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 Posted: Thu Feb 07, 2019 2:18 pm
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Day #32Theme: victorian fashion  Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air.
Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon.
"That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly. "Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now."
For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears.
"Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream."Comments: one of my favourite quotes from my favourite book |
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Posted: Sun Feb 10, 2019 8:11 pm
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Day #35
Theme: snow
He saw her first on a snow dappled day, the sky a dull, uniform grey.
Winter waters made for bad fishing, if only because of how rough the salty air felt against tender flesh. Even the most leathered of sea-worn elders could only ache through a few candle lengths at best. Young and with a bone to pick, he had spent his morning out on the open ocean, only to come to shore chilled and shivering like a doused cat. Never had he wanted more than to just climb onto bed then and there, huddled next to a brazier of glowing silver charcoal—but it was his work that bought the bed and the room and the brazier, and he could count on one hand the number of times the warmth of silver charcoal had ever graced his little home.
So it was back to work after a brief rest, hopefully on dry land.
Noon snack was salt fish broth and toasted walnuts, the pretty maid that served him winking as she slipped him a piece of brown bread. He ate right by the docks along with all the other working men, oil cloth shielding them from the worst of the gales. The corner of one sheet had lifted from the stakes that pinned them to the ground, and it whipped around wildly in the air, the sound deafening. He thought briefly of complaining, but in the end it hardly mattered—he was going back out there soon enough.
In his childhood in the manor, where he had learned to read and write in a way far above his station, there had been no shortage of poetry about the beauty of snow and ice and budding plum blossoms, white landscapes as clean as rice paper before it dirtied by ink and the hand and feet of men. It was only after he left that he realized how easy it was to admire the diamond like quality of new ice when one was wrapped in layers of silk and lofty mink, sitting in warm rooms served with hot food and tea.
Winter had long lost its lustre that first year along with the first cough. He had worked every where that winter, wherever that would accept a tough, bristling boy, even one that had been as strong as he. In the end only the water kept him, and he had taken what remained of the money they to buy a boat. He had learned to love the ocean then, and the ocean loved him back, and his little family had survived—but first snow was still a bad omen in his book. Let the nobles admire cuts of red plum in their spring water baths, he had work to do.
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