A Slow Paced Envy (5/15)
Sunday, July 16th, 2023 16:34![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fumblingmusingsA study of a potential Female England characterisation. Snapshots through the years showing how and where her attempts at parenthood and romance run dissonant to the reality of being the motherland of the world's largest empire. There's a lot of people in her head who don't belong there, and it soon becomes everyone else's problem.
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Five: 1781-1788, or the American War of Independence
Virginia Peninsula, Virginia
She’d gone into the house. The house that had been burnt down and rebuilt countless times in the previous century. The last time it had been wrecked was three years ago. It wasn’t a home. Never had been. He’d never been allowed to settle in one. Always moving, never stationary. This was nothing more than a burnt shell of a building, halfway between old abandoned Jamestown and Williamsburg - both places named for Kings whom Alfred had never met or seen. He knew as much about them as he did his namesake, only through the stories that Evelyn would tell him, what made them wise or foolish or great.
Since his time with Evelyn, he had only met three of her monarchs: the second Charles, full of humour and a love for science but prone to the same selfishness as his father; Anne, a very serious woman who seemed to wish to be dead alongside her children and husband before her time; and the third George, when Alfred and so many other territories had been invited to the coronation.
That had been a farce. One Bishop had nearly dropped the crown; there had been an argument during the service between the Archbishop and the Dean on whether the King could take holy communion whilst wearing said crown (George made the decision himself to remove it); a jewel had fallen to the floor from another crown which had distracted Alfred for the entire ceremony; and the whole thing was so long, so dull, so hard to hear, that people ate pork pies and drank wine throughout the six hours of a service. Even the new tiny German Queen had no luck, as when trying to use the closet that had been built specially for her, she found some Duke or whatever pissing in her pot.
It was just a big joke, even the usually serious King thought it was funny, laughing at the guy who promised that he would do a better job planning the next Coronation. As if George would be alive to see it.
Next time next time. Promise promise. Push back push back. Wait wait. Do as you're told. Be quiet.
Please Alfred be good.
He was so tired.
But still, Alfred - America - stood by the small lake. He held a Charleville musket, resting the butt on the grass, fingers wrapped around the muzzle.
Evelyn’s horse, a large black shire horse she’d brought over from England, was tied to a post nearby, munching on some grass. He recognised Alfred surprisingly, despite the years, and did not mind when he came over to stroke the large creature's head and neck. Evelyn never rode smaller, faster horses; the ones used for racing or cavalry regiments. Whether it was the calmer temperament, or the physical height giving her a feeling of safety, Alfred didn’t know.
He untied the horse from the post. It would need to be able to run if worse came to worst. Moving towards the house, America stationed himself somewhere where England would not immediately spot him. She no doubt would feel that he was nearby, but the exact location was never a given. Francis was also nearby, on some ship somewhere blockading the coast. Evelyn would be focusing on that, and getting back to Yorktown unspotted.
Alfred stood still, waiting for her to emerge.
Which she did, carrying bundles of fabric. Alfred knew what was wrapped up in those bundles. He couldn’t let her take them.
Of course she noted immediately that her horse was untied, having wandered over to the lake. She whistled, and her horse came back, allowing her to begin stuffing her bags with the salvaged memories of the house.
“Evelyn,” Alfred said. The name felt odd on his tongue. Even more alien was the concept of calling her Eva, which Alfred has seen the other home nations (and Portugal) call her. He wondered by what criterion did a person have to reach to be deigned worthy of such intimacy.
England did not gasp or cry out. Instead, Alfred watched her freeze, take a deep breath, then turn around. She was not wearing red, for once, nor was she wearing anything possibly suited for sneaking across Virginia. Her cream dress, bare forearms and hair haphazardly tied up and out of the way gave the look of someone who had snuck out of the English camp in a hurry. She wasn’t dressed for a fight.
Alfred knew she could, and yet this entire war she had always conveniently been elsewhere, in Virginia when he was in Philadelphia, in Halifax when he was in Richmond, in goddamn Gibraltar when he was in New York.
Maybe he was blatantly looking for a reason to hate her. If she became violent, he could justify those horrid thoughts to himself. For all he was growing to be, Alfred still was not sure he could justify himself shooting an unarmed woman.
She was tiny. Slight and short. She was not trembling however, not even when she saw the gun.
“You burnt it,” she accused. Her first words to him in years (minus the letters. Somehow they'd always found their way to him. Without fail he had not read them), and she was lecturing him. “Over a hundred and fifty years and you burnt it. When?”
“A while ago.”
“Why? This was our home.”
Alfred swallowed. “Not yours.”
She looked so disappointed in him, like he was still ten years old and didn’t understand how easily he could be manipulated or led astray.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“No-one.”
Still eyeing the gun, England moved towards her eldest. Alfred recoiled, just a bit. It was enough to make her stop.
“My love”-
“Stop it!” he yelled, anger getting the better of him. “Don’t pretend syrupy words will fix anything. All you do is talk and talk and talk and never do anything. It’s just performative shit.”
Evelyn stepped back this time.
“Performative? You think I was pretending to care about you? To love you?”
“You’re not my mother,” he groaned. “And you’re making everything worse by sticking your head in the sand.”
She heaved her arms and shoulders up in a confused and exasperated shrug.
“I cannot change what my government says! You talk of your people being excluded, what of mine? My women? Fifty thousand people in Birmingham alone and not one member of parliament to speak for them! Your slave owners think they matter more than my poorest? That is vile.”
An old argument, one they had never managed to see eye to eye on. She was being unfair, picking moral arguments as they suited her. It did not matter how much she loathed her political elite. She did nothing to displace them, nor did she consent to Alfred's being raised to the same level. What was left to be done?
“Not more! The same. Just to be the same. And why couldn’t we make it better for both of us? It doesn’t have to be at the expense of your people… And yet you sat and did nothing! Even after Boston”-
England snorted, looking away, somewhere in the general direction of Yorktown.
‐“You just said to endure it. Evelyn, I can’t. I can’t. If something is broken we fix it. We don’t… turn the other way and hope it goes away.”
England’s green eyes watered. “If only. Or do you not remember? I was locked away from you for years - meanwhile my brothers ran around free to fight in the civil war - because I could not be used the way either party wished… I have no value. That has been made clear throughout my long life. I have no power. All I can do is talk and endure.”
“I just wish you would fight.”
She scoffed. “My mistake. The last five or so years have been me sitting on my hands, of course. You know best, love. As I told you.”
“Maybe I do.”
Exhaling shakily, England finally moved towards America, eyes never trailing far from the gun for too long. She rested her hands on his biceps, standing too close for comfort.
“I am not so foolish to think that when this is over things will go back to the way they were. I know that.”
“You won’t win. No ships are getting through the blockade. Cornwallis can’t win this one. I'm going to go to Yorktown, be with my people, stand with them, not hide away or place myself above them like you do.”
England twitched. “How can you listen to Francis’ poison, those are his words, I know him. I am not as ignorant as you claim. Listen, he does not want what is best for you. No, he is…”
Words failed her, not wanting to say the accusation out loud. Alfred had no such compunction. “Using me to hurt you. I know.”
“Then why…” She let go of his arms, stepping away. For all the many long years that Alfred had felt not seen by Evelyn, the look she gave him in that moment was the first time he felt he truly understood him.
She saw him, and she did not like it.
“You hurt me first. So often.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “Why are you so obsessed with making me into a villain? To hurt you? Me?”
“Stop playing the victim! You're not! I am not following you anymore, you have to contend with me as an independent nation. Not your child, not your doll that you can coddle and kiss whenever the mood takes you. Just for the love of God don't just sit there and weep. Do something.”
“What? What do you want me to do Alfred? March up to the King and demand a ceasefire? They will drag me away. Slap Frederick North across the face and demand your independence? They will scoff and move on. Besides, I do not want you to leave. You are my boy and you are not ready to be on your own yet. When the time comes I swear I will step aside for you, but it is not now. And yet you speak as if you wish me to shoot my own soldiers.” Her desperate look became anguished. “Alfred, I could not even stop the riots in London last year. I couldn’t stop four hundred people from dying. If I could stop a war, you think I would sit by?”
Alfred stared at her. “I was sorry about the riots.”
The veins in England’s neck bulged, swallowing loudly. It looked as though she were chewing on words. Words that she did not say when instead she demanded, “What can I do to make you come home with me?”
“I don’t want that.”
She pushed him back. An echo of when he was smaller and more easily pushed around. It had hurt then, a ripping feeling of rejection. As it was now, Evelyn only managed to push herself away, stumbling in the mud.
“You… Christ. Enough. When this is over and we have gone back home, we can just… I do not know. Forget this ever happened. Go back to being our family”-
“No!” Alfred grabbed Evelyn as she turned away with one arm, hard enough to make her gasp. She twisted and writhed, instinctively being driven into a panic at someone grabbing her without her consent.
