CHAPTER SIXTEEN
the thomas thorne affair

( TW: slight gore, character death )

⊱ ────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ────── ⊰

WITH A TWINKLE in her eye, Effie surveys the clothing options in Alison's wardrobe. If she could, she would sift through the hangers and sample the outfits, but her hands dissolve through the fabrics like air. So instead she does her best to judge them from the thin sleeves she spies.

"Now this is a nice little number," Effie rubs her hands together eagerly, nodding towards a hanger.

Alison picks out the outfit she mentioned — a short black dress, with a halter neck and exposed shoulder blades — and a loud laugh escapes her. "No, Effie, absolutely not!"

"But why not? You'll look the bee's knees in it!"

"I can't wear that to a school reunion."

"Unless you want to send a little message..."

Alison glares at her. "Effie, I'm married. Anyway, it's going back in the wardrobe."

     Effie groans, staring despondently at the hanger making its way back into the wardrobe's abyss. The whole business surrounding this school reunion baffles her anyway. She can't imagine ever wanting to reunite with her classmates — or perhaps more to the point, seeing her teachers again. It seems to be more about socialising than anything. Effie keeps overhearing Mike and Alison bickering about a certain ex-boyfriend of hers who will also be at the reunion.

     "Is Mike still hung up over that handsome chap," asks Effie, "the one you showed me on the Instant Gram?"

     "Instagram. And Kevin, yeah," Alison sighs. "But I don't get why."

     "Because he thinks you'll be swept off your feet."

     "That's silly! He dumped me, I hardly think we'll even talk to each other. Alright, you can turn around now."

     Effie swivels back and looks at Alison's chosen outfit — a velvet jumpsuit, a dark green colour, with slightly broad and padded shoulders. The ghost stands up to allow her to sit and apply her make-up. "Very nice," she begrudgingly admits. "Although that little black dress would have been a knockout."

     "I don't want to be a knockout when I'm meeting my GCSE teachers, thanks."

     "Fair point... but Alison, life is meant for living, you know. You don't buy nice things just to hide them away for the moths to enjoy—"

     Ahem. The clearing of someone's throat grabs their attention. Effie turns around, barely glimpsing Thomas in his forlorn state before she rolls her eyes. The poet has his hands linked behind his back and his head bowed. More dreadfully, he has a heaviness about him, which suggests he could launch into a dramatic soliloquy if prompted ever-so-gently.

     "I wanted to apologise for my outburst earlier today," Thomas says solemnly.

     "Which one?" Alison asks, and Effie snorts.

     ... But in fairness, he did have good reason this morning. The ghosts had been playing a game of What I Would Wear If I Could Today (for the record, Effie has her outfit planned from head-to-toe: comfy heels, a slim-fitting jumpsuit with sequins, and a faux fur coat to top it off for when it gets chilly).

     It had all been going swimmingly, until Mike presented to Alison a musket ball he had found lying around in Button House. Not just any muster ball — there was a good chance it was the same musket ball that killed Thomas Thorne. At least, his reaction of wailing in despair and fleeing seemed to suggest just that. He still clutches the bullet hole in his torso solemnly as he stands in Alison's doorway.

     "You are kind to make light of it," he smiles sadly. "It must've been a shock to see me so ruled by my emotions."

     "Erm—" Not really.

     "You see," Thomas walks into the room, "I was overcome with the memory of it all—"

     "Come in..." Alison mutters under her breath. Meanwhile, Effie sits down at the end of the bed.

     "— 'Tis not a pleasant thing to contemplate, as you can imagine."

Giving over with sympathy, Effie sighs, though her body doesn't make a single dent in Alison's mattress. She watches the poet walk over to the misted windows, his shoulders heaving with a large and melodramatic breath.

"Perhaps I can give you an account of the unhappy events of that fateful day?" Thomas suggests.

Oh no.

"Oh, you don't have to—"

"October 10th, 1824..." he reminisces.

Here we go, Effie thinks, collapsing onto her back. This is going to be a long evening.

"A crisp, autumnal afternoon..."

