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He did it.
His tall frame — crumpled, as a letter dashed off in fury and cast to the floor. Trembling. Shaking. Cold sweat soaked through his linen, his cuffs, his collar, chilling him to the spine. By his side lies still a body. No blood. No rise of the chest. Nor ever again. No soul. It was torn away.
By his own hands.
And the help of the fine white cambric neckcloth.
He did it.
.
.
.
There is a big black bird perched outside. On the edge of the balustraded terrace. William Ryder’s monument of a house, sprawling across its vast acres — any bird flying over it might well pause. Land a while. Think nothing of it.
He thought nothing of it.
He never thought to see it again inside the house.
Is William Ryder keeping a raven as a pet or something? — It would not be a surprise if he does, though.
And this one has rather red eyes.
It perches above the ornate fireplace. In the middle of the drawing room. Nonchalant. Unbothered. And not a single one of the guests seems disturbed by its presence.
None.
Except him.
“Tom… Tom?”
He blinks and turns to Ann Baxter. She looks at him — brow furrowed, just slightly. “What is it?”
“Do you see…” he pauses, hearing another voice.
Vibrant. Flourishing. Springtime arriving early.
“See what?”
Ann asks. Her voice fades in his mind. His ears prick up only for that voice. Always. Even among the crowd. Even among all the people in the world, including a woman whom he has an agreement with.
“…Never mind.”
Mary Bennet is talking to William Ryder.
About those murder pamphlets he sent her. How she enjoyed reading them. A conversation resumed from the last time. During the ballroom dance.
Her body in his hand.
Her hand on his shoulder.
Her laughter. Oh, her laughter coming out so free-spiritedly because of him.
And now he is telling her that he read something this morning and it made him think of her. THINK OF HER — good God. Of all the insufferable— Tom has never once built up enough courage to say that. Not once. And here is William Ryder saying it as though remarking on the weather. As though sharing what he had for breakfast.
Pray God bless Caroline Bingley for entering the scene. Putting an end to his misery.
“Excuse me, Miss Baxter.”
He needs a drink.
Or more.
A lot more.
.
.
And William Ryder had to trust Caroline Bingley and place Mary so far from him at the table. Although he could only half-complain, since she was cast acres away from Ryder himself as well.
He notices that William is rather amused by her. She is dazzling — drawing joy out of Mr Hurst by encouraging him to teach her all about horse racing.
The smile on William’s face puts out the smile on his own.
Bottoms up.
For it is the same one William wore while dancing around with her in his arms.
And Tom resents every star that had a hand in writing his fate. For he could only dance with her in a dance that required nothing more than a hand touch. Yet he had made the most of it. He breathed her in so deeply. Her choice of perfume that night still lingering in his lungs even now. His eyes had devoured every splendid sight of her — her blushing cheeks, her petite body hidden under a flower-belted white dress, her hair pinned and dressed. Delicate as a thrush’s feathers. He wishes nothing short of seeing it falling over her small shoulders.
Oh, he would kill to only catch sight of that.
And he would do anything at all to erase every touch of William Ryder’s hands. On her upper back. On the small of it. In her gloved palm. Every inch of her warm skin that he had ever invaded. Even through her clothes.
Even her flushing cheeks — whether caused by the exertion of the dance itself, or something of a far more internal nature he would hate to name.
And there, uncontrollably, once again, Miss Baxter — whose presence should be at the forefront of his decent consciousness — simply vanishes. There is nothing but a glimpse of her existence at the back of his mind. Pulling him back from doing anything indecent. Starting a scandal. Ruining her reputation.
But he hears not what she is saying or whom she is speaking to. Nor whether her eyes are even on him.
All he hears is this soft, low croak of a big bird.
A raven.
Appearing in the dining room. Unannounced.
Burning him with those fiery eyes.
Whispering to him.
I can make you king.
.
.
“That was a very thorough lesson in horse racing you had at dinner, Miss Bennet.”
He approaches her from the back. Her bold red dress blazing before his eyes. Burning him from the inside. He must control himself. He is aware of that. But he does not know how. Not when he is around her.
“Uh, it was. Yes, um, most interesting.” She glances at him. Then looks away.
“Well, I wanted to say that…” he attempts a smile, rather awkwardly.
What would she think of this?
What would she think of him?
Would she think that he is prying? Sticking his oar in?
He tries another smile. Still, not normal enough.
“I wanted to ask…”
Mary looks perplexed. Now he has put his foot in it already. Yet, he rambles on.
“…Or that is, to say, I noticed at the ball that Mr Ryder had occupied a great deal of your time.”
