Fic post: The Wait
Jul. 15th, 2010 10:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gayalondiel_bakFandom: Hornblower
Title: The Wait
Character/Pairing: Maria
Episode: n/a
Length: 970 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: n/a
Disclaimer: All Hornblower characters and situations are the property of the CS Forester estate and of Meridian television. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
AN: Just a little piece about Maria being left at home. I won't pretend, for those of you who know me, that there isn't something of me in here, but I'll leave you to guess which parts that is! It is a lonely life.
Maria waits.
Every morning she walks down to the sea and counts the ships. She knows them well, marks their comings and goings and always waits with bated breath to see a ship that is never there. Every morning she schools herself against this hope, so as not to be disappointed, but every day she fails and her heart sinks a little further when he is not there. She buys a newspaper and scours it for mention of him, and casts it aside far too roughly when it tells her nothing.
She does not socialise with the other captains' wives that she sees going here and there about the town. They do not see her as one of them and she knows that people whisper that she is not like them, should not be married to a captain but to a tradesman or some such. She does not bear it well and knows herself to be less than them, and so she avoids their derision and keeps herself busy at home. Her little house with its wants and needs are enough for her to bear, but it is a lonely life.
Her fingertips are worn and sore from her needlework. Quite unlike a lady's hands should be, but Maria does her own mending as well as the finer crafts. She sews to keep her mind occupied, and when she has no mending she can turn her hand to the many handkerchiefs she has embroidered, the screens and tablecloths and more all for Horatio's cabin, the growing pile of gifts that he has not come home to receive. She wonders if she will give them to him when he returns, for he will surely be overwhelmed with how her thoughts have dwelt on him, and instead she puts them away to be unpicked and reworked some other time. Late at night when she cannot sleep she tears apart the handkerchief proudly emblazoned with his name, initials and the title HMS Hotspur, the vessel that takes him so far from her.
At daybreak she wakes and expects his presence, despite the little time they have spent as man and wife. For a brief second she believes he will be there beside her, and then she comes to herself and the realisation rushes up fast. He is not.
Every evening she writes him a letter. She tells him of her day, her comings and goings and the pleasant people she encounters running her errands about town. She writes of her mother's illnesses and complaints and then strikes through these paragraphs as she knows Horatio will not be interested to hear of them. In a small, excited hand she writes of the child growing inside her, the fear and thrill and wonder of it all. She ponders names and wonders if it will be a boy and dreams of the man he may be, following in his father's footsteps. Proudly she writes of all they will show him and all he will do, plotting out a life as yet unborn as though by thinking it she could make it so, and she longs in her heart for the day Horatio knows and can share her delight. She writes of the joys and blessings they will know, their little family.
In the mornings she reads her letters and then throws them on the fire, sending only the briefer missives and none at all of the child. Writing letters makes the distance between them so much more real.
Some evenings, after her mother has retired, Maria sits and weeps resentment that she is left here, bearing the burden of the lonely wife. The world tells her to be proud of her husband, and she is, so proud her heart aches. But she is also alone, and lost without her beloved. Her tears are bitter and curse the Navy and Horatio and the love that fell on her so suddenly, so that she could not bear but pursue him – for she knows it was her pursuit and not his that brought them together. She resents him for not loving her enough to stay and herself for loving him too much to let him go, and then the sobs come thick and fast as she curses her own name for thinking so cruelly of the man who keeps her in house and home and, though he may not love her as much as she would like, made her his own and blessed her so many times over. She curses herself for loving a man who could not stay, and could not love, and longs for the days she did not feel this way. Yet she cannot but love him, and finally she weeps again and whispers a prayer for forgiveness for evil thoughts and another for her beloved Horatio, to keep him safe.
In the dark of night she lies awake and anxieties wash over her, one after another, whispering fear like the wind whipping in the rigging of a tall ship. Suppose he dies? Maybe he is dead already and she is just marking time waiting for the inevitable horror of finding herself alone in the world. Maybe he is not dead, but misses her not at all – that would be worse, far worse. Maybe he will be captured. Maybe he will be grievously wounded and unable to serve the Navy that he loves. Maybe he will find another love, on another shore, and forget his dutiful wife awaiting him. The fears roll, one at a time until she cannot breathe, think or cry out from the smothering anguish. She longs for the comforting dark of sleep, when for a time she can forget that he is gone, until the next morning she wakes and remembers and walks to the sea to count the ships.
Maria waits.
Title: The Wait
Character/Pairing: Maria
Episode: n/a
Length: 970 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: n/a
Disclaimer: All Hornblower characters and situations are the property of the CS Forester estate and of Meridian television. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
AN: Just a little piece about Maria being left at home. I won't pretend, for those of you who know me, that there isn't something of me in here, but I'll leave you to guess which parts that is! It is a lonely life.
Maria waits.
Every morning she walks down to the sea and counts the ships. She knows them well, marks their comings and goings and always waits with bated breath to see a ship that is never there. Every morning she schools herself against this hope, so as not to be disappointed, but every day she fails and her heart sinks a little further when he is not there. She buys a newspaper and scours it for mention of him, and casts it aside far too roughly when it tells her nothing.
