The Lady Charlotte

Within the house, the vibration from The Lady loosened the last thread of a bolt. It fell out of its socket, and the mirror crashed from its mount to the desk and thence to the floor. Shards of mirrored glass scattered across the room where Charlotte had spent the last quarter of her life. Broken images of that ascetic existence reflected the sunlight in diamond patterns onto the sculpted ceiling.

His shining, pure-white bike came into her view, slowing to a stop, and for a moment, she gazed in loving awe at his countenance as his helmet came off. He laughed delightedly at something one of the others said, and her soul soared at hearing the sound of it. Then a second bike, this with a sidecar attached, pulled to a halt alongside him. The figure within the leathers was all too obviously female, as were the golden-red locks that cascaded forth when, once free of her helm as well, she shook her head.

The woman stepped to Lance, held him and kissed him long and sweetly. Charlotte, her nostrils flaring to the scent of battle, readied herself. Under biker rules, any woman could challenge to be the woman of the leading man. Twice before Charlotte had been called to defend her position in the open arena of the barn, stripped to the waist, with the only weapons allowed those with which they were born; claws and teeth, fists and elbows, knees and feet. She had succeeded then -- she would prevail now!

The woman in Lance's embrace turned, and Charlotte saw it was Gal. So, she had gone after Lance that day, finding and comforting him while she had raged at home against her cursed fate. Charlotte cursed her.

It was of little consequence; she could best Gal in combat and...

Lance stooped to the sidecar and drew up a small bundle swathed in bright pastel blankets, to show to the gathering, and at that moment, Charlotte realised from his proud smile alone that she was facing a battle that could never be won.

Her heart broke as the mirror had, shards exploding away to shred her emotions to the last. Hope was gone. The future was gone. Nothing remained but the curse.

Her tears did not fall as she came to her decision. From within her leather pocket, she withdrew the knife and gave it a fleeting flick. Steadily and with intent, she drew it across her blue-veined wrists, gazing unmoving at the crimson splash and the flowing scarlet.

As she weakened, her foot slipped from the brake and The Lady Charlotte lurched forward, gentling out of the garage and stepping softly down the driveway.

Charlotte's eyes were locked on his as he saw her bike moving slowly, so slowly towards them. A frown crossed his face as he felt something move within him, as if fate had suddenly changed its course.

One of the garden crew, a Polish worker freshly arrived in Britain, stared in silent fear as the bike slowly rumbled past him. He stood back, crossing himself repeatedly.

The languor of death welcomed her with open, skeletal arms as she slipped back on the saddle, leaning against the pillion backrest, so that her face was to the sun, feeling its warmth battle the creeping cold within her. At the last, she saw a vision of a future with him as it was always meant to be and cried out in silent joy.

As the trike slowly crossed the bridge to exit through the gates and idle across the road towards them, the riders looked on in horror, sadness, grief and petrified wonder. Even the child was still as if to salute with silent regard the Lady, as she slowly passed by.

And many shed a tear at her passing, reading her name on the fairing with a reverence earned years before.

The Lady Charlotte.

If you hated the ending, forgive me, but it had to be that way. The tale's the thing.

With a respectful nod to Lord Alfred.