He'll Never Tell (Parts 1-13 of...?)

[Scion]

I'm trying really hard to get back into writing, and this is the result. Um, yeah. No sneezes in this part. Sorry! You'll have to wait until the next one.

Cora: http://i1200.photobu.../wavy3/Cora.jpg

Jones: http://i1200.photobu...wavy3/Jones.jpg

He'll Never Tell

Part One:

London, England, 1880.

“Get off me, you--you BEAST!” Cora yelled, pounding her fists into the chest of her attacker. There was no way she would let this happen. No way he was putting one filthy paw on her. She may not have been a lady, but she certainly wasn’t some street whore to be brutally ravaged in some disgusting, grimy alley!

“Aha,” the man cooed, showing off his rotten stubs of teeth. “A plucky little lass, ain’t ye? Barty likes.” His fat hand slithered up her leg and her skin crawled. “And so soft, too,” he whispered, his breath smelling of rotten fish.

Two men scurried by, not even glancing her way. There was no help there.

Shrieking in indignation, she clawed at his face, hoping to gauge out his bulgy eyes. Her spine ground into the cobbles and pain lanced through her back.

He grabbed onto her wrists and yanked them up over her head, grinding his mouth down over hers. She gagged, opened her mouth to scream--and suddenly he was gone.

Cora blinked dazedly, her heart racing fast enough to make her entire body shake. Squinting into the darkness, she made out the slender figure of a man silhouetted against the gentle glow of the moon. Her attacker lay crumpled at his feet, unmoving.

Terror sparked within her as she scrambled to her feet, battling a brew of dizziness and nausea. But instead of advancing, the man turned and began strolling away from her.

Away from her!

Hoping she wouldn’t regret her hasty decision, Cora called, “Wait! Sir! WAIT!”

He increased his pace, his boots clacking away.

“I said, STOP!” When he ignored her, she took off in pursuit, dodging past stray dogs rooting through piles of mystery waste. “I implore you to stop right now!” Reaching him, she grabbed his elbow, attempting to jerk him to a halt.

He kept walking, brushing her off like a flea. “Go away.”

Irritated, she snapped, “At least hear me out!”

“No.”

She glared. He wasn’t a very tall man, barely topping her own small stature, though his hat made it seem as though he were looming over her. He had a face like ice, sharp and uncompromising. A long, narrow nose sat above a mouth pulled tight with aggravation.

“Why did you save me only to disregard my existence?” she questioned, trotting by his side. “You may as well have let that fiend have his way with me!”

“What is it you would have me do?” he asked stonily. “Take you to my home? Are you truly so desperate, my little stray?”

“Stray!?” She clenched her fists. She was tired of being treated as if she were an object good for only one thing. “You’re no better than him!” she accused, stabbing a finger in the general direction of her felled attacker. She wondered if he was still alive, then decided she didn’t much care.

“I don’t deny it,” he replied calmly.

Beyond furious, Cora blinked away tears. “You have to help me! There’s no other way!”

He sighed. “Will you stop with the chattering? It’s making my head ache.”

A hack hustled on by, nearly drowning out his words. But she heard. “WHAT!?” she practically wailed, knowing she sounded raving mad and not caring. Shivering, she hugged herself. She had only her tattered gown and a pair of old children’s shoes to keep her warm, and she knew she must smell something terrible.

Not that she cared what this horrible man thought of her, of course.

“Enough with the shouting, wench,” he said, a chiding note to his command. “If it will get you to stop yammering, I’ll take you back to Fortescue with me. I’m sure my sister will be more than happy to deal with your…inquisitive nature.”

“Y-your sister?” she squeaked, taken aback.

“Good God, girl, are you a simpleton or merely deaf?”

“I am neither! And I’ll thank you to call me Ms. Grove, and not ‘girl,’ and most certainly not ‘wench!’ I deserve your respect.”

He looked at her as though she’d lost her mind, gaze raking over her disheveled appearance. “I’m sure, miss.” His mouth twitched, and she flushed with mortified rage. “Now, do please stop with the endless flow of mindless chatter,” he went on. “I find myself near crazed with the urge to silence you with a good throttle.”

Seething, she opened her mouth to tell him off--and paused. He had saved her life, and right now he was her only chance at survival. She couldn’t remain on the streets forever. And even the company of this immeasurably disagreeable man was preferable to that of her intended. The mere thought of him made her shiver in dread.

She would never forgive her father for offering her up to the ghastly earl like she meant nothing to him.

The man beside her muttered something.

“Hm?” She glanced at him.

“You’re not…hurt, are you?” he grumbled. “That is, that man didn’t--”

“Oh!” Surprised rocked her. “No, I’m fine.” She hesitated, then added, “I wouldn’t have thought you’d care.”

He stared straight ahead. “I was merely trying to be civil.”

She laughed as he paused by a coach. “I doubt you’ve ever gone out of your way to be civil, sir.”

He scowled down at her, a hint of irony coloring his expression. “I assure you, Miss Grove, I am quite the gentleman.”

“Indeed?” She giggled. “You seem far more like a scoundrel, I daresay.”

“I care naught for you opinion,” he said as a scruffy boy rounded the coach and hopped toward them with a welcoming grin.

She thought she detected a trace of bitterness in his voice, but she couldn’t be sure. It intrigued her.

“John,” the man said.

The boy’s smile withered, his muddy eyes darting to Cora’s with a nervous curiosity. “Yes, milord?”

Without another word, the man entered the coach, leaving Cora to follow after him.

“My name’s Til, not John,” she heard the boy mutter from behind her, and couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her lips.

“Must you be so rude?” she asked, sitting across from her rescuer.

He had his hat tipped down low, the brim shielding his eyes. He said nothing.

“Do I not at least deserve to know my savior’s name?”

The taut mouth moved, relinquishing up a tiny scrap of information. “Jones.”

She quirked a brow. “That’s all? Do you not have a Christian name?”

Nothing.

She prepared to wheedle it out of him, then closed her mouth when she realized he was snoring. The vile man had fallen asleep!

Grinding her teeth, Cora leaned back and closed her eyes. Perhaps she was better off with old Litchfield and his seven-layer gut after all.

