The Now Former Lady Deveroux Ch. 03

"I'm burning, Samantha, and I cannot do it again," she tells her, rigid from the task of forcing her body into motionlessness. "I can't be that version of myself ever again, not if I want to keep my peace."

And then her eyes open, hazel pools like a glittering pond in the sun flashing up at her, meeting her own with a terrifying seriousness. "If... if all you have for me is lust, then do what you will." She swallows, preparing herself for the possibility. "But if you love me, care for my friendship and her peace..." she leans in, her lips waiting less than an inch from Samantha's so that her voice reaches the woman by breath rather than sound, "... don't let me do this."

Samantha's neck retreats, watching Esther's face with an unsettled embarrassment at her vulnerability. She'd miscalculated, misunderstood the depth of feeling and commitment which exists within the woman's peace. She realizes that she had not taken Esther's stories of her past troublemaking seriously, not believed in how necessary the sacrifices of cloistered life were to her. What had been a fun game to Samantha appears, in Esther's tone and the fervor in her gaze, to be life or death for the Sister.

She nods, and slowly steps back from Esther, trying to hide the feeling of shame which settles within her stomach like weights added to a scale. It wasn't Esther's guilt for having relations with women which governed the nun... it was the fear of how deeply she would fall, how totally she lost herself in the pursuit of lust. It wasn't about a prickling of her conscience or a fear of retribution from God, she feared losing herself in the passions of another. And Samantha had toyed with it, solely for the hope of restoring her own pride and power.

Unable to stomach the feeling, Samantha instead jokes, "If you try to kiss me now I'll hit you."

Esther tosses a weakened smile to her, which then melts away to a wash of relief over her whole body. "... thank you, Samantha. Thank you."

She looks away, struggling to face the results of her actions, gazing off into the hills so that Esther's eyes could not see her spiraling fear. "You're not allowed to turn tail and never see me again." And, softly, "I would prefer not to lose you."

Esther nods and scratches the back of her head, dropping down to scoop up her veil and return it to her hair. "I think I ought to give myself space to cool down for today." A brief tension fills the air, ameliorated by her quick addendum, "But I would be delighted to accompany you for lunch tomorrow."

"I'll cook, then," Samantha agrees, fretting about what the nun must be thinking of her. "You're sweet to do it but you're a horrid chef."

"Tomorrow, then."

-- -- --

Mirrors were supposed to show you your true self. They take all that you are and present it back to you in a neat little frame, shining and sincere. When Samantha had gazed into them before, every encounter was one which proved to herself the superiority of her status, her character, her beauty. The mirror in her bedroom promised that she was a goddess incarnate. The mirrors in the hallways proclaimed that she was animate and enviable. The mirrors in her silverware, in her scattered reflections across the course of the day, assured her that every corner of the world possessed the possibility of holding her image divine.

This mirror is shit. It surely must be.

As she stares into the silver framed standing portal in the room which used to be Annette's, which she was slowly having to accept as her own, Samantha can hardly recognize the woman before her. Gone was the majesty and splendor. Gone was its color and its shine. The memory of what she was before feels as though it slips away into illusion, a false recollection.

There is only one artifact of clothing she'd convinced herself not to sell, heartbreaking as it was to part ways with the rest of her things. It was a tight and shining red ball gown, made of the most expensive silk she'd ever seen at the time. It hung close to her figure, emphasizing the curves of her hips before dropping into its spiraling pleated skirt. The shoulder's color had been neatly matched to her skin tone, so the small bands holding it up appeared almost invisible in the right light, and left her neck and collarbone scandalously bare. The sleeves cinched into billowing cuffs in the center of her forearms, and the ruffled lace of her neckline was some of the most extravagant tailoring she'd ever witnessed.

And it no longer fits her.

She's slimmer than she was before, and while it's easy enough to wear it, and minor enough of a change that it would be fine on some occasions, it looks nothing like how it used to. Without access to the opulent dining she had grown accustomed to, nor the luxury of a carriage ride whenever traveling, Samantha had lost some of the perfectly adorned curves to her figure which had made her so desirable in the first place. They were still there, but they had been dulled by the constant walking of her present life, the lack of abundance in her food. Ever the meticulous critic of her own form, Samantha can only stare into the mirror and conclude that the reflection must be a defect of the mirror. To accept anything else would require her to believe herself the defect.

