flavour of the day, rhubarb and butter pecan with butterscotch
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: The Prison Gown
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: abscond, Rhubarb ‘My Treat’ #7: easier said than done (the first social event Isobel attended after her marriage to James Ashdown), Butter Pecan #27: stinging
Toppings/Extras: butterscotch
Wordcount: 637
Summary: Isobel Ashdown shortly after her marriage.
Notes: Ah, more of the screwed-up Ashdown parentage. I guess I should warn for something akin to a breakdown. Abscond: To depart secretly; to steal away and hide oneself.
The dusky garden seemed aglow with only the faintest of colours; the sun had disappeared yet a faint light remained in the sky, greyish and tainted with violet. The clouds were moving quickly and the hedgerows, rosebushes, vines and flowerheads bobbed and whipped in the high winds.
Bony fingers wrapped tightly around the metal banister, Isobel Ashdown gazed over the garden, ignoring the stinging cold biting at her pale skin. The make-up on her face was easy to discern as contrived and joyless; there was no beauty there, no feeling. Her moon-pale hair fell in limp strands, most of it tucked up under her lacy biggins coif with a mint-coloured triangular cap of silk pinned atop it. A feather attached to the cap wavered in the wind.
Her gown matched the cap; spooling around her ankles in a wide hoop, dragging across the stone of the patio, green satin scooped aside at her front to show an inverted ‘V’ of cream-coloured tulle fluttering in lacy layers. The partlet she was wearing, gathering into a tight ruff around her neck and covering the topmost portion of her corset, matched these layers and her sleeves and corset were embroidered with a dainty floral pattern.
Isobel wasn’t the type to dress up much, but just recently she had done so twice in a row: once for her miserable wedding day, and a second time for this post-marital celebration.
She took a deep breath which somehow forced itself into a hiccupping sob upon its exit.
The garden in front of her was a dying ember, releasing its final radiances before the sun set fully, the colour of the flora shadowy and exquisite in the run-up to nightfall. It looked like it would rain soon. Isobel hoped that it would. Bracing herself for the break of etiquette-for the straying from restrictions that had held her in place for all of her life-she stepped from the patio and onto the damp grass. The moisture soaked through her dainty silk slippers instantly. It was a nice feeling.
Though she had no conception of where she was going, she trod with purpose further into the garden. The place was supposed to be her home now but she refused to think of it as such. Her uncle, Lord Bedford, had taken her true home away from her and this was a hollow manor house belonging to the name Ashdown, nothing more.
Darkness built like liquid puddles, slithering over the earth, gaining ground with every enduring moment. Her dress brushed against flowers, sending up clouds of pollen, landing on the delicate silk and blighting it with fierce oranges and reds. Mud slid underheel and cuckoo spit brushed onto her gown.
The further she wandered, the better she felt, but she wasn’t quite ready yet. She tore the sleeves from her gown, which tied to the corset, and left them-crumpled worms of velvet that died upon the grass. She pulled at her ruff with sharp fingernails, felt seams pop and burst against the back of her neck, satisfaction blossoming in her abdomen as the dress broke. That went into a hedge. So did her hat, feather bristling wildly. Her hair tumbled and tousled in the wind, her dress tugging her this way and that, far too heavy for her liking.
Off came the manacles of pearls around both of her rail-thin wrists; the tent of fabric that made up the outside of her kirtle-skirt; the glittering green slips of her shoes; the creamy lace of her gloves. The abandoned material billowed in the high winds, flopping like dying creatures across the garden, tangling and twisting around the talons of the trees.
In a chemise, a corset, a tattered half-gown, a pair of stockings and a wedding ring, Isobel Ashdown fell against a tree and cried.
Title: The Prison Gown
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: abscond, Rhubarb ‘My Treat’ #7: easier said than done (the first social event Isobel attended after her marriage to James Ashdown), Butter Pecan #27: stinging
Toppings/Extras: butterscotch
Wordcount: 637
Summary: Isobel Ashdown shortly after her marriage.
Notes: Ah, more of the screwed-up Ashdown parentage. I guess I should warn for something akin to a breakdown. Abscond: To depart secretly; to steal away and hide oneself.
The dusky garden seemed aglow with only the faintest of colours; the sun had disappeared yet a faint light remained in the sky, greyish and tainted with violet. The clouds were moving quickly and the hedgerows, rosebushes, vines and flowerheads bobbed and whipped in the high winds.
Bony fingers wrapped tightly around the metal banister, Isobel Ashdown gazed over the garden, ignoring the stinging cold biting at her pale skin. The make-up on her face was easy to discern as contrived and joyless; there was no beauty there, no feeling. Her moon-pale hair fell in limp strands, most of it tucked up under her lacy biggins coif with a mint-coloured triangular cap of silk pinned atop it. A feather attached to the cap wavered in the wind.
Her gown matched the cap; spooling around her ankles in a wide hoop, dragging across the stone of the patio, green satin scooped aside at her front to show an inverted ‘V’ of cream-coloured tulle fluttering in lacy layers. The partlet she was wearing, gathering into a tight ruff around her neck and covering the topmost portion of her corset, matched these layers and her sleeves and corset were embroidered with a dainty floral pattern.
Isobel wasn’t the type to dress up much, but just recently she had done so twice in a row: once for her miserable wedding day, and a second time for this post-marital celebration.
She took a deep breath which somehow forced itself into a hiccupping sob upon its exit.
The garden in front of her was a dying ember, releasing its final radiances before the sun set fully, the colour of the flora shadowy and exquisite in the run-up to nightfall. It looked like it would rain soon. Isobel hoped that it would. Bracing herself for the break of etiquette-for the straying from restrictions that had held her in place for all of her life-she stepped from the patio and onto the damp grass. The moisture soaked through her dainty silk slippers instantly. It was a nice feeling.
Though she had no conception of where she was going, she trod with purpose further into the garden. The place was supposed to be her home now but she refused to think of it as such. Her uncle, Lord Bedford, had taken her true home away from her and this was a hollow manor house belonging to the name Ashdown, nothing more.
Darkness built like liquid puddles, slithering over the earth, gaining ground with every enduring moment. Her dress brushed against flowers, sending up clouds of pollen, landing on the delicate silk and blighting it with fierce oranges and reds. Mud slid underheel and cuckoo spit brushed onto her gown.
The further she wandered, the better she felt, but she wasn’t quite ready yet. She tore the sleeves from her gown, which tied to the corset, and left them-crumpled worms of velvet that died upon the grass. She pulled at her ruff with sharp fingernails, felt seams pop and burst against the back of her neck, satisfaction blossoming in her abdomen as the dress broke. That went into a hedge. So did her hat, feather bristling wildly. Her hair tumbled and tousled in the wind, her dress tugging her this way and that, far too heavy for her liking.
Off came the manacles of pearls around both of her rail-thin wrists; the tent of fabric that made up the outside of her kirtle-skirt; the glittering green slips of her shoes; the creamy lace of her gloves. The abandoned material billowed in the high winds, flopping like dying creatures across the garden, tangling and twisting around the talons of the trees.
In a chemise, a corset, a tattered half-gown, a pair of stockings and a wedding ring, Isobel Ashdown fell against a tree and cried.