Fic: 'Beloved'
Oh, the angst!
stealmybike asked for some stories about the mothers of the PotC characters, and I offered to do Governor Weatherby Swann. This is a little over 900 words, and I owe hereswith extra thanks for fitting the beta read and edit into her busy schedule.
~ Beloved~
Weatherby was a middle child, but he had never felt this put him at a particular disadvantage. If he was not as handsome and rakish as George, neither had he constantly been pressed to set aside heedless ways, learn the running of the estate, marry well, and produce an heir with all possible speed. If he was not as indulged as little Henrietta, neither was it his eventual destiny to be imprisoned in corset and skirts and sold in marriage to the highest bidder. His parents were not cruel in expecting such things of their oldest and youngest. It was merely the way of the world. Yet he had been glad to be able to avoid such obligations.
But his life had not been entirely without trials, and one of the greatest was caring too much.
"You worry about them," his mother told him, reaching up to touch his cheek.
"How can I help it? Since Father passed, George has grown wilder and more dissolute by the day. He wastes his substance, ignores the estate. His very health is at risk! I wish you will speak to him. He has no respect for my words at all, but perhaps you can make him see reason."
"How far we have come from the days when we had only small concerns,” said Mother sadly. “My dear, I do not flatter myself George would listen to me. He is determined to follow his own path, for good or ill. But I must tell you, I have managed to set aside what might be accounted a small fortune, enough to allow you and Henrietta to live in reasonable comfort for many years, and to dower her when the time comes. And your uncle has offered to sponsor you into government circles, now you have come down from Oxford.”
“Mother! I never expected-“
“I know you did not. That is one of the nice things about you, dear.” Mother smiled, patting his knee. But the smile faded. “I knew when my little Henrietta came along, so late in life, that I would need to consider ways and means. George was but thirteen then, as you know, but he was already showing signs that he was…”
“Not quite the thing?” Weatherby supplied, rather caustically.
“Sadly unsteady,” Mother corrected. “But there was nothing I could do. You know the laws. And your father assured me he would grow out of it, that he was just the same as a young man.”
“Father?” exclaimed Weatherby, for his memories of his strict, rather severe father quite precluded the idea of a profligate youth. Weatherby’s respect for the man had bordered on terror at times - most particularly when summoned to the library for a private interview after some instance of boyish transgression - and he had modeled his behavior accordingly from his earliest days. Not so George, who had come out of these same sorts of interviews seemingly set on even more outrageous behavior. Weatherby had at first admired him for this, then, as the years passed, thought him foolish. But after one such interview, George had said, “I’ll tell you what it is, brother, the old man may beat me, but he won’t win.”
And he’d been right. Their sister had been three years of age when Father had passed on, leaving Mother a widow, and George the head of the family.
“They are-were-very much alike,” Mother said, shaking her head, “save that George seems determined to ignore his obligations. I would be quite in despair if it were not for the fact that you and Henrietta will inherit that money I have put aside.”
Weatherby picked up his mother’s hand and placed a kiss upon it. “Not for many years, I trust,” he told her. Too good. Too generous.
*
She died not a year later, on a cold day in February.
The three siblings stood at the graveside together. George’s face was hard, unreadable, and their poor little sister clung, white-faced, to Weatherby’s hand. When it was over, and they were walking back to the house, George said, “I’m off to the continent, brother.” His voice was hard and unreadable, too, and he stopped in his tracks and stared at the house, black crepe festooning the windows and the knocker on the door. He turned to his siblings. “No, can’t bear it. I’ll stay at the King’s Arms tonight.”
“George!” exclaimed Weatherby, intending to remonstrate with him, but George cut him off.
“She was the heart of it, and she’s gone,” he said, simply. “Take care of things for me, will you? My man of business will arrange an allowance for you, and I know you’ve the money she left.” He bent and took up his little sister’s hand, and kissed it. “I’ll be back one day, chick.” He touched her cheek with a careless finger, turned and was off, striding across the brown grass toward the stable.
Weatherby thought his sister would have run after him, for he knew she loved George more than his staid self. But she did not. She watched for a few moments, then her head drooped, she bit her lip, and tightened her hold on Weatherby’s hand.
Poor, poor darling.
He took a deep breath, and said to her, “Well, Harry, my dear. Let’s go in, shall we? There will be a fire to warm you, and I daresay cook will have tea and cakes waiting.”
