. . . ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐. ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐.
Goodness, MISS DELILAH ROYSTON ย has arrived in London. SHE is TWENTY NINE, of the DORSETSHIRE ROYSTONS. Though they are RETURNED to the Season, we can only describe them as WITTY and WARM, dear reader. Accompanied by HER COUSIN AND HIS FAMILY, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their FEROCITY. (ย Meggie, 28, She/Her, PSTย )
In the heart of London, there is a grand old house with gabled roofs and dead ivy crawling over the bricks. At the top of the house, in the attic, is a little suite of a room, with an oversized bed and an undersized wardrobe, a small desk crammed under the single window, a little wood burning stove, and a bowl of water on a vanity. The rose petals in the water are too soft, too close to rotting, and the bed is covered in a variety of dresses and gloves and scarves. At the desk, a woman sits, with papers scattered around her and a quill pen in her hand. Her golden hair is in disarray, haphazardly tied back from her face in a messy braid with an overlarge velvet ribbon at the end, tied into a bow with the tails trailing halfway down her backside. Her free hand is pressed to her forehead, leaving a small inkstain on the skin of her hairline, and she is writing with a ferocity that nearly snaps her pen in two.ย
Dearest mother,ย
You will be pleased to know that I have been in London for the better part of ten years now and have still not managed to secure a husband. You will no doubt receive this news with a hearty and jubilant crow of achievement, and then likely dance like a madwoman about the house in glee. I can only hope that you are uncareful with your steps and step on an errant coal from the fire.ย
She stops writing, stares at the page, and then begins to scratch it all out with her quill, the sharp nib of her pen tearing the paper to ribbons. The woman shoves it to the side, retrieves a new page, takes a deep breath, and then begins again.ย
Mother,ย
I am writing to you with the intent of providing you with information about my latest โโ and likely last โโ Season. Though, in truth, one can hardly call it that without being named a liar. As my days are so busy taking care of Adam, Emma, and baby Joan, I fear I have no time to attend to social calls, promenades in the park, or tea time at the local shops, and so this year, like every year, I must attempt to sneak my way into evening events, or else beg my dear cousins for a day to myself. I am sure this is what you hoped for when you sent me to live with Charles and Dorothea โโ you have always been shockingly adept at deducing the proper punishment for any crime, and this half-life I have been condemned to lead is the most fitting punishment I can think for always wanting to be somewhere else as a child, always wanting to beย
With a barely contained close lipped scream of rage and frustration, she crumples the paper up into a ball and throws it savagely across the room. The woman presses the backs of her thumbs against her eyes, her elbows braced on the table as she fights the urge to scream, to weep, to hit something. It takes her a bit longer to compose herself this time, but she does it, and grabs a third piece of paper.ย
I am drowning here in London. I am so angry and so lonely and so empty some days that it feels like my skin is a house and my soul is the ghost inside, haunting it. I do not know if you poured all of this rage and grief into my throat or if it is merely something that happens to a woman when she grows, like her monthly courses. I donโt know if I inherited it when you named me Delilah like it was a brand, like my girlhood was something to be ashamed of, like I was wrong because I was born with Eveโs sin on me. But I donโt want it anymore. I donโt want it. I donโt have anywhere to put it down and itโs suffocating me. I am drowning, mother; the water is up to my neck now and I fear the next rainfall will be the one that finally floods over my head and I will be gone forever. I want to come home, but I donโt want to go back to the house you raised me in. I donโt want to live here under the thumb of other people, but I donโt want to be further haunted by the ghost of my long dead father and the ghost of my still alive mother in addition to my own ghost inside my skin. I want to go home to the fields, to the trees, to something drenched in sunlight and without schedules and people to answer to. I want to be a girl again. I want to run barefoot and to fall and skin my knee and get back up and laugh at the blood.ย
She stops again, staring at the paper, knowing that this is the truest version of the letter that she has written so far, and knowing just as well that she cannot send it. The woman sits there for a long moment, staring at the words, and then sighs, and tenderly, lovingly, folds up the letter, stands up, and feeds it into the flames of her little wood stove.ย
Her fingertips are steady and ink stained as she grabs the fourth piece of paper.ย
Dearest mother,ย
Summer in London is lovely, and not nearly half as dreadful as you might believe it to be. Adam and Emma are progressing well in their studies; Emma is particularly adept at reading for a girl her age, and Adam can do most sums in his head faster than I can. I fear that soon I may have nothing left to teach him, but still, he loves to read with me, and struggles with some of the longer words, so perhaps he still needs me yet. Baby Joan has learned to sit up all on her own, and has the sweetest little dimple when she smiles. Unfortunately, I have no other news to report. Dorothea has been ill the last month, and I wonder if she is with child again, but as she has not yet made an announcement, I cannot tell you for sure. Charles is quite busy, and we only really converse for monthly reports on the childrenโs progress. I am enclosing five pounds from my personal wages to ensure that you have enough funds to take care of yourself. Please do not hide it somewhere in the house, lest you forget that it exists the next time there is a calamity.ย
Your devoted daughter,ย
Delilah
With that done, the woman stands, her spine stiff and her jaw set, and she seals up the note with a few small drawings from Adam and Emma, along with the five pound note that was promised. She addresses the envelope to a Mrs. Royston in Dorsetshire, tucks the envelope into her pocket, and leaves the room, locking the door behind her.ย ย















