#fhalliday

I. Louisa and Francis were good friends in their childhood. 

What happened? Louisa doesn’t know, nor does she care to dwell on it. After Louisa returned from Kent as the picture of a lady, Francis seemed to be less inclined to spend time with her-- had he actually liked her former tomboyish self? Louisa won’t let herself dwell on it, but she has a suspicion that keeps cropping up at the worst of times.

II. Louisa and Francis used to make plans to run away together.

Childhood fantasies, yes, but Louisa and Francis both held the same zest for life, the uncontrollable urge to see all that they could. They would sit together, brown heads bent close as their traced their fingers over maps in places they wanted to see. Now, on Louisa’s parts, these fantasies are forgotten-- or, rather, have been replaced by the fantasies of marrying a rich husband who might spirit her off to the young United States. 

III. Louisa often fancies she’d get along better with a brother, and wishes Francis were a member of her immediate family. 

Oftentimes the atmosphere of an all-female household (aside from poor Mr. Hastings, but does he really count?) is far too cloistering for Louisa-- too much competition to ever feel secure in one’s own skin. For that reason Louisa wishes Francis were of her own family-- he brings a lightness with him, an ease, that Louisa craves. However, she knows well that Francis is closer to Camilla than she, and resents him a little for it. 

Helen had been a little out of sorts for weeks now, and she feared people were beginning to notice. Her cousins knew her well enough that they would likely be able to identify her sour mood at a hundred paces, so she had avoided them, her father hadn’t bothered her about making social calls once in the last week, and even the parson had commented on her sallow complexion yesterday at dinner. All this grief was largely borne over Francis’s big notion of joining the Navy.

Not that she would blame her brother for her unhappiness, not directly. She had told him before, and meant it truly, that he could never cause her grief. His absence was another matter altogether, though, and she didn’t like thinking about it. He had at least agreed to stay a little longer. That was time for her to change his mind.

Today, the house was quiet. Helen lay out on her bed, fully dressed for the day but still idle, listening for sounds of life downstairs, but there were few. Her father was dining at an estate two towns over and would not be back until the following day; Jonathan was in London on business; the parson came and went as he pleased with Helen never asking after his whereabouts. Francis should be in the house, unless he had left without telling her. She didn’t think he would, but things had been altered between them lately.

Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Helen sat up and observed herself in the mirror. She did look a little sallow, and her hair needed fixing, but she was presentable enough for her own household. She stood and smoothed her skirts, heading downstairs. Once there, she stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on her hips.