- The Widow -
May. 27th, 2010 06:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notasuggestionHelga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
750 words
One emotion welled in Helga Sinclair as her female in-laws bustled about, cleaning her house and preparing a meal for her: relief.
Her husband was dead. Dead and buried in a cold cemetery plot, never to trouble her again. He had been a decent man, true. He seldom raised his voice, had raised his hand only once. He’d smoked moderately and refused to touch alcohol. His wife had wanted for nothing material—his family’s money and Army pay had kept her more than comfortable. Everyone spoke of how he doted on the young woman and how he’d acclimate her to high society. None of the men or women who had spent the day flocked around here whispering condolences and forcing unwanted embraces on her would have understood if the widow had tried to explain that she’d been unhappy. They were all content in their gilded cages, and Helga knew no one comfortable in confinement could understand the longing—the burning need—for freedom.
Still, she supposed, if they understood, they might realize how fortuitous her husband’s death was. Then they might ask questions. Better they should wallow in their ignorance.
In six months, she’d move. They would see her stay as brave, forgive her when the memories in this house became too much to bear. In another year, she would accept an offer from an old friend of her father’s to see some great sight he was traveling to. Some might talk, but they’ve have little to accuse her of then.
“Helga, dear.” Louisa Jenkins broke her daughter-in-law’s thoughts.
“Yes?” Helga saw the pity in her eyes. The woman took her distracted tone for one of mourning. Her sympathy and eagerness to console was written on her face. She’d lost her son, but she put his wife first. Not that Helga didn’t know why. All of Christopher’s family believed she was with child. None of them knew how careful she was to avoid such a thing—even her husband hadn’t known.
“Someone’s here to see you,” Louisa murmured. She offered Helga an apologetic smile. “I know you said you didn’t want to see anyone else, but your father said you might reconsider.”
The Sinclair family had always treated grief as a very private issue, so Helga had faced little resistance from either of her parents when she’d wished to retire to the little parlor alone after the wake. If her father thought she’d want to see this guest, she’d trust him. Without a word, she nodded, and Louisa quietly withdrew.
She returned a few moments later. A middle-aged gentleman in full Army regalia followed. He towered above the matron and was twice as broad in the shoulders and chest as most men. He offered the seated widow a sad smile as he approached. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Thank you, Captain Rourke,” Helga replied. She tried to smile but couldn’t. “I don’t know what I’ll do without my Christopher.”
The older man took her hands in his in a paternal gesture, and Christopher’s mother left the parlor quietly. She shut the door behind her to offer Helga some privacy to share her grief with the man Major Sinclair always spoke to highly of.
Captain Rourke looked at the closed door. He waited, but it didn’t reopen. Satisfied, he turned back to Helga, seized her chin, and kissed her deeply. The widow responded by lacing her fingers through his hair and pressing herself to his chest. He teased her lips with his tongue, and she scraped his with her teeth. One thick arm locked around her waist as he abandoned her mouth. His lips traced a path down her neck.
“How long are they staying?” He pressed his hand against her back, forcing her even closer.
She ran the tips of her fingernails across his cheek. “Until Sunday.” Rourke’s annoyed snort made Helga smirk. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Anything you want,” she whispered in his ear.
“I should go.” She knew he was disappointed, unsatisfied. She heard it in his voice. But the promise she made him lit his smirk. “I’ll tell your father that his little girl is utterly heartbroken but will survive.”
“Do try and sound convincing.”
“Am I ever not?” Rourke replied. After one more hard kiss, he showed himself out. Helga let herself smirk as she imagined Sunday. No more hidden letters or too-brief meetings. No more suspicious glances or prying questions.
Only freedom. Relief.
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
750 words
One emotion welled in Helga Sinclair as her female in-laws bustled about, cleaning her house and preparing a meal for her: relief.
Her husband was dead. Dead and buried in a cold cemetery plot, never to trouble her again. He had been a decent man, true. He seldom raised his voice, had raised his hand only once. He’d smoked moderately and refused to touch alcohol. His wife had wanted for nothing material—his family’s money and Army pay had kept her more than comfortable. Everyone spoke of how he doted on the young woman and how he’d acclimate her to high society. None of the men or women who had spent the day flocked around here whispering condolences and forcing unwanted embraces on her would have understood if the widow had tried to explain that she’d been unhappy. They were all content in their gilded cages, and Helga knew no one comfortable in confinement could understand the longing—the burning need—for freedom.
Still, she supposed, if they understood, they might realize how fortuitous her husband’s death was. Then they might ask questions. Better they should wallow in their ignorance.
In six months, she’d move. They would see her stay as brave, forgive her when the memories in this house became too much to bear. In another year, she would accept an offer from an old friend of her father’s to see some great sight he was traveling to. Some might talk, but they’ve have little to accuse her of then.
“Helga, dear.” Louisa Jenkins broke her daughter-in-law’s thoughts.
“Yes?” Helga saw the pity in her eyes. The woman took her distracted tone for one of mourning. Her sympathy and eagerness to console was written on her face. She’d lost her son, but she put his wife first. Not that Helga didn’t know why. All of Christopher’s family believed she was with child. None of them knew how careful she was to avoid such a thing—even her husband hadn’t known.
“Someone’s here to see you,” Louisa murmured. She offered Helga an apologetic smile. “I know you said you didn’t want to see anyone else, but your father said you might reconsider.”
The Sinclair family had always treated grief as a very private issue, so Helga had faced little resistance from either of her parents when she’d wished to retire to the little parlor alone after the wake. If her father thought she’d want to see this guest, she’d trust him. Without a word, she nodded, and Louisa quietly withdrew.
She returned a few moments later. A middle-aged gentleman in full Army regalia followed. He towered above the matron and was twice as broad in the shoulders and chest as most men. He offered the seated widow a sad smile as he approached. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Thank you, Captain Rourke,” Helga replied. She tried to smile but couldn’t. “I don’t know what I’ll do without my Christopher.”
The older man took her hands in his in a paternal gesture, and Christopher’s mother left the parlor quietly. She shut the door behind her to offer Helga some privacy to share her grief with the man Major Sinclair always spoke to highly of.
Captain Rourke looked at the closed door. He waited, but it didn’t reopen. Satisfied, he turned back to Helga, seized her chin, and kissed her deeply. The widow responded by lacing her fingers through his hair and pressing herself to his chest. He teased her lips with his tongue, and she scraped his with her teeth. One thick arm locked around her waist as he abandoned her mouth. His lips traced a path down her neck.
“How long are they staying?” He pressed his hand against her back, forcing her even closer.
She ran the tips of her fingernails across his cheek. “Until Sunday.” Rourke’s annoyed snort made Helga smirk. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Anything you want,” she whispered in his ear.
“I should go.” She knew he was disappointed, unsatisfied. She heard it in his voice. But the promise she made him lit his smirk. “I’ll tell your father that his little girl is utterly heartbroken but will survive.”
“Do try and sound convincing.”
“Am I ever not?” Rourke replied. After one more hard kiss, he showed himself out. Helga let herself smirk as she imagined Sunday. No more hidden letters or too-brief meetings. No more suspicious glances or prying questions.
Only freedom. Relief.