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

DATE: OCTOBER 10th, 1824

     THOMAS breathes in the crisp autumnal air as he trots on horseback into the grounds of Higham House. Ivy creeps over the walls like tendrils of Mother Nature herself caressing the bricks. Beyond, the vast green pastures are enough to take one's breath away. He slows his horse next to that belonging to Francis, his cousin: lightly taller and bespectacled with pale eyes behind them.

"What a place," Francis breathes. "Imagine inheriting this!"

"It is a pleasant place," Thomas scoffs nonchalantly, "but I wouldn't want to live here."

The two men dismount gracefully from their horses and walk inside Higham House. Inside, the day's proceedings have already started, featuring recitals of music and poetry. Guests stand around by lit candlelight shivering in the autumnal draft. This is the perfect place for an aspiring, legendary poet like Thomas Thorne to be. Oh, how the crowds would tremble and weep when they heard his verse! It would move even the mightiest of men to shed a tear.

But there is another reason he came here. Across the room, he spies the beautiful maiden which has been adorning his dreams — Isabelle Higham, her skin like snowdrops, her hair like the sacred earth, her lips like rosebuds... yes, the daughter of Lord Higham had captured the poet's heart very much indeed. And this was nothing like his other sudden infatuations. Isabelle meets his gaze across the room and her eyes seem to twinkle like stars. All of a sudden, Thomas could have sworn a stampede was unleashed in his chest.

"Oh, my heart is aflutter, cousin!" he whispers to his cousin, a hand pressed to his breast pocket.

"She is fine indeed. Shall we speak to the girl?"

Horrified, Thomas thrusts out an arm in front of Francis. "Nay! Nay, nay, nay... she is with her father. He does not know that we have an attachment. We cannot speak openly." Then he shoots Isabelle another wistful gaze, feeling jealous lust bubble inside as a different man kisses her hand. "Though I long to know that her feelings are unchanged."

"Write her a note, then," Francis suggests. "I will deliver it. I will be your Cupid."

What an idea! Thomas takes to it. He retreats with his cousin to another room, penning a note and bleeding his heart out through the ink of his quill to her. Once he entrusts it to Francis, he returns to the drawing room, heart thrumming in his chest with anticipation. Surely she must return his affections, mustn't she? Isabelle seemed to feel such a way when they last met.

     The only possible distraction could be his other true love: Poetry.

     "And now, esteemed guests," announces the host, "we are honoured by a recital from our greatest living poet, Thomas Thorne!"

     The audience clap enthusiastically as Thomas takes centre stage, nodding sombrely. He unfolds his page full of his poetry in his hands, inhaling a deep breath — it is crucial for the artist to become at one with themselves when performing.

     "Summer hath aroused
     the twilight of life in the hay.
     Shadows long and dark..."

     As Thomas reads, he spies Isabelle in the distance speaking to Francis. Her back is to him, but they seem to be engaged in a focused conversation. He feels his attention slightly drift while watching them as he continues:

     "Time has passed
      since the honeymoon of May,
     And held aloft by rosy buds
     Whose nectar sweet forbade—"

     Isabelle suddenly runs off and Thomas furrows his brows. But Francis turns to him with a triumphant look, giving him a nod of confirmation as he holds up another letter. So she has written a response. Good. Exhaling a breath, he slips back into character for his reading. Thomas aches to know what his love wrote back to him; however, Hermione and Roger is an epic poem, and an epic poem requires an epic recital...

     Two hours later, in front of a rapt audience, Thomas's voice booms as he reached his conclusion:

     "On this Earth, we are but lodger
     For she was his Hermione
     And he... always...
     ... her Roger!"

     Thomas crumples the paper into a ball and drops it dramatically onto the floor. The audience all rise to their feet in ecstatic applause, one man even crying out "Man's a genius!" — the poet staggers breathless to the nearest chaise lounge. Drained of his poetic prowess, he collapses onto his back and lets the fair maidens fan him and dab his brow. It is a hard life, to be such a renowned titan of the arts...

     "Pray silence for Lady Isabelle," says the host, as Thomas's beloved seats herself at the harpsichord.

     Soon Francis re-appears, sitting next to Thomas and pulling a note from his breast pocket. "Her letter, cousin," he says.

     Thomas cannot wait any longer. He fiddles to unfold the letter and scans his eyes across the brief scrawl:

Dear Mr. Thorne,

I'm sorry, but I do not love you. Perhaps you misinterpreted my words or actions when we last met.

