The Fan

I did not mean to drop my fan.

By that, I mean, I did not mean to drop it for him - the duke of York, Edward. My sights were not set so high - I had politely resisted any and all interest he had shown and I had witnesses who would testify in my favour. But would they, now?

I did not mean for him to jump in and pick it up, to inspect it, to slowly hand it back, for my awkwardness and embarrassment to be taken for more than just that, and for her to be watching in that moment - she who hated me for being my father's daughter, his illegitimate daughter. She whom I will not name here. My Step-mama. Of all of the moments for her loathsome gaze to be upon me, it had to be then.

In a world where women are property and all property belongs to men, she owned him completely - my father, that is. The man had never raised me, never shown me any affection beyond what he understood a father's love to be, which in his dark and hooded eyes amounted to the lavishment (from a distance) of clothing and finery, education and upbringing as befitting the daughter of a wealthy wine merchant. He had been obliged to see me raised correctly but following his success, he had married into more wealth and had sired his son and heir; I was no threat to anybody but she wanted me gone, and here at this ball in my father's stead, was her chance to see it done.

I did not mean to drop my fan for the Duke, but for someone else; William, the doctor's brother. Having held my affections these three years since, and I his, this was to be the night that I would drop my fan for William to pick up before everyone. Everybody knew the meaning of this, and nobody would object - William was a gentleman. This would be the night that all doubt would be erased from the heads of all in attendance of this ball including my father's detestable spouse and the even more odious gentleman with whom they were manoeuvring me into matrimony; Fewiletto.

Five and twenty years my senior, Fewiletto was a contemporary of my father, and was there watching. Not two days ago I had flatly refused him, and my father was furious, despairing of my disdain for the eight hundred pounds a year Fewiletto intended to bestow on my ungrateful head. Yet I would not be bought. William was embarking on a propitious naval career, and would keep me in a genteel and respectable manner. More importantly it was him I loved, not a man who was old enough to be my father, and I just seventeen years of age!

Following a moment which lasted an eternity and relished my dismay my fan, having awkwardly caught on my voluminous dress, hit the floor. It didn't even have the decency to land gracefully, instead thudding once like a lump of lead as if to demonstrate the weight of its momentous deed. Silence fell. I gasped at William, our eyes meeting in horror as the Duke bent down in front of him to retrieve it. I was momentarily distracted by the sight over William's shoulder of Fewiletto storming from the room. For the briefest of moments I was overcome with relief at being released from any obligation to him, but my illusion was shattered as the Duke straightened up proudly before me, inspecting my fan with approval.

"Beautiful", he breathed, as William too made his exit and somewhere behind him, people returned to their chatter and the music resumed once more. I stammered my excuses to the Duke and hurried from the hall, leaving my hateful step-mama smirking in triumph.

My freedom was short lived; My step-mama allowed me to wait a few days, enough for the faintest glimmer of hope that this misunderstanding would pass, but deep in my heart I knew it was only a matter of time before I was summoned by my father. She had put it so innocently to him, having kept it from him for his sake, but her conscience no longer allowing her to do so. Brava!

He was so incandescent with rage that he could barely muster speech, and spoke with a whisper as the charges were laid before me; that I had wickedly turned down the perfectly acceptable hand of Fewiletto and his eight hundred pounds because I aspired to a title instead - that of the Duchess of York and Albany. Not only this, but it had reached his ear that his Highness was planning to travel to Europe with a commoner and following the reports from my step - mama and her creatures of my antics at the ball, he could be left in no doubt that this commoner was indeed myself.

Calmly at first, I put forth my case, stating that I had no aspirations to a title and my friends would testify to this.

Sensing that I may be at the tiniest risk of penetrating my father's icy exterior, my step-mama interjected, "You would expose these good people to your scandal? No, John, you cannot allow this!"

I was almost impressed. My father's reputation was everything to him, surpassed only by his beloved son and namesake and she knew it. This was all she needed to make his mind up for him. Thus, my defence perished before me.

My punishment? To be banished from all whom I held dear, and sent away in disgrace to stay with distant kin at the opposite end of the country. I was forbidden to write to anybody; in time they would be told that I had died. I would never re-enter society; all who had known me would eventually erase me from memory like an incriminating letter to be thrown into the fire, burn to dust and be swept away as indeed I was.

My beloved William was reminded (by persons unknown) of the importance of his promising naval career, and the damage caused by association with scandal. Any affection he once had for me would be outweighed by this; I would never see or hear from him again.

I drew some small comfort years later to learn that my father had lost his fortune, giving my vile step-mama a legitimate reason for her melancholy and hatefulness. Life was as cruel to him as he had been to me and he died a penniless wretch, predeceased by his son, leaving the old woman to linger in her misery and poverty, and so society forgot them too.

And what of my fate?

I surrendered to my despair. I wept. I thought I would never cease, and yet cease I did. There was no revenge to be had, and as the years went by I learned to make the best of my circumstances. I married, and I loved. In that order; I did not believe I would love again after William abandoned me to my fate but Thomas was patient, and as time went by I grew fond of him. We raised three boys together, and over time fondness turned to love.

Now I am old, and trapped by age and inevitability. My Thomas lies ill, dying. He is trapped by his own mind and is as a child, mumbling incoherently, remembering nothing. Our situation is such that we have no treasures other than each other, but he is worth more to me than any of the many things I possessed when I was that unfortunate young lady - those things didn't save me then, I do not have need of them now save for my bible, my comfort and my companion as Thomas fades. And yet...

In the darkness under the bed as his eyes close forever, a box gathers dust. Inside are a few relics of the painful past - a few forbidden letters, written but never sent. An old hairbrush containing a few of my once beautiful hairs before they turned white and straw-like. A stoppered bottle, a shallow syrupy stain in the bottom where once was expensive perfume. An old and faded fan, long closed and never opened again.