[Galaxy]

Oh, huzzah, Scion is back! I'm so bloody happy! Soooo, you and me must have been separated at birth or something (even though I'm six years younger than you...) because I LOVE historical fiction. So freaking much. So no doubt I'll become ridiculously obsessed with this, as I get with all your works of fiction!

I love Cora. And Jones. And everything about this. I love how you've put a bit of a twist on historical fiction; I can't say I've ever read a book of historical fiction based in this place and era where the girl wasn't a proper lady. It delights me to find something new.

Okay---LOVING THIS. Keep up the marvelous work, dear!

[obsessed]

Ohh Scion writing!

[Ciuty80]

hell yeah she is finally back. and yes i´m fine too, dear Scion

i´m happy that you are writing again and i know that this will also turn out into a GREAT story!

please more

[Dusty15]

Oooh okay I'm hooked

[VividBubbles!]

You're back, you're back, you're back! Good start. Very intriguing. I was wondering if you're going to continue your other story? The one with the werewolf named Del or Lief or something. Oh, and have you read the book Beautiful Creatures? It's a very good book and one of the main charcters, Ethan, was in the rain quite a lot. It's the perfect book for a sneeze fic. Update soon!

BYE!

[Scion]

Galaxy: Hahahaha, yeah historical fiction is awesome. I used to hate it, but...actually I used to hate books in general, so never mind. Thank you for commenting. I love it sooooo much. Seriously, you bring so much warmth into my life LOL. And oh really? I"ve read almost too many books with the wilder type of heroine. Or at least, ones who are supposedly ladies, but really...they wear trousers and boss men around and all that hehe.

obsessed: Ineed.

Ciuty80: Glad to hear you're okay! Missed you! And thank you so much, your kind words are really dear to me.

Dusty15: Haha, yay!

Bubbles!: Heeeeeey, you! Yep, I'm definitely gonna finish that other story, but not until I finish this one, 'cause I don't know...just wanna write this one right now. Okay, hopefully you won't hate me, but...I got about 5/6 through Beautiful Creatures and just couldn't finish it 'cause, well, I thought it was a tad boring, and Ethan didn't do as much for me as I'd hoped. I would write something, but I really don't think I'd remember it well enough, because I barely paid attention while reading it. SORRY.

Part Two:

London, England, 1880

When they reached the manor, Jones alighted without a backward glance at her, striding purposefully away.

The house was a stooped, sorry looking thing, but she couldn’t deny it was twice the size of her own home--or what used to be her home. It might once have been white, but now it appeared like a cloudy grey sky, surrounded by a rusty but seemingly stout fence.

Jones mounted the front steps and stopped outside the door.

“Need any ‘elp, ma’am?” the boy--Til--asked, offering her his hand.

She peered down into his slightly pudgy baby-face and smiled. “Thank you, Til.”

He blushed deep red and averted his gaze as he helped her down. “Oh, no, ma’am,” he mumbled. “I be meanin’ no offense.”

“None taken,” she assured him with a sly wink.

He looked about ready to keel over on the spot. “M’lord’s not so bad, really.” He inspected his toes. “Well, ‘e is, but--”

“OPEN THIS DOOR THIS INSTANT!” Jones bellowed, hammering his fists on the dark wood. “YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO KEEP ME OUT, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE--” The door opened abruptly, causing Jones to fall forward and land flat onto his face.

Cora giggled, but Til merely shook his head morosely.

Maniacal laughter sounded from inside the manor as Jones struggled to his feet, shoving his hat into the nearest pair of hands. Those hands immediately dropped the hat.

Instead of reprimanding the clumsy servant boy like she’d have expected him to, he ignored the display and continued on inside the house. Odd.

She looked to Til, who shrugged. “Reckon you’ll ‘ear a lot ov bad fings about milord, but don’t pay any ov it no mind.”

She cocked a brow. “Is any of it true?”

“Every bit ov it,” he confided, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. Guilt fell over his features. “But I tells you, I knowds milord fer a long time, an’ I say there’s still a bit’a good in ‘im. Reckon ‘e were da nicest ov any ov ‘em, back before….” Eyes bugging, he clasped a hand over his mouth.

Her curiosity peaked, Cora pressed, “Before what, Til?”

“Nuffin’!” he rushed to assure her, waving his hands around in wild circles. “Back before nuffin’! I--I tolds you nuffin’!”

Taking pity on him, she said, “Of course you didn’t. There’s nothing to tell.”

Clearly relieved, he bobbed his head. “Come, ma’am. You don’t wants ter be catchin’ yer death.” And with that, he ushered her inside the manor.

- - -

“Jones brought you? Truly?” Justina, his sister, said for the thirteenth time. She and Cora were sitting on the edge of Cora’s new bed, which had been made with fresh, clean-smelling linens.

After a long, luxurious bath, Cora had eaten a light dinner in her room with Justina hovering over her like a mother hen.

“Yes. Jones brought me,” Cora reiterated.

Justina pulled her lips inward, making her pretty face appear slightly unnatural. She had beautiful curls of golden hair similar to her brother’s, and wide green eyes marred slightly at the corners by lines of laughter. Cora put her at around eight-and-twenty, while she thought Jones himself to be no more than twenty-two.

She herself had turned nineteen only very recently, which had made it all the more horrific when her father had revealed her betrothed to be a man of over sixty years. The thought of him sent chills down her back.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that….well, it is Jones. He’s not exactly known for his chivalry. In fact, quite the opposite.” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps…”

“What?” Cora asked, suddenly uncomfortable despite the soft mattress beneath her and the warmth of the blazing fire.

Justina shook her head. “If he rescued you, like you say, and if he brought you here, there must be a reason. Jones does nothing for anyone but himself.”

For an unknown reason, Cora felt the need to defend him rise inside her. “I’m not so sure that’s true. I did ask rather, well, forcefully, for his assistance. It was my idea.”

Worrying her lower lips, Justine said, “That’s what he wants you to think. Trust me, I know my brother. He hasn’t a kind bone in his body. You cannot trust him, Cora.” She leaned in closer to whisper, “Please. Promise me you won’t fall under his spell. He’s not a good man. He’ll use you and then toss you aside when he’s finished.”