Finally, Alfred got what he wanted; she lashed out, slapping him hard across the face. The metal of her old pearl ring stung sharply. To Alfred's surprise, it hurt.
She’d never done that before. The horrified look on her face confirmed it.
“Admit it,” Alfred demanded, still holding on to her. “We aren’t a family. It’s an Empire. You’ve been lying for two hundred years. I want out. I’m getting out. You need to fight me, and stop being so damned delusional.”
England ripped her hand free. “Do not tell me what to do Alfred. You are still a child! Easily misled and full of stupid ideas.”
She stomped away, leaving Alfred outside the house. Taking the horse's reins, she prepared to lift herself up, checking one last time that what she came for was securely fastened.
“You can’t take those,” America yelled. “They don’t belong to you!”
“I made them for you!” she shrieked back. “I am taking what is mine since you are so determined to be a spoiled brat.”
Her screech had frightened the horse, who bucked and moved away, leaving Evelyn grappling after the reins. “For God’s sake…”
An unearthly loud shot rang out, further spooking Evelyn’s horse and making it flee across the mud and shallow water, heading in an unknown direction. England tensed, then turned around.
Alfred was reloading the gun, then raised it to point it directly at her.
“You have to admit it,” he said.
Evelyn’s mouth hung open, a confused despair that only made Alfred’s temper grow hotter.
“Admit what?”
Her green eyes were glistening. Silently, Alfred begged her to not stoop so low.
“That I’m not your child, that you’ve exploited us for your own ego, that you standing by and shrugging your shoulders is you being complicit,” he explained, furious that England did not understand.
Of all the things she could have done in response to his demands, moving back to hold him and crying was probably the worst.
“My love”-
America shot England.
She shrieked, a piercing horrid cry, seemingly louder than the gunshot. Falling back, she cracked her head against the hard ground. Her stays, boned and rigid, did nothing to protect her from the cartridge ball, and immediately Alfred saw her cream dress splatter red. He’d hit her somewhere in her mid chest. He didn’t know if he had aimed correctly, France’s guns had shit accuracy.
She did not get back up, and gave another cry. It cut off oddly, choking, and her back arched, as if physically trying to separate herself from the pain.
Dropping the weapon, Alfred moved to her, hoping she would finally grow angry enough to fight back. When he got his arms around her, hoisting her half up, he was further disappointed. Evelyn was becoming limp, craning her neck to catch her breath. She didn’t seem to notice it was Alfred who was holding her. He shook her, having completely given in to anger.
“No, come on, fight! Fight me already. God, prove that you care. Evelyn just…”
She struggled, gasping and unable to vocalise. Her hands flailed, pushing against Alfred's chest. The pressure was negligible, not nearly enough to make Alfred back off. Blood was appearing around her mouth. He'd punctured her lung, Alfred realised. She was drowning.
“Wait,” Alfred said, not begging, “don't you dare!”
The frightened, frantic beating of her fists on his chest slowed, but Evelyn continued to twitch and writhe on the ground. In Alfred’s arms. The cream dress was quickly becoming pure red and brown from blood and mud.
“No,” she gasped, eyes rolling loose in their sockets, seeing nothing. “You wouldn't…”
The sound of her gagging ensued, cutting off her protest. Desperately trying to get breath into her lungs, she continued to convulse. The blood was too much, and instinctively she turned her head to the side and was sick, her body frantically trying to clear out anything it saw as blocking her throat. The sound was more awful than the sight, Alfred would later brood, despite the vision of the bright red vomit spilling across the ground. Disgusted, Alfred jerked her body to the side, keeping her away from the sickness. A trail from her mouth to the ground remained, smearing together with tears.
Alfred only grew more frustrated, as if she was putting it on specifically to spite him.
“I'm not your child! You just did what your Kings and Parliament wanted. Playing at family… Don’t you get it? You're not just a puppet, you're tying us up in string to suffer with you. Protecting us? Loving us? Evelyn it's all a farce. You didn't get to choose any of us. When was the last time they let you go to Barbados or Bermuda? Before your civil war right? You didn't argue for them, you made do with me and obsessing over Mattie. You were using us all right from the word go; you just made up a story in your head to justify it.”
“Love,” she mumbled incoherently, any further words swallowed up in choking.
Red overflowed her mouth again, and her seizing muscles began to slow. She stared up at Alfred, giving no indication that she understood what he had said. He let her go, and she fell against the ground with a thump. As her skin impossibly paled, Alfred watched those flitting and unseeing green eyes slow down to stillness, and as the shallow and wet breaths stuttered to a halt.
Alfred had never seen Evelyn die before. It took too long for him to recognise it as such.
The cry that escaped him when he realised what he had done was utterly inhuman.
He knew she must have died many times whilst he was in her care, but somehow she'd managed to shield him from the worst.
He’d killed her.
Having a woman, the woman who'd sung him to sleep, sewed his shirts and gone through ridiculous hoops to ensure he never wanted for anything material, bleed out in his arms had put him into a state of shock.
That woman…
Who’d done nothing more than coo with a patronising sympathy to any of his worries or complaints. Who’d told him that soldiers shooting civilians was just the way things worked.
Well, Alfred had just shot a civilian.
Awkwardly, he tried to brush the blood dripping out her mouth away, but found he was only making things worse. He told himself not care, but he still shook her once more, as if they were back in Providence and she had become too still next to him as they slept.
He wanted to hate her. More than anything he wished that he could feel righteous, but the only emotion he could conjure was a distinct feeling of nausea. It felt akin to shooting a rabid dog, a desperation to just get it over and done with, put the poor thing out of its misery.
She truly did not understand, even now, over five years after he'd first left their home in Philadelphia in the middle of the night with nothing more than a note at her bedside. She couldn't comprehend why he'd done the things he had. As if he were acting on spite. As if she should have been the priority for his actions, his beliefs.
She'd managed to maintain a grip on Matthew, somehow, but it wouldn't last.
He thought of Evelyn holding him after she had escaped England during the interregnum. She'd practically washed up on shore, dragging herself towards him. He'd run to her, equally desperate for those thin arms around him. She'd been taken from him for so long, he had feared he would forget her voice. The pain of missing her had been incomparable. No-one else was that effortlessly loving or sweet to him. That constant presence was taken, and they had hurt her so badly. She'd escaped for him, she said so.
So, why would she go against her government then, but not now? Why did she have to make rules so arbitrary?
Alfred was convinced it was a front. That love. One big fat lie. If someone pushed her hard enough, something vicious would leak out. There had to be. That affection could not be unconditional. There was no other explanation for Francis' and Antonio's loathing, why Gilbert thought the entire thing was the funniest joke he'd heard in years.
The pumping of blood from her dress stopped. Already he could feel it cooling. The arms of his blue coat had turned a damp shade of violet.
For some reason, it hurt more than he was expecting. Francis had told him to prepare for the eventuality. He thought he had. But…
“I didn’t want this,” America heard himself say out loud. “God… I didn’t…”
The body did not reply. She continued to stare at nothing, sprawled out on the ground like a broken doll.
Another nation was approaching the house. Not Francis, Alfred knew, he was on one of the ships off the coast. Not Gilbert, he had long gone home, his job in training Alfred how to fight complete.
Blinking, America struggled to wrap his head around what he had done, to think of who was on their way, and if he wanted them to catch him leaning over the dead body of the woman he once called mother.
He did not know what he was to do. Was he to sit with her until she woke up? What then? She would be too weak for sometime to do anything save glare at him.
Her horse was returning, curious about why its mistress was stricken on the ground. Alfred whistled it back, getting up and leaving England in the mud. Grasping the bags mounted at the rear of the horse, he went to tug out the bundles of fabric and their contents. He wanted one letter in particular, if it had miraculously survived. To his surprise, there it was. It must have been safe in the cellar, locked away in a box.
He gripped the paper tightly, staining the letter red with Evelyn's blood.
Instructions for my son, drawn by myself, for his good, that of my family's, and for that of his people.
Evelyn had made a copy for him, a letter on what it was to be a good ruler, taken from Prince Frederick's letter to his son, now King George. She said it applied as much to Alfred as it did to any King, more so even, and implied that it had not truly been Frederick's words to begin with. Most nation's were not so lucky to receive guidance, Alfred knew this. Their early years were spent in a wilderness, alone and isolated and made to feel monstrous within their own bodies.
Let me lay down the path and lead the way until you are ready, England would say.
Despite everything, Alfred refused to let this letter go. He read it through for the first time in a decade, having never once forgotten its words. Of all the things she had gifted him, he could not so easily set this aside.
Alfred looked back. Evelyn remained dead on the ground. She would not wake for some time. If he left her, he feared her corpse would be defiled. Whatever nation was coming, whether it one of her brothers, or even Matthew, he hoped it was someone who would get the body somewhere quiet until she awoke.
I entertain no doubt of your good heart, nor of your honour. Things I trust, you will never lose out of sight. The perverseness and bad examples of the times, I am sure will never make you forget them. Let me add, that when mankind will once be persuaded that you are just, humane, generous and brave, you will be beloved by your people and respected by foreign powers.
