Poets of Painswick

POETS OF PAINSWICK

by Kate Francia

Content warnings: Mention of parental loss

Monday, 1st of June

Dear Mama, 

I am sorry to tell you that Fanny is out hunting Poets again. It’s such a bore. She’ll be tiresome when she gets back, obv. sans Poets. No good telling her we don’t have the right sort of climate, or that she’d be sorry indeed if she caught one. She’ll persist in calling that bit of meadow above the duck pond “the moor,” lying in the grass pretending she’s just been thrown from her horse. Papa won’t let her take the plow horse, so she pretends hers has run off. 

Later: A bit of excitement. Fanny has contrived to twist her ankle out on “the moor.” It’s swollen to a frightful size. She’s mum on how she managed to walk home on it. (You mustn’t worry; she is perfectly well. Carrying on dreadfully, but you know how she is.)

Spoke to Papa after she retired, in re: something must be done. But as usual, No One Listens To Me. 

Missing you terribly. Yours affectionately,

Ada

•••

Wednesday, 3rd of June

Dear Mama,

Fanny is housebound with ankle, v. tiresome. She’s caught cold from falling in a muddy ditch, keeps looking out window, sighing mysteriously. I offered to read to her just to end the noise. Read first chapter of “Romance of the Forbidden Wood,” but she says my voice too mocking. 

I stole Fanny’s book on the way out, which was wicked of me. Read first half curled up behind the curtain in the window seat, up till Annabella’s kidnapping and encounter with ghost of Poet’s former lover. I don’t suppose you’ll mind my spoiling it for you. Annabella’s choices so far include: venturing off alone in strange castles, doing things explicitly warned not to do, falling in love with men who speak only in verse. Threw book across the room (narrowly missing cat) when Annabella gave impassioned speech to kidnappers about her love for Poet. Poet will not save her. Everyone knows Poets not to be trusted. 

Tried to explain this to Fanny, but apparently, I am Child, and lack Proper Womanly Feeling. 

Your Wicked Child,

Ada

•••

Thursday, 4th of June

Dear Mama,

Some developments. This morning I was minding my business in the parlour reading “Romance of the Forbidden Wood,” when a knock at the door sent everyone into a mad tizzy. Fanny running down the stairs with her cheeks pinched pink. “It’s him, it’s him!” etc.

She has actually caught one. God help us. That’s how she got home the other day. He’s on our chaise across from me at this moment. Pale, reedy, impeccably-cut suit. Wide soft mouth, red tongue between his sharp teeth. I am trying to concentrate on this letter, but he is looking at me with the strangest expression.

Later: Ugh. He is gone, for now. It is quite true what they say about Poets, the way they speak. I can only fear the rest of it may be true as well. He looked right at me, and said, as best I can recall:

Stars in her eyes, the fair-faced child,

Winking and wicked, worldly and wild—

“Oh, nevermind about Ada,” said Fanny. “Do a verse about me.” I am relieved she stopped him. I came over all queer when he was talking to me, like someone poured silver in my ear. His eyes on me, pinned. For some reason I cannot recall their colour. Yet I could not move until he looked away. 

He declaimed several more verses to Fanny, all dreadful. I would write them for you now he’s gone; but Fanny says the scratching of my pen is giving her headache, so I must stop for now. 

I wish you were here. I am quite sure you would have something to say about this. I should have known that with you gone she’d be in greater danger. Papa only laughed and said young ladies will be young ladies.

Your reluctant young lady,

Ada

•••

Sunday, 7th of June

Dear Mama,

I can hardly think at home with everything that’s happened. Papa and Fanny in competition to see who can shout the loudest. I have taken my writing things to the graveyard for a bit of peace.

Naturally, I tried to warn Papa. Young ladies who catch Poets always come to Bad End. I have read about this extensively: drowned, lost on moor, consumption, flung from cliff. Does Papa want to see Fanny laid out in flower-strewn coffin with hair unbound, buried with book of poems on chest? Wouldn’t he rather have grandchildren? 

He patted my head and told me I was a good girl. Next morning at breakfast, stuffed smile over his morning coffee: “Excellent news, girls! I have arranged a Suitable Marriage For Fanny!”

Oh Mama, what did he think was going to happen? 

Continued in Augur Magazine Issue 6.2...