What could he possibly have done to make his own sister say such things about him? She probably didn’t want to know. “Okay,” she said, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “I promise.”

“Good.” Justina beamed. “Now, let me comb out your hair. It looks rather like a bushel of rat infested hay--yes, one that’s been left out during a storm.”

- - -

Jones lay curled in his bed, staring at the forest green wall. He wasn’t thinking about anything particular, but some particular things were certainly thinking about him.

Things he didn’t like. Things that made his throat close and his chest tight. Things that could reduce him to a state of pitiful childishness. He wanted to take his pillow and hug it to his chest, but he hadn’t the will to move.

Still, this brief moment of fear was exhilarating. It had been so long since he’d felt anything at all, other than a tickle at the back of his throat.

It was quite a feat, having every member of his household loathe him beyond imaging. He was proud of himself, really. Even his brother, Lord and Master of the Manor, had written him off.

In all honestly, it hadn’t been so very hard. All he had to do was be himself, and the hatred around him grew and grew like a monstrous weed.

He didn’t know why he’d decided to help Cora Grove. Help wasn’t something he generally offered without a price.

But there had been something about her…she could almost, almost make him feel human again.

- - -

Five months and twenty-nine days he’d been here. One more, and he’d be free. The tricky bit would be surviving for the remaining hours. The guards were getting restless; they didn’t seem to like the idea of him leaving, and all he could do was hope they’d leave him alone. He doubted they would, though. It wasn’t their style.

No, they’d tucked him in a cell meant for the insolent--but he himself had ever been unwaveringly obedient, a fact which would have horrified Rex, had he known.

Cully fastened his arms around his knees, closing his eyes as if to spite the mean-spirited darkness of his little hole in the wall. His stomach growled, the wicked thing! As if he didn’t already know how hungry he was. When was the last time he’d eaten? Two days ago, perhaps. They’d given him a small helping of gruel and a triangle of stale bread.

The rough wood of his bunk dug into his back, reminding him that he’d piled all the straw that had once served as his mattress in a corner of the cell to keep the biting little buggies from feasting on his flesh.

He should have been revolted by the memory, but really the buggers had been his only company, and so all he felt was sorrow. He wanted to do something, anything at all--even return to the tedious task of oakum picking. Bloody fingers would be preferable to this empty void of nothingness.

Rex would kick his arse until it glowed black and blue if only he knew the way Cully was thinking, like a whiny whelp.

He smiled, remembering his friend’s permanently annoyed scowl.

Yes, he could do this. Survive.

After all, he didn’t want to die before his own execution.

- - -

Eggs. Bread and butter. Some type of fish Cora couldn’t identify. Her gut clenched in anticipation as she took her seat at the breakfast table next to Justina.

Jones’ brother Edwin, whom she’d met the previous evening, settled in at the head of the table, looking every inch the viscount. His hair was sleek and golden with a hint of red, his eyes brooding chips of gray steel. He had square jaw and a proud nose that had no need to point skyward.

Truthfully, she found him rather intimidating, despite his young age.

“Where is Jones?” Cora asked thoughtlessly, wincing at her rudeness. But, of course, sensitivity to decorum was a concept oddly foreign to her. As a little girl, she’d tried her best to learn all her governess deemed necessary, but it had been akin to teaching a fish how to fly with the birds: impossible.

Edwin and Justina traded knowing glances, expressions grimly acceptant.

“I’m certain he sees breaking his fast with the rest of us beneath him,” Justina spoke up. Edwin passed her a quelling glare, but did not speak.

“You see,” came a voice from behind Cora, “I am so very underappreciated.” All three of them whipped their heads about to see Jones leaning back against the flowery wallpaper, flippancy etched across his face.

Justina opened and closed her mouth several times.

“Are you perhaps imitating your unfortunate choice of breakfast?” Jones wondered. He pulled out a chair and sat down beside Cora, his musky aroma filling her nostrils. His posture was slumped, as though he felt poorly.

“What,” Edwin forced out, jaw pulsing with anger, “are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Jones asked with false cheer. “I’m joining my lovely family, and of course our guest”--he winked at Cora--“for an even lovelier meal.” Grimacing slightly, he raised a hand to his mouth and coughed delicately.

Again, Jones’ siblings exchanged suspicious glances.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Jones bit into a buttery slab of bread with a hum of approval. “Oh, I do love bread.” He sighed dramatically. “Alas, my undying affection shall forever remain unreturned.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Cora dug in, not particularly caring that all Justina and Edwin were doing was gaping; they looked quite ridiculous, all buggy-eyed and slack-jawed.

Jones may not have been the most…couth…man she’d ever encountered, but he far surpassed men of Litchfield’s caliber, and he’d done nothing as of yet to deserve his sister’s harsh words. Although, she was forced to admit she knew next to nothing about him; certainly Justina had good reason for mistrusting him. She seemed like a very intelligent women.

“Hggt!-oo. Hh.”

Cora leveled a surprised look at the source of the disturbance. Jones had a hand curled tightly around his nose as he released a satisfied little sigh through his parted lips.

Noticing the attention he’d drawn, Jones pretended to scratch his nose, then shoved another slab of bread into his mouth. She resisted a smile: Jones was about as much a gentleman as she was a lady.

“What was that?” Justina burst out, staring at Jones as though he’d suddenly turned into a gigantic green monster with six eyes and a mouth full of revolving teeth-blades.

“My last swallow didn’t agree with me,” Jones grumbled petulantly.

“Ah, I imagine so,” Justina said, making no sense at all. Cora was beginning to question her earlier judgment of the woman as being “intelligent.”

“Well,” Cora cut, coming to her rescuer’s rescue. “Can you please pass the jam?"

- - -

Sorry 'bout the lack of sneezing. Promise more for next time.

[obsessed]

I'm very intrigued

[BlueGirl]

Heh. I like this. And Jones appeals to me, possibly because everyone else hates him :-) I'm looking forward to updates!