     ... Thomas feels like he has just been shot.

     He stops reading. Despaired, he looks up at the innocent-looking Isabelle playing the harpsichord. "Might you have misinterpreted her?" Francis suggests, in response to the letter Thomas had just read out. "I mean, you do maybe have the tendency to, you know... get the wrong idea."

     "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

     "Almost definitely not. And again, not. No."

     "I cannot fathom it. Her affections were so clear before," Thomas whispers, wracked with confusion. "Perhaps her father has discovered us and forbidden the match. I must know. Let her tell me to my face, at least!"

     "Have a care, cousin," Francis advises. "I wouldn't want you further hurt in this."

     But when a Thorne has... well, a thorn in his side, there is no stopping him. Once Isabelle has finished playing, Thomas lurches through the crowd to find her, squeezing past all the guests and ignoring Francis's calls to take their leave. He has almost found Isabelle when only one thing can tear his attention away:

     "Isabelle Higham? Ha! The girl's unbearable. Ugly and untalented."

     Thomas feels himself injected with a fury only the Gods could have known. He whirls around slowly on the spot, eyes narrowing on the man from whom the disgusting comment came from. A man in uniform, no less! All Thomas knows is that he must defend Isabelle's honour if no one else will.

     "Unbearable, you say? Untalented, you say?" Thomas walks up to him, then booms: "Damn your eyes, I say! Damn your head, shoulders, knees and toes, sir!"

The officer turns to face him and scoffs. "And what concern is it of yours?"

"I happen to love that woman of whom you speak..."

Removing his glove from his pocket, he smacks the officer around the face to gasps all around.

"... And I demand satisfaction!"

The officer, though somewhat surprised, raises his chin with an air of superiority. "Very well," he agrees.

Everyone, including Thomas, knows what this means — a duel. Surely Lord Higham would think him worthy enough of Isabelle's hand now! Would any other gentleman defend the honour of his beloved to such lengths without any hesitance?

That cold afternoon, the party come outside with the duellers to witness Thomas's display of bravery. Francis is the one to hand the poet his pistol. "Twenty paces, cousin," he instructs him, after which he will turn and shoot. The nerves within him change to steel as he begins walking his paces across the grass and counting them.

Seven... eight... nine...

Thomas thinks of fair Isabelle, in all her beauty and radiance.

Ten... eleven... twelve...

He thinks of all the ways he will compose his love to her when this is over.

Thirteen... fourt—

BANG!

Thomas careens forward and shudders. The force of a musket ball passing through his stomach rattles through his whole body. He's been caught off guard. As Lady Isabelle cries out in horror, his pistol clatters to the grass.

"Thomas! Cousin!" Francis rushes to his side, catching his sinking body.

"We didn't get to twenty... I am shot!" Thomas murmurs, slipping into a haze.

"He cheated, the coward!"

"I am done for... may God beckon me to the heavens..."

He collapses against a tree trunk, but he can barely feel the bark. His consciousness is slipping, slipping away, and the light of whatever lies beyond beckons him. But no... he must hold on a little while longer.

"My beloved! My darling!" Isabelle weeps, tumbling into his periphery. She sinks to her knees next to him in a bed of aching love and despair. Clasping both her hands in his, she whispers, "Oh, how foolish I was to believe Father would not approve. You are the best of men... kiss me, as the French do."

Thomas is a dying man, but he has enough breath to spare for a parting kiss.

Their lips collide, and oh, what a display! A final burst of flame ignites inside of him at the passion. Her hands grab his face, inhaling every last gasp of his. Isabelle suddenly swings her leg over so she is leant over him, kissing Thomas harder—

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

     "THAT didn't happen."

... says a gruff voice standing in the doorway. The trio in Alison's room turn to face Robin, who has a bored expression on his face. "What?" he shrugs. "It didn't happen! I was there."

     Whilst Thomas has a thoroughly offended expression upon his face, Alison suddenly lights up, fascinated. "Of course you were..."

     Effie has to admit, she is quite intrigued to hear the less-fabricated version of Thomas Thorne's exit. She doesn't doubt most of the facts, but the poet does have a tendency to over-embellish things. It wouldn't surprise her if he had added some unnecessary details (the French kissing upon his deathbed comes to mind). After all, she wasn't there to see it all — it is a glimpse into the past Effie never would have had otherwise.