His blood red hands came into focus once more, trembling and not at all in control. He tried to take a calming breath to steady himself, but found he couldn’t. Worse, as he attempted to regain composure, his vision blurred.
Ah. He was crying.
He should have expected this.
And yet, he tried to rationalise, it wasn’t the first time he’d killed, nor was she his mother, or sister, or any friend of his. She was a puppet of soft power, designed to use sentimentality to keep any rebelliousness under control, to ensure the colony remained loyal.
It wasn't real. Any of it.
He repeated this fact to himself several times, desperate to remove any and every memory of sweetness. It was all a lie. She just was too lost in the fantasy to admit it. This would be a wake up call. It would do them good. Long term.
The other nation was getting closer.
Swearing to himself, America stuffed the letter into his coat. He hooked one foot into the stirrups, and hoisted himself up. Once up, he urged the horse to go straight into a canter, then left. He looked back once again, and choked on a word before it slid out unbidden.
He wasn’t sorry.
*****
Wells, Somerset
“I am not his mother.”
England said nothing in response, staring at the foot of the bed and not her sister and the babe she was carrying. Small. Smaller than any other she had seen previously. Two months? Maybe. Where the hell had they found it? Where had it come from?
Another wave of nausea was coming on. She could feel Matthew lingering behind the shut door to her bedroom.
“Leave,” she whispered.
It was something of a combination of many ills. Something very much felt like it had been ripped out of her, a caesarean whilst fully conscious, the hole gaping and weeping and killing her from the gore left behind. The economic downturn was not helping matters, a flu like stiffness and aching in every bone.
Then there were the withdrawal symptoms. An unshakeable headache, racing heart, sweating and an inability to rest. A voracious hunger that she tried so hard to avoid. Food would not stay down, her body rejected any and every attempt to give her a chance at recovery.
Rotting in bed felt very literal these past months.
Erin remained in the room, holding whatever Rhys had brought back from abroad.
“Decomposing in this room would be fine by me but you have responsibilities. Or are you not the head of our lovely Imperial Family?”
“You have made your point. Leave.”
“I can smell the sick bucket from here. Where's the staff? Matthew,” she called back to her nephew through the door, “Clean ‐”
Panic flooded England's expression. Matthew had not been allowed to see his mother for several weeks.
“Matthew if you come in here I'll have you tied to the fence and whipped! Go!”
Erin rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “You will not, Eva! You couldn't even smack the boys on the bottom when they dug up your turnip patch!”
Nevertheless, the sound of footsteps was heard. Matthew still obeyed Evelyn. Maybe once that would have been reassuring. Maybe now it was too upsetting to have to look at her in such a state. How far the woman he had been forced to call mother had fallen.
The sisters stared at each other. If Erin were not holding a baby, she would have begun to pull at her sister - by the hair if necessary - to get her out of bed.
“Got you a replacement,” Erin quipped. “Since the gaols of Georgia are no longer available. Look! A new place to dump the undesirables.”
Murderous did not seem to explain Evelyn's expression. Erin did not enjoy cruelty, and would pay for it later, but it was necessary to cease the apathy and despair of the pathetic figure in the bed.
Ireland sighed, seeing that the baby was stirring. “Our brothers have no desire to be single parents. Scotland has discovered a love for money now too strong to ever stop working and Wales would rather travel and fight, leave behind any responsibility. Men do as they please. As always. And I refuse to be a part of your… your madness. Sending my people to do your dirty work, and punishing them for when it inevitably fails. I will see to mine and mine alone, since no one else will. I cannot raise these children. They are not mine; they are the work of your government. Your web. I pity the poor things that get trapped in your lies and hysterics. Alfred was right to leave. You deserved to be shot -”
“Get out!”
The shriek was piercing, but the pillow that was thrown barely hit its target. It was enough though. The baby woke up, and with it came tears.
Ireland looked down, expression sympathetic, but she could not get the baby to settle. She looked up at her sister. Waifish, grey and white, too small in too large a bed. Erin swallowed down her contempt.
“You used to say that you would not hurt a child. That isn’t true. You would. But you won’t hurt your child. This boy is not mine despite who you send there. I do not want him. With you there will be privilege and safety. I am not so cruel to leave him to rot. But I cannot take him.”
The baby wailed louder when Ireland leaned forward, placing the bundle on the mattress. England physically recoiled, backing up against the dark wooden frame.
“If I am such a monster, why would you allow a child to suffer at my hands?”
Erin had no reply, her attempts to hush the baby not working. She backed away, stepping towards the door.
The baby, barely bound up, kicked and waved his small arms. England watched him as if he were rabid. Darkest brown hair, dark gold skin. She could not see his eye colour, screwed up in pain as he was.
“I cannot be a mother,” Evelyn yelled. Of all the people in the world, she could not contend with having such a conversation with her sister. Plump, pink, soft, strong. Resilient. Stronger than Evelyn ever could be. “Why would you give me children if you know I… Don’t use them to punish me!”
Ireland stared. The baby continued to cry. Evelyn put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes, as if to block out the weeping infant. It did not work.
Scoffing at the childishness of it all, Erin snapped, “You have self-awareness then. Good. Somewhere in the frigid empty little heart of yours, it can love. You love Alfred.”
“I never”-
“And you love Matthew. I think you would love the others if you were allowed to travel freely. Maybe in another life. But I see no difference with this one. You had a New England; we have a New Scotland. Here’s a New Wales. Maybe do better this time?”
“You cannot give me a child -”
“There is no-one else! You won’t leave a child to suffer if it's in front of you Eva, and your government demands that you take this boy on.”
“Why must you be so difficult?!”
“You are the difficult person to deal with Eva, with your head so far up your own… Look at him! He needs a mother! He is not just a resource, try to balance that fact.”
“That is an impossible ask,” England replied, further curling up into a ball. The baby’s crying was unbearable.
“What would become of him if you left him to the Governors and Lords and Princes? Better to suffer with us than to be alone. Who else understands better than us what it is to be in our position?”
“Then you care for him!”
“I told you. I will not play this game. I abdicate responsibility. I take control where I can. I choose this.”
England sobbed, “Then why can I not do the same?”
There was no pity when Ireland replied, “...Life is not fair, little sister. You have made that plain enough over the years. Endure it. Besides, don't lie. You want a child. I know you do.”
Evelyn opened her eyes, hands still over her ears, and stared miserably at her sister. The two women had some kind of unspoken conversation, and Ireland knew, for once, she had a victory.
“You’re a cunt,” England growled.
Free of any child in her arms, Erin finally did what she desperately wanted to do, throwing a hand across England’s head. The snapping noise was loud enough to only further upset the baby, and the force was hard enough to literally knock Evelyn out of the bed.
“Grow up,” Ireland stated simply, returning to the doorway whilst knowing England was too weak to retaliate in time.
She watched Evelyn move from her heap on the floor, grasping and pulling herself up to be level with the sheets. The baby boy’s crying showed no sign of stopping, and it hurt her heart too much to listen to.
Crawling forward, sheets dragging around her, night-gown rising around her legs, Evelyn leaned over the small baby. Her hair hung over her shoulders and down onto the mattress, creating a curtain cutting off visibility from her sister.
The baby continued to wail, blind to the world. Finding the air stolen from her, and coming close to blindness herself from unspilled tears, England moved carefully.
“Shh… Shh…” She lifted the boy, cradling him close to her chest. She could not feed him. Even if she could. She did not deserve…
“No tears,” she murmured. “No tears. I frightened you screaming, I did, I know, poor baby... I am sorry. Shh… No more yelling. Hush...”
She crooned, rocking the baby back and forth. As Evelyn moved towards the headboard, she saw that Erin had left, leaving the heavy wooden door wide open. How easy it seemed to her, to do nothing but the bare minimum then leave, abdicating any responsibility and playing the victim every time.
England stopped, realising she was less thinking of Ireland and more herself.
Sniffing through the phlegm, she whispered, “I will not be good for you, and I cannot apologise enough. I will find someone to…”
She sobbed, looking down and reaching out with a finger to stroke his face. The baby opened his eyes, and Evelyn found her tears spilling down her cheeks and hitting the baby, who seemed confused at the sensation. Brown eyes. Soft brown eyes stared up at her. The creases in his forehead lessened, and he began to quieten, slowly catching his breath. He seemed rather interested in the ghost of a woman holding him, reaching up to touch her wet cheeks.
Impulsively, acting as naturally as breathing, Evelyn kissed those fingers.
“Sweet boy.”
She pressed the baby close, trying to give him what little warmth she had. The baby’s sniffles trailed off, and England tried to hum. It was hard, breathing was shallow and wet, but even if she was sobbing, at least the baby was not.
“I will not be good for you,” she cried quietly. “Forgive me when you're older?”
