The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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My clumsy writing shall have to be ignored as the carriage is jostling and I have neither the skill to write steadily nor the patience to wait until we are stopped. I shall try to be quick, the views outside my window are calling to me, but I feel compelled to write of this now.
The carriage in which I now sit is new and smells of leather and tangy wood polish. Mr. Desmott sits opposite me. He is handsome with dark eyes, unruly black curls and a set jaw that is just noticeably in need of shaving. Upon first glance he appears younger than Lucius, maybe a year or so his junior, but when he is truly studied his bravado is that of an older, more confident, British gentleman—Twenty-five, perhaps.
He has barely looked at me since we were introduced. Unlike his friend, he did not offer me his first name and for that I am grateful. Being on a first name acquaintance with random men is not a habit I want to foster. I don't think I could stomach calling him "Levi" even if he asked me to. I can appreciate decorum and I am used to contemplative silent; but, I would be lying if I were to say that I did not wish for conversation. Riding in a carriage for any length of time without speaking is painful, especially with a stranger. It has been quite a while since I've been outside or traveled anywhere by foot or carriage. The sway of the carriage makes me sick--I find I'm sick over many things today.
As always, I am left to wonder what this man has heard of me and what he must think of it all. I tell myself that I do not much care what he thinks. Still, I do not enjoy the idea of being seen as a murder—It is an unattractive characteristic, a point that should not matter since I am currently wearing a plain black frock that has a skirt wide enough for it to have been my grandmother's. The collar is high and ill-fitting, which is just garnish to this overall inferior day. I was, perhaps, a fool to have expected anything more grandiose.
Today weighs heavily on my heart and it has only just begun.
Leaving St. Agatha's was harder than I had anticipated. It was rare to see patients leave the house, this was where wealthy families left their mentally ill to die—we were meant to stay for as much time, or as little, as that took. And yet here I was, leaving. Going home, or at least to a new home. I'd dreamed on London as a little girl. It was where ladies of my breeding went to find similarly well-placed gentlemen. It was where I would enter society and where I might find a husband—at least that was what thirteen-year-old Merritt had believed. That girl, the one who had easily believed those things, the one who believed she deserved love...she had not lost everything in a fire. I am no longer certain that I deserve those things, or that I would even be allowed to receive them if they were, by a miracle, ever offered to me.
I digress.
Desmott informed me when we first met that we would be picking up another lady on our way to the train station. He did not elaborate and I did not ask, so I am unsure if this woman is of similar background as myself. Perhaps Lucius has found someone else who cannot feel pain? Maybe I am soon to meet a friend. I don't know how I am to feel. Alas, the driver speaks and the carriage slows—I shall update when I know more.
