Abigail Widdowson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
acrookedchild) wrote2011-07-09 02:31 am
acrookedchild) wrote2011-07-09 02:31 am
(no subject)
The town's little museum was a curious place, mostly odds and ends. Its strange collection of artifacts ranged from the early fiteen-hundreds to the late eighteen-hundreds. Most of the pieces revolved around a principle family of the town's founding, growth, and prosperity-- the Widdowsons. While the museum was not exclusive to exhibiting the Widdowson history, their influence throughout the strands of narration the pieces might offer was undeniable.
Sir Roger Widdowson had been a major figure in the community, and all his descendants had followed suit-- or else landed in great scandal. Sometimes both.
A blond young woman of twenty-two took the stairs quickly, having noticed a man at the portrait of Sir Roger, his wife Lady Widdowson, and their infant son Jacob.
"Sir!" she called. She tried to smile, but her expression was stern. Too old for her years, yet it suited her well enough. "Sir, please don't touch that. It's very old. Very delicate."
Sir Roger Widdowson had been a major figure in the community, and all his descendants had followed suit-- or else landed in great scandal. Sometimes both.
A blond young woman of twenty-two took the stairs quickly, having noticed a man at the portrait of Sir Roger, his wife Lady Widdowson, and their infant son Jacob.
"Sir!" she called. She tried to smile, but her expression was stern. Too old for her years, yet it suited her well enough. "Sir, please don't touch that. It's very old. Very delicate."
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So he found himself walking close to glass cases displaying clothes and maps and documents on the town and specifically the Widdowsons. Everything in here was like a blow to the stomach. There were a few things he even recognized from the stories. The damn stories. Jess would tell him this wasn't healthy. He didn't really care.
Business contracts, a wedding dress, a son.
Ben stopped in his tracks when he saw the renewed version of the family portrait.
His eye had fallen on the small plaque below, stating the names and the round about time period it was made. Underneath Lady Widdowsons' name was the son's. Jacob. His fingers twitched in his jacket's pocket.
They named him Jacob. He wondered if they knew. If she knew. Knew that they had taken someone who wasn't even from their time and killed her for a son.
Killed her. Killed Hannah. Ben closed his eyes for a moment. Had to still himself, ground himself...there were days where he couldn't believe this had happened. That he just imagined it all. And other days where it was all encompassing, smothering him with it's reality. Night was worse. Especially when he slept. When he dreamed, if he dreamed, they were awful. Dreams of Hannah with her back turned, walking away from him towards Unthank. He always grinned too, as he took Hannah into his arms with a fond embrace, and stared at Ben as if to say 'Your purpose is finished.'
Because Ben had though he was being shown the ….well, what he guessed now was the past....for a reason. A good reason. Something that would benefit him in the end.
How bloody selfish of him.
It hadn't been that long since everything happened. Since Unthank took his – took what should be his family.
Ben hadn't wanted a child, but he wanted Hannah and he wanted her to stay safe. If she was going to have the baby, he wouldn't begrudge her that – it was her right to decide that. But he...couldn't be ready. He wasn't ready. Maybe he never would have been.
And now they used his son to restart the family tree. Jacob.
Ben's hand slipped out of his jacket and raised to touch the painted face of the baby. It looked so innocent below it's evil parents.
He just about grazed the cracked surface of the painting when he heard the girl call out to him. Except, when he jerked his hand back as if something poisonous had crawled onto it and looked over toward her, girl wasn't exactly the right word.
Unnerved by the very serious expression she wore, Ben's hand shot down to his side and he stepped back from the painting, clearing his throat and stuttering as he was wont to do when he was nervous.
“O-Oh, sorry! Sorry.”
He looked at the portrait one more time and back to the woman, trying to smile in an apologetic manner.
“Didn't mean to touch it.” Yes he did. “Sorry.”
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"Don't worry. It does that, I find. Draws people in." Her eyes flicked from Sir Roger's face to Lady Catherine's to Jacob's.
"It's like they're watching." The young woman had quieted some, her voice low. It rolled more than anything, soft as the far-off humming of bees on a warm, lazy summer day. "I think that sometimes. That they watch. Watch everyone in this museum. Watch me. Judging. Everyone. Everything." For a moment, she stood completely still, stone-faced. As if another exhibit in this place. "Sometimes they look like they're waiting for something. Expecting it. Maybe dreading it."
"Miss--"
The voice and sudden hand on her throat startled the girl, and she laughed uneasily at the patron who had come up to her.
"Miss, you work here?"
"I do, ma'am."
"Sorry to bother you."
"Not at all, ma'am. What is it?"
"Bathrooms?"
"Down the stairs, second hall on the left, first door on the right."
"Thank you!"
The blonde young woman looked back at the male patron by the painting still and laughed again, offering a sheepish smile. "S-sorry about that. I... get caught up in this place sometimes. So much history, you know? It... takes my breath away, sometimes."
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Ben only breathed when the woman interrupted her. Thank God, he thought.
He was expecting the same kind of hum to her voice as before but she sounded completely normal. Maybe it was all in his head. He wouldn't have been surprised. Lately he wondered if he really was crazy.
Talk about history gave Ben something to latch onto and he laughed a little shakily.
"Yeah I know what you mean...'bout history, I mean. It's really fascinating."