Chapter Text
“..Hello Florence.” Edith said stiffly, observing the other girl with reluctant curiosity and suspicion. Her thoughts about Florence had been neutral so far, despite their initial conversation at the apple tree and their awkward run in on another night, where Florence had tried to apologize. Edith had mumbled her forgiveness and excused herself, tired of being reminded of her father everywhere she went, but as she stood before Florence, she wanted to confront one part of her memory once and for all.
But before she could speak, Florence cut in.
“What are you doing by the river? Did you come to find me?” she asked, fingers twitching as she lowered the stick to the ground.
“No- no, I was only going on a walk. I didn’t know you were by the river. I wasn’t looking for you and I had no intention of doing so.” shot back Edith, scared that their constant run-ins might have frightened her.
Florence tensed a little at the last sentence. She knew she wasn’t in the place to be offended if someone didn’t want to talk to her, especially the girl she had offended, but the comment stung.
“Oh.. you don’t want to talk to me? If my apology made you uncomfortable, I only wanted to clear things up.”
“No it’s not that either, it’s just- I wasn’t-“
The atmosphere had swiftly gone from uneasy and distrustful to fumbling and awkward, and neither of them knew how to act without provoking the other.
Edith wrung her hands together and clenched her eyes shut, at a loss for words. End this, Edith . If anything you cannot simply stammer out incomprehensible, half sentences and run away like on the other two encounters. Face it.
“My father..I missed him. And I didn’t know how to deal with it.”
“Oh.”
After a nerve racking period of silence, she opened her eyes and peered anxiously at the other girl, wondering if her explanation had only caused greater confusion. Grief made it hard to put desperation and tears and longing into words, but to her surprise Florence’s shoulders had softened and her eyes were gentle with understanding. Edith felt her lungs relax for the first time in days, and with a jolt, she remembered.
“ My mother died when I was four.”
Perhaps on that day by the apple tree, there was more behind the mindless rambling of a child with wide eyes that peered and a voice that was so quick to drop to pain.
“I’m lucky enough to even have memories” Edith realized.
“Would you like to sit by the river with me? I need some company.”
...
The full moon was making its ascent into the heavens, a glowing ship slipping past the stars and over the cobblestone streets as the two girls sat down by the riverside. They had to unravel the string of wrong words and stubborn silences they had unintentionally tangled around each other’s feet, but where to start? Florence tipped her head back to breath in new courage, not sure how to find out. So she started at the sharpest needle.
“Why did you lie about your name?”
‘Bertha Mannings’ cleared her throat and squirmed on the rock she was sitting on, ashamed of her own embarrassment.
“I wasn’t so sure I wanted to talk about dead people then and..and the first thing that came to my mind was to avoid conversations if I ever had to talk about it again, I..apologize.”
Florence sucked in a shaky breath along with another breath of courage and shook her head. “No, I’m sorry I burdened you with my questions when you were mourning quietly. I should learn to control what I say, I bubbled over because I didn’t know who to talk to.”
The auburn headed girl shrugged. “You can still talk to me if you wish, I don’t have any qualms about talking with you.”
She stopped herself then, even though wanted to say more, about how she herself couldn’t talk to Catherine or Mother because the conversation would end up in swollen eyes and damp sleeves and wetter handkerchiefs that reminded her of the gallows and not of Father. She wanted to cry about empty days and lonelier nights and how everyone seemed to remember the way Father had died, not the life he lived. She wanted to hear about the life and death of Mary Hawthorne, and the things Florence wanted to do with a mother and the ways that Mr. Hawthorne had mourned. She wanted to let the grief spill out like the river beneath their feet, to be able to put the missing and the longing into words, and in a perfect world, that would have happened.
But it was far from a perfect world, and in this world, dawn was approaching.
In this world, the two girls stood up with new found friendship resting lightly on their shoulders and bid goodbye, promising to meet again. In this world, Edith scrambled up the tree and into her room as worried footsteps sounded on the stairs, burrowing under her sheets with happiness behind closed eyes. In this world, Florence raced home through the waking city and started breakfast with whatever meager provisions the pantry provided and a smile on her lips, as snores rocked the thin walls.
It was far from a perfect world, but maybe it was the glimpse of one, one with untangled strings and tucked away needles.
...
Far away from Edith and Florence’s hometown, a group of beaming young women crowd the streets of Manhattan and the spirit of revolution, new and wonderful, rises in the sweet summer air.