Thread: Southern Girl [ Ariamella & Reydan ]

RE Southern Girl Ariamella Reydan Virgil didn't look up for a moment when he heard Lucille let herself into the room. He was, he told himself, busy with work. Engrossed in company figures for the boot workshop he owned in the City. Yet really he was afraid to meet her eyes. Angry too. She always let herself in. Always stuck her nose in or offered an opinion. It might not have been true, but it was how his conflicted mind remembered it. The mention of his mother, however, blew any chance he had of remaining calm and detached away like the stalks of a dandelion. Wafting away in a sudden gust of air. His mother. A tall, sickly, tired woman. Rail thin. Sandy blonde hair. Crying delicately into a handkerchief. But George you could work for the Government. Your brother Harry, he going to go to the new Confederate Congress. You wouldn't have to fight! Frail fingers, pale to an almost ghost-white, clutched his hands. His mother had always used their middle names when talking about her children. He gulped, eighteen, and broke the grasp. She sobbed as he left the room. George, please, George. Lucy had always teased him with the thought of his mother. She had always seen the external Mary Ann Abernathy. Charity co-ordinator. Virginia socialite. Capable mother of five. Not the sickly, tired, anxious figure she was in private. Terrified of loosing her children. The only things she really cared about in the world. She had been so thrilled, so happy, when Virgil had come to talk to her seriously about marrying Lucille Rayne... He scowled. Bad memories bubbling to the surface. Like the scum of a cook pan. Or maybe just memories that made him feel bad... He pushed his chair back with a scraping suddenness and rose. He glared at Lucille. I have received you into my house Ma'am he said, cold politeness, and will, as my wife asks, perform every kindness and courtesy our relationship as family requires. But do not presume to know me. We may have been...familiar...before but now.... He was trailing off. Unsure now. Conflicted. He rallied. I seem to recall you made it abundantly clear that you no longer wished my attention five years ago. You cannot expect me to have held true to a bond that you yourself willingly cast aside. As for visiting...I seem to remember a war being fought, Ma'am, although maybe you were a little too caught up in Cotillions and Tea Dances to take notice. He swept from behind the desk, striding across the room, and paused by her. He reached slightly behind her for the door handle and then froze. They were close now, almost touching as his arm reached behind her. And there was a slight smell. A waft. Of something that recalled tobacco fields and hot summer evenings and...passion. Excuse me Ma'am he said in a deep low voice, but I find myself in need of a walk in the garden. A headache. And he swept around her and out the back door into the cold garden. Virgil managed a few paces before sitting on a cold stone bench. Memory after memory assailed him. There was one in particular... His sixteen year-old self stood on a veranda overlooking a starlight sky. The warm hubbub of a party rose and fell in the house behind him. She was perched, in a soft lavender dress, on the white-painted wooden rail than ringed the veranda. She kicked her heels, watching him as he leaned on the balustrade beside her. Do you intend to bore me all evening Virgil Abernathy? There are plenty other young men inside who would feign to adore me! Always teasing. Always pushing her luck with that arch smile of hers. He stepped back and the leaned in, cupping her delicate face in his hands and kissing her. His tongue had pushed past her shocked lips to slid into her hot little mouth. He'd leaned in further, pressing his body to hers, feeling her little legs wrap slightly around his sides. Felt her hands in his hair. Stroking, caressing and then, teasingly, pulling him off. She had held him a fraction from her flushed face, eyes sparkling, and delivered her piece de resistance. Why Virgil Abernathy?! What would your mother say?! He groaned. He looked up at the brick facade of the back of the house. His house. His marital house. Three bedroom windows graced the west side of the first floor. His window on the far side and Camilla's closest to the centre. The guest room, for decorum's sake, was between the two.