- On the Spot -
Sep. 12th, 2010 03:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notasuggestionHelga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
1270 words
An evening dancing with Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins ends in a surprise for Helga.
Women in dresses all colors the rainbow danced with men in dark blue. Their long, full skirts rustled with every step and spin, and quiet waves of giggles rippled across the floor as their dutiful partners whispered flatteries into their waiting ears.
Despite the differences in dress make, fabric color, hair color, and hair style, one onlooker felt they all looked the same. The men, though dressed alike, were unique. Their statures spoke to rank, and each face bared its story, even as some tried desperately to hide it. Married men danced with their wives or daughters. Other of their kind led unsuspecting girls about, cooing over their beauty and testing their supposed virtue. Single men danced with their sweethearts or the wallflowers who, homely as they were, manners dictated they not ignore. All about them, women flitted—birds desperate to have their untried wings clipped and build a nest in a gilded cage. For all their attempts to look superior to every other member of their sex present, they were nothing more than a large, uniform flock.
Their harsh critic was one of their own, a woman of twenty-two. For all her disapproval of them, every woman at the social, held on an Army base for troop morale, could agree on at least one thing. They all wanted Helga Sinclair anywhere but there.
She condemned them, and they found every fault with her. She wore her hair loose, long, and straight, forgoing the short, curled style considered fashionable. Her dress was long, but it was sleek. The slit in it to allow proper movement revealed no chemise or slip, and she wore no stockings. Her arms were bare, and the neckline plunged. A brilliant ruby necklace only drew more attention to her chest. Many women were convinced also that she wore no corset under her immodest apparel.
Still, for all the impropriety of her fashion, Helga wasn’t shunned by men. She seemed at home amongst the soldiers, gaily exchanging stories of an expedition to Egypt she’d accompanied Lyle Rourke on for their stories of combat. If she was seen on the base at late hours, she was never without an escort. For the first month, it had been her father. With the start of the second, though, she’d been seen increasingly often in the company of Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins.
No one could say with any certainty what Christopher saw in Helga. Physically, they could understand. Long blond hair, sharp green eyes, pale skin. She was pretty enough. However, everyone whispered about her time at Fort Dix. A woman who had undergone and passed Army training was, to say the least, talked about. Gossips loved to speculate on how she had gotten in and then convinced those in charge to claim she passed. Popular opinion had tried her without ever letting her speak in her own defense and pronounced her guilty of gross indecencies. That she shunned the company of women and surrounded herself with men did not go unnoticed. Her presence in the gym was well documented, as were her boxing and combat spars with the soldiers. Her knife throwing and marksmanship abilities were almost legendary, and reputable men would swear to both.
For all his talk, the young lieutenant had led a considerably quiet life. Born to an Army father and raised on military bases, Christopher’s career had long been decided. He’d enlisted at eighteen. He spoke of war stories and scars, tales collected from his father and fellow soldiers, but he had never personally seen combat. Related sagas of drink and women were more dime-novel issue than reality. He was known as a devout Episcopalian, and no one found fault with his grasp of etiquette. The size of the Jenkins’ estate and his status as the sole male heir made him, prone to exaggeration though he was, a very eligible bachelor.
“Two bullets to the chest?” Helga leaned in, slipping her question into the conversation when her companion paused. He’d been regaling her with a story of heroics, in which he had saved his captain’s life while still a private.
He smiled at her. “The doctor said it was a miracle I wasn’t killed.” As long as she didn’t ask around and find out that the real hero was presently waltzing with his wife, all would be well.
The woman eyed his uniformed chest and offered a mischievous smile. “I’ve love to see those scars.”
“Someday,” Christopher laughed. He let the silence settle for a moment. After gathering his courage, the man stood and offered her his hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Sinclair?”
Helga smiled, extended her hand to settle it in his, and said, “Lieutenant Jenkins, I thought you’d never ask.”
Christopher led her to the dance floor as a gentle waltz began. He held her with all due propriety, his hands not even an inch off mark. They moved together, but his head nodded the beat. His forced count barred the natural fluidity with which Helga danced in the arms of other partners. She offered no complaint; she merely adjusted to his pace and held it.