[queenie]

I don't mind the lack-- this is progressing slowly and I like that about it. It's very subtle and mature. Quite readable. Please keep posting it!

[count tiszula]

Ah, back to Victorian London! Lovely to see you writing again.

Wait a moment, younger brother Jones, elder brother Edwin? Well, why not?

[Scion]

obsessed: YAYAYAYAY!

BlueGirl: Thank you. I know what you mean. I always like the characters everyone else hates haha.

queenie: Ahh, thank you! I'm glad to hear it, and I'll definitely keep posting.

count de tisza: Thank you! I appreciate the comment and support.

Part Three:

London, England, 1880

They were already working to turn Cora against him. He could see it in her eyes, a wariness that hadn’t been there before. He shouldn’t have cared, but he did. For once, he wanted someone on his side. It had been so long since he’d cared about anything at all, so he felt a bit unbalanced.

What he really needed was a good woman to satisfy all the strange emotions he was experiencing--not that that had ever worked before, but he had no other ideas.

Grabbing his hat and walking stick, he headed out the front door, John tailing him like a shadow--the troublesome footman knew the routine. Every night, Jones would travel to Madame Charlotte’s, and every night he would come back unsatisfied.

The coach was ready and waiting outside, but, unexpectedly, so was one of the servant girls. He couldn’t recall her name, Hettie, perhaps? Helen? She curtsied, offering him a shy smile. Interesting.

“What can I do for you, Hettie?” he asked as he reached her.

Her chubby cheeks flushed, making her appear even more the child. “My name be Alice, milord,” she whispered, biting her lower lip.

Alice? He’d never have guessed. “Of course, Alice, love. How may I assist you?”

For a moment she looked about to scream at him, but she took a deep breath and said pleasantly, “I fink yew knows that already, milord.”

Jones almost laughed. The girl reminded him of nothing more than a rosy-cheeked infant. But then, it might be interesting to try something new. He arched a brow in answer, wondering if she’d change her mind.

A teasing smirk slid across her face, so incongruous with her otherwise innocent appearance. She intrigued him more by the moment.

“Follow me, milord,” she said with a bat of her long, dark lashes.

“Milord,” John said a bit nervously, “I thought you was goin’ out?”

Jones waved this off. “I’ll do whatever pleases me.” Without waiting for John’s response, he took off after Hettie.

“Are you quite certain you know where you’re going, darling?” Jones asked as Hettie led him around to the back of the manor, then continued onward down an unlit street. He peered about, seeing no one else around, which he found decidedly strange. The chill of the October night settled over him like a cloak made of ice, accompanying an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t be silly, milord,” the girl laughed, stopping and turning to face him. Her big blue doll-eyes were like glowing moons in her pale face. “I ‘appen ter know exactly where I am.”

And that’s when someone struck him from behind, a crushing blow to the back of his neck that launched sparks of pain up into his head. The agony mushroomed throughout his body as he collapsed to his knees on the cold ground. Another blow landed on the back of his head. Then another, this one hitting his lower back.

“Keep going!” Hettie enthused, her voice scarily gruff as it seemed to resound in his aching head. “’it 'im good!”

Jones made to push himself up, to put on a show of defending himself, only to have his face shoved roughly into the cobbles. His nose was on the verge of snapping when finally his head was thrust back by the fist clenched in his hair.

His eyes felt swollen, like they might burst. He tried to push open his lids, but couldn’t manage it. Swirls of dizziness swam through him.

For a reason he couldn’t fathom, Cora’s face came into his mind, her quirky little half smile that both teased and warmed him. It hit him that if he died right here and now, no one would care. Not his brother, not his sister. Not even Cora.

The torment lasted only an instant before his shields slammed home, leaving him once again empty, alone, and colder than ever before.

He simply lay there, not resisting as the beating continued. It seemed to go on forever. Eventually, forever lost its meaning as his awareness slowly bled away.

- - -

Tilden Papley had never run so fast in his life. He’d been a fool to let Jones go off on his own the way he had. He knew how the others felt about him, and Alice especially.

“Milord!” he called, then just gave up. “JONES! JONES! WHERE ARE YEW!?”

His ears picked up on something not too far off: moaning, and something else, a smacking sound, then a voice: “Keep going! ‘it ‘im good!”

NO! He was too late!

With renewed energy, he zipped onward, nearly slipping and falling several times before he finally made it to the right place. He took in the scene with a sort of distant horror: Jones on the ground, face slack and swollen with red welts. A big, burly man looming over him, ready to send his foot into Jones’ gut.

“STOP!” Til shrieked, sounding more like his younger sister than himself.

He needn’t have bothered.

One moment the attacker was upright, and the next he was flat on his back, apparently unconscious. From the sound of it, he’d hit his head on the cobbles. Not good.

“Billy!” Alice wailed, running to her fallen companion and kneeling by his side. Billy groaned, but didn’t wake.

Baffled and shaken, Til went to Jones. Crouching, he examined the horribly puffy face. The split lip. The specks of blood dappled everywhere. “Milord? Can yew ‘ear me?” Instead of demanding to know what had just happened like he desperately wanted to, he put a hand on Jones’ shoulder, giving it a light shake.

Jones groaned, lashes flickering. Slivers of blue appeared as his eyes opened a tad. “John,” he said throatily.

“Yes, milord!” Til exclaimed, not caring Jones had got his name wrong yet again. He was just happy the man was talking at all.

The eyes closed. “Help me up.” A soft breath of air along with a wince. “Help me sit up.”

“Yew traitor!” Alice suddenly shouted, whirling on Til. “’ow can yew defend ‘im? ‘e’s slime! E’ ain’t no gen’leman!”

Til ignored her and helped Jones to sit. The man curled forward around his knees, breathing heavily. His shoulders gave a quick jerk. “Nxgt!-uh.”

Startled, Til blurted, “Bless yew!”

Jones raised his head to look at him, and his face just…crumbled. “Don’t,” he breathed, squashing his eyes shut with a grimace. “John. Don’t. All right?”

“Wot--Jones?” Til caught the man before he could fall and lowered him gently to the ground. If he were stronger, he could have carried the injured man to safety. But he wasn’t. Peeved at his own weakness, he turned to Alice…who was gone.

