A River Darkly Flowing
an excerpt

Prologue

Water. Water all around her. There is no beginning and no end. No right, no wrong, no up, no down. Only water, cold and strong beyond imagining.

The currents of the river pull and tug at the heavy velvet of her skirt, made heavier yet by the water now playing with it. They tease out the pins in her hair and wrap the long strands around her neck and face. She reaches to pull it free, but her fingers tangle in it.

The water burns in her nose, in her throat. This is all so frightening, she thinks, that the water should taste like tears. But it doesn’t. It is earthy and dull, without the bright, salty tang of tears.

The river pulls her along like a girl dragging her poppet behind her, not caring that her doll bangs and bumps over the ground. She caroms off rocks, off sunken tree stumps, along the clayey soil of the riverbed itself. Small, inconsequential, she passes roughly through the murky water.

Her tumbling stops when her skirts snag on a sunken branch and the river can no longer carry her with it. Before letting her settle into the silt gathered around the branch, the river current brushes her cheek almost fondly, lingeringly. You will be safe here, it promises. We are leaving you behind, but you are still ours.

She eases into the silt on the river bottom as if into a feather bed after a long journey. It sifts and trickles over her, staying sometimes and sometimes being washed away. Small fish come and swim through the strands of hair that wave over her face. They kiss and nibble at her exposed skin, love bites almost. Freshwater crabs pinch at her, more direct than the fish.

Soon, though she was not before, she is smiling always. Her eyes are wide open, but empty. The little fish that once swam past her now swim in and out and all through her, while the crabs scuttle over and under her, feet clicking gently as they touch her. The river has long since carried away her pretty tresses and her fine clothes, but she remains beautiful. Not in a fleshy, worldly way, but the delicacy of her form is maintained; the line of her jaw and chin, the slight concavity of her temples is unchanged. She is waiting for something, perhaps, and so must be ready for it whenever it may come.

Though she no longer changes, the world around her does. It is not so much that kingdoms rise and fall while she sleeps in her watery bed, but that the river does not stay in a constant state. The same silt that trickles over her piles up in other locations and so the river changes its own course. It grows deeper in places and shallower in others, and things that have not seen the sun in generations now feel its touch. Tiny plants flourish in the long neglected soil, and creep across the bed of the river, resisting the current that tries to pull them up and wash them away. These stout green things trap yet more silt, and the water grows shallower around them.

It is in this way, of silting soil and creeping, watery vines, that the sun reaches her. The skin of water is so thin over her that it proves little impediment to the sun, mother of all green things. Is it any wonder that the marsh grasses and tender little cresses have worked toward this moment, when the sun is quite literally their guiding light?

The sun breaks easily through the water, and caresses the tender hollow of her temple much more gently than the river ever teased her. It is like an electric shock, a curious buzzing pulse of life. It washes over her in warm waves, from the crown of her head to the long, delicate bones of her feet. She has the sudden impulse to move, to be gone from the place where she has lain so long. And she finds that she can, though all logic says she cannot, should not.

As her head breaks the water, the sun dresses her in what she has lost to the river over the years. Back is her long hair, her rounded cheeks, her dimpled elbows. She no longer smiles always, mouth stretched from one side of her face to the other. Her eyes can now be shielded from the world at her discretion. She has, she believes, escaped from the river.

The sun hot on her skin, she drags herself to the mud at the river’s edge. There her chest swells with the first breath she has taken in centuries. And then she takes another. And another. And then she cries, because she had forgotten how miraculous breathing is.

Dirty, wet and mewling is how everyone comes into the world.

Chapter I – In which a summons are conveyed, a rescue is made, lunch is eaten, and a singularly shocking and quite scandalous discovery is discovered

Principal among the responsibilities of a gentleman is devotion to his family. There are possibly other responsibilities that a gentleman must attend to, but they will take care of themselves when he takes care of his mother and sisters. In the bosom of the family is civility bred, and there can be no exceptions for Englishmen.
-- The Duchess of C--------, Etiquette for Modern Times

“John! Oh, John, step in here and speak to your mother before you leave.”

