The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 55
Welcome back to my serialized fiction Substack, Whimsical Words!
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Chapter 54 (maybe):
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The Vanquished & the Surviving, Chapter 55
In the privacy of his dressing room the following afternoon, Vincent took advantage of the sunny weather, but not by dashing outside. He took his favorite drawing of Cornelius Fawlkin to a tall, many-paned window, brushed aside the curtains, and sat on the window seat. He held the image up against a pane, with a blank piece of paper directly over it. Using the tiniest bit of tree sap paste on the tip of his finger, he attached the parchment at both upper corners. Sunlight streamed through the window and allowed the portrait to show through the top sheet of paper. Using black charcoal, he traced the image onto the top sheet.
Having finished this first copy, he made another twenty and attempted to ignore how tedious this became. He entertained himself with mental images of the streets of London full of citizens marching with torches in the direction of Fawlkin’s office. He visualized this in the dark of night, with the crowd stopping outside the offices and shouting demands. The Marshals inside would be outnumbered, but would they shoot anyway? He pictured some of them running out in their cloaks… and tripping over them. So much for conceiving a realistic plan.
Vincent occasionally stopped to flex his fingers and continue tracing the strong likeness to the ugly countenance. Finally, he sank into a comfortable chair in front of his desk and used ink to darken the illustrations and add more shading and such to the traced copies. He wrote a message on the final picture:
Cornelius Fawlkin is a menace to society. He is responsible for the incarceration of thousands of Sensitives. Beware of him!
Vincent propped up the handbill against the wall behind his desk, rose, and stepped back to survey it. Satisfied with the results, he smiled faintly. He set that image aside to dry and continued, adding the same words to each handbill.
#
A crowd of several respectable but humble citizens stood chuckling, gesturing, and exclaiming before a freshly pasted handbill Myrtle didn’t recognize. She stopped in her tracks to sidle over to the crowd and read the handbill. She no longer worked for the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections. Quitting that job and seeing the scowl on her employer’s ugly countenance was one of the highlights of Myrtle’s life.
Myrtle fortunately found work at another milliner’s shop, one that paid a penny more than the first one where she worked after arriving in London. Now she only worked twelve hours a day, not fifteen. It was much more tolerable, though hardly comparable to the life she fancied the Viscount of Whisperwood must have returned to after his years at the fairy tale castle. Yes, he must now be enjoying high society and the company of loving parents. Myrtle sighed. Loving parents….
Myrtle had a vivid imagination, but she rarely fantasized about loving parents. The very notion was incomprehensible for her. The fairy tales in which she filled her head invariably revolved around orphans. To her, it would be far better to be an orphan, especially as an adult, than to have no mother and a brute as a father.
Squaring her narrow shoulders, Myrtle managed to make her way into the small crowd, and as soon as she caught sight of the handbill, she understood the laughter. She couldn’t repress a wide grin. It was a striking likeness to that ugly blackguard, Mister Cornelius Fawlkin! She had never liked the bloke and had only endured him because he was her boss. Such a relief to not see his face in person anymore!
Little did anyone know the cause of the shadows under her eyes. She had been out the previous night pasting handbills she’d made from found scraps of paper. They mimicked the original handbills she had seen denouncing the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections, but they were different from these new ones with Fawlkin’s face. Someone, she thought, was bold and brave.
#
Vincent occupied the front parlor of Brockden House, where he mostly enjoyed the company of callers: Percy; Miss Oriana Florantine and Miss Claire Eniennes, who had arrived together; Edgar Roucliffe; and a pair of fops, Mr. Chauncey Vidall and Mr. Anthony Osmard. Vincent listened to the conversation despite concentrating on his sketching. Satisfied with his drawing of Miss Florantine, who was under five feet tall, with the ears, paws, and tail of a mouse, he turned the page to begin another picture.
Mr. Chauncey Vidall clutched his orange satin lapels. “It seems there is a great deal of unrest. Murmurings, I do declare.”