And then, the look in her eyes reminds her of Esther, and she feels worse than before. Trying on the dress once more was supposed to distract herself, supposed to fluff up her vanity enough to abandon the incessant self-criticism that had been haunting her since their picnic yesterday. But the defeats conglomerate, and one misery compounds into another.

She strips the dress off of her apparently deformed figure and allows it to fall to the ground in a crumple, before the remaining sense of pride within her quickly picks it up and folds it neatly onto its hanger. Samantha tosses on the clothes which had once only been her outfit for disguising herself to steal away to the Faery, but which were now her everyday attire. It was a simple white shirtwaist, with a long blue skirt that wrapped closely to her waist and billowed down into her petticoat. She lays back into her bed, counting the miserable seconds as they pass while she waits for Esther to appear for lunch.

She'd misjudged the Sister, and feels it was a horrid mistake to make. Esther was supposed to just be some innocent, demure, clever girl which Samantha could easily fold into her charms, turning her into a woman whose very presence did nothing but attest to Samantha's desirability. She'd be an enjoyable source of affection and a lively boost to her sagging ego, so delightfully easy to toy with. That's what Samantha had wanted to make her: a toy. She rolls over onto her side, surprised by the mutterings of disgust from inside her chest.

How was she to know that Esther contained such deep pains on the subject? The woman was so constantly chipper and pleasant and avoided anything she found scandalous - she seemed so likely the model of a sheltered Sister itching to do something bad. Samantha had assumed her endless attestation to the peace which cloistered life brought her was nothing more than the same drivel every other self-righteous church-goer proclaimed. How was she to know Esther truly meant it, that her life before had felt consumed by nothing but fire, and that this life was all which made her feel inner stability?

She groans loudly to the room around her and decides that Esther was running far too late for her comfort. Samantha drags herself downstairs, flicking her eyes to the kitchen for a moment to allow her mind to begin wondering what she might prepare for the two of them for lunch, then marches to the front door to search for the nun.

Esther is not to be found on her porch, nor anywhere amongst the rows of townhouses which sit on either side of the street. In her place, positioned onto the front step with a delicate amount of care, is a small, tan envelope. Samantha snatches it up, seeing her own name scribbled across it with a fanciful script, and rips it open to read its contents.

To my dear friend, Samantha,

I feel horrid for not keeping my word to you that I would join you for lunch today. I regret the possibility that you have prepared something for me which now sits neglected upon your table. I'm afraid that my fervor has not dissipated since yesterday, and I do not trust myself to be around you at present. I intend to spend the next few days in prayer, attending to the needs of my soul so that I may be refreshed and ready to be a good friend to you.

With enormous consideration,

Esther

"Shit," Samantha utters aloud.

She drops down to the porch and sits upon the front steps, her eyes scouring over the letter a few more times. The nauseating prickles of guilt in her chest push forth, and she finds herself muttering her frustrations under her breath. There was nothing to be done about it. Samantha had done something to harm Esther, had pushed her away as she'd done with so many in her life, and once more someone was leaving her for it.

Samantha throws herself into a frenzy of household chores for the afternoon, hoping the busy work would make her feel better, but it does not. Instead, it gives her endless time to ruminate and criticize herself, and the evening greets her feeling worse than before. The house might be clean, but it was pitifully lonely. She escapes.

The early evening finds her marching up to the steps of the Fleeting Faery, tugging her coat close to her constrained chest, and nearly startling Bill as he begins the process of opening the bar. He drops his keys to the floor as her footstep slips against the cobblestone road, and then he turns and reads the expression on her face.

"That bad?"

Samantha's voice is frail as she replies. "Might I come inside?"

"Of course, girlie," Bill nods, bobbing his head sideways to gesture her inside. He retrieves his keys and throws the door open. "Have a seat, I'll be there when I can."

