#dowager

Draws on apace; four happy days bring in

Another moon: but, O, methinks, how slow

This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,

Like to a step-dame or a dowager

Long withering out a young man's revenue.

Noto, Sicily - April 2022

Hello! I hope y’all liked my last fic because I enjoyed writing it! I’m writing another short fic because I feel like writing this week so here’s a little look into how and why the Dowager killed her son and tried to kill her grandson. Enjoy and as usual, please comment or send ideas :)

As the afternoon sun shone through the windows, the Dowager took a seat at her desk. She really did enjoy basking in the sunlight, but today was different. She had much to get through and since nobody was around at the moment, she thought it was the best opportunity to send Linthorn a letter. Linthorn. She really did wish she didn’t need him again, but duty called and he was the only person who was ruthless enough to do what others wouldn’t do for her. Additionally, he shared the same political views as she did, making their connection much more practical. She couldn’t believe how many progressives there were, regardless of class or occupation and it was especially frustrating that her own family was headed in that direction. That concerned her greatly. What would happen to society? The nobility? Their lands and estate? Those questions plagued her every waking hour.

As she stared at the far wall thinking of what she wanted to write, the Dowager thought of all the events that transpired over the past couple months. The Reform Bill. That damned bill. She grimaced, thinking of what would happen if the common people could vote. What did they know about politics or anything at all for that matter? Worst of all, why would her family support such things? For centuries, the marquesses of Basilwether proudly performed their duties as members of the nobility by engaging at court or in Parliament and grew extremely wealthy over the generations. In fact, they were one of the wealthiest noble families in the nation. She was very proud of her lineage, and vowed to protect it at all costs. Little did she know she would have to protect it from members of her own family. She sighed, turning her head towards a medium sized portrait on the far left. A beautiful woman in a flowing evening dress and a young boy of about 10 years old stared back at her. Harold. Her eldest son and quite possibly the stupidest. From a young age he always was disturbed by the ills of society, having learned about them through novels and occasional trips to London. Most of his teen and adult life was dedicated to pushing change and the Dowager tolerated it until recently. His support of the Reform Bill was her final straw with him and she couldn’t just sit and watch Basilwether crumble to pieces because of his feelings towards others’ wellbeing.

In all honesty, she felt guilty. Not for killing him, but for not regretting it. If England was preserved, it could do without him and his vote. The rest of the family was truly devastated and she played the game, even by wearing mourning clothes for a longer period for heaven's sake! However, she knew the mourning clothes would have to stay on because she needed to accomplish her next goal, one possibly more sinister than the last: kill her grandson. Once that was accomplished, the estate and seat would go to Whimbrel. She didn’t entirely trust him, as he had some sympathies for progression and his experience in the military gave him a different outlook, but she knew she could rely on him to at least vote against the bill. Now, onto her grandson. William Tewksbury. She loved him. He was such a sweet child, always caring about the well being of others and always taking time out of his day to do something kind. He was also very quiet and shy, much in contrast to his loud and boisterous father and uncle. She loved him and raising him was truly a privilege no other parent or grandparent had. Now he is almost a man, having turned 16 in the past year and already looking so much like his father. And thinking like him apparently.

Turning back towards the paper after pondering for a long time, the Dowager picked up her pen and began to write:

Dear Linthorn,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would like to thank you for your service to me, my family, and most importantly, England. I was hoping that we would part ways, but another urgent issue has arised. My grandson is a progressive. Not just a progressive, but he has made it clear that he wishes to vote for the Reform Bill as well. Now, I don’t want you to be mistaken. I will not ask you to kill every lord that votes for the bill, but I ask you to kill my grandson like you did his father. Not for me, but for England. I will ensure that you are paid very generously, more so than last time, but I hope you agree to my terms. If you ultimately decide to help me again, please send a letter and we shall arrange plans. In the meantime, I will wait and think as I do not want my family suspecting anything regarding foul play.

Sincerely,

Dowager Catherine Tewksbury of Basilwether

There. She did it. After carefully folding the paper and sealing it in an envelope, the Dowager signalled for a servant to take it away and mail it. As the envelope left her hands, she felt a huge weight being lifted off her frail shoulders. Before she could leave the study, she heard laughter outside the window. She made her way slowly to see what was happening and there he was, glowing in the afternoon sun as he walked with his mother. She smiled sadly, thinking of all the wonderful moments they spent together as grandmother and grandson. She truly loved him and never in her life thought that one day she would end his life but as monstrous as it seemed, she would do so with no hesitation to preserve the system which she vowed to protect.

As the teen and his mother disappeared into the gardens, she placed her fingers on the window and took a deep breath.