Men and women alike watched the pair from the corners of their eyes. Gently held and guided, every one of them noted, the strange woman seemed almost ladylike. They all considered the same thought: with long and careful polishing from a firm hand, perhaps she could have a place in proper society after all.
AS the song tapered off, Helga curtsied a faint bit to Christopher’s bow. He took her hand before she could walk away.
“Just a moment,” he murmured.
“What is it?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Sinclair.”
“Christopher, let’s sit—”
“Let me finish, please.” Both were aware of every eye on them. He closed both his hands over hers. “You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met.” The lieutenant drew himself up. “I cannot bear the thought of ever living without you.”
Realization dawned on Helga, and she stared at the man in front of her. “Christopher.”
“I went to your father a week age and got his permission,” he said. “We haven’t known each other long, but I know I need you. I want nothing more than to come home to your smile. I love you with all my heart.”
“Christopher,” Helga whispered, her voice almost urgent. She glanced around but avoided meeting the gaze of anyone staring.
The lieutenant ignored her, grasping her hand tighter as he knelt in the center of the room. “Helga Sinclair, will you marry me?”
She stared at him. Her breath caught in her throat, and words eluded her. She stood very still; her pulse raced. Every soldier and woman watched her. For all her failure to conform, Helga felt the weight of society pressing against her. She tried to think.
Men enjoyed her company, but none had courted her. Had they? No. Some had sought her for their beds, but she’d laughed at them. Even Captain Rourke had no interest in marrying her. They worked together, shared a passion for exploration and money. He knew everything about her and, yes, had taken her more than once, but marriage had never been part of the arrangement. She’d accepted that quickly. Yet women were to marry. Christopher was a good match. He was in the Army, understood how unlike other women she was. He was a valiant soldier, tested and scarred in battle. His family was wealthy.
And everyone was staring.
Helga looked down at him. His eyes were wide with anticipation. Christopher grinned as she nodded and was deaf to the hesitation in her voice.
“Yes.”
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
1270 words
An evening dancing with Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins ends in a surprise for Helga.
Women in dresses all colors the rainbow danced with men in dark blue. Their long, full skirts rustled with every step and spin, and quiet waves of giggles rippled across the floor as their dutiful partners whispered flatteries into their waiting ears.
Despite the differences in dress make, fabric color, hair color, and hair style, one onlooker felt they all looked the same. The men, though dressed alike, were unique. Their statures spoke to rank, and each face bared its story, even as some tried desperately to hide it. Married men danced with their wives or daughters. Other of their kind led unsuspecting girls about, cooing over their beauty and testing their supposed virtue. Single men danced with their sweethearts or the wallflowers who, homely as they were, manners dictated they not ignore. All about them, women flitted—birds desperate to have their untried wings clipped and build a nest in a gilded cage. For all their attempts to look superior to every other member of their sex present, they were nothing more than a large, uniform flock.
Their harsh critic was one of their own, a woman of twenty-two. For all her disapproval of them, every woman at the social, held on an Army base for troop morale, could agree on at least one thing. They all wanted Helga Sinclair anywhere but there.
She condemned them, and they found every fault with her. She wore her hair loose, long, and straight, forgoing the short, curled style considered fashionable. Her dress was long, but it was sleek. The slit in it to allow proper movement revealed no chemise or slip, and she wore no stockings. Her arms were bare, and the neckline plunged. A brilliant ruby necklace only drew more attention to her chest. Many women were convinced also that she wore no corset under her immodest apparel.
Still, for all the impropriety of her fashion, Helga wasn’t shunned by men. She seemed at home amongst the soldiers, gaily exchanging stories of an expedition to Egypt she’d accompanied Lyle Rourke on for their stories of combat. If she was seen on the base at late hours, she was never without an escort. For the first month, it had been her father. With the start of the second, though, she’d been seen increasingly often in the company of Lieutenant Christopher Jenkins.