She takes a few timid steps into the dark room and climbs onto one of the stools at the counter. Bill continues his process of opening the place, turning on the lanterns that hang along the walls, clearing off the tables from the night before, and sweeping the main walkway inside. Once completed, he meanders back behind the counter and pours her a pint, placing it in front of her as he starts to wipe down the wood surface with a rag he keeps tucked into his apron.

"I... well," Samantha taps her fingers on the glass, not planning on drinking any. "I would like to apologize, Bill."

"That's a first," he snorts. "What for?"

"For everything, I suppose," she sighs, pushing the drink away and laying her head down into her arms. "For complaining at you until closing. For always causing trouble here. For... whatever else I've done to you." She pauses for a moment, then rolls her eyes up to look at the empty bar around them. "Well, for asking you to open early tonight so I might talk with you."

"Pain in the ass that you are," he smirks, leaning his hip onto the table and crossing his arms over his burly chest, "it's why me and the Missus do this."

"I appreciate it."

He nods affirmatively. A few moments of quiet find him returning to other tasks, and by the time he speaks again she hears the clinking of glass bottles as he rearranges the liquor cabinet above him. "I've not seen you in a few weeks. I was worried the nun had really done it, gone and converted you."

"For a moment, so was I," she shrugs, then closes her eyes to rest. "Maybe I still am, I don't know."

Esther had made change seem so easy. She must have been remarkably similar to Samantha before entering the clergy, but it feels impossible to believe. The woman she'd grown to know was frustratingly poised and patient, seemed calm and relentless in her dedication. She was good. She was good, and Samantha wasn't.

"Bill," she sits up, folding her hands atop one another, "who do you think I am? Am I a person? Am I just a walking embodiment of vanity?"

"Jesus, the nun has you doing philosophy," he chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief.

"Baffling as it is, these questions are intrinsically motivated now," she purses her lips. "Who am I? Be honest."

"Honest," he repeats in confirmation, trying to ensure she wasn't joking. His raised brows say that he isn't sure.

"I think I need to hear it."

He bobs his head and thinks for a breath. "You're the woman who's broken more girl's hearts here than anyone else I know." A hand lifts to his beard, fingers pulling through the dark curls. "I think you're chasin' something, but nobody seems to have it so you drop them once they're boring. I used to think of you as the entitled rich gal I'd only tolerate because you'd sneak us a hearty donation or two, though, that's gone now."

"But I never seemed happy?"

"Maybe," his shoulders lift, then drop. "When you were fresh in the delight of a new girl to play with."

"Shit," she mutters, dropping her head back into her palms.

"Some people are just like that," Bill continues. "No matter what they have it's never good enough. If they've got money already, they hoard everything that they can hoping it'll be enough. If they're poor, they steal anything not nailed down." He clears his throat thoughtfully and adds, "Sometimes both do it with people, too. It's just who they are."

Samantha doesn't want to ask the question, sure she already knows the answer, but necessity brings it forth. She peeks out through her fingers and asks, "And that was me?"

"'Was?'" Bill looks at her. "You're stopping?"

"I'm thinking about it," she grimaces.

And then the realization storms into her mind, bursting through the portcullis that protected her inner self from making such connections. It settles in her throat like a dry weight, and as she swallows her mouth is suddenly parched. She throws back some of the pint in front of her and tries to fight the idea, trying to pretend it wasn't true, but there's simply no denying it.

"Fuck," she simply sighs.

"Yeah?"

She takes a long inhale, and hisses out, "I'm my father."

"Ain't we all," Bill snorts. He lifts his hand up to gesture for her to continue talking.

"I never knew him," Samantha recounts, "but my mother always said he was never content. He hated being tied down. He was convinced he was destined for something greater than us, so he left and never came back."

Bill preemptively fills a second pint glass and places it down on the table in front of her. "Well, knowing is half the battle."

-- -- --

She's banging on the front door, loudly. It hardly matters to her that it's raining. It's barely a light drizzle, and she'd whole-heartedly rejected Bill's offer to let her borrow an umbrella when she'd left the Faery. Samantha had been consumed with purpose and marched off, singular in her focus.

