Victorians! discussion

London 1842.

Dusk, and the slight figure of Hieronymus Poxbane M.D. passed like a wisp through the gathering fog. His spectre-like transit along Fleet Street belied the weightiness of his mission and the heaviness of his heart, and the document in his breast pocket grew increasingly leaden as he approached his destination.

Continue the story with a maximum of three sentences, but please read the Rules first! You can find them here: https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...

His burden was a young female patient. She was very ill, and he was at a loss as to the cause. The document had been his last hope, and instead it brought only more worry and grief.

Poxbane could no longer recall how, or even why he was involved with this patient, but he did know that if his treatment of Lily Whitelaw did not succeed then he may well follow her into a dark corner of Bedlam, or even worse, an unmarked grave.

The unmarked grave, should it be needed, would carry his secret into it for all eternity, for his history with Lily was something that he would never reveal to any human being. Except, he recalled, to the priest in the confessional to whom he had unburdened his heart those many years ago when the memory of the awful deed to which she had impelled him had weighted so heavily on him that he faced the choice between suicide or confessional.

And with these dismal thoughts running through his mind, Poxbane drew up at a doorway. Its peeling paintwork and the chipped stonework surrounding it hinted that better times were long past; the house itself was in complete darkness except for one feeble candle burning at an upper window. Poxbane heaved a long sigh, and rapped firmly on the door.

Nothing. No sound came from within the home. Poxbane only heard the staccato beat of his nervous heart pounding upon his chest as he knocked again and yet again.

Peter wrote: "Nothing. No sound came from within the home. Poxbane only heard the staccato beat of his nervous heart pounding upon his chest. He knocked again. And yet again."

[Cheeky monkey!!! Maximum three sentences. You could always simply adjust the punctuation, although we don't want to end up with a Henry James novel either ;-))))]

He thought his heart would jump out of his chest. Suddenly the door creaked open to disclose an aged butler. The butler held a moldering book in his hand.

Pip wrote: "Peter wrote: "Nothing. No sound came from within the home. Poxbane only heard the staccato beat of his nervous heart pounding upon his chest. He knocked again. And yet again."

[Cheeky monkey!!! Ma..."

Oops, Sorry Pip! I got carried away. :-))

And now back to the story.

In the dim light Poxbane's eyes strained to discern the title of the book but no word, or even symbol, could be seen on its cover or spine. All his senses tingled, all his nerves were on edge, and then Poxbane heard the butler whisper in a croaking voice.

"A gentleman wearing the black band of mourning left this. He said an old peddler woman in front of St. Brides Church thrust it upon him, begging that he deliver it to you."

Lily wrote: ""A gentleman wearing the black band of mourning left this. He said an old peddler woman in front of St. Brides Church thrust it upon him, begging that he deliver it to you.""

He also said that you were only to open it in the crypt of St. Paul's Cathedral. Only there could the forces locked within it be controlled. Here, sir, is the book and here the key to open it, but beware--beware--on your peril do not disobey the warning and open it other than in the crypt.

Everyman wrote: "Lily wrote: ""A gentleman wearing the black band of mourning left this. He said an old peddler woman in front of St. Brides Church thrust it upon him, begging that he deliver it to you.""

He also ..."

The butler continued, "you must follow the directions in the letter of which you have possession. If you don't, catastrophe will follow you and yours." Poxbane's burden had become almost unbearable.

Everyman wrote: "He also said that you were only to open it in the crypt of St. Paul's Cathedral. Only there could the forces locked within it be controlled"

[Are you Dan Brown's ghost writer? LOL!!!!]

Pip wrote: "Everyman wrote: "He also said that you were only to open it in the crypt of St. Paul's Cathedral. Only there could the forces locked within it be controlled"

[Are you Dan Brown's ghost writer? LOL..."

Shhhhhh -- that's supposed to be a secret!!

Deborah wrote: "The butler continued, "you must follow the directions in the letter of which you have possession. If you don't, catastrophe will follow you and yours." Poxbane's burden had become almost unbearable. ..."

Still, he turned wearily on his heels and shuffled dejectedly towards Christopher Wren's masterpiece. The bedraggled ruffian near the gates of the crypt emerged from the shadows to impede his entry. In a second's time, Poxbane, startled, sensed he had seen that face, that slight and stooped bodily frame, elsewhere.

Before he could think where he had seen the ruffian, the figure stretched out a scrawny hand, seized Poxbane's cravat, and pulling Poxbane's face almost into his yellow, jaundiced visage, croaked "if you open that book, know that at that moment, Lily Whitelaw will die agonizing death." Poxbane thrust the ugly face away and, in a voice quivering with anger and fear, demanded "who are you? How do you know about me and Lily?" Without answering the figure turned and started scuttling rapidly away, but before he was out of sight he turned and, in a voice that cut to Poxbane's very marrow, hissed "do not forget what I have said if you value your lover's life."

[Comment; it's only three sentences if you allow that Poxbane's questions are part of one sentence.]

Angrily, Poxbane threw the tome with all his furious force, striking the ruffian square on his brow. The fleeing gatekeeper stumbled and fell.

And as he fell, Poxbane was shocked to see the tome suddenly burst into flame.

His only hope now was the letter in his pocket.

His hands shook as he felt for the letter, knowing all too well that once he touched it, opened it, and read it, his life would forever be changed. His hand hovered, like a moth drawn towards a flame.

A moth toward a flame, indeed -- but as his hand hovered, he hesitated. Already the book had gone up in flames. Would the letter, if he dared to open it, suffer the same fate?

Chapter two

Desideria Trulove gazed into the embers of the dying hearth and absent-mindedly rolled the beads of her garnet necklace between her pale, slender fingers, the gems at her throat glowing vaguely in accompaniment to her wandering thoughts.

A sharp knock at the door broke her reverie and, dropping her hand to her side, she rose and called "Enter!".
"Visitor for you, Miss," said Emily the crisply-garmented maid, "downstairs in the library, if you please, Miss".

Desideria quickly smoothed out her fiery, red hair with shaking hands and then rubbed her eyes, which were normally a brilliant green that sparkled like emeralds but now betrayed a sleepless night that she had spent gazing out at the fog outside of her window.

She had watched for a figure that never came; and had waited for a reply to a message that had burst into flames before it could ever be read.

She gazed once more at the dying hearth and at the last burning scraps of the peddler's dress that she had worn on the previous night, when running her sad errand in front of St. Brides Church.

"Who is it?" she demanded of Emily.

With a deep curtsy, Emily replied, "I know not, M'am. But he came to the door soaked by the rain. He dries himself by the fire and your father asks that you not keep him waiting."