~.~
stealmybike asked for some stories about the mothers of the PotC characters, and I offered to do Governor Weatherby Swann. This is a little over 900 words, and I owe hereswith extra thanks for fitting the beta read and edit into her busy schedule.
~ Beloved~
Weatherby was a middle child, but he had never felt this put him at a particular disadvantage. If he was not as handsome and rakish as George, neither had he constantly been pressed to set aside heedless ways, learn the running of the estate, marry well, and produce an heir with all possible speed. If he was not as indulged as little Henrietta, neither was it his eventual destiny to be imprisoned in corset and skirts and sold in marriage to the highest bidder. His parents were not cruel in expecting such things of their oldest and youngest. It was merely the way of the world. Yet he had been glad to be able to avoid such obligations.
But his life had not been entirely without trials, and one of the greatest was caring too much.
"You worry about them," his mother told him, reaching up to touch his cheek.
"How can I help it? Since Father passed, George has grown wilder and more dissolute by the day. He wastes his substance, ignores the estate. His very health is at risk! I wish you will speak to him. He has no respect for my words at all, but perhaps you can make him see reason."
"How far we have come from the days when we had only small concerns,” said Mother sadly. “My dear, I do not flatter myself George would listen to me. He is determined to follow his own path, for good or ill. But I must tell you, I have managed to set aside what might be accounted a small fortune, enough to allow you and Henrietta to live in reasonable comfort for many years, and to dower her when the time comes. And your uncle has offered to sponsor you into government circles, now you have come down from Oxford.”
“Mother! I never expected-“
“I know you did not. That is one of the nice things about you, dear.” Mother smiled, patting his knee. But the smile faded. “I knew when my little Henrietta came along, so late in life, that I would need to consider ways and means. George was but thirteen then, as you know, but he was already showing signs that he was…”
“Not quite the thing?” Weatherby supplied, rather caustically.
“Sadly unsteady,” Mother corrected. “But there was nothing I could do. You know the laws. And your father assured me he would grow out of it, that he was just the same as a young man.”
“Father?” exclaimed Weatherby, for his memories of his strict, rather severe father quite precluded the idea of a profligate youth. Weatherby’s respect for the man had bordered on terror at times - most particularly when summoned to the library for a private interview after some instance of boyish transgression - and he had modeled his behavior accordingly from his earliest days. Not so George, who had come out of these same sorts of interviews seemingly set on even more outrageous behavior. Weatherby had at first admired him for this, then, as the years passed, thought him foolish. But after one such interview, George had said, “I’ll tell you what it is, brother, the old man may beat me, but he won’t win.”
And he’d been right. Their sister had been three years of age when Father had passed on, leaving Mother a widow, and George the head of the family.
“They are-were-very much alike,” Mother said, shaking her head, “save that George seems determined to ignore his obligations. I would be quite in despair if it were not for the fact that you and Henrietta will inherit that money I have put aside.”
Weatherby picked up his mother’s hand and placed a kiss upon it. “Not for many years, I trust,” he told her. Too good. Too generous.
*
She died not a year later, on a cold day in February.
The three siblings stood at the graveside together. George’s face was hard, unreadable, and their poor little sister clung, white-faced, to Weatherby’s hand. When it was over, and they were walking back to the house, George said, “I’m off to the continent, brother.” His voice was hard and unreadable, too, and he stopped in his tracks and stared at the house, black crepe festooning the windows and the knocker on the door. He turned to his siblings. “No, can’t bear it. I’ll stay at the King’s Arms tonight.”
“George!” exclaimed Weatherby, intending to remonstrate with him, but George cut him off.
“She was the heart of it, and she’s gone,” he said, simply. “Take care of things for me, will you? My man of business will arrange an allowance for you, and I know you’ve the money she left.” He bent and took up his little sister’s hand, and kissed it. “I’ll be back one day, chick.” He touched her cheek with a careless finger, turned and was off, striding across the brown grass toward the stable.
Weatherby thought his sister would have run after him, for he knew she loved George more than his staid self. But she did not. She watched for a few moments, then her head drooped, she bit her lip, and tightened her hold on Weatherby’s hand.
Poor, poor darling.
He took a deep breath, and said to her, “Well, Harry, my dear. Let’s go in, shall we? There will be a fire to warm you, and I daresay cook will have tea and cakes waiting.”
~.~