Blood pounds at his temple. His ungraceful smile doing nothing to help matters. Mary seems only more bewildered.
“And he often acts without thinking, so I’d be VERY glad to ask him to be more restrained,”
He hopes his eyes are not too honest.
His forced smile either.
“If… that is what you would… like.”
He barely holds it.
Especially when her lashes flutter like those of a butterfly’s. Most alarming they could be.
“I very much enjoy his company…”
Ah.
She very much enjoys his company.
And her voice is utterly honest saying that. She said it once. He hears it a thousand times in his ears. Repeating like a devil’s knocking on his door. His lungs collapse — could barely breathe. A fish out of water. Thrashing on dry land. Drought creeping through his eyeballs. Dark irises dim.
The world comes tumbling down.
Walls closing in. Shadows gorge all the lights in here. But one. The burning red of that black bird’s eyes. Dark wings gleaming against the murkiness.
His soft, low voice croaking.
Creeping in.
I can make you king.
.
.
.
The drawing room of Ryder’s family home is now lit only by the fireplace. All candles have been put out as William makes his way to bed. With a goat-headed fire poker he breaks up the remaining embers. Spreading out the logs.
He turns around. Jumps in his own skin. Sighs. And smiles.
“Ah! Tom. I thought you had left a while ago.”
Tom stares back at him. Thoughts overflowing in utter silence — none of it reaching William. He takes a not subtle, too-long glance at the hand-forged iron in William’s hand. Down to its very sharp end. Lit by the dying light of the embers.
He crafts a cordial smile. Steps closer to the fireplace. Letting the dimming light illuminate his figure. His waist. Specifically.
The ribbon is there. But not what it once held.
“As you can see, I am missing my watch. Thought it might be in here somewhere…”
“Oh!” William exclaims, somewhat excited, as though it were a game for him. “Let us find it then.”
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, my friend.”
William stops breaking the embers, leaving some for the light they can use. Then he reaches for a spill from the spill vase above the fireplace — naturally thinking to light some of the candles to help with their search.
As Tom reaches for his neckcloth. Untying it.
“The heat tonight…” he complains softly.
William nods as he bends down to light the spill. “Yes, very unusual heat.”
Tom pulls that strip of long fine cambric off his neck. Almost irritated. His hand clenching it tight. As he puts that hand behind his back.
Hiding its pathetic shaking.
He watches as William turns, back against him, lighting the beeswax candles in the wall sconces. A predator observing its prey.
Almost stumbles.
As those candles illuminate the drawing room once more.
William turns around. Oblivious. “Enough? You think?”
Tom clears his throat. Looking away as he tries to hide his own face. Knowing his intention is written all over it. “Uh, yes. I think we can find it now.”
He moves aside to one corner. Acting like he is looking for his little watch. William spreads to the opposite. One thing rather crosses his mind.
“What do you think about Miss Bennet?”
“Hmm?” he responds, involuntarily, his voice jumping an octave.
“She lights up every room she is in, does she not?”
Tom takes a beat. She lights up the whole world for me like no one has ever done. She is the sun. MY sun.
“She is a bright young lady, yes.”
“Right?”
What is that little voice of yours — merciful heavens.
“I cannot believe she is the only one of the five Bennet sisters that has not yet married.”
Tom lets him rattle on.
“Do you know if she has other suitors…” OtHeR? — you mean to count yourself as one, now, do you not?
“She is a friend of Miss Baxter, right? You might have heard something?” Even if that is true, I am not telling you, fool.
“She seems rather fond of my company, that is, to say the least…”
He fiddles the carpet he lifts to search for the little watch. These feelings blossoming in his chest — clouding his mind and perception of his surroundings.
“Do you think I should pursue her?”
He hears not the approach from behind.
“We can take turn being each other’s groomsma—”
“No.”
It ends. This moment.
Your ‘company’ that she has been enjoying.
Tom turns away from the image — the sound of him gasping for air like a clogged sink, still, haunting him.
But it is better this way. The neckcloth wrapped over the man’s own neckcloth shall leave no clear bruises of strangulation. No wounds to identify the weapon. No blood spilled means no clothes need burning. No purple lips nor other signs of poison. Cause of death will simply be declared as asphyxia — absence of pulse.
William Ryder will go down in those servants’ pamphlets as just another employer murdered by his own servants, inside his own house, with no suspect ever found by the Bow Street Runners hired by his family to investigate.
Yet, strangling someone is not as easy as it sounds. William struggles as he fights the man twice his size.
“Shh…” Tom’s voice trembles. Whispers hoarsely. “Stop, stop, stop, stop…”
Stop fighting. For your sake.
