บท 5: V.
Marianne stares at Luella dumbly, upon the floor of that hangman's base--which she'd previously foreshadowed--having at last fallen through.
"I am...engaged." Luella repeats, impacting the both of them as does a hammer repeatedly driving a nail. "His ship is due to arrive in two week's time, on Christmas Day. I am then to return with him to his family's Castle Chevalier, where the ceremony will take place…"
"And there, at Chevalier, I shall remain; as the new lady of the house."
Marianne looks to Luella with pleading eyes, at once crumbling under the weight of her ensuing emotion--"It can't be like this!" She cries. "Tell me, this is some cruel jest!"
"I wouldn't jest. Not about marriage--a fate worse than death, as I see it." Luella says, shaking her head, with her beautiful face now contorted into an ugly mess of despair; her lovely, singsong voice stifled by unfiltered sobs. "It has never...been a wish of mine to claim myself a mother; nor do I whim to leave your side, and my poor mother without a daughter--all alone, with that horrible man."
Marianne fixes her with a glare, all the pieces at once fitting together in her mind.
"This is all his doing, isn't it? That cretinous dastard Lafferty.!
"It is a ploy to have the marriage-wealth all to himself, and be cleanly rid of you; both by the same token!"
Luella nods a feeble yes. "He is also the reason why I have been sequestered within the manor, neglecting every opportunity to come and see you; he forbids me from mingling with persons outside of our circles, and always has a spying chaperone to attend me to make sure I don't stray. It is only through secrecy that I have still been able to meet with you tonight, to tell you all of this."
She takes Marianne's hands, interlocking their fingers.
"As well as to share my true feelings with you, before it is too late..."
"Because, the truth is that I have loved you, Marianne. More than a friend, and even more than a sister." She reveals, passionately clinging to her. "My only wish is that you can forgive me, for withholding from you this long."
Marianne responds with nothing, other than to surround Luella's trembling forn with an embrace, her forgiveness shining through without a shred of hesitation. For so long, Luella had been her sole source of comfort; her closest friend and confidant; her only rock, unto which she felt she could cling to throughout all tribulations. To witness her in this broken state--knowing she was about to be fatally pried away, at the very summit of their closeness--filled her with a passion the likes of which she had never known before. And with this overwhelming feeling, came a sage understanding that losing her would be akin to shedding a very important part of herself; of her person, and her history both. Even the most important part, perhaps: as that sole comprising element she had truly always loved and cherished.
"If I had to, I would have waited forever." Marianne says, as for a "machine girl" such as her, and an unloved orphan besides, it can be said for Marianne that receiving this confirmation from Luella served as a sort of parting in the clouds: a profound relief to her lifelong sweat and toil; a spectacular quirk, embedded deep in the system she was born into, that allows her--in hindsight--to derive vital meaning from the whole.
Luella, meanwhile, with head resting gently against Marianne's shoulder, gives her a soft hum in approval, as if having just combed her thoughts; this soft gesture alone being enough to put the latter's restless, clockwork heart at ease.
Almost as if to say: there is more to you than the machine, and I see it.
**********
The walk isn't far: unlike Marianne's former home, nestled deep in the slums, it doesn't require the navigating of any perilous backstreets to get there. Instead, it is but a straight walk through civilization, through the streets now emptied of people, of carriages and urban sound; save for the whistling night watchman, who waves and greets Marianne with a kindly "good evening, ma'am," rather than threatening to see her carried off to the workhouse.
Marianne lives the closest to a "normal" life as she's ever been, taking up residence in--not a shack, but--a comparatively cozy loft above a thrift shop where she works called Dintman's Delights, that nowadays mostly involves itself in a practice of inheriting old and discarded clothes, at low cost, to be recycled for sale at a profit. Yet, despite it being what can most charitably be called a "lower end" establishment, it conveniently exists a short hop away from the lovely river and park; albeit, it is opposite the part of town where all the nice stores like Haskell's and Darlton's are to be found, existing as what can be described as a plainly "average" fixture--one of many along mainstreet--and as such one which tends more often than not to fade into the back-scenery; a particular quality which Marianne would say suits her just fine.
The windows of the shop are darkened. Through the windows coated with grime, grotesque mannequins--missing one or two limbs, with faded faces--peer out at them, flaunting their milquetoast fashions that make Haskell's look like a top name boutique by comparison, with no signs of life or light inside.
