simply to lie with me or watch over Annabelle as she sleeps. After Daisy and Milou died some years ago, I did not realize quite how much I missed having a dog in the cottage. Now with Bertie to keep me company, it is though a piece of our lives has been restored.

My many miserable months were finally explained one early morning when I gave birth to twins. Your brother seems mystified that there is one boy and one girl, as the Darlington superstition of the girl-child seems to have infected even him. Their hair and eyes are but a cross of Isaiah and myself, which seems to bring Isaiah much joy, as there is now another Darlington who has inherited your mother’s blonde curls.

We have named the twins Olivier and Rosalie. I do hope that as they grow they honor their namesakes, and can bring some closure to your family after the losses that you all have endured.

It has been some months since the birth, and the twins are frankly so rambunctious that I feared not even Isaiah is built for them. But every day he proves me wrong; juggling the two of them in the farmyard even as the spring crops demand our attention. I do appreciate his boundless energy not only for myself but for Annabelle, lest she feel as though the twins have taken all of our time from her.

Would you write back to me with more book recommendations? I have begun teaching Anna how to read, and we both treasure that time together. There is something in the pages that appeals to my sense of adventure, all the while being able to stay here with my beloveds, and so I treasure each story deeply.

Your sister in marriage,

Summer Darlington

[aheathen-conceivably]

My Dearest Zelda,

The time since I returned to Henford has been full of both joy and sorrow. Young Summer is pregnant again, and I have never quite seen your brother so excited. He is such a dear with his first born, content to play as though he were a child himself.

Yet he and Summer are so diligent with this old farm, seemingly endlessly content by their freedom to work outside and be with eachother whenever they please. I have found that I cannot work as well as I once could, so their dedication to this land brings me much joy.

However, not all has been well here in England, and it is at times like these that I miss your calm smile and your beautiful voice. My dear friend Elaine has passed away on her farm. I was there with her, surrounded by our Webber cousins at the place you all loved so much growing up. She is at peace now, but I can’t help but feel as though I have lost my last confidante.

With her son in laws’ growing business in Windenburg, they have decided to sell old Webber farm. It saddens me to think of Wallace and Virginia playing there as children, or your father and my uncle humming while working the fields. But time must march on, and new families come and go where old memories were made.

With every passing day, the burden of memory feels heavier upon my shoulders. Since Elaine’s funeral, I have taken to going to the graveyard on sunny days. She is buried not far from your father and Rosella, who both slumber there amidst the dappling of oak leaves.

I suppose it is not very English of me, but sometimes I sit near your father’s grave and talk quietly to him. At first I felt a bit foolish, but now, it is as though part of him is still here with me. I do wonder if he can hear me and if there is any remnant of him left in this land that he loved so much. I do not think of myself as superstitious, but I cannot help but hope that he does remain in some way, if only so that we may be together for even a moment more.

How is your little one? The photo that we took together is my greatest treasure. I keep it on my writing desk next to a portrait of your father and I on our wedding day. It is strange to think of just how young we were then, younger even than you and your Antoine are now.

I often look at these photographs and think of how your father would have loved his grandchildren, none of whom he ever got to meet. Even thinking of their names together brings me much joy; Oliver and Violette, what a lovely pair the two of them would have been.

Please write to Summer if you have time. It would be nice for her to have a correspondence other than an old woman like myself.

With all of my love, your mother,

Florence Darlington

[aheathen-conceivably]

The English Darlingtons on the occasion of Summer and Isaiah’s wedding in late 1922. The immediate family in England now consists of Florence, Summer, Isaiah, Virginia, and her adoptive son Wally. Included are also Daisy and Milou, the newlyweds beloved dogs who brought them together when they were just teenagers.

[aheathen-conceivably]

My dearest Zelda,

Unfortunately I write to you with sad news from our home. Thus far Henford had been spared from the great Spanish flu traversing the world, but our luck has run out. Your brother, only 17 and strong, caught the sickness. As this is usually who the virus takes first, we feared for the worst. All of the hospitals were full, so he remained at home with Virginia and myself.

He lay motionless for hours, only to come back to life, maddened by fever and crying out for us, although we remained right in front of him. Virginia monitored his vitals constantly, using her medical expertise from the war with great skill, and insisting that the two of us take every precaution so that we wouldn’t fall ill ourselves.

I am afraid that I proved quite useless during the whole ordeal, and I’m unsure how I would have fared without your sister. I stayed by Isaiah’s side helping Virginia for as long as I could until fear overcame me, and then I had to excuse myself from the room to regain any sort of composure. Yet through it all Virginia maintained a calm determination, her concentration never broken by my cries or Isaiah’s fevered dreams.

Finally, Isaiah’s fever abated, and he awoke in truth, asking for water and speaking coherently for the first time since he had fallen ill. As I held his hands and looked into his eyes, I knew that he would survive this ordeal and go on to live the life that he is meant to have.

Our cousins the Webbers were not so lucky. My uncle Joseph contracted the sickness soon after Isaiah. By the time I arrived, it was too late to do anything but help Elaine cope with the loss. As much as I loved my uncle and all that he has done for us, Elaine’s cries hurt me the most. How I dread that she now knows the pain of widowhood as well.

But her sorrow is that of true love, her mourning born of a lifetime of happiness. For grief is love with no where to go; it is the continual feeling of closeness with someone who is no longer there. Yet it means that we have also felt love in full bloom, so I know that Elaine, like myself, will come to live with her grief, for it means that she can keep her love alive with her for the rest of her days.

Mere hours later Wallace’s war widow Maggie succumbed to the disease as well. I’m afraid that Virginia blames herself for her dear friend’s death, as she spent so much time nursing Isaiah that she didn’t even know of Maggie’s illness until it was too late.

I think back to the day when Maggie gave birth, and of Virginia’s constant, fearless care. I know that Virginia must think of this as well, and that she feels it was her duty to have saved her dear friend again. Yet I know in my heart that she saved your brother’s life, and I hope that this can help to allay her guilt in time.

Most tragically of all, Maggie’s death leaves her young son Wally orphaned. With no one but Elaine left in that huge farmhouse, I’m unsure if she’ll be able to look after him. But Virginia has taken a fondness to him, as he looks so much like his parents, even at the young age of five.

In the weeks since the tragedy, Virginia has spent every spare moment with young Wally, rushing to Webber farm after work to teach him chess or taking him to Downton Henford so that he may feed the ducks in the river and watch the waterwheels turn. I believe that his presence brings your sister some solace after the many hardships that she had endured.

Elaine and I spend much of our time together now, two old widows who’s lives have been sad but incredibly blessed. Spring comes quickly over Henford, and we often sit on the porch of her farmhouse just the way we did when your father and I first came to this place. It is funny to think of you there on that porch with us then, still so young and blissfully unaware of life’s trials. How the world has changed and grown since those years.

I hope that the new world has brought you all the excitement and healing that you sought, and as always I look forward to your next letter.

Your mother,

Florence Darlington

[aheathen-conceivably]

A couple of bonus shots from Summer and Isaiah's engagement, wedding, and new life on Darlington farm. Mostly because they’re incredibly cute, but also to admire their new, young adult makeovers.

The two of them are living a very different sort of 1920s life than the one we’re seeing with Zelda, Antoine, and Josephine. It is a continuation of Oliver and Florence’s lifestyle from the 1900s and centers around farming, their animals, eachother, and looking after their mothers. This will certainly not be the last that we see of these two, but it is a good representation of the start of their young adult lives in 1922.