A Character in His Own Words: Arthur Darvey

by Kathy Fischer-Brown

I am not a monster! Think what you will. Actions are not the sole basis by which a man is judged. Like anyone else, I have feelings. I experience pain, I am amused. Sometimes I act upon these feelings in ways others don't understand. But that does not make me a monster!

 

Once my life was pleasant. I lived at “the hall” with Mama and Papa, and my half-sister Emma. Ours was a life of ease and extravagance, and I wanted for nothing.

And then one day, he began to cast aspersions on my dear Mama. He said he had reason to believe that I, who adored him, was not his son. He said their marriage was a sham, that it had been forced upon him, and that he was legally wed to another—albeit in a tawdry Fleet Street affair, without bans or a license—and that he’d been deceived into thinking the wretched woman was dead.

It all came to a head when his meddling lackey discovered the whereabouts of this woman and her bantling girl, Anne, who, he insisted, was his child by that dubious union. Papa petitioned for a divorce, though Mama had connections of her own in high places and promised to use them. She'd drag his name and reputaion through the mud before she'd accept his conditions.

While the battle dragged on in the halls of Parliament, Mama took me to live at rundown, draughty old Wollascott Cottage—I loathed it there—because she, the bastard, had taken her place in my rightful home. At Esterleigh Hall…as his daughter…with all the benefits and advantages that once had been mine.

Was I wrong to feel rejected, unloved? While she—ingrate that she was—appreciated none of his largesse and went out of her way to make my father miserable. Oh, she languished—poor Anne—mourning her mother’s death, harboring ill will for our father….

Before ever setting eyes on that whore's child, I detested her. I dreamed of hurting her…and worse. Much worse. But, I ask you, I was a child then. Why should I be held accountable for childish thoughts and whishes?

I must admit I was frightful at our first meeting. I was bored. Was it my fault? The encounter was unexpected, and I was not at my best. I'd been having a bit of sport with my new bow and arrows, and a mangy cur of a stray dog. Who cares about such things, anyway? They're more of a nuisance than anything else. But she took offense. Who could have imagined a low-born chit such as she to have been endowed with a bleeding heart?

Years passed before we met again. At the masked ball at Carlisle House in February of ‘73. I must say her costume was intriguing. Arria, a Roman woman married to Claudius Paetus, a senator or some such who, having been dishonored in the eyes of the Emperor, was presented with a sword with which he was to take his own life. The story is quite fantastical. When Paetus faltered, Arria took the weapon, plunged it into her chest, and then handed it back to him with the words, "non dolet," which means, "it doesn't hurt." What rubbish! There was a painting on display at the time...by Benjamin West, I believe. A heroic depiction of love and honor.  Quite popular among the romantic-minded...or the simple-minded. Being the dolt she is, she became infatuated. She made it herself—the costume—out of old draperies and curtain ties, and a bolt of violet-colored silk. The color matched her eyes...such lovely eyes....

Enough of that. Let me just say it was a simple thing for us to steal away without drawing attention to ourselves. And she was far more trusting and naive than I ever expected. I was overjoyed to find her so...accommodating.

I could have killed her that night. I wanted to so intensely I could taste it. When I think of the opportunity wasted and the satisfaction postponed, I regret my hesitation most profoundly. I actually had my hands around her throat. Such a slender neck…. I could have snapped it like a twig. But I was a cat toying with a mouse. You can't imagine how the sensation empowered and invigorated me.

I do believe I frightened her, but she was too much the fool to show it or admit to it.

We met again a number of times over the next few years. She opened her soul to me. The fool. She took me into her confidence. Those moments, however, never proved auspicious.

The time will come, though. I vow on my mother’s good name. The time will come when I take my

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retribution on Lord Esterleigh’s daughter…and when I do, I will not squander the chance.

She will know then what it means to be afraid.

Non dolet, indeed!


Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels and The Return of Tachlanad, her newly released epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love Author page or visit her website.

CEMETERY STREET

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The first house I remember well was on Cemetery Street. The high windows of our little 1850’s brick house had a view of the historic local cemetery, complete with the sunken stones of the early settlers and poor folks, as well as Victorian obelisks and rich-family crypts. It was all sheltered by a fine stand of tall hardwoods—maples, beech, sycamore, Kentucky bean trees, and oaks. I often stood up on the couch and peered out the window across the street to see a funeral in progress, the black cars, the black dresses, hats and sad, slumped demeanor of the mourners.  At certain times of year, people arrived and filled the place with flowers—Memorial Day, particularly. We often walked there, Mother and I, with whatever dog we had, sharing the peace with our silent underground neighbors.