There were few things to halt a gentleman in putting on his hat and going out like the voice of his mother from the other room. Things may differ in other parts of the world, but for the English gentleman, there is fair Britannia and all her attendant issues of honor and dignity, and there is his mother. An Englishman has no conscience without the guiding influence of his mother, and so Britannia is sometimes served by her less expansive relative. It is not clear what would happen if the needs of the one contradicted the needs of the other, but the world’s pity would go to the poor man who faced that contest.

It is not unfair to say that John Stovington’s life would be easier if he were not a gentleman. But he was, and so he went into the parlor where his mother and sister sat, employed in the more visible mysteries of feminine existence.

The scene that greeted him was one that he had come to associate with domestic tranquility. His mother sat on the settee, a cup of tea at her elbow and her work basket at her feet. His sister Charlotte was hunched over her embroidery frame like a cat over a wounded rabbit, worrying at some multicolored tassel of threads. The room smelled of dried roses, lavender sachet, and a more elusive scent. His nose twitched. Yes, very familiar.

At the sound of John’s footsteps inside the room, Mrs. Stovington looked up from the complicated tangle of strings in her lap and hiccupped.

“Oh, pardon me,” she said, covering her lips with one lace mitt covered hand. “John, dear boy, come here. I’ve just received the most interesting letter from your aunt Leticia.”

“Which Aunt Leticia would that be?” he inquired as he crossed the floor to sit in the one of the less ostentatiously antimacassar-ed chairs.

“Your dear Papa’s sister, the one who favors mauve silk roses on her bonnets. She wore the most enchanting one to Easter last spring, positively dripping with style. I swear I have never seen its equal in the past, and I daresay I shall not see it surpassed in the future.”

A sound suspiciously like a stifled laugh came from the direction of Charlotte’s embroidery frame. John caught her eye and winked. Aunt Leticia’s “most enchanting” bonnet had become an enormous joke between them from the first they laid eyes on it, over a year ago. The only way such a mauve silk rose dripping monstrosity could be surpassed would be through means not accessible to mere mortals. It had been dripping with style, if one of the alternate meanings of style was mode uber alles.

“But as I was saying, your Aunt Leticia has sent the most interesting letter. Now, if I can just find it.” Mrs. Stovington began rummaging through the knots of threads and related paraphernalia in her work basket, achieving nothing so much as further knotting the threads and entangling an astonishing number of bird-shaped embroidery scissors in the same. In the course of her searching, a stoppered bottle fell out of the basket and become unstoppered. His mother let out a squeak of dismay as the unidentified scent became stronger in the room.

John took the opportunity of his mother being distracted to take a glance at his sister, who immediately returned the look with beseeching eyes. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and she mouthed, “Take me away from here,” at him. Sniffing a little, trying to identify the now much stronger smell, John nodded his head in agreement. Charlotte by no means deserved to be trapped with their mother prattling on about Aunt Leticia’s letter and hat.

“Now, as I was saying before,” his mother said, flourishing a lilac tinged envelope triumphantly, “your Aunt Leticia has sent the most interesting letter. You really must read it.”

John accepted the letter from Mrs. Stovington, and finagled the carefully folded letter open. It had been sealed with a rather alarming shade of violet wax, which crumbled in his hands and left his fingers with bruised looking marks.

Dearest Clarissa, it ran:

I write this hoping your health continues excellent. The other Leticias and I are all well, though Leticia C. the younger has had a dreadful cough, and so has taken to eating her dinner in her room to avoid drafts.

It was a singular pleasure to receive your missive of 12 April. I do hope that your abigail has managed to remove the wine stain from your best silk; it is too, too vexing when a good dress must be cast off, especially one as becoming as your aubergine silk. I can absolutely recommend a solution of coal oil and vinegar to remove red wine from silk. I have often commissioned my own abigail to use just such a combination, and I am rarely forced to discard a frock because of a stain.