     "Well, that's the way I remember it," Thomas huffs.

     "I'm sure it is," Effie grins, "but we just have to... consult other sources."

     "Go on, Robin," Alison leans forward excitedly in her seat.

The caveman invites himself into the room and stands next to a bookshelf. Gruffly, he begins his recollection: "I remember that day..."

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

DATE: OCTOBER 10th, 1824
(ACCORDING TO ROBIN)

     THAT day, I was looking for bear when man come on his horsey with pasty friend.

"It big, nice house," his friend say.

     "Nice to come," man reply, "but me not want live there."

     Then man jump off his horsey and land in big pile of poo (it very, very funny). After man say some bad word and clean poo from his lady shoes, he come inside. People stand and talk and eat in all their lady shoes too. Very boring. I don't remember. Then man with grey hair stand up.

     "And now, man called Thomas do poem!" he say.

     They all clap (why they clap?) as man walk up. It might have been good. Something 'bout flowers, or wine or girls, or something. It was big boring.

     But outside, something happened... something was in grounds. I have sixth sense, so I follow. I go deep into woods away from house. I look around.

     And then I see baby deer, dead. What beast did this? What creature? What demon—

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

     "—ROBIN! Robin!" Alison quickly interjects. "It's a bit off-topic."

"But it just getting to good bit," Robin grumbles.

     "It's got nothing to do with how I died!" Thomas throws his arms in the air.

     "But how do you know that?" Effie asks him, eyes narrowed. When he just stares at her, she raises her hands in surrender. "Sorry, just a joke. Tough crowd."

The poet stands up in frustration. "But this is my death we are speaking of! Very untimely and very tragic, indeed! Why can we not accept my version as fact, instead of hearing every re-telling under the sun—"

"Oh, I remembers that!" Mary warbles out of nowhere; she has appeared inside the doorway, along with Kitty and Norman, as three more sources for this storytelling session.

"Not you two as well..."

"This is amazing," Alison grins, inviting the trio inside. "Mary, you must remember what happened."

Kitty and Norman turn to the burnt women, the latter jingling slightly with movement. Thomas, meanwhile, lets his face fall into his hands at how de-railed this has become. "Oh, yeah," Mary murmurs, before painting a picture of her version...

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

DATE: OCTOBER 10th, 1824
(ACCORDING TO MARY)

     THE room was full of dandies and wenches, talking and all floating about the place. They had wine coming out of their ears. The people all laughed and danced. When Thomas came in, Lady Isabelle did look at him.

"Why does that gent look upon the mistress like that?" Norman said and rang his bells.

     Then said I to Annie, "Is he the man of which she spoke?"

     Annie did turn up her nose and huff. "Looks like a silly arse—"

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

     "WHOA, whoa, wait... Annie? Who's Annie?" asks Alison cluelessly.

A beat passes. Then the ghosts break out into taken aback murmurs; even Thomas is momentarily distracted from his trauma, asking "Did we never tell you?" in mild surprise.

Effie never met her, but she has heard stories of Annie and thinks they would've gotten on very well. She was a Puritan woman who had been wed to her strict husband until her death. Only in death did she unlock an ironic bliss, where she could say exactly what she wanted whenever she wanted. It was a freedom that Annie's era never would have allowed her.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, Annie did ghost here for hundred year or more," Mary's eyes crinkle with fondness as she remembers her. "A true friend to me..."

"Of course," Alison smiles.

"Till she got sucked off."

Alison practically choked on her own spit. "I– I'm sorry?"

To demonstrate, Mary hums a celestial tune and mimes ascending to the heavens. The charade puts Alison at ease.

"Ah, like, moved on?" she clarifies.

"Oh, yeah," Mary sighs wistfully. "There's many that's been sucked off in this house—"

"Moved on."

"I used to dream of the day that I would be sucked off—"

"Moved on."

"But I've long since given up hope of ever being sucked off—"

"Moving on," Alison coughs, keen to move on from this innuendo; Effie has been fighting laughter the whole time.