Always having an active imagination, I drew many pictures of the cemetery, my notions about  the underground life of the dead, so thickly tucked away just across the street. My parents, of course, found that a little odd, but it seemed perfectly straightforward to me. All those husbands and wives that I’d seen, their gravestones sitting side by side, I figured, were still there, only now confined to a spot beneath the ground. I always drew little rooms, with tables with decorative flowers on top, and sofas and chairs, a picture on the wall and, sometimes, even a pet. I thought it must be a little lonely and boring for them to never be able to go outside anymore, to be staying forever in that underground haven, which was all I could make out of the much talked about “heaven.”  It made perfect sense, when I first heard about ghosts, that the dead might wish to come out and walk around in the cemetery. I spent a lot of night times looking out the front window around twilight, hoping to see one. After all, I took walks there, under those aged trees, listening to the birds and breezes, and it was always pleasant.

(Here's an Egyptian queen enjoying her own little room inside the pyramid, playing Backgammon for eternity.)

 

For the early part of my childhood, I lived in that rural Ohio town, with a close-knit family around, which made all holidays great fun, but Halloween was special in its own way. My younger cousin, Mike, and I were often dressed to compliment each other—one year we were cowboy and cowgirl, on another we were Raggedy Ann & Raggedy Andy. Once we were Spanish dancers, complete with hats with bobbles dangling beneath the brims. My cousin, now a big time politician, had in childhood a pronounced lisp. I remember him carefully explaining to someone who’d asked that we were “’Panish-tan-sers.”  Our costumes were hand-made by grandmas and loving aunts and we showed them off at what seemed to us an exciting costume parade for children which was held annually at the high school.

 

I also remember one night of trick-or-treating with some older children who lived up the road, away from the cemetery. They were the kind who weren’t entirely to be trusted with a smaller kid who wasn’t a family member.  That night's costume had been spur of the moment, so my mother had turned me into a ghost in an old sheet with a pillow case head. The head, as we ran door-to-door in the darkness, kept slipping, so I couldn’t see.  I was gamely trying to keep up with their longer legs in the darkness, but they only laughed and ran ahead. I remember falling and rolling head-over-heels down the steep grade next to the last house on the block, splintering the warm popcorn ball I’d just been given. Then I had to untangle myself from the sheet. After I escaped from that, though, I was surrounded by night. The  only porch light seemed about a mile away.  It was so scary to be left alone in the darkness that I abandoned my goodies and ran home as fast as I could. 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

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Actors and Others for Animals by Connie Vines

JoAnne Worley selling
me (Connie) 5-raffle
tickets.

I would like to believe that every human being on this earth has the desire to make the world a better place during his or her lifetime.  

I have tried to live my life by helping others in need.  Like many of us, I love animals.  I also participate in local community events to benefit children, animals, and to promote the joy of reading.  One fund raising event was held in a family owned theater on October 17 th.  The Kinsion family donated the venue, acted as stage hands and performers for the event, and ensured the night was 'pure theater'! 

This evening of entertainment, "Upland's Got Talent, A Furry Fun-Raiser," hosted by Jo Anne Worley and Fred Willard. Ms. Worley, Rowan and Martin's "Laugh-In", is the Singing President of 
Actors & Others. 

 JoAnne Worley’s instinctive comedic timing and irrepressible laugh, and stage presence is impressive. She, as well as the other members (actors and others) donate their time, talent, and travel the freeways during rush hour to get to these events.  Local vendors donate baskets filled with goodies, gift-cards, and expensive recording and video equipment for the raffle items.  The Kinisons arranged the wine and cheese party before the performance for the patrons.  The billboard and marquee promised: lots of laughs, singing, dancing, surprises and magic!

I had a wonderful evening.  I mingled, made friends, and discovered everyone's story about becoming a member of Actors and Others.  JoAnne Worley spent time interacting with the audience and sold raffle tickets.  Michael Skrzek, tap-dancer on Broadway danced to “Singing in the Rain”.  Jay Johnson & friends (Tony Award-Winning Duo) left us begging for more.  While  Fred Willard and his Sketch Comedy Troupe The MOHO’s, Sherry Kinison and many others gave standing-ovation performances.

Bravo!

While I belong to this non-profit origination,  you may find a similar organization in your local community.

(BTW: I won a raffle prize!  I stopped recording when the person on my left tapped arm and said I was holding the winning ticket.)

 About Actors & Others

It all began in 1971 on one of Los Angeles’ busy freeways. It was on such a freeway that the late actor Richard Basehart and his wife, Diana, watched in horror as someone in the car ahead of them nonchalantly tossed a dog out of the car window to a grisly death. Both Richard and Diana were animal lovers and very aware of the daily cruelties that so many animals endured. Their shock and outrage that day motivated them to gather fellow actors and members of the community together to work to stop such inhumane treatment.

In 1971, our objectives were to provide proper care for and prevent the inhumane treatment and destruction of animals. The common belief of the day was to simply rescue and adopt. Then branched out into other services. By 1979 the services were provided throughout California.  

To find out more about Actors & Others, click: http://www.actorsandothers.com/

The Furry Fun-Raiser was a great success!

Visit my website to tweet or post to my blog.  I'd love to hear from readers sharing stories of the good works and community projects projects that benefit others.

Happy Reading,

Connie

Taking a curtain bow.

I donated the goodies to my children, grand children, and
friends.

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