The feeling of having something torn from her quietened, moving to an ache rather than anything debilitating. Lord help her, Evelyn knew she was weak, but Erin was correct. The feeling of certainty, of correctness, was too strong to ignore with the baby in her arms.
She did not know if she had learnt the right lessons from Alfred, perhaps there was no lesson to be learnt at all. This boy was a replacement, there was no denying it. Doing it a second time and better seemed like a fool's hope. He would never compare to Alfred. He shouldn't be. She knew she would never be able to look at the little baby without doing so.
“I'll try,” she murmured, “and it will not be good enough.”
Another presence made itself known. When she looked up, Matthew was in the doorway. Ringing his hands and looking like he had lost his world in just a few days.
Evelyn supposed that was true. She had lost not just her beautiful eldest, but all her energy and time, the future she had wanted of the two boys together always, seemed a foolish fantasy. How long had Matthew suffered, for it all to seem rather meaningless in the end.
She could not find the words to say she was sorry. To ask why he had not once left her side. Why he had dragged her dead body onto a horse and ship back to Halifax.
“Will you really have me whipped?”
England choked on her tears. “No. No, darling.”
“Can I come in?”
England nodded her consent.
Matthew entered, immediately going to open the shutters and heavy curtains. Sunlight spilled across the room, and when he opened the windows, the smell of death began to leave.
Matthew approached his mother and the baby on the bed. She looked very lost.
“Uncle Rhys called him John,” Canada explained.
Evelyn's thick eyebrows twitched. “That is a bad name. You remember what I told you about King John?”
“A tyrant.”
“Mm.” More tears slipped down her cheeks. She noted the baby was straining for the rays of sunlight by her soft chairs and table. “He wants the sun.”
“I can move him?”
“... I want to hold him. Help me get over to sit.”
Matthew pulled the sheets back, took one hand and wrapped it around his neck and shoulders. Evelyn held the baby with one arm, crying out as her muscles struggled to comply. They got there though, sitting by an open window, warm summer breeze and rare sunlight pouring on them.
The baby smiled.
“Jack,” Evelyn muttered, carefully stroking the baby's hair. “Jack is better.”
Matthew left her and the baby alone, cleaning up around the space. Her tears threatened to restart as she caught a glimpse of him walking out the room with her bowls of sickness and waste. That wasn’t his job. But she had sent all the servants home, unable to bear the sound of happiness or humour in the household.
“He’ll need a wet nurse,” she murmured as Matthew came back in. Jack had settled, resting and soaking up the sun, but he would need feeding and soon. Her older boys had once subsisted on animal milk before receiving oats, sloppy mashed mushrooms and peas and applesauce… Maybe Jack could have the real thing first.
Already with the bed stripped and air circulating once more, the room was much more tolerable. The only thing that needed cleaning up was Evelyn herself.
She asked, “Can you find me a woman in Wells? Either a labourer’s wife who has just given birth or… or if she's lost it young… If she needs to come from Glastonbury or Shepton Mallet we can give her and her baby lodgings here until Jack is… until we find an excuse to move on and get a new one.”
Matthew nodded, glad to see her administrating once again. Her voice was weak, playing at firmness but too breathy and scratchy to be assertive.
“And call the staff back. Been paying them for nothing. The garden is a state. I want to work there again.” She tickled the baby's belly. “You can sit and enjoy the sun with me as I grow my roses.”
Matthew moved closer, to get a better view of the baby.
“He's handsome.”
England smiled. It was the first time she had done so in several months. Years, even. It did not last however. Something was nagging her, something about what Aunt Erin had argued. Matthew had not immediately known who had killed her near Williamsburg. She had not spoken about it to him. Protecting him, Canada supposed. He didn't think it was shame. Or rather, not shame directed at being shot, but rather by whom.
When he had found her, it had been a battle to get her body to safety. A dead body was a heavy thing to carry. She had woken halfway to Halifax, curling into a tight ball and clawing at her chest as if to reopen the bullet hole. Muttering and mumbling to herself for hours on end, she did not seem to notice her other boy was there. Uncle Alasdair had been waiting for them at the docks, and informed them of the news.
Alfred had won, the war was done. It was just a case of having the humans play catch up.
Evelyn swallowed, adjusting Jack in her arms more carefully than priceless porcelain. “Your brother…”
Matthew nodded. “I will treat him like mine. He is mine.”
“No. No I mean… Yes I want that. But. Al… America. He said. He said…” She stared long and confusedly at Matthew. He was sixteen now, a gangly bean pole of awkward adolescence. He'd shot up the past few years. With each loyalist family settling in Nova Scotia, his ties grew tighter with England.
Eavesdropping after their arrival in Halifax, Matthew had heard the truth as told by England to Scotland, and heard what Alfred had accused her of as he'd held her dying body. Matthew saw no point in making her repeat the information to him. It was nothing he nor Evelyn could resolve. He was so tired of grief, and yet he felt like his short life had been shaped by nothing but grief.
He took a sort of comfort in seeing England was much the same way, as cruel as that may have seemed. It would be okay though. He would be enough. Alfred's loss was not the end, and Matthew was more than capable of stepping up.
Maybe.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you do not want to,” he stated. He didn’t particularly want to.
With a trembling hand, Evelyn reached up and cupped Matthew’s face. She smiled, but still looked very sad.
“No. Not your burden to carry. But will you stay?”
“We promised we would take care of each other right? I want to look after you.”
Her eyes fogged over, and Matthew got the feeling he'd said the wrong thing. Jack made a funny noise, catching England's attention only for a moment as she adjusted him in her arms. The movement hurt, particularly the muscles in her chest, causing her to grunt.
“Can I help?” Canada asked.
England sounded very far away when she replied breathlessly, not looking Matthew in the eye.
“Oh, you’re such a darling… One more thing. Please. When you're in town, pick me up some more laudanum will you?”
Canada looked at his feet. Of all her demands, that felt the most wrong.
She had never taken it in front of him. She knew it was bad for her. She knew and now she was not hiding it anymore. Asking Matthew to be the one to give it to her.
“Mattie?”
It was the first time she had used such a pet name for him. It startled him and he glanced up, shocked. Evelyn was staring at nothing, not even the baby in her arms, with her eyes wide open and looking so distinctly off that Matthew felt trapped and unable to look away again.
“Please, darling,” she insisted. “I… I need it.”
“...I’ll try.”
“Thank you. I am sorry. That I’m not… Well. Nevermind. Go now. Be quick.”
Matthew took something of a risk, and kissed her cheek as a goodbye. A splintering gasp, pained and sounding far too similar to one on death’s door, was her response.
Fleeing the room, Matthew did not see his mother bend over and hold the baby just a little too tight.
Evelyn sat in the sun, wracked with guilt and grief, and cried.
*****
History Notes:
- American Revolution/War of Independence yeeeeeeeaaaah. I am sure you know the basics. Americans who had for the most part been allowed to do their own thing, were increasingly brought into line with UK governance. Without representation in Parliament, this felt oppressive. Disagreements on who was actually excluded/deserve the right to vote is hard to take in good faith, however the English electoral system was absolutely fucked and did not begin to be resolved until the 1830s onwards. Disputes were unable to be solved diplomatically, and war broke out. Most of Europe sided against England, seeing their chance for revenge after the Seven Year's War. Britain was threatened with invasion, and the largest battle actually took place in Gibraltar. Jamestown - the place where the colonies were essentially born - had been abandoned for Williamsburg at the end of the 17th century as the capital of Virginia. The final conflict of the war, Yorktown, is not too far from either site. Many displaced loyalists settled in Canada, for the most part in what's now New Brunswick or Nova Scotia.
- George III's coronation was... flawed. The jewel in the crown falling to the floor was possibly apocryphal but was considered a sign of things to come. The Duke of Newcastle did indeed use the Queen's rest room and peed in her potty.
- George's political legacy (careful very conservative author source here cough cough) is very different in the UK versus US. His father had written him instructions on what it was to be a good King when George was 12. When you read it and look at George's political decisions, you get the impression that he followed them religiously. I may be a nerd but I do think his letter is fascinating and I really think it is worth reading, not just as a pending monarch to his son, but as a loving father to his child.
- Alfred is referencing Montesquieu at one point. He also references the Gordon Riots, which was the closest England ever got to a revolution. Not in the liberty for all men kind of way, though. In fact, rather the opposite. Having said that, around 500 people where killed during the riots, followed by many more in the resulting trials.
- The American Revolution's impact in the UK is hard to determine. It's legacy in terms of liberalism and political theory was overshadowed the following decade by French shenanigans, and in terms of Empire, focus turned away from the Americas to the Indian subcontinent.
- Australia was a replacement penal colony for Georgia. It was called New South Wales and was initially populated largely by Irish prisoners and convicts. The journey and conditions were unforgivable. Emigration to Oz and Canada from England of 'respectable' families was not yet encouraged until after the Napoleonic Wars.
- Laudanum is a opioid. It was used as a cure all from the 17th century onwards. It is addictive and nowadays is much more controlled in its ingredients and usage. The stuff can be like a straight-up hit of of heroin or morphine. Sure hope this opioid addiction won't be important later...
