[fic] Lies
Jul. 11th, 2019 06:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tgarnslMaria Mason did not lie to herself.
When she was six her father was lost at sea. She did not believe that, instead dreaming every night of the distant isle her father had washed up on. In her dreams he had made himself king of the island and its inhabitants, and one day he would return for her on a great ship to take her to his island and make her a princess. For near on a year she wrote letters to him in her child’s scrawl on scraps of paper filched from her mother and sent the letters up the chimney in the smoke, believing they could somehow reach her father.
When her mother found out she boxed her ears and told her to never do such a stupid thing again. “Wishes and dreams are foolish things, Maria,” she told her as Maria sobbed. “They will only hurt you in the end.”
She did not understand for a long time what her mother meant.
When she was eighteen and blossoming into womanhood she fell in love with an ostler at the George. He was handsome and charming and everything she imagined she’d want in a husband. He kissed her, and flattered her, and when he promised to marry her she’d believed him. He needed only to save up some coin to provide for their family, he told her, and then she would be a married woman. When he asked her to lie down with him in the loft, she was only too happy to agree. But then came the day she spied him kissing the baker’s daughter, and she fled to her mother, heartbroken. She poured out her heart, and to her surprise her mother did not slap her, but held her as she cried.
“Never trust a man,” her mother warned. “Never trust a woman either.”
Maria nodded and said she understood.
By her thirtieth birthday she was well aware of who she was and what she was. She knew she was no great wit or beauty, she knew she could offer a husband little more than a peaceful home and healthy children. She did not dream, as some women do, of lords or princes whisking them away to a better life. She fell in love with the young lieutenant in her mother’s house with the sorrowful knowledge that he could just as easily break her heart as mend it, and though she was no gambler she reckoned she knew which side of the coin would come up for her. Still, she was surprised when he asked her to marry him. She knew she was old and plain, not the sort of wife a man with ambitions ought to have. But she knew too that Hornblower, for all his vain ambition, wanted nothing more than a peaceful home and someone who cared if he lived or died. He was a strange, proud, lonely young man, and her heart went out to him. He seemed so delighted when she accepted his proposal that she could not break his heart and tell him that though she loved him, she knew she was not what he wanted of a wife. And he was a young man with a young man’s ambitions, and a young man’s determined outlook. She had seen enough young officers come and go in her mother’s house. She liked to think she could tell the ones that were useless from the ones that were destined for greatness. And if she loved her new husband and thought him handsome and kind, that would be enough. She did not believe he loved her, not as she loved him, and she told herself that was the way of marriage. She would share his name and provide him with children, and no mistress he might find could ever take that away from her.
And yet somehow it still stung all those years later when he returned from a long voyage at sea, and she could tell in his eyes that he’d fallen in love for the very first time. She knew that look; it was the look she herself had worn all those years ago when she’d fallen in love with that ostler. It did not take much prying to find out with whom he had fallen so deeply in love with.
She’d heard of Lady Barbara of course — anyone with an ear for gossip had heard of her. The woman had engaged in an affair with a married lord and fled to the West Indies when news of the scandal broke. That this was the woman Hornblower had fallen so madly for amused Maria. If rumour was to be believed, and rumour was as vicious as it was frequently true, the new Lady Leighton was barren.
She still loved him, and the truth of his true love burned when she saw him pretending to be a good husband. A part of her wanted to push him away, to tell him that she knew, but she knew she could not. She was still his wife, and she had a chance to bear him one last child, and so she kissed him and took him into her bed and prayed for a healthy son.
She met Lady Leighton at an evening dinner some two weeks after she was certain she was carrying another child. When the introductions were made, Maria had to hide a laugh. She had expected some young, slender thing. This gangly, mannish, long-faced woman pushing thirty was no great beauty, nor no great wit. She was awkward in her manners, carried herself like a general, and was too clever by half for any of the men around her to feel comfortable in her presence. The only ones who were enamoured by her were Sir Percy — a fool if Maria ever saw one — and her Horatio, lovestruck like a fifteen year old boy. She almost laughed at her husband, watching this awkward woman with undisguised adoration on his face. He would grovel and kiss the hem of Lady Leighton’s skirt if only she asked. Maria put a protective hand on her belly and went over to Lady Leighton and watched that bright smile turn brittle and artificial as she lorded her triumph over her.
Beware of women too, her mother had warned her. And Maria was.
She did not know of the rules of war, but she knew it was better to know one’s enemy than lie to oneself and pretend they did not exist. The day Hornblower left for the Mediterranean under the banner of Lady Leighton’s husband Maria sat at her desk and put pen to paper.
No, Maria Hornblower did not lie to herself.