He holds William down with his whole weight leaning on his back against the floor.
It is not even personal. After all William was his friend — still is, as long as he breathes, which will not be much longer now. He can be annoying from time to time but Tom does not hate him. Never. It is just that he cannot let him have Mary. He cannot let any other man have Mary as long as he is breathing.
She is his air. He NEEDS her.
A man of William Ryder’s standing can find any other young lady to pursue at any given time. He will never find another Mary Bennet ever again.
“Just go to sleep…” he mumbles. It is growing slippery, his hands sweating against the silky white cloth. “…sleep.”
William persists. As he thrashes, slippery hands accidentally let him loose — only enough for him to take a big breath before he is caught inside the strength of those arms again. Tom locks his neck and drags him back into that dark hole of torment. And it is even more dreadful than the last time.
As his world gradually goes dark, his ear is caressed by the weeping of his friend — dear friend who has no idea what is happening to him.
“Sorry, sorry. I am sorry…” is the last thing William can hear.
Before his arms give in to earth’s gravity.
Before the arms wrapping around his neck have fallen too.
“…”
The silence of the room is too loud to bear. The coldness of those lifeless eyes, worse still. Tom is compelled to gather his hanging arms together and hold on. Shelter from it.
He did it.
His tall frame — crumpled, as a letter dashed off in fury and cast to the floor. Trembling. Shaking. Cold sweat soaked through his linen, his cuffs, his collar, chilling him to the spine. By his side lies still a body. No blood. No rise of the chest. Nor ever again. No soul. It was torn away.
By his own hands.
And the help of the fine white cambric neckcloth.
He did it.
And he cannot bring himself to stop crying.
There is no blood. But the burning warmth of blood is on his hands. There might not even be a body left to be found. He has figured out where to get rid of it. There will be no evidence, no case to prosecute — but the punishment lives on as prison built within his own mind forever.
No body, no crime.
Only him. And his thunderous thought now.
Only him. And his breath-taking kind of love.
Tom feels the weight — claws — perching steadily on his shoulder. Painfully.
All yours now, king.
Pitch black beak closed. Yet he could hear, so loud, his croaking.
All yours.
.
.
The air is light and the sun shines brightly this spring day.
But Mary can always feel something heavy in Tom’s breathing. Something clogs his every inhale. Making it sharp and uncomfortable. She wonders, from time to time, whether it was something she said, or something she did not say. She cannot be sure — the case is permanently closed now.
Tom finishes his glass of champagne. Mary, lying on his lap, her tiny fingers fiddling with lush green grass nearby, tilts her head up, asking, “Do you want some more?”
He smiles, faintly. He does not want her to bother pouring it for him, “No, love…”
He never smiles the same after his friend is gone.
That is, to say, she has her own suspicions. Her own answers to all the questions left unanswered by the sudden disappearance of William Ryder.
“You can tell me, you know.”
She thinks he did it. She just cannot prove it.
“I am quite dizzy now with the sunlight, love.” Tom leans down until his nose touches hers.
Traces his nose to her pink cheek. “And I may or may not have poor judgment already,” kissing the softness of it.
Mary wrinkles her nose. Gently pulls her face away to avoid the tickle.
They meet each other in the eye.
“You know what I mean…”
“Hmm?”
She pokes his cheek with her light finger. As a butterfly’s legs.
He feels the weight of those claws. Squeezing his shoulder.
“I know you did it for me…”
Tom freezes. Is she saying…?
“Because of me.”
He chuckles softly, trying to brush it off — these feelings, the guilt he has kept inside, now suddenly pushing through like flood water through a breaking gate.
He could never even dream of asking her to understand.
But it seems she is willing to. Is she not?
As his tears fall onto her cheek. Mary reaches up, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, compelling him to lean down even more to give her a kiss.
A sweet kiss. That would seal her lips tight…
I am all yours now.
…Bury his dark secrets away.
All yours.
.
.
.
“I don’t…”
Tom blinks.
The room is properly lit by warm candlelights. People are still chatting away around the room after dinner.
And there is more coming from her lips than I very much enjoy his company.
“Ah. I see.”
He attempts another smile. Steadies his breath. Glances over her small figure in her red dress.
The black bird is not there.
“Um, no, I…”
“Of course, I…”
Mary realises she may have given him the wrong idea. From the look on his face. A swift flash of something she cannot quite name.
“No, no, no…”
“Forgive my intrusion.”
But he is already retreating before she can speak.
“No, that is to say I, um, I am not drawn to him.”
The black bird was never really here.
God knows what he might have done, had she not clarified herself right there and then.
.
.
.
fin.