No one could say with any certainty what Christopher saw in Helga. Physically, they could understand. Long blond hair, sharp green eyes, pale skin. She was pretty enough. However, everyone whispered about her time at Fort Dix. A woman who had undergone and passed Army training was, to say the least, talked about. Gossips loved to speculate on how she had gotten in and then convinced those in charge to claim she passed. Popular opinion had tried her without ever letting her speak in her own defense and pronounced her guilty of gross indecencies. That she shunned the company of women and surrounded herself with men did not go unnoticed. Her presence in the gym was well documented, as were her boxing and combat spars with the soldiers. Her knife throwing and marksmanship abilities were almost legendary, and reputable men would swear to both.
For all his talk, the young lieutenant had led a considerably quiet life. Born to an Army father and raised on military bases, Christopher’s career had long been decided. He’d enlisted at eighteen. He spoke of war stories and scars, tales collected from his father and fellow soldiers, but he had never personally seen combat. Related sagas of drink and women were more dime-novel issue than reality. He was known as a devout Episcopalian, and no one found fault with his grasp of etiquette. The size of the Jenkins’ estate and his status as the sole male heir made him, prone to exaggeration though he was, a very eligible bachelor.
“Two bullets to the chest?” Helga leaned in, slipping her question into the conversation when her companion paused. He’d been regaling her with a story of heroics, in which he had saved his captain’s life while still a private.
He smiled at her. “The doctor said it was a miracle I wasn’t killed.” As long as she didn’t ask around and find out that the real hero was presently waltzing with his wife, all would be well.
The woman eyed his uniformed chest and offered a mischievous smile. “I’ve love to see those scars.”
“Someday,” Christopher laughed. He let the silence settle for a moment. After gathering his courage, the man stood and offered her his hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Sinclair?”
Helga smiled, extended her hand to settle it in his, and said, “Lieutenant Jenkins, I thought you’d never ask.”
Christopher led her to the dance floor as a gentle waltz began. He held her with all due propriety, his hands not even an inch off mark. They moved together, but his head nodded the beat. His forced count barred the natural fluidity with which Helga danced in the arms of other partners. She offered no complaint; she merely adjusted to his pace and held it.
Men and women alike watched the pair from the corners of their eyes. Gently held and guided, every one of them noted, the strange woman seemed almost ladylike. They all considered the same thought: with long and careful polishing from a firm hand, perhaps she could have a place in proper society after all.
AS the song tapered off, Helga curtsied a faint bit to Christopher’s bow. He took her hand before she could walk away.
“Just a moment,” he murmured.
“What is it?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Sinclair.”
“Christopher, let’s sit—”
“Let me finish, please.” Both were aware of every eye on them. He closed both his hands over hers. “You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met.” The lieutenant drew himself up. “I cannot bear the thought of ever living without you.”
Realization dawned on Helga, and she stared at the man in front of her. “Christopher.”
“I went to your father a week age and got his permission,” he said. “We haven’t known each other long, but I know I need you. I want nothing more than to come home to your smile. I love you with all my heart.”
“Christopher,” Helga whispered, her voice almost urgent. She glanced around but avoided meeting the gaze of anyone staring.
The lieutenant ignored her, grasping her hand tighter as he knelt in the center of the room. “Helga Sinclair, will you marry me?”
She stared at him. Her breath caught in her throat, and words eluded her. She stood very still; her pulse raced. Every soldier and woman watched her. For all her failure to conform, Helga felt the weight of society pressing against her. She tried to think.
Men enjoyed her company, but none had courted her. Had they? No. Some had sought her for their beds, but she’d laughed at them. Even Captain Rourke had no interest in marrying her. They worked together, shared a passion for exploration and money. He knew everything about her and, yes, had taken her more than once, but marriage had never been part of the arrangement. She’d accepted that quickly. Yet women were to marry. Christopher was a good match. He was in the Army, understood how unlike other women she was. He was a valiant soldier, tested and scarred in battle. His family was wealthy.
And everyone was staring.
Helga looked down at him. His eyes were wide with anticipation. Christopher grinned as she nodded and was deaf to the hesitation in her voice.
“Yes.”