Vincent looked up from his sketchbook to peer suspiciously at Vidall and wonder whether he approved or disapproved of the unrest. He ran the fop’s tone through his mind and could only interpret it as vacuous. It occurred to Vincent that this fool was stating the obvious; most of high society, at least in London, was now well aware the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections and Cornelius Fawlkin had drastically fallen from public favor. It was impossible to not observe, in particular, crowds protesting in the streets.
Mr. Anthony Osmard leaned forward and dramatically glanced toward the windows and doors. “Yes, yes, it is true the people of England are no longer willing to tolerate the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.”
Vidall nodded enthusiastically with his eyes bugging out. “And even the newspapers have been increasingly more open about the unrest! Positively scandalous!”
Miss Florantine raised her eyebrows. “I cannot believe the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections is happy about that. Do you think the Times might come to harm?”
Vincent widened his eyes and almost dropped his pencil.
Miss Eniennes shifted in her seat and put down her teacup. She wasn’t wearing the abundance of jewelry she had worn at the ball. Now she only wore one turquoise necklace with a yellow muslin frock. “I hope not.”
Edgar seemed more thrilled than concerned. “At breakfast this morning I read that those who use their Sensitive powers to defend themselves sometimes end up slaying Marshals.”
Vincent gazed at his sketchpad and felt saddened. “Oh dear.” He continued sketching Edgar Roucliffe.
Edgar practically bounced up and down in his seat. “They’re then executed on the spot.”
Vincent stared in shock at Edgar, whose present behavior further confirmed he was the last person in whom Vincent would confide. Vincent felt baffled, reminding himself—as he did every time he associated with Edgar, a friend of his parents—this was his own savior when he was lost on the streets after Nathaniel’s murder. Vincent couldn’t quite fathom how someone who rescued lost children and took them back to their parents could otherwise be callous.
Miss Eniennes gulped tea and shook her head. “Oh, dear me!”
Miss Florantine gazed into the distance, and a pucker appeared between her brows. “Then it is true. I read that in a pamphlet a street urchin handed me, but I wondered if it was made up.”
Edgar took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “Did you hear those explosions last night?”
Vincent frowned and kept sketching Edgar. The man was still handsome at about forty years. Vincent had taken a disliking toward him ever since his insensitive comment about weeping at his age. With flourishing lines mimicking the subject’s auburn curls, Vincent reminded himself he needed to remain on his guard with Edgar.
Miss Claire Eniennes and Miss Oriana Florantine glanced at each other, and Miss Eniennes failed to suppress a nervous giggle. She set down her teacup with a clatter. It was so loud she glanced down to make sure she hadn’t chipped it. “Explosions?”
Vincent raised two eyebrows and widened his eyes. “Why would we hear explosions in Mayfair?”
“Ah, yes, I live closer to Parliament than you,” Edgar said.
“There is a great deal of unrest, especially here in London.” Mr. Anthony Osmard said.
Vidall leaned forward, and his eyes bulged. “La, that’s an understatement! It is practically a civil war starting!”
It was Vincent’s turn to clatter his teacup and saucer. His hands were trembling, and he spilled a speck of tea. He wished to overthrow Sensitive Corrections as peacefully as possible, not with a violent war. “What is this? So much unpleasantness!” It was customary for school children to be taught about the English Civil War, a bloodless revolution. He hoped this could remain bloodless, too.
Edgar kept his eyes on the black tea in his cup. “Word has got out how they imprisoned you, Lord Whisperwood, and what their agenda is concerning Sensitives.”
“The deuce,” Miss Florantine whispered. Claire jumped and stared at her, clearly disapproving of her language. Vincent half expected her to tell her friend that ladies don’t use expletives.
Vincent recalled strangers cheering him in the street and sending him letters praising him for threatening the Ministry and Cornelius Fawlkin.
Osmard peered at Vincent through his quizzing glass. “I wonder at you, Lord Whisperwood. You seem like someone who should be leading the rebellion, since you’re the only one who has been released from prison.”