Link to Chapter Six
Also available on Ao3.
Chapter Five: 1781-1788, or the American War of Independence
Virginia Peninsula, Virginia
She’d gone into the house. The house that had been burnt down and rebuilt countless times in the previous century. The last time it had been wrecked was three years ago. It wasn’t a home. Never had been. He’d never been allowed to settle in one. Always moving, never stationary. This was nothing more than a burnt shell of a building, halfway between old abandoned Jamestown and Williamsburg - both places named for Kings whom Alfred had never met or seen. He knew as much about them as he did his namesake, only through the stories that Evelyn would tell him, what made them wise or foolish or great.
Since his time with Evelyn, he had only met three of her monarchs: the second Charles, full of humour and a love for science but prone to the same selfishness as his father; Anne, a very serious woman who seemed to wish to be dead alongside her children and husband before her time; and the third George, when Alfred and so many other territories had been invited to the coronation.
That had been a farce. One Bishop had nearly dropped the crown; there had been an argument during the service between the Archbishop and the Dean on whether the King could take holy communion whilst wearing said crown (George made the decision himself to remove it); a jewel had fallen to the floor from another crown which had distracted Alfred for the entire ceremony; and the whole thing was so long, so dull, so hard to hear, that people ate pork pies and drank wine throughout the six hours of a service. Even the new tiny German Queen had no luck, as when trying to use the closet that had been built specially for her, she found some Duke or whatever pissing in her pot.
It was just a big joke, even the usually serious King thought it was funny, laughing at the guy who promised that he would do a better job planning the next Coronation. As if George would be alive to see it.
Next time next time. Promise promise. Push back push back. Wait wait. Do as you're told. Be quiet.
Please Alfred be good.
He was so tired.
But still, Alfred - America - stood by the small lake. He held a Charleville musket, resting the butt on the grass, fingers wrapped around the muzzle.
Evelyn’s horse, a large black shire horse she’d brought over from England, was tied to a post nearby, munching on some grass. He recognised Alfred surprisingly, despite the years, and did not mind when he came over to stroke the large creature's head and neck. Evelyn never rode smaller, faster horses; the ones used for racing or cavalry regiments. Whether it was the calmer temperament, or the physical height giving her a feeling of safety, Alfred didn’t know.
He untied the horse from the post. It would need to be able to run if worse came to worst. Moving towards the house, America stationed himself somewhere where England would not immediately spot him. She no doubt would feel that he was nearby, but the exact location was never a given. Francis was also nearby, on some ship somewhere blockading the coast. Evelyn would be focusing on that, and getting back to Yorktown unspotted.
Alfred stood still, waiting for her to emerge.
Which she did, carrying bundles of fabric. Alfred knew what was wrapped up in those bundles. He couldn’t let her take them.
Of course she noted immediately that her horse was untied, having wandered over to the lake. She whistled, and her horse came back, allowing her to begin stuffing her bags with the salvaged memories of the house.
“Evelyn,” Alfred said. The name felt odd on his tongue. Even more alien was the concept of calling her Eva, which Alfred has seen the other home nations (and Portugal) call her. He wondered by what criterion did a person have to reach to be deigned worthy of such intimacy.
England did not gasp or cry out. Instead, Alfred watched her freeze, take a deep breath, then turn around. She was not wearing red, for once, nor was she wearing anything possibly suited for sneaking across Virginia. Her cream dress, bare forearms and hair haphazardly tied up and out of the way gave the look of someone who had snuck out of the English camp in a hurry. She wasn’t dressed for a fight.
Alfred knew she could, and yet this entire war she had always conveniently been elsewhere, in Virginia when he was in Philadelphia, in Halifax when he was in Richmond, in goddamn Gibraltar when he was in New York.
Maybe he was blatantly looking for a reason to hate her. If she became violent, he could justify those horrid thoughts to himself. For all he was growing to be, Alfred still was not sure he could justify himself shooting an unarmed woman.
She was tiny. Slight and short. She was not trembling however, not even when she saw the gun.
“You burnt it,” she accused. Her first words to him in years (minus the letters. Somehow they'd always found their way to him. Without fail he had not read them), and she was lecturing him. “Over a hundred and fifty years and you burnt it. When?”
“A while ago.”
“Why? This was our home.”
Alfred swallowed. “Not yours.”
She looked so disappointed in him, like he was still ten years old and didn’t understand how easily he could be manipulated or led astray.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“No-one.”
Still eyeing the gun, England moved towards her eldest. Alfred recoiled, just a bit. It was enough to make her stop.
“My love”-
“Stop it!” he yelled, anger getting the better of him. “Don’t pretend syrupy words will fix anything. All you do is talk and talk and talk and never do anything. It’s just performative shit.”
Evelyn stepped back this time.
“Performative? You think I was pretending to care about you? To love you?”
“You’re not my mother,” he groaned. “And you’re making everything worse by sticking your head in the sand.”
She heaved her arms and shoulders up in a confused and exasperated shrug.
“I cannot change what my government says! You talk of your people being excluded, what of mine? My women? Fifty thousand people in Birmingham alone and not one member of parliament to speak for them! Your slave owners think they matter more than my poorest? That is vile.”
An old argument, one they had never managed to see eye to eye on. She was being unfair, picking moral arguments as they suited her. It did not matter how much she loathed her political elite. She did nothing to displace them, nor did she consent to Alfred's being raised to the same level. What was left to be done?
“Not more! The same. Just to be the same. And why couldn’t we make it better for both of us? It doesn’t have to be at the expense of your people… And yet you sat and did nothing! Even after Boston”-
England snorted, looking away, somewhere in the general direction of Yorktown.
‐“You just said to endure it. Evelyn, I can’t. I can’t. If something is broken we fix it. We don’t… turn the other way and hope it goes away.”
England’s green eyes watered. “If only. Or do you not remember? I was locked away from you for years - meanwhile my brothers ran around free to fight in the civil war - because I could not be used the way either party wished… I have no value. That has been made clear throughout my long life. I have no power. All I can do is talk and endure.”
“I just wish you would fight.”
She scoffed. “My mistake. The last five or so years have been me sitting on my hands, of course. You know best, love. As I told you.”
“Maybe I do.”
Exhaling shakily, England finally moved towards America, eyes never trailing far from the gun for too long. She rested her hands on his biceps, standing too close for comfort.
“I am not so foolish to think that when this is over things will go back to the way they were. I know that.”
“You won’t win. No ships are getting through the blockade. Cornwallis can’t win this one. I'm going to go to Yorktown, be with my people, stand with them, not hide away or place myself above them like you do.”
England twitched. “How can you listen to Francis’ poison, those are his words, I know him. I am not as ignorant as you claim. Listen, he does not want what is best for you. No, he is…”
Words failed her, not wanting to say the accusation out loud. Alfred had no such compunction. “Using me to hurt you. I know.”
“Then why…” She let go of his arms, stepping away. For all the many long years that Alfred had felt not seen by Evelyn, the look she gave him in that moment was the first time he felt he truly understood him.
She saw him, and she did not like it.
“You hurt me first. So often.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “Why are you so obsessed with making me into a villain? To hurt you? Me?”
“Stop playing the victim! You're not! I am not following you anymore, you have to contend with me as an independent nation. Not your child, not your doll that you can coddle and kiss whenever the mood takes you. Just for the love of God don't just sit there and weep. Do something.”
“What? What do you want me to do Alfred? March up to the King and demand a ceasefire? They will drag me away. Slap Frederick North across the face and demand your independence? They will scoff and move on. Besides, I do not want you to leave. You are my boy and you are not ready to be on your own yet. When the time comes I swear I will step aside for you, but it is not now. And yet you speak as if you wish me to shoot my own soldiers.” Her desperate look became anguished. “Alfred, I could not even stop the riots in London last year. I couldn’t stop four hundred people from dying. If I could stop a war, you think I would sit by?”
Alfred stared at her. “I was sorry about the riots.”
The veins in England’s neck bulged, swallowing loudly. It looked as though she were chewing on words. Words that she did not say when instead she demanded, “What can I do to make you come home with me?”
“I don’t want that.”
She pushed him back. An echo of when he was smaller and more easily pushed around. It had hurt then, a ripping feeling of rejection. As it was now, Evelyn only managed to push herself away, stumbling in the mud.
“You… Christ. Enough. When this is over and we have gone back home, we can just… I do not know. Forget this ever happened. Go back to being our family”-
“No!” Alfred grabbed Evelyn as she turned away with one arm, hard enough to make her gasp. She twisted and writhed, instinctively being driven into a panic at someone grabbing her without her consent.
Finally, Alfred got what he wanted; she lashed out, slapping him hard across the face. The metal of her old pearl ring stung sharply. To Alfred's surprise, it hurt.
She’d never done that before. The horrified look on her face confirmed it.