Innocently, Mary carries on. "Anyways, Annie and Norman and I did watch, and Thomas said his poem. And all the people turned to statues. Honestly, I think they died of boredoms."

"Oh, come, now," Thomas stands up in protest, somewhat insecurely, "this is nonsense!"

"I says it as I sees it, mate," Mary folds her arms and hums.

"Yeah, by my troth... mate," Norman adds, also folding his arms.

Meanwhile, Alison turns to Kitty — who, ironically, could be the most trustworthy account sat here. She would simply tell a story enthusiastically, without adding unnecessary details or confusing her audience. And Effie knows full well that Kitty would not have wanted to miss a moment of human interaction at Button House.

"Kitty, you must have been there, too," Alison points out.

"Yes," says Kitty.

"And me!" calls out Humphrey's voice; his severed head is lying on the floorboards.

"Good God, how long have you been there?!" asks Thomas, getting a fright.

"Oh, the whole time," he replies. "Yeah, I remember it. So many beautiful shoes. Some heeled, some flat, one pair of boots with lovely buckles..."

"You just saw shoes the whole time, didn't you?" Effie sighs.

"Kitty, what did you see?" Alison asks her, and the other ghosts face her with a guiltless curiosity.

"Oh, I don't know if I should say..." Kitty trails off, somewhat cryptically.

"Aren't you meant to be going out with Michael this evening? We have detained you long enough," Thomas interjects quickly, trying to pull everyone away from the subject; what is it he doesn't want them to know?

"No, but I want to hear what Kitty saw — Mike! I'll be five minutes!" Alison yells downstairs. When he hollers a response back, seeming rather happy to delay their outing, she turns eagerly back to the Georgian ghost. "Take your time, Kitty."

Thomas mutters something under his breath, fidgeting restlessly where he is perched by Alison's vanity mirror. Effie cannot help but notice it and wonder what he is trying to hide. Of course she knows discussing your death is never a comfortable thing, but his storytelling wasn't lacking in detail and length when he recounted it. But the prospect of the other ghosts weighing in seems to have set the poet on edge.

"Well, to start with, it was so exciting," Kitty grins and whispers. "All sorts of interesting people coming to the house, food laid out on the table—"

"What kind of food?"

Everyone's eyes dart over to the doorway, where Pat is accompanied by the Captain, Julian and Fanny, all four of whom weren't even born yet in 1824, let alone in ghostly form. Thomas rolls his eyes indignantly: "No, come one, come all!" he snaps and waves them in. "The more, the merrier. We're only talking about my death!"

"We were supposed to muster at 1800 hours in the common room for Julian's talk," the Captain reminds everyone.

"Postpone it, you've literally got forever," Alison dismisses him. "Carry on, Kitty."

The new additions to the audience all squeeze onto the mattress with Effie, which is becoming rather packed now. Effie ends up squashed next to Norman, who is trying incredibly hard to stay still so his bells don't interrupt Kitty's story. Meanwhile, Thomas has given up on trying to cut everyone off and just sits with his head hanging low.

"You were talking about a spread," Pat gets Kitty up to speed again. "Now, was it like a buffet sort of thing? You know, cheese and pineapple?"

"Pineapple?!" Kitty suddenly lets out a ridiculous laugh. "Goodness, no. They were wealthy, but they weren't royalty."

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

DATE: OCTOBER 10th, 1824
(ACCORDING TO KITTY)

     THOMAS walked into the room, looking so in love with Lady Isabelle. I was merely a spectator, and yet I felt my heart become all aflutter! It was quite clear that he was very taken with her.

And I remember his poem. I sat with everyone else to watch it. Now, I don't understand poetry very well, but it must have been funny because people were giggling. When Thomas completed his poem with a flourish, I heard the gentleman beside me snort. He muttered something under his breath as there was light applause: "Man's a penis..." (I don't know what that means, but I am sure it was a lovely compliment).

Then the gentleman in question stood up and walked right through me, which made me feel ever so sick and wretched.

Anyway, all of a sudden I remember Thomas approaching a decorated officer in the room. He had overheard him discussing Mary Shelley, the writer, with another man and expressing his distaste. He called the writer unbearable, ugly and untalented. And Thomas did not like what he heard, because he went straight up to him.