Vidall peered at Vincent through his quizzing glass. “I daresay you needs must simply sit back and wait for the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections to fall apart.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” Edgar shook his head. Nonetheless, Vincent knew better than to speak frankly before Edgar.
Mr. Osmard turned to Vincent and smirked, raising Vincent’s hackles. “And how, milord, do you intend to stop them?”
“Do I strike you as a rebel rouser?” Vincent didn’t look up from his sketch book. He added hatch marks to round out Edgar’s arms.
Soon, much to Vincent’s relief, Edgar and the fops departed with much bowing and farewell-saying. Overhearing the hallway door close behind them, he knew they were out of the house, so he scanned the other faces in the room. Only Percy, Miss Claire Eniennes, and Miss Florantine remained, all reliable members of the resistance.
Miss Florantine sat back and gazed at the hearth. “Explosions! It must have been inspired by all those pamphlets we created.”
“And how we have been spreading word,” Miss Eniennes added, tossing her dark curls. She bit her lip before smiling faintly. “What a brilliant idea, Lord Whisperwood! It is working.”
“We can certainly continue participating in the rebellion,” Miss Florantine said. “We do not wish to become complaisant and let the public do what they will.”
Vincent closed his sketchbook and sipped tea. “I stood on points long enough when I was in the tower. I would as lief plummet out of a tower window as resume passively waiting. I shall continue my active role in eliminating the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections.”
Miss Eniennes sighed. “Milord, do you think you might, considering the dire circumstances, resort to violence in order to overthrow the Marshals and Fawlkin?”
Everyone looked at her in silence.
Miss Eniennes scanned everyone’s faces before saying, “I know what you’re going to say.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Of course you do. You can read minds.”
Miss Eniennes’s smile was a bit too smug, Vincent thought. “Indeed,” she said, thus confirming Vincent’s suspicion she did read their minds. “And since I can read minds, I know you, Lord Whisperwood, still have your Sensitive powers.”
Vincent rose from his seat and began pacing. “Please, Miss Eniennes, I for one don’t wish you to read my mind unless you have my permission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milord. I wished not to offend.”
Percy clutched his lapels. “It is gross bad manners to use Sensitive powers in such a way! Such behavior only gives the Ministry of Sensitive Corrections an excuse for locking you lot up. Er, so sorry, I hope that wasn’t tactless.”
Miss Eniennes bit her lip before replying. “It was… deserved.”
Vincent nodded shortly and lifted his teacup. “I declare, these dark times have taught us we Sensitives must take caution we don’t offend those who are not Sensitives. Perhaps someone should write an etiquette book for Sensitives.”
Percy clapped his hands. “Excellent idea! Vincent, you should write it!”
Vincent sipped from his cup and set it down before shaking his head. “My mother is better qualified.”
Miss Florantine waved Percy away. “Yes, but what should be our next step in the rebellion?”
Vincent sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. He must choose his words carefully. He opened his eyes and turned to Miss Florantine. “It seems to me as though we need to simply keep doing what we have been doing.”
Percy twirled his watch chain and gazed into the distance. “Do you think that’s sufficient? What might citizens do, now the discontent is so much out in the open?”
Vincent sighed. “It is difficult to say.”
Miss Eniennes clasped the arms of her chair. “The people will revolt! Forgive me, milord, but it won’t necessary end without some violence.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows. “We shall see. I cannot stress enough my distaste for involving violence. Truth be told, I’ve considered calling on Cornelius Fawlkin and talking to him civilly. Maybe I can convince him to stop all these imprisonments.”
Claire laughed. “Are you mad?”
Miss Florantine raised a hand to silence her. “He has a good point. It isn’t in Mr. Fawlkin’s best interest to be so unpopular. You could point out that the people will revolt if he doesn’t set all those Sensitives free.”
After pursing his lips in thought, Vincent smiled. “Excellent plan.”
Percy raised his teacup. “Here, here!”
Vincent looked around the room. “I daresay if we need an alternate plan, I shall think of something before long. If not I, then one of my friends.” He nodded at Percy, who sat up straighter and smiled. The ladies helped themselves to more tea and biscuits.