Posted in Posted by J. M. Barrie

    Darcy Jo here with the new romance... wait, I forgot, I have to go as Barrie. Okay, Barrie here with the new romance. And don't y'all dare just say you liked it, the Inklings is to help people improve on their writing. Here it is:

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    “My dearest Judith,

    You must remember, as this be the night before our wedding, these my words:

    Love is not a wavering thing; it is ever steadfast, ever true. Love me even when you do not like me. Stay true, my dearest, true to me and you. Love long, even when there is no hope. Love, not romance, shall hold us together evermore.

    Love faithfully, truthfully, unfalteringly, my Judith.

    Love me even when you do not like me.

    Yours forever,

    Fredrick.”

    Judith’s tears streamed down her face as she re-read Fredrick’s last letter. “Fredrick… How could I be so foolish, so stupid!” Overwhelmed by her emotions, she hurled the letter like a stone onto the wood floor. She looked out the window. “Grey. Why is it always grey? Fredrick…” Her stomach twisted and lurched in her bitter thought. “I never kissed my husband. I never kissed my husband. Oh, Hawthorne, wretched Hawthorne!

    “I’ll never forgive him. He ruined my life, that Hawthorne. I know I shall never forgive him, never. There he goes, to the McLeods’ home. Oh, no, is he going to? No, Tom, don’t do it. If you marry that girl, I shall… it does not matter anymore. What a horrid man he is. He ruined everyone’s life, and I believe he does not care. No, I am sure he does not care. Albany, Fredrick, and myself, all ruined because of him. He’s ruined himself, too. How could he lead such a miserable life, making others so miserable? He is a murderer. But how could I grieve for him, when I have my own grievances? That limp of his, that could not be Fredrick’s fault. My Fredrick could not shoot him. You killed my husband, Tom Hawthorne, and I shall never forgive you, as long as I live.

    “As long as I live…” She collapsed upon her bed in a faint.

    Judith Russett did not wake until the morning, greeted not by the usual bright guardian of day, but by grey clouds, the ones that had hung eerily in the sky since the day of her wedding, that bleak day. Exhausted, the poor girl looked about the room, wondering what was going on. To her shock, she felt a stinging pain in her arm. Glancing over, she realized that she had been bled. “But I am not ill. Perhaps I am, though?” she thought. In the corner of her room stood her grandfather, appearing quite anxious.

    “Grandfather, where is my husband?” she gasped.

    Head lowered, Mr. Cranston said sadly, “Darling, Fredrick is dead. He was hanged almost a week ago. Do you not remember, dear?”

    Her head swimming due to fever, she said, “I do remember. How could I do such a thing? How could he do such a thing? Fredrick… Hawthorne…” Suddenly, she became chilled, and grabbed tightly at the quilt, as she shook with regret, pain, and cold. “I’m so sorry, Grandfather.” She fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

    “Poor girl, all the pressures of the world on her shoulders. There is nothing to mend her heart. If Mr. Russet were not already dead, I would kill the villain myself.”

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    ~Darcy Jo... Barrie