"Unbearable, you say? Untalented, you say? Damn your eyes, I say! Damn your head... shoulders... knees and toes, sir." Thomas's attack had started out rather viciously, but abruptly lost his confidence towards the end.

The officer seemed baffled at being approached in such a way. "And what concern is it of yours?"

"I happen to love that woman of whom you speak. And... sorry, does anyone have a glove? Can I borrow your glove?" Thomas turned to the surrounding strangers, all confused and unwilling to lend their glove. Then he swallows thickly and turned back to the officer. "No? Fine. Imagine the glove. I demand satisfaction!"

His voice wobbling, Thomas mimed with his hand the slapping of the glove around the officer's face. A rather long silence followed, in which the officer seemed entirely amused by the display. He looked at the poet as if he were a madman, before shrugging.

"Very well," he agreed.

"R– really?"

"Yes."

"God—" Thomas whispered fearfully, then quickly amended it, louder this time, "Good! Good God..."

Now, I have never witnessed a duel before, so this was all rather thrilling and terrifying. But I remember it so vividly. Everyone came to watch. Even Lady Isabelle was there, and she hadn't a clue what the whole thing was about, so someone clarified that the men were duelling over Mary Shelley. They thought Thomas was in love with the writer.

They counted their paces:

Seven, eight, nine, ten...

Just in time, Thomas dove away from the flying bullet and dove behind the tree ahead. The air around him was pelted with machine gun fire as he reached into his breast pocket. Out from it he retrieved a hand grenade, which he removed the pin from and lobbed over the grass towards his opponent, and—

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

     "COME off it, that's just silly!" Effie quickly cuts the Captain off.

"And Kitty was telling the story until you interrupted, for heaven's sake," Fanny adds incredulously.

"You weren't even there!" the flapper girl continues, "You weren't born for another, what? Thirty years?"

The Captain widens his eyes at Effie and snaps: "Seventy years, at least! How bloody old do you think I am?! Anyway, it's what I would have done in Thomas's shoes. Close-quarter battle—"

The ghosts erupt into chaos. All shouting over one another, trying to shut the other up, whilst Alison is trying to babysit them all and silence them so Kitty can finish the story. Then Mike walks into the room, unaware of all the racket the ghosts are causing — his wife frantically ushers him away before he can get a word in edgeways. Finally she gets the room under control, urging Kitty to continue.

As the ghost finishes her re-telling of the poet's death, Effie catches sight of Thomas. Instead of rolling his eyes or trying to cut in, he has slipped into a solemn silence. She feels a chill roll down her spine. Only now does she know that this must be the truest version, for she can see Thomas unwillingly re-living his final moments...

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

DATE: OCTOBER 10th, 1824
(THE REAL ONE)

     WHAT was Thomas thinking?

The question plays on a loop in the poet's head as he is handed his pistol, for he is exactly that — a poet — and yet he challenged a trained officer to a duel. Thomas cannot fire a gun, he cannot show brute strength. His strengths, if any, lie in his quill. You are doing this for Isabelle, he reminds himself. Then the more despaired voice in his head cries out that she doesn't even love him, apparently. Is he just a complete fool?

Twenty paces, he reminds himself of the instruction from Francis. Twenty paces.

Thomas shivers and takes his first steps along the grass. His mouth goes dry even as he whispers the numbers under trembling breath.

"Seven... eight... nine..."

Fleetingly, he wonders if Isabelle is watching. Even if she doesn't love him, what would she think of him after this duel?

"Ten... eleven... twelve..."

Thomas resists the urge to clear his throat from the nerves.

"Thirteen... fourt—"

BANG!

Thomas lurches forward with a gasp. The pistol falls from his hand, another shot ricocheting into the sky and taking an innocent pigeon down with it. "Sorry!" he calls out absentmindedly, before he clutches his stomach. His palm comes away printed with crimson, the same stuff now soaking his waistcoat around where the musket ball entered.

"Cousin!" Francis's voice is there, but it feels very far away. Thomas is vaguely aware that his body is being held.

"We didn't get to twenty... I am shot!"

He collapses against a nearby tree and grimaces at himself. Is the air becoming sparse? And what is happening to the light around him? Trying with all his might, Thomas reaches out weakly to Francis and grabs his hand.