When she was six her father was lost at sea. She did not believe that, instead dreaming every night of the distant isle her father had washed up on. In her dreams he had made himself king of the island and its inhabitants, and one day he would return for her on a great ship to take her to his island and make her a princess. For near on a year she wrote letters to him in her child’s scrawl on scraps of paper filched from her mother and sent the letters up the chimney in the smoke, believing they could somehow reach her father.
When her mother found out she boxed her ears and told her to never do such a stupid thing again. “Wishes and dreams are foolish things, Maria,” she told her as Maria sobbed. “They will only hurt you in the end.”
She did not understand for a long time what her mother meant.
When she was eighteen and blossoming into womanhood she fell in love with an ostler at the George. He was handsome and charming and everything she imagined she’d want in a husband. He kissed her, and flattered her, and when he promised to marry her she’d believed him. He needed only to save up some coin to provide for their family, he told her, and then she would be a married woman. When he asked her to lie down with him in the loft, she was only too happy to agree. But then came the day she spied him kissing the baker’s daughter, and she fled to her mother, heartbroken. She poured out her heart, and to her surprise her mother did not slap her, but held her as she cried.
“Never trust a man,” her mother warned. “Never trust a woman either.”
Maria nodded and said she understood.
By her thirtieth birthday she was well aware of who she was and what she was. She knew she was no great wit or beauty, she knew she could offer a husband little more than a peaceful home and healthy children. She did not dream, as some women do, of lords or princes whisking them away to a better life. She fell in love with the young lieutenant in her mother’s house with the sorrowful knowledge that he could just as easily break her heart as mend it, and though she was no gambler she reckoned she knew which side of the coin would come up for her. Still, she was surprised when he asked her to marry him. She knew she was old and plain, not the sort of wife a man with ambitions ought to have. But she knew too that Hornblower, for all his vain ambition, wanted nothing more than a peaceful home and someone who cared if he lived or died. He was a strange, proud, lonely young man, and her heart went out to him. He seemed so delighted when she accepted his proposal that she could not break his heart and tell him that though she loved him, she knew she was not what he wanted of a wife. And he was a young man with a young man’s ambitions, and a young man’s determined outlook. She had seen enough young officers come and go in her mother’s house. She liked to think she could tell the ones that were useless from the ones that were destined for greatness. And if she loved her new husband and thought him handsome and kind, that would be enough. She did not believe he loved her, not as she loved him, and she told herself that was the way of marriage. She would share his name and provide him with children, and no mistress he might find could ever take that away from her.
And yet somehow it still stung all those years later when he returned from a long voyage at sea, and she could tell in his eyes that he’d fallen in love for the very first time. She knew that look; it was the look she herself had worn all those years ago when she’d fallen in love with that ostler. It did not take much prying to find out with whom he had fallen so deeply in love with.
She’d heard of Lady Barbara of course — anyone with an ear for gossip had heard of her. The woman had engaged in an affair with a married lord and fled to the West Indies when news of the scandal broke. That this was the woman Hornblower had fallen so madly for amused Maria. If rumour was to be believed, and rumour was as vicious as it was frequently true, the new Lady Leighton was barren.
She still loved him, and the truth of his true love burned when she saw him pretending to be a good husband. A part of her wanted to push him away, to tell him that she knew, but she knew she could not. She was still his wife, and she had a chance to bear him one last child, and so she kissed him and took him into her bed and prayed for a healthy son.
She met Lady Leighton at an evening dinner some two weeks after she was certain she was carrying another child. When the introductions were made, Maria had to hide a laugh. She had expected some young, slender thing. This gangly, mannish, long-faced woman pushing thirty was no great beauty, nor no great wit. She was awkward in her manners, carried herself like a general, and was too clever by half for any of the men around her to feel comfortable in her presence. The only ones who were enamoured by her were Sir Percy — a fool if Maria ever saw one — and her Horatio, lovestruck like a fifteen year old boy. She almost laughed at her husband, watching this awkward woman with undisguised adoration on his face. He would grovel and kiss the hem of Lady Leighton’s skirt if only she asked. Maria put a protective hand on her belly and went over to Lady Leighton and watched that bright smile turn brittle and artificial as she lorded her triumph over her.
Beware of women too, her mother had warned her. And Maria was.
She did not know of the rules of war, but she knew it was better to know one’s enemy than lie to oneself and pretend they did not exist. The day Hornblower left for the Mediterranean under the banner of Lady Leighton’s husband Maria sat at her desk and put pen to paper.
No, Maria Hornblower did not lie to herself.
no subject
Date: 2019-07-14 07:03 pm (UTC)Of course, this only makes me hanker more for the Maria and Barbara fic.
Would you mind if I linked this at the comm?
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