Mini-Write (Restart), Days 6&7
I apologize, guys. It’s been hard to get back into daily writing, especially with the parents here and then getting back into normalcy. Here is a little offering, which might not mean much if you don’t know any of my original characters, but if you do.... Still working on the one-shot.
Summer, 1920
Hazel Perkins Haverty looked up from her sewing as Andrew entered their shared sitting room. After greeting her warmly, the tall young man held up the post, smiling.
“You’ll be happy, Ma” – although not her son, in many ways she treated him as a mother would, so he had taken to calling her that – “you’ve a letter from Downton. Mrs. Hughes this time.”
Taking the letter he held out to her, Hazel put her sewing aside. She poured a cup of tea for Andrew. He traded it for the letter opener and sat near her as she slit open the envelope.
At a gasp from Hazel, Andrew turned from his tea. She appeared quite pale, and her hand covered her mouth while her eyes widened.
“Ma?” Eyebrows drawing together in concern, he put down his teacup. “Is something wrong?”
Hazel blinked several times before looking up at him, tears gathering in her lashes. “It’s Lady Sybil. Andrew – she’s died. Bore a healthy little girl, then passed on later that night.”
Drawing a deep breath, Andrew reached over to touch her hand. “I’m so sorry, Ma. I know how close you were to all the Crawley girls. And even more so with Lady Sybil.”
She shook her head, her eyes staring straight ahead vacantly now. The letter dropped into her lap, and Hazel wrung her hands together. “Yes. She was always such a sweet child, kind-hearted, and with a smile that couldn’t fail to brighten a room. And she had a mind of her own, Lady Sybil, not afraid to think for herself.” Wiping a tear away from her cheek, Hazel turned to Andrew again with a sad smile. Then she sighed. “I should write to Lady Grantham with condolences.”
Andrew nodded. “That’s a good idea. Would you like some brandy first? You still look rather peaky, Ma.”
“Yes. Yes, I will. Just a little though, Andrew.”
He brought her the drink, then watched as she drank with slow sips, evidently collecting herself. After she finished, she picked up the letter and stood.
“I’ll go write the letter at my desk in my room.”
As she passed him, Andrew grasped her hand gently and pressed it warmly before letting it go.
Hazel sat down at her desk. She drew a sheet of her best writing paper to her and opened her pen. Then she gazed at it, the pen hovering. Words came to her – many, many words – but none seemed right. None seemed enough. How could any words ever be enough to comfort a mother who lost a grown-up child? Hazel attempted to choke back tears, but she couldn’t any longer; they dropped onto the blank page. Oh that she could put those tears into words, she could send that to Lady Grantham. But she didn’t know how.
Inhaling a long breath, Hazel began writing. “Dear Elsie,” she wrote. She poured her heart into this letter to her housekeeper friend, since she couldn’t find a way to do so with Lady Grantham. Perhaps, one day, she’d be able to send her condolences properly. For today, her own grief, and the thought of the profound heartache that she knew her ladyship suffered and would for a long while, kept her from knowing how to write what was needed.
Holes in the heart couldn’t be filled with words.