"I know she doesn't love me..." he rasps weakly, "but please, fetch Isabelle, so that I might say goodbye to her."

"Of course," Francis promises. He gets up and runs out of Thomas's periphery, along with everyone else who watched the duel.

You've really done it now, Thorne, he thinks. Thomas clamps a futile hand over the wound. As he pants, he keeps fretting that he's wasting his final breaths. How will he have any left to speak to Isabelle? Then he becomes distracted, thinking less about Isabelle and more about the fact that he suddenly feels very cold. And the sun seems brighter than it did before. He feels glimpses of his life galloping past him before he can take them in.

Not yet. You have to hold on a little bit longer.

He waits... and waits... and waits...

But no one comes.

Thomas slips away. Quietly, and alone.

{⋅. ✯ .⋅}

     NO one says anything for a while. The room has slipped into mournful silence over the true turn of events.

     "You okay?" Pat whispers softly to someone.

     It is Julian. With glistening eyes, he inhales a sharp breath. "Fine, yeah. Just... something in my eye."

     Effie can only focus on Thomas. Now she feels awful for having pried about his death. Only by reaching the end of his story, the actual one, does she realise how tragic his end was. Along the way, she found herself in disbelief — surely Isabelle couldn't have been so callous in letting him down? And why did the other dueller have to cheat? Something isn't adding up. But more than anything, she just feels sorry for him.

     This also feels like one of the rare occasions she sees Thomas not performing to anyone — there is not a single spark of inspiration or vigour in him at all. The poet simply fixates on the floorboards, with drooped shoulders and a heavy heart.

     "So, now you know," Thomas murmurs. "I wanted you to believe better of me, but the truth is... I was a fool. A fool who died alone and unloved."

     Don't say that, Effie almost blurts out. It also stings with relatability. But all she and everyone else can do is share their sympathies in silence.

     ... That is, until the disembodied voice of Humphrey breaks it.

     "Hang on," says Humphrey, sounding quizzical, "your cousin... he wasn't wearing boots with bronze buckles, was he?"

     What does that have to do with anything? Effie thinks. Thomas shares the thought, clearly, as he looks up with a glassy gaze and shrugs.

     "Yes," he replies weakly, "why?"

     A crease appears in Humphrey's forehead on the floor. "Well, who was he writing letters to?"

     "What?"

     "Well, he wrote two letters. On the stairs, where I was."

     "Why would he—?" Thomas scoffs at first, before cutting himself off. He freezes. Then his eyes widen, jaw dropping in realisation.

     "What? What is it?" Effie asks, sitting up in her seat.

     "Of course..." the poet whispers, re-living moments in his head, almost two hundred years later. "I remember, Francis had ink on his hands at the duel. And come to think of it, he was the one who told me about the officer."

     Norman suddenly perks up, ringing like quite the literal alarm bell. "Oh! I did think it strange, how your cousin instructed you to take twenty paces."

     "What's wrong with that? Is it not the rule?" Kitty asks.

     "Nay, 'tis ten paces, I am quite sure. I once did see two men duel at dawn in the adjacent field to mine own village."

     "Well, you left that little detail out, didn't you?!" Effie nudges the jester.

     Norman shrugs innocently. "I wasn't sure it would be of importance! Is– is it?"

     All the pieces are coming together — the scheming, the betrayal, the two-faced traitor... it was Thomas's own cousin who had planned his downfall, all so he could inherit Higham House. He had written two letters to drive Thomas and Isabelle away from each other, then nudged the poet into a duel he knew he would lose. With him out of the way, Francis could marry Lord Higham's daughter.

     "And your cousin, he never did fetch Isabelle after the duel," Humphrey remembers solemnly. "Francis Button planned it all."

     "Button?!" Alison gasps.

     "Yes. They got married," Fanny says knowledgeably. "It was their son who returned here to live. My George's grandfather."

     Come to think of it, Effie does vaguely remember the occupants of Button House explaining its history at the time — back in 1927, when she had little clue that she wouldn't be leaving... something which seems like a common theme for all the ghosts. Rather preferring to push that thought away, she shudders.