Marianne tries the front door, but it's locked.
"He's probably still at the pub." She mutters under breath. "Touching up another young girl's leg as we speak, no doubt."
"Heavens!" Marianne says back, frowning. "What a cad he must be!"
"A charming one, I assure you. As for myself, I want for naught; so, I suppose I've learned there's no point to becoming vexed should I receive naught in turn." Before Luella can begin to worry, though, she procures a set of keys: showing them with a devious grin.
"Fortunately, I'm the only person who does any real work around here."
"I am thusly entitled to SOME benefits."
Luella sighs, relieved. "I suppose some things never change."
With the door opened, they trespass quietly through the dreary storefront with swirls of dust and a musty odor in the air, through aisles haunted by swathes of miscellaneous bits and baubles, exotic ritual-masks and statues, and the staring eyes of a taxidermied lynx; toys, porcelain figurines and uncategorized knick-knacks alike, that all exist to gather cobwebs among the cluttered shelves and display tables. Not a word is spoken between the pair, before they reach a creaky flight of stairs: at the top of which, exists a battered door where Marianne stops and turns to Luella, with a remedying look.
"Please, wait here." She says. "While I go in and get us some light."
With the drawing of a slow, perplexed nod in response from Luella, Marianne opens the door and promptly disappears into the pitch black room therein, while the former finds herself mulling in melancholy:
"I've passed by this place, on many occasions, never knowing you lived here."
Marianne laughs. "You're not exactly our usual clientele."
"I would have gladly preferred to keep this place a secret, were it not for these...extraneous circumstances."
"Extraneous." Luella repeats; as if tasting the word like a piece of candy. "If you don't mind me saying, for a person of low birth--such as yourself--the vocabulary you possess is truly quite remarkable."
"I've always had a passion for literature. It's why my presents to you were so often in the form of books."
"I see." Is Luella's rueful reply; following which, she lowers her gaze with a bated exhale. "It isn't that I intend to steep our talks, once more, into the pits of melancholy, but it's only just occurred to me…"
"There is...quite a lot I still don't properly know about you, isn't there?" She says, her smallness casting a long shadow from where she stands, statuesque in her solemnity, within the moonlit doorway. "There've existed so many forces at play, beyond our control, constantly conspiring to drive us apart; when it's become abundantly clear, now, that all we've wanted...was to be closer together."
Marianne, having been feeling her way through the dark room during this time, abruptly stops.
Her first, immediate impulse is to argue--to negate her friends dour musings, with some perhaps overlooked grain of truth about their relationship--yet upon devoting an inkling of serious contemplation to the manner, she is found incapable of denying that this sordid analysis did in fact ring true: personal details about her living situation was seldom ever brought up in their discussions--to say nothing of the long, sorely wasted extent that had passed through which they'd ceased all contact with each other.
Therein, it is as stated before: time tests all, and Marianne instinctively knows this to be true as well, as her seeking hand finally finds and brushes against the cotton length of one of the sealed window curtains: a sliver of barely perceptible light lining its edge.
"I care not if the entire world is sworn against us," says she, grasping the sealed curtain with greater fervor. "We're together now, and that is what counts."
With great flair, in one sweeping motion she draws apart the curtains to flood the room with illuminating moonlight to reveal the previously concealed horrors: mountains of tall, messily heaped together piles of garments, haphazardly placed and strewn about the room; packed so tightly together, that even one as slender as Marianne must hold her breath and hems, so that they may squeeze by without causing any further disorder. And there, situated like an island oasis at the center of this madness--serving as the only piece of furniture left unclaimed by the encroaching heaps of fabrics--was a table; equipped with a sewing machine and candle; as well as emptied saucers and cups arranged on a plate scattered with stale crumbs: serving as a record of a long history of hastily scarfed meals. Set at opposing corners of the space, there is a gas stove crusted in grease stains; a stack of grimey washbuckets; an unfancy ceramic bathtub--altogether amounting to, aside from any bed to speak of, all the standard comforts of a bachelorette's apartment; albeit, one stripped to the bare minimum.
Luella looks around at all this mess, horrorstruck: well beyond jest.
"I cannot believe this, Marianne." She says, recoiling on sight of a cockroach, as it crawls past her feet. "No one should have to live in such squalor!"
Marianne, being nonchalant, takes a seat at the sewing table.