“Admit it,” Alfred demanded, still holding on to her. “We aren’t a family. It’s an Empire. You’ve been lying for two hundred years. I want out. I’m getting out. You need to fight me, and stop being so damned delusional.”
England ripped her hand free. “Do not tell me what to do Alfred. You are still a child! Easily misled and full of stupid ideas.”
She stomped away, leaving Alfred outside the house. Taking the horse's reins, she prepared to lift herself up, checking one last time that what she came for was securely fastened.
“You can’t take those,” America yelled. “They don’t belong to you!”
“I made them for you!” she shrieked back. “I am taking what is mine since you are so determined to be a spoiled brat.”
Her screech had frightened the horse, who bucked and moved away, leaving Evelyn grappling after the reins. “For God’s sake…”
An unearthly loud shot rang out, further spooking Evelyn’s horse and making it flee across the mud and shallow water, heading in an unknown direction. England tensed, then turned around.
Alfred was reloading the gun, then raised it to point it directly at her.
“You have to admit it,” he said.
Evelyn’s mouth hung open, a confused despair that only made Alfred’s temper grow hotter.
“Admit what?”
Her green eyes were glistening. Silently, Alfred begged her to not stoop so low.
“That I’m not your child, that you’ve exploited us for your own ego, that you standing by and shrugging your shoulders is you being complicit,” he explained, furious that England did not understand.
Of all the things she could have done in response to his demands, moving back to hold him and crying was probably the worst.
“My love”-
America shot England.
She shrieked, a piercing horrid cry, seemingly louder than the gunshot. Falling back, she cracked her head against the hard ground. Her stays, boned and rigid, did nothing to protect her from the cartridge ball, and immediately Alfred saw her cream dress splatter red. He’d hit her somewhere in her mid chest. He didn’t know if he had aimed correctly, France’s guns had shit accuracy.
She did not get back up, and gave another cry. It cut off oddly, choking, and her back arched, as if physically trying to separate herself from the pain.
Dropping the weapon, Alfred moved to her, hoping she would finally grow angry enough to fight back. When he got his arms around her, hoisting her half up, he was further disappointed. Evelyn was becoming limp, craning her neck to catch her breath. She didn’t seem to notice it was Alfred who was holding her. He shook her, having completely given in to anger.
“No, come on, fight! Fight me already. God, prove that you care. Evelyn just…”
She struggled, gasping and unable to vocalise. Her hands flailed, pushing against Alfred's chest. The pressure was negligible, not nearly enough to make Alfred back off. Blood was appearing around her mouth. He'd punctured her lung, Alfred realised. She was drowning.
“Wait,” Alfred said, not begging, “don't you dare!”
The frightened, frantic beating of her fists on his chest slowed, but Evelyn continued to twitch and writhe on the ground. In Alfred’s arms. The cream dress was quickly becoming pure red and brown from blood and mud.
“No,” she gasped, eyes rolling loose in their sockets, seeing nothing. “You wouldn't…”
The sound of her gagging ensued, cutting off her protest. Desperately trying to get breath into her lungs, she continued to convulse. The blood was too much, and instinctively she turned her head to the side and was sick, her body frantically trying to clear out anything it saw as blocking her throat. The sound was more awful than the sight, Alfred would later brood, despite the vision of the bright red vomit spilling across the ground. Disgusted, Alfred jerked her body to the side, keeping her away from the sickness. A trail from her mouth to the ground remained, smearing together with tears.
Alfred only grew more frustrated, as if she was putting it on specifically to spite him.
“I'm not your child! You just did what your Kings and Parliament wanted. Playing at family… Don’t you get it? You're not just a puppet, you're tying us up in string to suffer with you. Protecting us? Loving us? Evelyn it's all a farce. You didn't get to choose any of us. When was the last time they let you go to Barbados or Bermuda? Before your civil war right? You didn't argue for them, you made do with me and obsessing over Mattie. You were using us all right from the word go; you just made up a story in your head to justify it.”
“Love,” she mumbled incoherently, any further words swallowed up in choking.
Red overflowed her mouth again, and her seizing muscles began to slow. She stared up at Alfred, giving no indication that she understood what he had said. He let her go, and she fell against the ground with a thump. As her skin impossibly paled, Alfred watched those flitting and unseeing green eyes slow down to stillness, and as the shallow and wet breaths stuttered to a halt.
Alfred had never seen Evelyn die before. It took too long for him to recognise it as such.
The cry that escaped him when he realised what he had done was utterly inhuman.
He knew she must have died many times whilst he was in her care, but somehow she'd managed to shield him from the worst.
He’d killed her.
Having a woman, the woman who'd sung him to sleep, sewed his shirts and gone through ridiculous hoops to ensure he never wanted for anything material, bleed out in his arms had put him into a state of shock.
That woman…
Who’d done nothing more than coo with a patronising sympathy to any of his worries or complaints. Who’d told him that soldiers shooting civilians was just the way things worked.
Well, Alfred had just shot a civilian.
Awkwardly, he tried to brush the blood dripping out her mouth away, but found he was only making things worse. He told himself not care, but he still shook her once more, as if they were back in Providence and she had become too still next to him as they slept.
He wanted to hate her. More than anything he wished that he could feel righteous, but the only emotion he could conjure was a distinct feeling of nausea. It felt akin to shooting a rabid dog, a desperation to just get it over and done with, put the poor thing out of its misery.
She truly did not understand, even now, over five years after he'd first left their home in Philadelphia in the middle of the night with nothing more than a note at her bedside. She couldn't comprehend why he'd done the things he had. As if he were acting on spite. As if she should have been the priority for his actions, his beliefs.
She'd managed to maintain a grip on Matthew, somehow, but it wouldn't last.
He thought of Evelyn holding him after she had escaped England during the interregnum. She'd practically washed up on shore, dragging herself towards him. He'd run to her, equally desperate for those thin arms around him. She'd been taken from him for so long, he had feared he would forget her voice. The pain of missing her had been incomparable. No-one else was that effortlessly loving or sweet to him. That constant presence was taken, and they had hurt her so badly. She'd escaped for him, she said so.
So, why would she go against her government then, but not now? Why did she have to make rules so arbitrary?
Alfred was convinced it was a front. That love. One big fat lie. If someone pushed her hard enough, something vicious would leak out. There had to be. That affection could not be unconditional. There was no other explanation for Francis' and Antonio's loathing, why Gilbert thought the entire thing was the funniest joke he'd heard in years.
The pumping of blood from her dress stopped. Already he could feel it cooling. The arms of his blue coat had turned a damp shade of violet.
For some reason, it hurt more than he was expecting. Francis had told him to prepare for the eventuality. He thought he had. But…
“I didn’t want this,” America heard himself say out loud. “God… I didn’t…”
The body did not reply. She continued to stare at nothing, sprawled out on the ground like a broken doll.
Another nation was approaching the house. Not Francis, Alfred knew, he was on one of the ships off the coast. Not Gilbert, he had long gone home, his job in training Alfred how to fight complete.
Blinking, America struggled to wrap his head around what he had done, to think of who was on their way, and if he wanted them to catch him leaning over the dead body of the woman he once called mother.
He did not know what he was to do. Was he to sit with her until she woke up? What then? She would be too weak for sometime to do anything save glare at him.
Her horse was returning, curious about why its mistress was stricken on the ground. Alfred whistled it back, getting up and leaving England in the mud. Grasping the bags mounted at the rear of the horse, he went to tug out the bundles of fabric and their contents. He wanted one letter in particular, if it had miraculously survived. To his surprise, there it was. It must have been safe in the cellar, locked away in a box.
He gripped the paper tightly, staining the letter red with Evelyn's blood.
Instructions for my son, drawn by myself, for his good, that of my family's, and for that of his people.
Evelyn had made a copy for him, a letter on what it was to be a good ruler, taken from Prince Frederick's letter to his son, now King George. She said it applied as much to Alfred as it did to any King, more so even, and implied that it had not truly been Frederick's words to begin with. Most nation's were not so lucky to receive guidance, Alfred knew this. Their early years were spent in a wilderness, alone and isolated and made to feel monstrous within their own bodies.
Let me lay down the path and lead the way until you are ready, England would say.
Despite everything, Alfred refused to let this letter go. He read it through for the first time in a decade, having never once forgotten its words. Of all the things she had gifted him, he could not so easily set this aside.
Alfred looked back. Evelyn remained dead on the ground. She would not wake for some time. If he left her, he feared her corpse would be defiled. Whatever nation was coming, whether it one of her brothers, or even Matthew, he hoped it was someone who would get the body somewhere quiet until she awoke.
I entertain no doubt of your good heart, nor of your honour. Things I trust, you will never lose out of sight. The perverseness and bad examples of the times, I am sure will never make you forget them. Let me add, that when mankind will once be persuaded that you are just, humane, generous and brave, you will be beloved by your people and respected by foreign powers.