     Thomas appears an awestruck man. He slips his hand into his breast pocket, retrieving the letter Francis forged that is still stained with his rusted blood. "This letter... is a lie. I thought it was not her usual hand. And her name is misspelt. I just thought she'd written it in a hurry." Then Thomas lowers the letter, smoothing his thumb delicately over where Isabelle's name is written. "All those years I thought I'd been spurned, when really... she did love me."

     Effie swallows thickly. What an epiphany to have centuries after your death. Fleetingly, her mind wanders over all the question marks she wishes she could resolve now. Some are bigger than others.

     "Does that make you feel better?" Alison asks softly.

     Thomas clutches the letter tighter. Looking up, he cries: "No, it's worse!"

     Then Alison realises something. "Wait, hold on. Button. So... that means we're related!"

     "Yes!" Thomas replies, brightly at first, until he remembers his infatuation with Alison. "No. I mean, very distantly related, our children would be fine."

     "We're probably all related, if you go back far enough," Pat pipes up.

     From the back, Robin adds gruffly: "Yeah, you all come from me and my sister."

     Along with the other ghost, Effie wrinkles her nose in disgust at the thought. It is safe to say they all aren't too keen on that idea.

     "Heh-heh, joking!" Robin grins and waves them off; but Effie doesn't miss his awkward glance to the side, when he thinks no one is looking.

     "Right, that's quite enough of this nonsense," the Captain rises to stand, with perfectly-timed pragmatics. "Shall we go and listen to Julian's talk? It's only forty three minutes late."

     "What be it about?" asks Mary.

     "The art of spin," Julian answers, "how the same fact or story can be told in different ways to, you know, promote a particular bias."

"Well, I think we've covered that," Fanny hums.

     Just as usual, the ghosts start chattering together as they leave the room in a trickle. Alison follows after them, grabbing her coat to meet Mike downstairs. Effie is just about to tag along when she slows to a halt in the corridor. Something holds her back — something she feels the need to say. When she reverses, catching a glimpse of Thomas staring pensively at the letter on his own, Effie is even more convinced. She walks inside and means to place her hand on the bedpost, forgetting that it'll pass right through. So instead she links them behind her back.

     "Thomas... I don't think you were a fool."

     Effie wonders whether he heard her at first. He scarcely reacts. Then he looks up, actually listening for the first time in... well, a long time.

     "After all, how many of us can say we died for love?" she adds with a shrug.

     Thomas thins his lips into a sad smile. "Well, I'm sure you remember being in love. You might have felt compelled to do the same for them."

     Effie pauses and thinks back to what feels like a rather blank slate in that area; or foggy, at least. "No, I'm not sure I would have," she replies, shaking her head.

     Luckily, he doesn't ask her what she means. Instead, Thomas stands up with the letter and walks over to a table by the window. Enough of this. Effie watches proudly from the doorway as he takes a deep breath, then places the letter on the wood. It dissolves into thin air. This is the closure he needs — to be quite literally unburdened from this lie that kept him prisoner for so long.

     Suddenly his face switches. She sees Thomas go to feel his breast pocket. In disbelief, he whips out the very same letter, which has clearly re-generated. He tosses it onto the table and watches it disappear, only for it to return in his pocket again. It turns into a vicious cycle where the letter just won't leave.

The poet finally clenches his fists at his sides and looks up in fury.

     Effie grimaces. "Uh, Thomas—"

     "FUUUUU—"

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

AUTHOR'S NOTE !

( date: 10th october, 2024 )

me when:
✅ i get to write the thomas thorne affair episode
✅ i updated it on the same date as the thomas thorne affair
✅ ... also EXACTLY 200 years since that day

it was really fun writing this chapter. during each POV of the thomas thorne affair, i tried to describe things through the eyes of which character it was (e.g. thomas's version being overly poetic) so i hope that worked okay? writing robin's POV was way more fun than it should've been. also i hope the switch between first/third person and past/present tense wasn't too confusing, i played around with different ways and just said "screw it" in the end.

also we are most definitely halfway through act two now!! i'm enjoying writing this second season so much, it's a great excuse for me to re-watch.

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horrible histories
icon of today:
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[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

( a mat baynton gem for this chapter...
"WACKFORD SQUEEERS" gets me every time )

have a good day/evening,
— IMOGEN  ♡