It continued in this vein for several paragraphs, so John skimmed along, searching for something that concerned him. Spying a name that looked familiar, he read again, but then skipped back several lines to find the beginning.

You will no doubt be pleased to hear that Claudia Greene has returned to Woodlea Cross from Edinburgh, where she was visiting her grandparents. She is, I regret to report, looking just as pale and wan as last you saw her. I would advance the opinion that she has not quite gotten over your John, who was quite cruel to play with her affections as he did last summer in Bath. I am sure with sufficient encouragement from parties affiliated with both children, an agreement can be arranged, and you will be a grandmother by next Christmas. Only imagine the tiny bootees and vests we will knit for the little ones. A shop in town has started carrying the finest wool for baby items . . .

John stared at the passage on the paper for an impolite length of time, and then read it again. He had known for quite some time that his mother desired to see him married, though he did not agree with the sentiment. He was, after all, only eight and twenty years of age, which was young for a man of his class to marry. Though he knew he was not bad looking, he was no handsome rake – red hair and ears that tended toward sugar bowl helped with that – which meant that young ladies tolerated his attentions, but left their frenzies of emotion for faces wrought with a finer hand. That was just as well, as he had the suspicion that he would be a fairly dreadful husband, much preferring the company of his business ledgers and the works of Mssrs. Burns and Shakespeare of an evening.

It helped matters none at all that he knew Claudia Greene to be disposed to paleness when traveling, having escorted her by carriage to Edinburgh before. Also decidedly unhelpful was the fact that Miss Greene cared not a fig for him, nor he for her. As for his actions in Bath, he had seen Miss Greene but once there, and they had parted cordially after a single reel at the Assembly.

He looked up from the letter to see his mother thoughtfully licking her fingers clean of the liquid that had been spilled on the carpeting. She started guiltily, and smiled at him with curiously bright eyes.

“I can see those little wheels turning in your head, Johnny,” she teased.

“I am quite certain, Mother, that I am too shocked to allow any wheels to turn in my head,” he replied.

At her embroidery frame, Charlotte again reined in a giggle.

“I do wish you would consider it, John. You know I wish to see you well taken care of before I must go the way of all flesh.” Mrs. Stovington gave a forlorn sigh, like an eagle posing as a canary in a furbelowed cage.

“You are as hearty as a little Shetland pony, Mother, and I do not think you are due to expire any time soon.”

“Yes, Mama,” put in Charlotte from her spot near the French windows, “I warrant that we could harness you to my little pony cart and you would give us quite a ride.”

“I’ll have none of your impertinence, miss,” Mrs. Stovington reproved, her lips turned down sternly.

“It wasn’t impertinence, ma’am, but—“

“Impertinence to compare your mother to a pony, little or no.”

“Yes, Mother,” Charlotte replied miserably. She was a sweet girl, but her intentions were rarely reflected in what she said.

John stood up from his chair and settled his top hat firmly on his head.
Walking toward Charlotte, he said, “I think that Charlotte has been inside for too long today, Mother, and her natural high spirits have carried her away. I am in need of a companion this afternoon, and Charlotte will do nicely.” He moved aside her embroidery frame and pulled her to her feet. “Come along, poppet, and fetch your wrap.”

She fairly danced into the hallway, glad to be free from both embroidery and Mrs. Stovington.

John stopped behind his mother’s chair and rested his hand on the back of it.
“Well, madame, I think we have said all there is to say on this subject.
Claudia Greene doesn’t care a whit for me, nor I for her. To arrange a match between us would be folly of the highest order.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” she shot back. “You would come to care for each other over time, I am sure of it, as is your Aunt Leticia. You must marry, John, as your sister’s children cannot inherit.”

“Charlotte is still a girl and has no children. It would indeed be difficult for a purely speculative entity to inherit.”

His mother’s lips drew tight as the rosebuds embroidered on her collar. “You still must marry sooner or later, John.”

“Ah, then I choose ‘later’, Mother.” He tipped his hat. “Good day.”

Behind him, the cork on Mrs. Stovington’s little brown bottle popped and the liquid in it gurgled.