Billy, though, was still there, and Til didn’t want to leave Jones alone with him--but how else would he go for help? Maybe he could carry Jones at least a little while. What other choice did he have? He slid his arms underneath the unconscious man and lifted him, groaning at the strain on his arms and back.

He managed a few steps, then a few more. After another couple, he began to feel dizzy. He picked up his pace. He’d covered about half the distance when the world began to tilt.

Be…a…man…he thought…and fell to his knees.

- - -

Cora was pouting. She’d seen Jones head out, and she had no doubts as to his destination. There was no denying the jealousy she felt when she thought about him with another woman, which of course was ridiculous! She didn’t even like the man!

But he had saved her life. That had to mean something, didn’t it? It connected them. Disgusted with herself, she muttered, “Go back inside, Cora. He’s not coming back.” Her father had always hated the way she talked to herself, said it made her seem mad. She hardly cared what he thought, though, especially now.

“’elp!” Til came barreling around the corner, arms waving. “’elp, someone!” He stopped to hunch forward, hands on knees as he panted.

Cora ran to him, icy fear tickling the back of her neck. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s…Jones…he’s…” She didn’t wait for him to finish, taking off in the direction he’d come. The fear she felt clawing at her heart made no sense, and yet…

“Ma’am!” Til called from behind her. “Miss Grove!”

She paid him no mind, bursting through the fence and--

“Miss Grove.”

She halted, spinning to her left. Jones shambled toward her, bare head bowed. As she drew closer, she got a better look at his face and felt fury rise inside her.

“What happened to you!?” She reached him, her hand finding its way to his elbow. “Who did this? Are you all right? Where are you injured?”

“Please, stop shouting at me,” he groaned, pulling away from her. “Unless you want to witness my head exploding.”

“Oh.” She felt utterly foolish, even pointless. Angry at herself for thinking such things, she took hold of Jones’ elbow with a firm grip. “Don’t bother pulling away. I’ll not have you falling on that handsome face of yours.”

Til arrived then, positioning himself on Jones’ other side. They began to lead him slowly back to the manor, refusing to relinquish their helping hands.

“Wait,” Jones muttered. A swath of blond hair fell across his face as he tilted his head to one side. He inhaled unsteadily, then shook his head. “Never mind, then.”

“Are you all right?” she couldn’t help but ask as he wrinkled up his nose and gave his head another shake. “Is it your head? Does it pain you?”

His eyes slid to her, tired and yet alarmingly empty. “Do I seem all right to you, Miss Grove?”

Irked, she snapped, “Well, what am I supposed to say!? You’re the one who went out looking to warm some whore’s bed! Perhaps you got what you deserved!”

He froze, brows knitting. “I hadn’t realized that was any of your affair. Hh!” He ducked his head, and she felt him shudder as he pinched out what she assumed to be a sneeze. “Mmkt!-ahh.” He waited, then shivered with a final: “Mmp’shff!”

She patted his back as he sniffled surreptitiously, anger draining away. “Come on, then,” she said gently. “Let’s get you home.”

Again, his gaze met hers, something dark and painfully raw in his eyes. They stayed like that for long moments as though trying to see into each other’s souls. Then he leant in to whisper something into her ear. “Kit.” His breath rustled her hair. “Christopher.”

“What?” she asked senselessly, mesmerized by the sudden emotion evident in his pretty blues.

“My name,” he said on a soft chuckle, his rough cheek grazing her temple.

He was so close, the heat of his body making her sweaty as a hog. Not a very flattering comparison, she knew. But with her heart racing and blood pounding in her ears, she couldn’t muster the will to care. Somehow, she knew she’d just won something very precious, and she wasn’t about to take it for granted: his name. Not Jones, but Christopher. She almost smiled.

“All right, Christopher--Kit,” she said, holding his stare. “On we go?”

He nodded, but she noted with dismay that his eyes were once again vacant pits. Drawing away from her, he walked on ahead. He didn’t look back.

- - -

Too dizzy to be able to see where he was going, Cully allowed the guard to bully him out of his cell, through the dismal halls of the prison, and all the way outside to where his death impatiently waited. Chill morning air stung his sensitive skin as biting rays of sun seared his eyes.

Part of him wished Rex were there, if only so his last memory would be of someone who cared for him, rather than the hate-filled faces of his jailers. But then he wouldn’t want his friend to have to witness this. Besides…it had been almost a year since he’d last see Rex, and the boy could be off in America for all he knew.

He had wanted to write a letter to Rex, but he’d never learned how to read, and writing was far beyond him. He had no one to miss him, no one who cared his life was to end on this day.

But Cully managed to keep the tears at bay, even as he was led out to the Cold Meat Shed, even as his wrists and ankles were imprisoned by leather straps, even as a hood was drawn over his face. But when he felt the noose fasten around his neck, his control snapped; he was so terrified he lost all control over his bladder.

That’s when the tears began to flow.

He would die like this, in his gray prison suit now stained with his terror. He would die like the villain he was. He would die a murderer. He would die without forgiveness.

There was a rusty screech, and then the ground went out from under him and Carl Edgar Culpepper plummeted to his death.

- - -

[Scion]

*Bump* Just waiting for feedback until I post the next part to see if anyone has any suggestions or anything.

[Strong_and_Wild]

I dont really have any suggestions for you, considering you continue to shock/amaze me with your intricate stories. usually im not into historical fiction, but this changed my whole perspective. Im in love with Jones/Christopher/Kit, not sure what to call him, but i adore him, and this story pleeeaaassseee post more :DDD

[Scion]

CrushCrush32: Thank you! I'm really happy you're liking this, and I really appreciate you commenting. Sometimes it's hard to know if people like it or not hehe, so I'm relieved!

Okay, so don't think badly of Jones because of...what you're about to read. It's not what it looks like!

Part Four:

London, England, 1878

Edwin Jones, Lord Fortescue, had a bad case of the shakes. Normally nothing at all could affect him, but Missy Newman was the one exception. From the moment he’d met her, it was as though she’d grabbed hold of his heart with her bare hand and squeezed until he was too dizzy and breathless to do anything but collapse.

