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Post by LOTTIE THATCHER on Jan 24, 2012 20:51:35 GMT -5
It was cold.
She was cold. The wind was as sharp as a butcher's blade, cutting through the cloth of a dress she'd filtched from a washer woman's basket. It was thicker than the dress she'd had previously, but it wasn't enough, and try as she might, Lottie couldn't remain huddled in a doorway for more than little before the owner of the shop or home shooed her away with a broom, pan, or some other implement specific to the purpose.
Tempted to strike one or two of her precious few remaining matches just for the brief bit of warm it would provide, Lottie logiced herself out of it. If she could sell them, even at half pennies a match, she might be able to get some of the warm roasted nuts. That thought drove her, as Lottie darted away from yet another house maid chasing her from a stoop. Often overlooked unless she was in the way or marring a front door with her presence.
With the self promise of roasted nuts, Lottie moved forward, arms looped through the basket handle as she held the woven reeds before her as some sort of shield. Hazel eyes peered up through greasy strands hair trying to meet the gaze of those better dressed, but not a part of the aristocracy. Well dressed, but not so well dressed that they wouldn't need matches.
What would she do when she was out? Not something she needed to focus on straight away. And certainly not something she should focus on until she reached that point.
Pushing her thoughts to the present, Lottie peered at a target, judged them approachable, and moved forward. Her basket was out, but her hands never left the handle, and she was cautious of the items they had least they be turned against her for her daring.
"Match?" Her voice remained steady though her teeth wanted to crack together. "They strike true, 'onest."
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Post by SYLPHEN ELLIOT HARLOW on Jan 26, 2012 7:37:45 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ]to live and move only you  WORDS 520 | TAGGED OPEN | NOTES SORRY THIS IS SO LATE. Sylph was accustomed to venturing out into the marketplace by himself. He didn't dress up in his finest suits, less he be stopped by everyone. It wasn't just the poor beggars who approached him (though some remained scared that he might harm them- he couldn't speak for his fellow aristocrats and their low tolerance for the poor), but if he was unfortunate enough to run into any of his political allies, they would surely whisk him away, back to the west end, in order to discuss the latest news running through parliament.
No, instead, he had dressed down, not so much as it would seem he was "one of them" but at least someone with some source of income. As far as anyone knew, he was just like them. The only times he bothered to flaunt his wealth was when he was commissioning an artist and knew very well what their time and talent was worth. Today, that was exactly what he was doing: seeing if the winter cold had brought with it any new talent. Of course, it was rare that there was, seeing as London's weather was quite inclement. Perhaps he should have traveled and visited some of the old ruin sites. Greece would have been nice.
He was just about to move on down the street to the next artist trying to sell their work when a young girl approached him. Startled wasn't the word to really describe it, but he was, in fact, taken off guard. It was difficult to venture into town in these situations. Luckily, for him, they were rare. Sylph, growing up in the aristocracy, knew that he couldn't save everyone. Not only had he heard that from the day he was born- what with his parents and peers... but he hadn't been able to save his own parents and brother. He knew very well that some people were just unfortunate... and this girl was one of them.
Still, she must have had some courage to approach him. But, what really got him was the item she was selling. Matches? She was selling matches? And not a box of them at that. He wondered, briefly, if the girl was a bit out of her mind. If she was so low on stock, why was she selling them? London's cold air this time of year would get to her, there was no doubt in his mind. "A match, you say?" Sylph was a bit lost on the proper thing to do. On one hand, he knew that if he gave anyone a bit of sympathy, others would hear about it and follow suit- and he couldn't afford to give everyone a break. On the other, he didn't see the harm in giving the girl something for her trouble. "How much?" Well, he supposed that it couldn't hurt him once. He would have to make a note to bring his butler next time- the man knew how to keep him in line when it came to these matters. these dry bones cry for you |
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Post by LOTTIE THATCHER on Jan 26, 2012 14:10:20 GMT -5
Perched on her toes, ready to turn and flee should her boldness be responded to in violence, Lottie held her breath. When the inquiry for the cost came, a sudden fear that a halfpenny was too much to ask she instantly dropped it. IF she sold enough she could still get the roasted nuts and hoard them.
"Fa'thin, sih," if the state of her clothing and the situation she were in weren't enough to drive home that the match girl were of the poor, her accent, and lack of anything resembling proper pronunciation was that final stroke needed for awareness. Remaining on her balls of her feet, balanced carefully, Lottie studied the man's face with a boldness unbecoming of a girl. Even a girl in her situation.
It didn't matter anymore, manners were a luxury, and decorum had a price she could ill afford to pay.
He looked warm. clean. And well fed. All things she had more or less forgotten. They were memories, though 'well fed' was subjective an abstract. At least she knew what it had been to be warm, curled against the man and the woman she had called mum and pa. It had been less than a year since the incident. October to January, she'd heard people say. But the riot had seemed so very long ago and other things had peoples attention again.
Would he buy one? Would he move on? He didn't seem likely to strike her, not after speaking back, but one could never be too careful. He might even be one of those that would offer a warm bed for a night or two, but leave the girl in worse shape then she started. And in a different situation.
Those were also things Lottie heard spoken of, when people forgot, or were unaware, that she was there.