"It's not so bad." She says, bearing a tepid grin. "I say, I may've even grown accustomed to it."
Through her reluctance, Luella proceeds to drape her coat onto one of the clothes piles, and while doing so, she is reminded of a poem she'd read in the paper once, lamenting the poor living conditions of the seamstress: and it occurs to her that, although the average seamstress did suffer, Marianne's oft-praised work ethic had the effect of pushing her own situation to the absolute extreme, that was now so blatantly displayed before her.
**********
Following some difficulty, Marianne manages to crack open the window shutters: letting some cool outside breeze into their musty confines, for what little relief it offers.
"So, what of a bed?" Luella asks, timidly scanning her surroundings. "Where--in all this, pray tell--does one sleep?"
Marianne shrugs. "Lay wherever you like."
Using one hand, she proceeds to deftly turn the crank of the sewing machine, whilst the other manipulates the shirt already on the press; expertly turning, flipping, and shifting it beneath the flow of the rhythmically pumping needle: in a display of incredible speed, and precision, more often observed in the handiwork of a much older, seasoned veteran. Internally, while she works it is as though the pain of the blisters in her palms and fingers, the burning aches in her wrists, and strain of her poorly postured neck, and back, all melt away from consciousness; granting her sole focus onto the threading needle. This hypnotizing effect holds even with regards to her present worries, and the steady pulsing of warm blood through her veins at Luella's anomalous presence--this enduring awareness being all what retains her lucidity: preserving her from otherwise drifting away, helplessly, into becoming wholly engrossed in her thankless drudgery; as ever.
"I shall loan you some money." Luella says, her lovely brow knitted with irrepressible concern. "Whatever will afford your better accommodations, compared to...this."
"Certainly not." Marianne cuts back sharply, with finality. "I have all that I need, and you've already done so much to help me."
"Please, do think nothing of it!"
Despite her insistence, Marianne still remains unmoved on the issue. "I happen to be at peace with my current lot in life." She says, with all plainness: without so much as prying her wide-eyed, focused stare from the machine. "Rather, it is you that I am worried about: precisely, the small matter of your imminent betrothal."
"You're sleeping without a bed-- among filth and roaches!"
"And I am nothing, to demand a lick more: a lone thistle in the wheatfield."
"If so, only by circumstance." Luella insists. "A person of your character: of your tenacity, of your humor and wit, is deserving of a much higher station!"
Marianne, now bristling, turns sharply to her.
"Who is to say what is entitled to whom?" She snaps. "Countless live and die in squalor, with no hope of ever leaving it--just as I have resigned myself: to whatever living I can manage to yield, by my own efforts."
"It isn't fair!" Luella returns, stomping her foot in such an unexpected outburst that it gives the riled Marianne pause to listen to the ranting that ensues:
"Because of my father's connections, I've had to endure the company of such stupendously boorish characters: so-called gentlemen and ladies, who depend solely on their family name, and wealth, to navigate the world; and for all that, I say: considering all my observations throughout all the pageants and balls; and banquets; and other such insufferable, high society affairs I have attended: I daresay, there is some tremendous injustice alive in our society--to permit for such wasted potential!"
"So you say!" Cries Marianne--hands freed of the machine, in a dramatic gesture. "What does wit on a woman serve, hm? Shall I wager to make employ of it to become a lawyer? A physician?" She scoffs. "I only do as accepted of an unwed woman of lowbirth, that she may eat; and nothing within either of our capabilities can change this: any better than we could hope to prevent the ship that is due to take you away, in two weeks' time!"
It is a concise bit of honesty; for, with these words having thus been spoken, there is a line drawn in the sand: an impassable barrier formed, as though from a witch's incantation, that cannot ever be crossed; a looming sword of Damocles that, whenever its memory might be conjured in the days to come, bears the immediate impact of nullifying any further discussion, such as it inspires an unshakable air of malease to fall upon the two ladies. Luella starts to slowly sink--like a bladder full of air suddenly deflated--to the floor: her fine Parisian dress gradually ballooning out as her chest arches inward, resembling a wilting upside-down flower. Marianne stops her sewing to observe the dramatic showing: uncertain of what words of support to offer--again reiterated, because there is nothing to possibly be said; no method by which either could minimize the formless dread, as it stalks and salivates, hovering dangerously above their throats: constantly reminding of that inevitable final end to things, which lie invariably near.
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