Flash Fiction Friday VII

If only I had been able to retrieve the sprite before that awful man came calling on Miss Abigail.  She has me place her sprite figurine in the vestibule window as a signal that she is receiving gentleman callers.  I honestly do not understand what she sees in that despicable man, Gerald Carson Esq.  Oh how it pains me to even lay gaze upon him.  Him, with his corselet strung ever so high for Miss Abigail, it’s a wonder he can even breathe.  Furthermore, I still cannot fathom this obsession with the arsenic that Miss Abigail has acquired.  Apparently she feels more attractive looking waif and half dead, and the fainting spells are absolutely dreadful.  I feel a mother to that foolish child and wish she wouldn’t place so much importance on vanity.

Oh that dreadful man!  Every time he comes calling on Miss Abigail it’s always the same.  As Jeebs is taking his coat, Mr. Carson purposely steps on his foot and sneers at him like a rabid hound.  I anxiously await the day that Jeebs finally musters up the courage to stand his ground without fear of consequence.  Miss Abigail then sachets down the staircase like the Queen Victoria herself, always sure to flash a bit of ankle in the first few treads.  This whole exchange drives one to vomit.  They would usually retire to the sitting room for some tea, accompanied with two or three fainting spells with Mr. Carson attending her hand.  Then he would suggest the garden as a place for her to catch her breath and warm her frigid hand in the sunlight.

Once in the garden, Miss Abigail would amazingly begin to feel so much better.  I would bring them cold lemonade during the hot spells which Mr. Carson would proceed to spike with whiskey when she wasn’t looking.  After a couple of glasses they would decide to play crocket on the quadrangle, beyond the spying eye of her father.  I do not think he much approves of that man either.  By this time, Miss Abigail would be thoroughly tipsy, and her game severely lacking in skill.  Mr. Carson would then propose to help her improve her game by standing beside her with his arm around her waist, helping her swing the mallet.  Just then another fainting spell would come to pass, bringing them both to the emerald turf.

He would patiently attend her until she was brought back to apparent consciousness, caressing her ivory cheek the entire time.  Waking to the security of Mr. Carson holding her would bring on a fit of passion which was stoked by their petting and then eventually kissing.  Miss Abigail’s father, after not hearing a sound out of them for some time, would walk out on the veranda and start to whistle.  This was his way of subtly indicating that whatever they are up to it is time to stop.  They stammer to their feet and brush themselves off, whisking away their carelessness of youth.  The stroll back to house was met with the piercing stare of her father whistling his morbid tune.  Mr. Carson would greet her father as if nothing had happened, not noticing his shirt tail fluttering in the breeze.

Later in the evening I would help Miss Abigail out of her corset, as she would usually be too drunk to do it herself.  She always asks my confirmation of Mr. Carson’s character.  I always tell her “Mr. Carson is a wonderful man, a breath of fresh air one might say.”  The whole time gritting my teeth.