And now, the time had come to finally ask for her hand. He’d never been so terrified in all his life. Hoping for a word of reassurance, he made for his brother’s chamber. Jones may not have been the kind soul he had been years earlier, but he always knew exactly what to say to make Edwin laugh--usually at himself.

He gave the door a cursory knock, then opened it and--

No.

This…wasn’t happening. Edwin blinked, rubbed his eyes. His beautiful, innocent Missy was most decidedly not in bed with his brother. The very idea was preposterous. He knew that if he closed the door, then opened it once more, he would find his brother very much alone; he would give Jones a brief shoulder-pat, then move on to business.

Missy swept a tumble of coppery hair from her face as she peered over at him. Edwin said nothing, his eyes boring a hole in the side of his brother’s skull.

Jones stirred, rolling onto his side and yawning. His eyes blinked open, fuzzy with sleep. He frowned first at Edwin, then at Missy. “What…?” he asked foggily. “Eddie?”

Edwin didn’t reply. His heart had been crushed into a million tiny bits, but he was never one for overdramatics. He wouldn’t give his brother that satisfaction.

Without ever saying a word, Edwin turned and fled, vowing that one day…he would make his brother pay for his betrayal.

- - -

The coachman laughed as Jones hobbled past him. Cora glared at the man, and when he continued to chortle, she picked up a stone and threw it at him. It whapped him in the shoulder, which only made him laugh harder, his face turning red as he bent to clutch at his stomach.

“Beast!” Cora shouted at him. “A POX ON YOU, you--you ignoble cur! You cretinous wretch! You loathsome miscreant!”

Now Til was the one laughing, though he was doing his best to hide it. She turned her glare on him and he immediately quieted.

“Is something funny?” she asked primly, squaring her shoulders.

Til shook his head vigorously. “No! No, nuffin’ at all, ma’am.”

She nodded. “I thought as much.”

- - -

“You’re drunk,” Edwin accused as Jones wobbled into the dining room. “At ten in morning.”

“Am I?” Jones smiled. “I hadn’t realized.” He half-fell into a chair beside Cora, offering her a look she couldn’t quite figure out. It was almost conspiratorial.

She wanted to touch his wrist, or really just to touch him, but she settled for asking, “How are you feeling? Any better?”

As if noticing the change in his brother’s appearance for the first time, Edwin remarked, “Brawling again, Jones?”

Cora was about to come to his defense, but then she realized this could be true. In fact, he may well have been tussling over a woman. The thought squelched her appetite.

“Nothing escapes you, my lord,” Jones returned, scratching his nose. He didn’t smell drunk, but that hardly meant anything.

“Indeed.” Edwin bit stodgily into a slice of cold meat.

Justina stared openly, looking slightly superior in her sunny yellow day dress. “Did you win?”

Feigning offense, Jones exclaimed, “Do you doubt me? My own sister?”

Her crystalline eyes held no warmth as she replied, “Yes. I do.”

They ate in silence for the remainder of the meal.

- - -

“Wait!” Cora bustled after Jones as he made his escape from the unbearably tense atmosphere of the dining room. “Kit, please. I want to speak with you.”

Shockingly, he ignored her.

Never one to give up without a fight, she followed after him. “I thought you claimed to be a gentleman!” she accused, clutching his arm.

“Exactly,” he said with a swift smirk that must have hurt his split lip. “I claimed to be one. No more and no less.”

“I see,” she said, berating herself for falling right into a trap. “So I was right, then? You are a scoundrel? How many bastard children have you sired, Jones or Christopher or whatever your name is.”

He stopped so suddenly she nearly fell forward. “What are you doing?” she demanded, righting herself. “Trying to kill me?”

But…oh, the way he was looking at her, like she’d stabbed him straight through the heart. His eyes were wide, maybe a bit shocked and definitely wounded. Her heart tried to crawl up her throat; what had she said? She hadn’t meant to hurt him…

After long moments of his brutal, tragic stare, he murmured, “Well, if that’s all, I really must go. I’ve lots to do, and I’d rather not stand here dillydallying for longer than strictly necessary.” He started to spin away, but she latched onto his coat, keeping him in place.

“Wait a moment,” she pleaded, sounding more desperate than she’d intended. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong? What did I say? I’m sorry if I offended you. It was not my intention, so please, just tell me what I did and I’ll apologize.”

He sighed, running a hand tiredly over his bruised face. “You’ve done nothing, of course. I am the one to blame. I thought you’d have realized that by now.”

Shaking her head in confusion, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Nothing of import.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking shallow breaths. “Blast it all, I don’t want to deal with this!”

Offended, Cora straightened. “Well, I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you!”

He closed his eyes, quickly raising an arm to his face as he jerked away from her. “Hh’MGtssuhh! Nkg’cHFF!-uh.” A shiver passed through him as he faced her once more, his eyes glazed over with fatigue and perhaps something else as well.

She softened, unable to help herself. “Bless you. Have you caught a chill?”

“No.” He ran a finger under his chapped nostrils, eyes hardening. “Now, will that be all?”

“Yes,” she said coldly. If he was going to treat her like scum, then she owed him no sympathy. Cora was beginning to see why Justina had been so harsh on Jones. He truly didn’t seem to care about anyone but himself.

“Lovely. Good day, Miss Grove.” When she made no reply, he smiled knowingly, gave a small bow, and disappeared.

- - -

Cully screamed, knowing he was about to die and unable to think of anything else. Yer gonna die, yer gonna die, yer gonna die! his mind screeched.

Only he didn’t.

When he reached the mark that was supposed to signify his death, he simply kept on going, falling down, down, down to the very bottom of the pit. He landed on his rear, preparing for pain and most likely the sound of his own bones snapping.

Once again, he was surprised. Instead of hitting the hard ground, he flopped down onto what felt like a thick mattress piled high with loose straw. The air left his lungs and he was momentarily stunned, but he was alive. Immediately he yanked the hood off and scrabbled at the noose around his neck, thrusting it up over his head as he panted for breath.