His blood red hands came into focus once more, trembling and not at all in control. He tried to take a calming breath to steady himself, but found he couldn’t. Worse, as he attempted to regain composure, his vision blurred.
Ah. He was crying.
He should have expected this.
And yet, he tried to rationalise, it wasn’t the first time he’d killed, nor was she his mother, or sister, or any friend of his. She was a puppet of soft power, designed to use sentimentality to keep any rebelliousness under control, to ensure the colony remained loyal.
It wasn't real. Any of it.
He repeated this fact to himself several times, desperate to remove any and every memory of sweetness. It was all a lie. She just was too lost in the fantasy to admit it. This would be a wake up call. It would do them good. Long term.
The other nation was getting closer.
Swearing to himself, America stuffed the letter into his coat. He hooked one foot into the stirrups, and hoisted himself up. Once up, he urged the horse to go straight into a canter, then left. He looked back once again, and choked on a word before it slid out unbidden.
He wasn’t sorry.
*****
Wells, Somerset
“I am not his mother.”
England said nothing in response, staring at the foot of the bed and not her sister and the babe she was carrying. Small. Smaller than any other she had seen previously. Two months? Maybe. Where the hell had they found it? Where had it come from?
Another wave of nausea was coming on. She could feel Matthew lingering behind the shut door to her bedroom.
“Leave,” she whispered.
It was something of a combination of many ills. Something very much felt like it had been ripped out of her, a caesarean whilst fully conscious, the hole gaping and weeping and killing her from the gore left behind. The economic downturn was not helping matters, a flu like stiffness and aching in every bone.
Then there were the withdrawal symptoms. An unshakeable headache, racing heart, sweating and an inability to rest. A voracious hunger that she tried so hard to avoid. Food would not stay down, her body rejected any and every attempt to give her a chance at recovery.
Rotting in bed felt very literal these past months.
Erin remained in the room, holding whatever Rhys had brought back from abroad.
“Decomposing in this room would be fine by me but you have responsibilities. Or are you not the head of our lovely Imperial Family?”
“You have made your point. Leave.”
“I can smell the sick bucket from here. Where's the staff? Matthew,” she called back to her nephew through the door, “Clean ‐”
Panic flooded England's expression. Matthew had not been allowed to see his mother for several weeks.
“Matthew if you come in here I'll have you tied to the fence and whipped! Go!”
Erin rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “You will not, Eva! You couldn't even smack the boys on the bottom when they dug up your turnip patch!”
Nevertheless, the sound of footsteps was heard. Matthew still obeyed Evelyn. Maybe once that would have been reassuring. Maybe now it was too upsetting to have to look at her in such a state. How far the woman he had been forced to call mother had fallen.
The sisters stared at each other. If Erin were not holding a baby, she would have begun to pull at her sister - by the hair if necessary - to get her out of bed.
“Got you a replacement,” Erin quipped. “Since the gaols of Georgia are no longer available. Look! A new place to dump the undesirables.”
Murderous did not seem to explain Evelyn's expression. Erin did not enjoy cruelty, and would pay for it later, but it was necessary to cease the apathy and despair of the pathetic figure in the bed.
Ireland sighed, seeing that the baby was stirring. “Our brothers have no desire to be single parents. Scotland has discovered a love for money now too strong to ever stop working and Wales would rather travel and fight, leave behind any responsibility. Men do as they please. As always. And I refuse to be a part of your… your madness. Sending my people to do your dirty work, and punishing them for when it inevitably fails. I will see to mine and mine alone, since no one else will. I cannot raise these children. They are not mine; they are the work of your government. Your web. I pity the poor things that get trapped in your lies and hysterics. Alfred was right to leave. You deserved to be shot -”
“Get out!”
The shriek was piercing, but the pillow that was thrown barely hit its target. It was enough though. The baby woke up, and with it came tears.
Ireland looked down, expression sympathetic, but she could not get the baby to settle. She looked up at her sister. Waifish, grey and white, too small in too large a bed. Erin swallowed down her contempt.
“You used to say that you would not hurt a child. That isn’t true. You would. But you won’t hurt your child. This boy is not mine despite who you send there. I do not want him. With you there will be privilege and safety. I am not so cruel to leave him to rot. But I cannot take him.”
The baby wailed louder when Ireland leaned forward, placing the bundle on the mattress. England physically recoiled, backing up against the dark wooden frame.
“If I am such a monster, why would you allow a child to suffer at my hands?”
Erin had no reply, her attempts to hush the baby not working. She backed away, stepping towards the door.
The baby, barely bound up, kicked and waved his small arms. England watched him as if he were rabid. Darkest brown hair, dark gold skin. She could not see his eye colour, screwed up in pain as he was.
“I cannot be a mother,” Evelyn yelled. Of all the people in the world, she could not contend with having such a conversation with her sister. Plump, pink, soft, strong. Resilient. Stronger than Evelyn ever could be. “Why would you give me children if you know I… Don’t use them to punish me!”
Ireland stared. The baby continued to cry. Evelyn put her hands over her ears and shut her eyes, as if to block out the weeping infant. It did not work.
Scoffing at the childishness of it all, Erin snapped, “You have self-awareness then. Good. Somewhere in the frigid empty little heart of yours, it can love. You love Alfred.”
“I never”-
“And you love Matthew. I think you would love the others if you were allowed to travel freely. Maybe in another life. But I see no difference with this one. You had a New England; we have a New Scotland. Here’s a New Wales. Maybe do better this time?”
“You cannot give me a child -”
“There is no-one else! You won’t leave a child to suffer if it's in front of you Eva, and your government demands that you take this boy on.”
“Why must you be so difficult?!”
“You are the difficult person to deal with Eva, with your head so far up your own… Look at him! He needs a mother! He is not just a resource, try to balance that fact.”
“That is an impossible ask,” England replied, further curling up into a ball. The baby’s crying was unbearable.
“What would become of him if you left him to the Governors and Lords and Princes? Better to suffer with us than to be alone. Who else understands better than us what it is to be in our position?”
“Then you care for him!”
“I told you. I will not play this game. I abdicate responsibility. I take control where I can. I choose this.”
England sobbed, “Then why can I not do the same?”
There was no pity when Ireland replied, “...Life is not fair, little sister. You have made that plain enough over the years. Endure it. Besides, don't lie. You want a child. I know you do.”
Evelyn opened her eyes, hands still over her ears, and stared miserably at her sister. The two women had some kind of unspoken conversation, and Ireland knew, for once, she had a victory.
“You’re a cunt,” England growled.
Free of any child in her arms, Erin finally did what she desperately wanted to do, throwing a hand across England’s head. The snapping noise was loud enough to only further upset the baby, and the force was hard enough to literally knock Evelyn out of the bed.
“Grow up,” Ireland stated simply, returning to the doorway whilst knowing England was too weak to retaliate in time.
She watched Evelyn move from her heap on the floor, grasping and pulling herself up to be level with the sheets. The baby boy’s crying showed no sign of stopping, and it hurt her heart too much to listen to.
Crawling forward, sheets dragging around her, night-gown rising around her legs, Evelyn leaned over the small baby. Her hair hung over her shoulders and down onto the mattress, creating a curtain cutting off visibility from her sister.
The baby continued to wail, blind to the world. Finding the air stolen from her, and coming close to blindness herself from unspilled tears, England moved carefully.
“Shh… Shh…” She lifted the boy, cradling him close to her chest. She could not feed him. Even if she could. She did not deserve…
“No tears,” she murmured. “No tears. I frightened you screaming, I did, I know, poor baby... I am sorry. Shh… No more yelling. Hush...”
She crooned, rocking the baby back and forth. As Evelyn moved towards the headboard, she saw that Erin had left, leaving the heavy wooden door wide open. How easy it seemed to her, to do nothing but the bare minimum then leave, abdicating any responsibility and playing the victim every time.
England stopped, realising she was less thinking of Ireland and more herself.
Sniffing through the phlegm, she whispered, “I will not be good for you, and I cannot apologise enough. I will find someone to…”
She sobbed, looking down and reaching out with a finger to stroke his face. The baby opened his eyes, and Evelyn found her tears spilling down her cheeks and hitting the baby, who seemed confused at the sensation. Brown eyes. Soft brown eyes stared up at her. The creases in his forehead lessened, and he began to quieten, slowly catching his breath. He seemed rather interested in the ghost of a woman holding him, reaching up to touch her wet cheeks.
Impulsively, acting as naturally as breathing, Evelyn kissed those fingers.
“Sweet boy.”
She pressed the baby close, trying to give him what little warmth she had. The baby’s sniffles trailed off, and England tried to hum. It was hard, breathing was shallow and wet, but even if she was sobbing, at least the baby was not.
“I will not be good for you,” she cried quietly. “Forgive me when you're older?”
The feeling of having something torn from her quietened, moving to an ache rather than anything debilitating. Lord help her, Evelyn knew she was weak, but Erin was correct. The feeling of certainty, of correctness, was too strong to ignore with the baby in her arms.