She does not socialise with the other captains' wives that she sees going here and there about the town. They do not see her as one of them and she knows that people whisper that she is not like them, should not be married to a captain but to a tradesman or some such. She does not bear it well and knows herself to be less than them, and so she avoids their derision and keeps herself busy at home. Her little house with its wants and needs are enough for her to bear, but it is a lonely life.
Her fingertips are worn and sore from her needlework. Quite unlike a lady's hands should be, but Maria does her own mending as well as the finer crafts. She sews to keep her mind occupied, and when she has no mending she can turn her hand to the many handkerchiefs she has embroidered, the screens and tablecloths and more all for Horatio's cabin, the growing pile of gifts that he has not come home to receive. She wonders if she will give them to him when he returns, for he will surely be overwhelmed with how her thoughts have dwelt on him, and instead she puts them away to be unpicked and reworked some other time. Late at night when she cannot sleep she tears apart the handkerchief proudly emblazoned with his name, initials and the title HMS Hotspur, the vessel that takes him so far from her.
At daybreak she wakes and expects his presence, despite the little time they have spent as man and wife. For a brief second she believes he will be there beside her, and then she comes to herself and the realisation rushes up fast. He is not.
Every evening she writes him a letter. She tells him of her day, her comings and goings and the pleasant people she encounters running her errands about town. She writes of her mother's illnesses and complaints and then strikes through these paragraphs as she knows Horatio will not be interested to hear of them. In a small, excited hand she writes of the child growing inside her, the fear and thrill and wonder of it all. She ponders names and wonders if it will be a boy and dreams of the man he may be, following in his father's footsteps. Proudly she writes of all they will show him and all he will do, plotting out a life as yet unborn as though by thinking it she could make it so, and she longs in her heart for the day Horatio knows and can share her delight. She writes of the joys and blessings they will know, their little family.
In the mornings she reads her letters and then throws them on the fire, sending only the briefer missives and none at all of the child. Writing letters makes the distance between them so much more real.
Some evenings, after her mother has retired, Maria sits and weeps resentment that she is left here, bearing the burden of the lonely wife. The world tells her to be proud of her husband, and she is, so proud her heart aches. But she is also alone, and lost without her beloved. Her tears are bitter and curse the Navy and Horatio and the love that fell on her so suddenly, so that she could not bear but pursue him – for she knows it was her pursuit and not his that brought them together. She resents him for not loving her enough to stay and herself for loving him too much to let him go, and then the sobs come thick and fast as she curses her own name for thinking so cruelly of the man who keeps her in house and home and, though he may not love her as much as she would like, made her his own and blessed her so many times over. She curses herself for loving a man who could not stay, and could not love, and longs for the days she did not feel this way. Yet she cannot but love him, and finally she weeps again and whispers a prayer for forgiveness for evil thoughts and another for her beloved Horatio, to keep him safe.
In the dark of night she lies awake and anxieties wash over her, one after another, whispering fear like the wind whipping in the rigging of a tall ship. Suppose he dies? Maybe he is dead already and she is just marking time waiting for the inevitable horror of finding herself alone in the world. Maybe he is not dead, but misses her not at all – that would be worse, far worse. Maybe he will be captured. Maybe he will be grievously wounded and unable to serve the Navy that he loves. Maybe he will find another love, on another shore, and forget his dutiful wife awaiting him. The fears roll, one at a time until she cannot breathe, think or cry out from the smothering anguish. She longs for the comforting dark of sleep, when for a time she can forget that he is gone, until the next morning she wakes and remembers and walks to the sea to count the ships.
Maria waits.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-15 10:48 pm (UTC)I can relate to Maria. I too, wrote those letters.
i hope you see your Navyboy soon.
SJH
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 06:54 pm (UTC)Gaya x
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 07:24 am (UTC)*gives you hugs*
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 06:55 pm (UTC)What a great compliment! Thank you. There is a lot about her I don't get on with, but I certainly sympathise with her lot.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 07:03 pm (UTC)Al least we dont live with Mrs Mason!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 07:58 pm (UTC)Actually, they're one of the reasons I stay where I am. I don't much like Portsmouth or Plymouth though, and if I ever go to Faslane it will most likely to be as a hippy not a navy wife, so I have traded off without the informed support to be in a place I do like.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-16 09:45 pm (UTC)You expressed this beautifully using her unsent letters: those full of her personality were left to burn on the fire, while those sent were instead dull, inimaginative, and sadly confirmed her husband's low opinion.
I particularly liked the way you brought it 'round full circle at the end...much like Maria's days and thoughts, I should think.
Very nice!
no subject
Date: 2010-07-17 07:23 am (UTC)It is the sparseness of her outward landscaoe and how it impinges on her creative inner self - not even valuing the lovely things she makes becasuse he has not received them and probably would not appreciate them.]..
and her understanding that she took on deliberately someone who could probably not love her the way she wanted and therefore is partly responsible for her own choice is a delicately handled and mature insight.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-17 07:32 am (UTC)I love the way you bring more complexity to her. I'm far more sympathetic, having read your stuff.
Well done and thank you.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-17 08:41 pm (UTC)I love this line, it's very poetic and reminds me a bit of By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
Thanks for sharing this, and I hope it was cathartic for you.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-20 08:17 pm (UTC)