By Tori Brown
Our coach slows to a stop before the metal framework of the Queens’ Park. The horses whinny as our coachman dismounts his seat to open the door for us. I am sure that this proposition is a fruitless endeavour, but George has suddenly decided that a daily afternoon constitutional is what makes a family proper and will benefit Alan. I had laboured for a week to deliver him, only for him to arrive a meagre four pounds, and wildly under George’s expectations for an heir.
Hair slicked and armpits drenched with sweat, our coachman opens the coach door, his odour a sour suffocating stench. He warns us that it’s hot outside, how smart of him, and asks where he should wait for us with the carriage. George tells him to remain here. He must hope that we will be ambitious enough to double-back after completing the trail, though I’m not so sure. A wife is there to support, never to question, as George so bluntly reminded me after my fifth protestation of this whole horrid ordeal. I take Alan’s hand and guide him out of the coach, following George through the gilded archway.
***
The sun shines through the vibrant patchwork of leaves overhead, providing us with limited cover. George takes off his heavy coat, and I can see his back slowly becoming damp with sweat. I am not so easily unburdened. Alan drags his feet with every step. Scrape, scrape, scrape. George turns around. I hold my breath. He tells the boy to pick us his feet, like a proper man. The moment passes.
George guides us off the path into the field beside us. All around us are broken bits of cobble and the foundations of what must have once been a proud castle but is now a decrepit and crumbling piece of architecture. These ruins were once the estate of George’s family rivals, but that was long ago, and the family name was lost, as was their household. George kicks a piece of rubble and leans on the last standing structure, a stout old well. He shakes his head and grabs Alan from behind, strong hands massaging his frail shoulders. He reminds the boy of his family words, honor in viribus—honour in strength.
“There is no honour here,” he says patting Alan on the back.
We walk back to the trail through a treeless swath off the path. Off in the distance a pack of wild deer graze, no large antlers in sight. Beautiful, slender, and free, licking dew from the blades of grass. A gunshot echoes—Alan cries out and clings to my skirts as George sounds that booming laugh of his. The other deer frantically disperse from the gory scene as the hunter runs forwards to claim his kill. Alan tugs at my sleeve. I give his soft baby hair a stroke, the pallor of his skin worsening. I call out to George, asking him for the waterskin, but George marches on.
“A little further, pet,” he says.
I stoop down to kiss the sweaty brow of Alan, and walk on.
***
The sun feels harsher now, and my shoes have begun to stab into my soles. I’m ashamed to admit the level of sweat pooling in my armpits and at the small of my back, now seeping through my bodice and petticoat. I can only pray it has not visibly seeped through my brocade. He would not like that. He does not like me being anything but prim and proper. I must not complain. He would not like that either. Beside me, there’s Alan, dragging his feet again. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Testing even my patience. Scrape, scrape, scrape. He tugs at my sleeve again, asks me whether we are there yet. I’m sure we must be close to the end, as we’ve been walking for what feels like hours. Off in the nearby field, I see rubble. Further past that, a patch of red grass. I pick up the pace, attempting to catch up to George, maybe this once I can talk some sense into the man. My foot catches on a pebble and I plummet. My hands catch the brunt of the fall, but my hat topples off, chin scraping the rough earth.
George laughs, “My dear, watch where you step!”
He extends a hand. I take it and haul myself up. He appears kind for a moment, so I ask him whether we are lost. His smile drops. He clutches my hand harder. I beg him, please, not in front of the boy. George finally looks at Alan, all pale and clammy. He grimaces and assures us that we are near the end. He drops my hand and continues forth.
***
Scrape, scrape, scrape. Over and over. The boy scrapes by. Scrape, scrape, scrape. I let my anger bubble inside, quietly and violently, despite my trepidation. That is the tempest of a woman’s mind. Never protest. Never let them know that you have none of that milk of mother’s kindness. I barely even fed the boy, strapping my breasts not an hour after he scraped his way out of me and passing him off to the wet nurse—some other loose whore who could probably love and care and be happy for him more than I ever could. Progeny is not the wish of women but the force of man, and I am just a means to that end. I see that now. Scrape, scrape, scrape. When George had courted me, more like escorted me, tearing me from my humble hamlet, my home, I was to be his and nothing more. There he is now, his balding head baked under the sun, which is now sinking down, down, down below the horizon, casting shadows on the rubble, setting that red patch of grass alight. Scrape, scrape, scrape.
***
I’m sure now after, that after this whole horrid affair proves his theory invalid, George will shame me for it. If only I had milked the boy, or held him at all for that first year, or had not gone into my hysterics, he would be what George deemed proper. But where was his father? Off hunting, off at billiards, smoking cigars, sexed and carefree. I envy the man. The men who ruin castles, ruin women, just for the thrill of it. Are you happy now, George? Now that stars are out, looking down upon your offspring, scraping.
Silence. I stop. Of sound there is naught but George’s stomps, the rustle of the leaves, the twitter of birds in happy nests. George notices my defiance now and stops. He says we best be home. It’s just ahead, he promises. A lie. I tear at my sleeve, where the boy once was. Where could that insolent child be? His child? My hair falls out from its careful arrangement, hat and pins lost in the grass. He demands that I follow, before I make a further mess of myself.
I look at him now, taking in the creases of the small man I fear so much. He looks a mess, but even so he’s smiling. I see now. We did not serve our purpose and now he hopes to rid himself of us. My eyes flick to the nearby rubble. I run into the field. He shouts after me, making chase. He never was one to give up the hunt. I think of red grass, watching him stand by the well, and I run straight into the beast, toppling us both down, down, down.
This piece was featured in the 2026 Winter edition of Glass Magazine.