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Post by SYLPHEN ELLIOT HARLOW on Jan 26, 2012 21:25:50 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ]to live and move only you WORDS 440 | TAGGED OPEN | NOTES HE TOOK SO LONG IN MY HEAD TRYING TO DECIDE WHAT WAS AN APPROPRIATE AMOUNT. If her malnourished state wasn't enough, the thick accent and the way she nervously shied away was enough indication that the girl was on the fast track to becoming a beggar for the rest of her life. He couldn't help but admit that it was better than the factory conditions. Most of the wealthy didn't even bother to see how those places ran, but she was far safer out here, and he wasn't one of those who would tell her to get a "paying job". She'd be safer selling matches to strangers and get more for her money, too.
It was a... sad thought. One he didn't dwell on. He'd only came across the factory conditions on accident when one of the artists he had commissioned had been employed there once and now had a missing leg for it. Apparently, he had been one of the lucky ones in that incident. Again, nothing he really wanted to bother himself with. What was the point in getting so upset? To have wealthy, there had to be poor, and Sylph admitted, even if he felt like a bad person for it, that he wouldn't give up his lap of luxury just to see a group out of poverty. Because not everyone would, and then the bar for poverty would be raised, and the wealthy would continue on living as they always had. Well, that, and Sylph did enjoy his household staff, ability to access doctors at any time, and the finely cooked meals. He didn't have to work... he was fortunate.
Too many were unfortunate, like this girl. He couldn't help her, couldn't spare her too much kindness for it. If she became excited or frightened, people would stare, and the last thing he needed was some sort of riot on his hands... or to attract any attention to himself. But he'd thought about that already. A farthing was hardly going to get the girl anywhere, so he thought for a moment, considering her offer. Not too much, not enough to make the child try to follow him (which, he didn't know if she would. Some were shy, some were persistent. Either way, he didn't want to handle a reaction more than a simple "thank you".)
"I'll take one." he reached into his coin purse, filled with the small currencies- farthings, half-pennies, pennies, and a shilling or two. The latter he wasn't using save for if he came across a painting to add to his collection. He held a coin in his hand- three, actually- the farthing she had requested was in his fingers, and two pennies rested in his palm. He would have to leave after the purchase was made, less others catch on and identify him. It was fortunate he knew his way around town, and the artists were quite friendly to him (though that could have been naive hope that he would, one day, be their sponsor). these dry bones cry for you |
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Post by LOTTIE THATCHER on Jan 26, 2012 23:04:12 GMT -5
Eyes stared at the three coins. A fortune by her standards. He would take one match, he'd said. But was paying far more for it than she would have dared breath hope into. In the few seconds it took for her to calculate what she could do with two pennies and a farthing, an arm had removed itself from the basket handle and the hand attached extracted a match.
Smart in that she did not draw attention to them, she dropped the pennies into his outstretched palm. In that same movement she plucked the pennies and the farthing from his grasp. If the pennies had not been intended for her, it was too late and he could not cry foul. Or she thought he could not cry foul. For an exchange had taken place. His money for her match. An uneven exchange to be sure, but one nonetheless.
With a skill of some practice the coins disappeared into the folds of the clothing she wore. Or somewhere else entirely, but her hands had moved and her arm was back through the handle on the basket. Bobbing at the knees, Lottie muttered a "Thankee," and a "g'day, sih." before backing up a few steps. The heel of her boot, too tight with growth, caught on the hem of the stolen dress and she stumbled twice, but regained her balance and turned to flee. To find the woman who sold the roasted nuts and make the coveted purchase for her own.
The woman would have to sell to her. Dirty or not. She had coin now! True coin!
As for the man, he had a match. A match that, as she promised, would strike true. Lottie took special pains to make sure the matches stayed dry, and the bit at the end clean. She might be a filthy ragamuffin, but her wares were good. If dwindling to nothing. She only hoped he did not feel cheated, and then thought that if he did it was his fault. And everyone cheated everyone. That was how it went. She would be cheated for her nuts, paying more for them in her eagerness to get them, and would likely have more burn than savory. It was what it was, but it would be food.
Food!
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Post by SYLPHEN ELLIOT HARLOW on Jan 26, 2012 23:21:24 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 340px; background-image:url(http://i56.tinypic.com/20gfl1v.jpg); padding: 30px; border: #2D2729 solid 30px; ]to live and move only you WORDS 375 | TAGGED OPEN | NOTES WRAPPED THIS PUPPY UP. He chuckled to himself at the excitement the girl displayed, even if she was subtle about it. At least she knew to be for both her and his protection, though he figured it was her protection she was worried about. The poor couldn't afford to worry for more than themselves. She thanked him and gave him his match- such an odd purchase, really. He didn't think anything of buying matches- he never bought his own, even. That was a maid's job.
He chucked the match into his coin purse and decided that he would be calling it a day. No new talent had shown itself, and he'd wasted two pennies in seeing to it that some girl he didn't know got dinner. What could two pennies really buy a person, anyways? He rarely dealt in the currency, but knew it was a necessity in these parts where everything was so impoverished. The food was hardly appeasing, and the smell... well, he did think it should be a requirement that even the poor have baths.
But unlike he, who had time- not just time, but a staff to draw him baths and bathe him if he requested it, the poor hardly had time to sleep. No, today had been far too depressing as it was. He would return home and get ready for that evening. He had a social call, one that he did not intend to miss. As much as his peers would like to complain about the life of politics, he could say it was nothing compared to the lives of these people.
It was an eye opening experience, one that prevented most of the rich from traveling in these parts. He knew many who kept to the west end, only visiting the theatre and church (those that didn't have their own private services, that was). No one wanted to be shown the hard truths of reality.
No, he was one of the lucky ones, and at times like these, he was grateful for it. these dry bones cry for you |
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