When he got his dizziness under control, he was able to make out a voice calling to him from above. He glanced around the dark pit, which was really just a hole in the ground, then peered up the tunnel into the shed. A face hovered there, too far away to make out any distinguishing features.

“Culpepper!” the man shouted in an agitated baritone. “Grab onto the end of the rope and I’ll pull you up!”

Dazed, Cully did as he was told, lodging one of his feet into the loop of the noose and gripping higher up on the rope that trailed all the way up to safety.

“Ready!” he called up to his mystery savior, voice quavering. “Please, ‘urry!”

- - -

If he didn’t dispel some of his pent-up rage soon, Jones knew he was going to explode. He was tired of everyone looking down their noses at him and treating him like he mattered less than a flea. It was time they had a taste of their own medicine.

Entering the kitchen, he caught sight of John’s sister, Jane? Jenny? He was almost certain it began with a J. She was scrubbing a potato, but glanced up as he approached with a look of surprise.

Copper pots lined the walls; bunches of various herbs hung from the ceiling, and Cook stood by the cast iron stove, stirring the contents of an enormous pot. She was a stout, gruff woman, but she’d been kind to him when he was a lad, allowing him to taste various puddings against his step-father’s behest.

All eyes turned to him as he stood there, staring at the back of Cook’s head. A tingling sensation began between his eyes, slinking gradually lower. He drew out his handkerchief and folded it over his face. He kept his eyes open as long as possible, slowly backing out of the kitchen. He’d come here to spread his venom, and instead he was making a fool of himself.

Everyone had gone silent, watching him as he struggled to put off the unavoidable. In the hall, he felt himself flinch with a squelched sneeze. “Hgt’tschh!” But he wasn’t finished, oh no, not he. For Christopher August Jones, the humiliation would never end. “H’mmpt! Hhh…hh’MMsh!-uhh.”

As he replaced his handkerchief in his pocket, an unusual calm fell over him. These people were nothing, meant nothing. They had no right to judge him or his actions. None at all, and he would not give them the satisfaction of rushing away with his tail between his legs.

“Whatever it is you’re cooking in there,” he said haughtily, “is clearly not suitable for human consumption.” Smiling, he sauntered back into the kitchen.

- - -

FYI, if you want me to continue, please let me know. If not, I'll try to start a novel or something. Don't be shy. As long as at least one person is still liking this, I'll keep posting, but you have to TELL me otherwise I won't know.

[obsessed]

Your writing is marvelous and I always look forward to seeing what you come up with! I'd follow this story fetishy or not

[Strong_and_Wild]

Love it! Your writing is so snarky and fresh it warms my heart. I can't possibly wait much longer for more

[elements]

I'm very intrigued about how these various storylines are going to come together. I would like you to continue PLease!

[foreverajerseygirl]

I'm hooked...

[Emily]

Gah, I haven't been active in the stories section these past few weeks at all! D: I only just noticed your story, which I've just finished and quite love. Heheh, Jones <3 I'd have likely punched him by now if I were Cora, but I'm not, so I'm just satisfied with his momentary weaknesses. Oh btw, hello , how are you, how you doing, how's life, good day and cheerio. I miss talking to you. I swear we'd be best friends if we met in RL.

[Candy]

Another Scion story <3 Love it!

[starpollen]

YES. CONTINUE. Write a novel. I adore this.

[Scion]

Wow! Didn't expect so many replies!

@obsessed: THANK YOU! You are the absolute best.

@CrushCrush32: Aw, thank you so freaking much. You are waaay too nice to me.

@elements: Thank you! I'm glad you're intrigued. The storylines will come together very soon.

@foreverajerseygirl: Aw, yay!

@Emily: Muahahaha, I missed you as well, you awesome person! Ah yes, I always know when you're going to want to beat up my main male character LMAO. Nothing amused me more. But I see you might also kinda like him a bit... Also, I'm mediocre. My RL is just a bunch of awkward encounters strung together, though I agree we would definitely be friends. Hope everything about your life is dashing.

@Candy: Haha, aww, thank you so much!

@starpollen: LOL! Thank you! That means a lot, especially from a genius storyteller such as yourself.

Part Five:

London, England, 1880

“And just wot d’yew think yer doin’ in ’ere, young man?” Cook asked, pointing her wooden spoon at him.

Jones smiled broadly. “Why, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Cook rolled her eyes. “An ‘old friend’ my wrinkled arse!” she boomed. “Yer ‘ere ‘arrassin’ my girls, and don’t I know it!”

Pressing a hand over his heart, he lamented, “Such harsh words! Does not a soul in this cold, cruel world care for a poor, wronged gentleman?” He leaned over the stove, peering into the pot, which contained a host of colorful vegetables.

“Yew leave Penny be,” Cook said sternly.

Penny? So that was her name! “Honestly, is that how one speaks to one’s master?”

“Master?” She scoffed. “Yew ain’t my master, little babe. That be Lord Fortescue and well yew know it! Now shoo. I can’t ‘ave yew droolin’ all over everything.”

He waved this off, peeved that she actually thought she was the higher authority here. “I’ll do whatever pleases me, ma’am, and since it pleases me to stay right where I am, I will.”

“Oh no yew won’t!” With pitiless eyes, she swatted the back of his head with her spoon. “Shoo, yew little ruffian! Out of my ki--” A look of alarm spread over her features, her wide mouth falling open. “Jones,” she said slowly, cautiously.

He followed the line of her gaze. Saw that his hand was leaning against the stovetop. Saw the pot of boiling water not inches away.

It took a while, but finally his brain caught up. He removed his hand from the stove and brought it up to his face, staring at the patch of blistered, red skin.

“Jones?”

He turned to see Cora standing at the kitchen’s entrance, her brow furrowed. She moved toward him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal who might attack.

This confused him.

He hadn’t thought she feared anything or anyone, but the look in her eyes told him otherwise. Right now, she was terrified.

He glanced down at himself, expecting to see something out of place or perhaps something missing…but no. He appeared to be intact.

“Kit,” Cora said in a quelling manner. “Just…take my hand, all right? Take my hand and sit down with me for a moment.”