She did not know if she had learnt the right lessons from Alfred, perhaps there was no lesson to be learnt at all. This boy was a replacement, there was no denying it. Doing it a second time and better seemed like a fool's hope. He would never compare to Alfred. He shouldn't be. She knew she would never be able to look at the little baby without doing so.
“I'll try,” she murmured, “and it will not be good enough.”
Another presence made itself known. When she looked up, Matthew was in the doorway. Ringing his hands and looking like he had lost his world in just a few days.
Evelyn supposed that was true. She had lost not just her beautiful eldest, but all her energy and time, the future she had wanted of the two boys together always, seemed a foolish fantasy. How long had Matthew suffered, for it all to seem rather meaningless in the end.
She could not find the words to say she was sorry. To ask why he had not once left her side. Why he had dragged her dead body onto a horse and ship back to Halifax.
“Will you really have me whipped?”
England choked on her tears. “No. No, darling.”
“Can I come in?”
England nodded her consent.
Matthew entered, immediately going to open the shutters and heavy curtains. Sunlight spilled across the room, and when he opened the windows, the smell of death began to leave.
Matthew approached his mother and the baby on the bed. She looked very lost.
“Uncle Rhys called him John,” Canada explained.
Evelyn's thick eyebrows twitched. “That is a bad name. You remember what I told you about King John?”
“A tyrant.”
“Mm.” More tears slipped down her cheeks. She noted the baby was straining for the rays of sunlight by her soft chairs and table. “He wants the sun.”
“I can move him?”
“... I want to hold him. Help me get over to sit.”
Matthew pulled the sheets back, took one hand and wrapped it around his neck and shoulders. Evelyn held the baby with one arm, crying out as her muscles struggled to comply. They got there though, sitting by an open window, warm summer breeze and rare sunlight pouring on them.
The baby smiled.
“Jack,” Evelyn muttered, carefully stroking the baby's hair. “Jack is better.”
Matthew left her and the baby alone, cleaning up around the space. Her tears threatened to restart as she caught a glimpse of him walking out the room with her bowls of sickness and waste. That wasn’t his job. But she had sent all the servants home, unable to bear the sound of happiness or humour in the household.
“He’ll need a wet nurse,” she murmured as Matthew came back in. Jack had settled, resting and soaking up the sun, but he would need feeding and soon. Her older boys had once subsisted on animal milk before receiving oats, sloppy mashed mushrooms and peas and applesauce… Maybe Jack could have the real thing first.
Already with the bed stripped and air circulating once more, the room was much more tolerable. The only thing that needed cleaning up was Evelyn herself.
She asked, “Can you find me a woman in Wells? Either a labourer’s wife who has just given birth or… or if she's lost it young… If she needs to come from Glastonbury or Shepton Mallet we can give her and her baby lodgings here until Jack is… until we find an excuse to move on and get a new one.”
Matthew nodded, glad to see her administrating once again. Her voice was weak, playing at firmness but too breathy and scratchy to be assertive.
“And call the staff back. Been paying them for nothing. The garden is a state. I want to work there again.” She tickled the baby's belly. “You can sit and enjoy the sun with me as I grow my roses.”
Matthew moved closer, to get a better view of the baby.
“He's handsome.”
England smiled. It was the first time she had done so in several months. Years, even. It did not last however. Something was nagging her, something about what Aunt Erin had argued. Matthew had not immediately known who had killed her near Williamsburg. She had not spoken about it to him. Protecting him, Canada supposed. He didn't think it was shame. Or rather, not shame directed at being shot, but rather by whom.
When he had found her, it had been a battle to get her body to safety. A dead body was a heavy thing to carry. She had woken halfway to Halifax, curling into a tight ball and clawing at her chest as if to reopen the bullet hole. Muttering and mumbling to herself for hours on end, she did not seem to notice her other boy was there. Uncle Alasdair had been waiting for them at the docks, and informed them of the news.
Alfred had won, the war was done. It was just a case of having the humans play catch up.
Evelyn swallowed, adjusting Jack in her arms more carefully than priceless porcelain. “Your brother…”
Matthew nodded. “I will treat him like mine. He is mine.”
“No. No I mean… Yes I want that. But. Al… America. He said. He said…” She stared long and confusedly at Matthew. He was sixteen now, a gangly bean pole of awkward adolescence. He'd shot up the past few years. With each loyalist family settling in Nova Scotia, his ties grew tighter with England.
Eavesdropping after their arrival in Halifax, Matthew had heard the truth as told by England to Scotland, and heard what Alfred had accused her of as he'd held her dying body. Matthew saw no point in making her repeat the information to him. It was nothing he nor Evelyn could resolve. He was so tired of grief, and yet he felt like his short life had been shaped by nothing but grief.
He took a sort of comfort in seeing England was much the same way, as cruel as that may have seemed. It would be okay though. He would be enough. Alfred's loss was not the end, and Matthew was more than capable of stepping up.
Maybe.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you do not want to,” he stated. He didn’t particularly want to.
With a trembling hand, Evelyn reached up and cupped Matthew’s face. She smiled, but still looked very sad.
“No. Not your burden to carry. But will you stay?”
“We promised we would take care of each other right? I want to look after you.”
Her eyes fogged over, and Matthew got the feeling he'd said the wrong thing. Jack made a funny noise, catching England's attention only for a moment as she adjusted him in her arms. The movement hurt, particularly the muscles in her chest, causing her to grunt.
“Can I help?” Canada asked.
England sounded very far away when she replied breathlessly, not looking Matthew in the eye.
“Oh, you’re such a darling… One more thing. Please. When you're in town, pick me up some more laudanum will you?”
Canada looked at his feet. Of all her demands, that felt the most wrong.
She had never taken it in front of him. She knew it was bad for her. She knew and now she was not hiding it anymore. Asking Matthew to be the one to give it to her.
“Mattie?”
It was the first time she had used such a pet name for him. It startled him and he glanced up, shocked. Evelyn was staring at nothing, not even the baby in her arms, with her eyes wide open and looking so distinctly off that Matthew felt trapped and unable to look away again.
“Please, darling,” she insisted. “I… I need it.”
“...I’ll try.”
“Thank you. I am sorry. That I’m not… Well. Nevermind. Go now. Be quick.”
Matthew took something of a risk, and kissed her cheek as a goodbye. A splintering gasp, pained and sounding far too similar to one on death’s door, was her response.
Fleeing the room, Matthew did not see his mother bend over and hold the baby just a little too tight.
Evelyn sat in the sun, wracked with guilt and grief, and cried.
*****
History Notes:
- American Revolution/War of Independence yeeeeeeeaaaah. I am sure you know the basics. Americans who had for the most part been allowed to do their own thing, were increasingly brought into line with UK governance. Without representation in Parliament, this felt oppressive. Disagreements on who was actually excluded/deserve the right to vote is hard to take in good faith, however the English electoral system was absolutely fucked and did not begin to be resolved until the 1830s onwards. Disputes were unable to be solved diplomatically, and war broke out. Most of Europe sided against England, seeing their chance for revenge after the Seven Year's War. Britain was threatened with invasion, and the largest battle actually took place in Gibraltar. Jamestown - the place where the colonies were essentially born - had been abandoned for Williamsburg at the end of the 17th century as the capital of Virginia. The final conflict of the war, Yorktown, is not too far from either site. Many displaced loyalists settled in Canada, for the most part in what's now New Brunswick or Nova Scotia.
- George III's coronation was... flawed. The jewel in the crown falling to the floor was possibly apocryphal but was considered a sign of things to come. The Duke of Newcastle did indeed use the Queen's rest room and peed in her potty.
- George's political legacy (careful very conservative author source here cough cough) is very different in the UK versus US. His father had written him instructions on what it was to be a good King when George was 12. When you read it and look at George's political decisions, you get the impression that he followed them religiously. I may be a nerd but I do think his letter is fascinating and I really think it is worth reading, not just as a pending monarch to his son, but as a loving father to his child.
- Alfred is referencing Montesquieu at one point. He also references the Gordon Riots, which was the closest England ever got to a revolution. Not in the liberty for all men kind of way, though. In fact, rather the opposite. Having said that, around 500 people where killed during the riots, followed by many more in the resulting trials.
- The American Revolution's impact in the UK is hard to determine. It's legacy in terms of liberalism and political theory was overshadowed the following decade by French shenanigans, and in terms of Empire, focus turned away from the Americas to the Indian subcontinent.
- Australia was a replacement penal colony for Georgia. It was called New South Wales and was initially populated largely by Irish prisoners and convicts. The journey and conditions were unforgivable. Emigration to Oz and Canada from England of 'respectable' families was not yet encouraged until after the Napoleonic Wars.
- Laudanum is a opioid. It was used as a cure all from the 17th century onwards. It is addictive and nowadays is much more controlled in its ingredients and usage. The stuff can be like a straight-up hit of of heroin or morphine. Sure hope this opioid addiction won't be important later...
Link to Chapter Six