She's in the middle of her second loud volley of thumbs against the wood when the lock clicks open behind it. A second later, it pulls open with a mousy squeak, revealing Father Billings, looking as though he was just about to be preparing for bed. His eyes flick over her quickly, trying to account for what might be wrong, and he asks, "Miss Deveroux, what are you doing out so late?"

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," she slurs. Her head isn't quite spinning, but it feels like it should be. "It's been... since my last confession, since my last confession," she chokes out, throwing a hand up to the opened door frame to steady herself. "I'd like to confess the sin of being my father, Father."

Simon's lips press together into a fine line, and for a moment he seems to be debating whether or not he'd send her home. His compassion wins out, and he steps aside. "Why don't you come inside?"

He guides her to a comfortable reading chair in the library that was his conversation room, a chair which feels warm and recently occupied. She notices Peter Thornbry, Simon's roommate-who-was-actually-his-secret-lover-but-people-

weren't-supposed-to-know-that, stepping out from the kitchen in a comfortable tunic and slacks, eyes flicking up to Simon with concern.

"Peter," Simon pips up, "Why don't you bring Miss Deveroux some tea?" He takes a seat in the chair next to her. "We just had a fresh pot," he tells her, then looks up to the sky and smiles, "Providence."

Peter returns a few moments later with a warm teacup of some herbal blend she could surely recognize if she wished to pay more attention. He looks to Simon and wordlessly asks if he should remain, but the priest shakes his head and nods for him to head to bed without him.

"I figured out who I am," Samantha slurps loudly, coughing slightly as the hot tea hits her throat. "And who I am is my shitbeat father."

Simon lattices his fingers together and sits forward to show he was listening. "Perhaps you could tell me more of-,"

"I'm never going to be happy, am I?" She interrupts, allowing the teacup and saucer to chime out as she places them onto the end table. "I'll always want more and more and it'll never end. All I am is a whirlpool - I suck things in but I'm never full."

The priest looks as though he is racing to catch up, and he softly replies, "The scriptures say that trusting in the Lord brings unending peac-,"

"Is she here?"

Simon furrows his brows and tilts his head in confusion. "She?"

"Esther," Samantha answers, as though it was obvious. "I need to tell her to go away."

"You wish for me to bring her here... simply so you can tell her to go away?"

"Go away from me," Samantha huffs impatiently. "As in, forever." Then adds, to cement her point. "Whirlpool."

"Well, I am sure she is sleeping at the moment," Simon responds patiently, and a little part of Samantha wishes he would just yell at her. "But you can speak with her when she wakes, if you'd like."

"Fine," she grumbles. "I'm no good for her."

"I didn't realize the two of you-,"

"My father loved no one," Samantha continues, wishing he'd just let her speak. "I love no one. I'm incapable."

Simon is quiet for a moment, then says, "I see that the penance I assigned you has not borne out."

"And it won't," she snips back. "So tell Esther to stay away from me."

"Samantha," he says her name softly, trying to steady her. "Have you always felt like you were incapable of love? Is there anyone you have loved before?"

"I loved my mother."

He smiles, proud she's proving his point. "And do you still love her?"

"She's dead," she pulls her legs up onto the chair, tucking them neatly underneath herself and keeping her body in a tight ball. "She died when I was fifteen."

"But do you still love her?"

"Sure," she sighs and shrugs. "Yes."

He claps his hands together gently. "Then you are capable of love. Penance completed." He looks as though he's trying to cheer her up, and a small part of her resents it. "Is there anyone else you loved?"

"I'd have to confess a sin," she mutters.

"For our purposes, preemptively forgiven."

It takes a little effort to stifle the strange feeling in her stomach as she answers, "Cordelia."

Simon nods, absent of judgment. Considering Peter was upstairs, surely waiting for him, it had better been without judgment. "And do you still love her?"

"She left me," Samantha complains, a bustling frustration igniting. "She- she said I wasn't good enough for her! I'm never good enough for anyone. They always leave me."

"Which is why you believe you're no good for Esther."

"I'm not," she spits back, resolute. It takes a few breaths to let the heat in her cheeks dissipate, then she mumbles out, "It's my father's fault, isn't it? That's who broke me?"

"Perhaps," Simon shrugs noncommittally. "But, you can be whole again. There is another Father who loves you."