Sit down? In the middle of the kitchen? That hardly seemed usual. Still, when she took his hand and tugged him down with her, he sat. Startled by an unexpected rush of dizziness, he almost collapsed onto his face.

Several pairs of hands stopped his descent, and he was able to lean into the warm form beside him. She smelled like lilacs.

“Steady, there,” Cora’s voice cooed. “You’re all right.”

“Of…course I am,” he said fuzzily. Why did he sound so far away?

“Yes.” Cora again, gentle, soothing. “Now, let me see your hand. No, the other one. That’s right. Let me just have a quick look.”

Jones cut his gaze to her, then to his hand, which was cradled between two of hers. Fright rose up inside him with no warning. He jerked away from her, lunging to his feet.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he shouted, trying to stumble away. He couldn’t stay here. He was going to--had to--he… “Hhh…huhhUSSHooo!” Tiny pitch-black dots misted in the air around him, swirling in circles.

“Don’t,” he managed to say. “Please, don’t.”

- - -

Cora clasped Jones’ arm, shouting, “HELP ME!” to the slack-jawed and apparently utterly useless cook. She was trembling with worry for a man she barely knew, which was considerably dangerous and more than a mite foolish.

When the cook reached out a pale, calloused hand to Jones, however, the man immediately straightened, head whipping about.

“Oh, never mind!” Cora snapped, wrapping protective arms around the Jones’ waist. As he shook, muttering nonsense words under his breath, she drew his head to her shoulder and cooed at him as though he were a babe. “Hush now, sweet.” She stroked his soft hair. “All is well. I’m here. I’m right here. It will be all right. Shh, shhh. That’s right, just breathe. Breathe.”

He melted against her, releasing wheezing gasps that sounded almost like sobs. As she rubbed his back, she peeked over his shoulder and saw Edwin and Justina standing in the doorway. Neither of them looked at all sympathetic.

She could have slapped the both of them!

“HhNXT!” he sneezed into her shoulder.

He cringed, swaying back from her with a flustered expression. Blinking rapidly with glassy eyes, he mumbled, “Miss…Grove? Have I…? Did I…? What exactly am I doing?” His gaze raked over her, taking in her close proximity. “What are you doing?”

Cheeks heating, Cora brushed off her spotless skirts. “I was merely…comparing our heights.”

“Ah,” he said sleepily, running a hand through his rumpled hair. “And what was your discovery?”

“I--I--well…I’m not certain.” Truly, when had she become such a flibbertigibbet? It had to come to a stop.

Jones appeared to attempt a smile without success. “Indeed.” His eyes fell upon his siblings, and she witnessed a stiffening of his posture.

“My lord,” Jones said coldly, eyeing his brother. Then, to his sister, “Lady Justina.” He bowed exaggeratedly. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

“Another one of your tantrums, I take it,” Edwin remarked, features set in a glacial mask.

Cora scowled at the pitiless viscount. “How can you say that him? He’s your brother! Have you no heart?”

Edwin leveled those hard eyes on her. “You do not know him as I do, Miss Grove. He likes to act out when he isn’t getting his way. He enjoys the attention. I assure you he was never in any danger.”

“Nxt’tchuu!”

Cora saw Jones’ mouth fall open again, saw him disappear beneath his handkerchief as he was consumed by another repressed: “Hhp’cHXshhmff!” that rippled down the length of his slender frame. When he reappeared, his face was flushed, his misty eyes partway shut.

She put a hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t move away.

A victory, she thought. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.

- - -

Cully recognized his savior as Evans, one of his jailers. He was a big man with a crooked nose and round owl eyes that seemed to see straight through a man. Cully had never heard the guard speak a single word, which, when compared with his companions, was very unusual. He’d never been cruel to Cully, nor had he been kind.

But this…this made no sense. Why would one of his executioners be preserving his life?

When Cully, out of breath though he’d done nothing, reached the top of the pit, Evans reached down, gripped Cully under his scrawny arms, and yanked him up safety with seemingly no effort at all. Collapsing against the wall of the shed, Cully fought for breath, gaze scanning the shed.

To his shock, he saw that the remaining guards as well as the warden were flat on their stomachs, immobile.

Evans met his questioning stare and said calmly, “Come. We have to hurry.”

“Wot?” Cully asked, scrubbing a hand over his face. Maybe he had died after all. Maybe this was some sort of…after-death dream? Did those exist? “I don’t understand,” he said, panic leaking into his voice. “Wot’s goin’ on? Why’d yew ‘elp me?”

“Not now.” As patient as ever, Evans grabbed Cully and swung him over one broad shoulder, then took off at a run, boots pounding over the uneven ground. Moments later, with the prison still in sight, someone else caught up with them, falling into step beside Evans.

As Cully tried to force back his dizziness, he peered over at the newcomer, fear prickling his neck. If he was a threat, Evans would have reacted…right? But what if Evans was in on it as well? What was there to be in on?

Just as he was about to black out from sheer terror, the man spoke, and Cully knew his voice instantly.

“Yer lookin’ a bit peaked, there, Culpepper!” Rex said.

Behind them, an alarm bell began to toll.

- - -

[Galaxy]

I'm so sad that I've been gone for so long (computer beefs. Behh.), but at the same time, it was a delight to come back and read all of this in a large gulp. First off, JONES. I love him, bad attitude and stifled sneezes and all. I find him simply marvelous. The way he and Cora interact is fabulous. They're both fabulous characters in general! I can't wait to see where this marvelous story leads! You're just such a perfectly awesome writer----I LOVE YOU SO.

Keep up the super marv work!

[Emily]

Haha, comparing heights! Makes me feel somewhat self-conscious about my entire 61.5 inches. LOL Yep, you bet I'll always want to beat up one of your male leads, and then I can be sure that soon after you'll give me a sob story to make me feel sorry for him. You sly thing, you. Isn't a mediocre life the best kind? I find myself perfectly happy being an oddball that laughs at everything. Maybe one day we'll meet at an autographing session of yours one day? ;D You'll have to let me know when that happens.

That aside, '“And just wot d’yew think yer doin’ in ’ere, young man?”' was such an awesome line that I could hear it in my head as the cook was saying it.