A Reason to Live

Photo from Unsplash by Nathan Dumlao

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This short story is a historical fiction that takes place in 1830. It should be noted that any errors in historical accuracy are probably due to the author's inexperience and lack of intensive research. All of the characters are fictitious and not based on real people.

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Florence woke up gasping, hands tightly clutching the silk sheets underneath her. Sweat dripped down her forehead; awoken once more in the dead of night, haunted by the familiar wooden coffin. That image replayed over and over, followed by dark gloom and black clothes, whispers of sorrow and apology following her like a plague. It had been months since the funeral, but still all Florence could feel was a hollowness in her heart, a painful emptiness caused by her husband’s death. She did not like that word.

Death.

It was too final.

Florence lied in bed until the sun was already high in the sky, birds chirping; a different world behind her dark curtains. She did not mind the silence, if only because it was better than the people’s pitying stares. Suddenly, a voice shook her from her thoughts.

“Good morning, My Lady. Time to get up and ready, Lord Austen is waiting and we have a day of activities ahead.” Her handmaiden, Daisy, floated in, opening curtains and closets to bring out the usual widow’s weeds: a black crêpe gown and matching black pearls.

Florence did not answer and Daisy gently took her hand, her blue eyes boring into the empty gaze of the widowed marquess. “Come now, it’s your son’s birthday. He wants to see his mother.”

Florence nodded. She stood and let Daisy dress her in the never-ending folds of fabric. She almost couldn’t breathe, imprisoned by the black cage and heavy thoughts settled in her head, the glint of her letter knife laying on her office table inviting. But Daisy moved like a small hurricane and soon Florence found herself outside in the trimmed gardens, walking towards a red tent that had been raised in honour of February 5th, 1830. Her son’s 20th birthday.

“Your Ladyship, what a surprise!” Heads turned towards her, and Florence painted a smile on her face as she approached the man who had spoken. He was standing near the long dining table laded with foods where a multitude of people in their lunch clothes were sipping tea.

“Lord Howard, the pleasure is all mine.” Florence offered her hand, knowing that the distinguished archaeological professor of the Yorkshire Philosophical Society (YPS) had to be greeted by handshake. Florence spotted her son, the new Marquis, on the other side talking to some other gentlemen, joy on his features. It was nice to see him happy. Florence turned back to the conversation, noticing that a second man had joined them, Sir William, another founder of YPS.

“Lady Florence, we wanted to speak to you about your husband’s role in the Yorkshire Philosophical Society. As one of the founders, he held great shares of the Yorkshire Museum.” Lord Howard had spoken, his dark blue coat swinging with his words. Sir William quickly cut in.

“Yes, and because the Museum’s inauguration is in a week, it would make sense if his shares were given to one of us...” His voice went on but Florence couldn’t hear anything but a loud ringing in her head, the world spinning out of control. Her breathing hiked. They wanted to take her husband away from her, again. They wanted to chip away at his memory, his legacy, his beloved Museum. He had spent months planning and perfecting the opening night, toiling away hours at his desk. And now they wanted him to fade away, to become only a ghost of a memory.

“No.” The word was out of her mouth before she could stop it, shocking both men who let out confused murmurs. She interrupted them, to her own surprise, finding a burning determination instead of her usual docile temper.

“No. I... I will keep his shares and manage his work in his name.” Again, the words slipped out but stronger this time and as she said them, Florence realised that for the first time in months, she actually wanted something that was not death. She did not let them answer, noticing the anger in their eyes but instead excused herself, ending their conversation with a promise to visit the Museum tomorrow.

Indeed, the very next day, she got up from bed on her own, a few minutes before Daisy rushed in, drank a cup of tea, took a carriage and there she was, standing in the Museum’s botanical gardens. Sir William and Lord Henry were at the steps, poised smiles on their faces. They probably thought she was crazed with grief. That her mind was broken, that the poor Marquess would never be the same again. Florence had heard the rumours, and she almost ran to them, to apologise but a firm look from Daisy made her gather herself and march over to the gentlemen. They greeted each other politely, hands shaken and pleasantries given.

“Since you’ve never been here, we thought it better to give a quick tour to familiarise yourself with the layout since you’ll... be working here.” Lord Henry choked on the last words and gave Sir William a frustrated glance. They spoke to Florence like she was a child; but that, after all, was how all men spoke to women.

“Now, we believe that before the tour you’ll want to visit late Lord Louis’ office and maybe collect his belongings?” Sir William added, both men’s need for her to be gone, clear. Florence fought the rising apology on her lips. Do it for Louis, she thought. Don’t let these monsters erase him.

As they walked inside past galleries and display cases containing frozen flowers and animals, Florence tried asking them about the opening night, about her jobs and expectations, about her role in the YPS, but was silently ignored. She was about to break into frustrated tears, the hole in her heart almost swallowing her when they arrived at an oak door, the words ‘Lord Louis King’ engraved in gold. The two men excused themselves, leaving her confused and sad. Daisy was not there to lift her up, the maid waiting patiently in the carriage. Florence took a deep breath and started listing fauna in her head alphabetically in Latin. It calmed her and before she could think for too long, she pushed open the door.

The office was dusty, shelves of books on one side, a desk on the other and a large window looking out on the gardens. Florence had a splitting headache but forced herself to look at the abandoned journals on her desk. One notebook struck her attention, her own name on its cover. Florence opened it, curious, sitting down carefully to not ruin her black gown. She began to read.

Florence did not know how long she sat there, reading. Soon, the tears spilled out uncontrollably with harsh sobs, making some ink on the journal pages run together. Journal pages that were filled with carefully preserved plants and diagrams of animals with hundreds of small notes. Louis had been the only one that knew her interest in biology, in the workings and rules of life, and her sweet husband had been making her a little personalised book before he had...

Louis had loved the Museum. Had loved her and Austen. And, for the first time, Florence let herself think: Louis is gone. He is gone.

Those words would forever be engraved in her memory along with the journal that saved her life. When Louis had died Florence had retreated into herself, thankfully expected to go into mourning for months as a widow. She had been lost without him, because what do you do when your husband, the man you’re supposed to obey for life is gone?

Her entire purpose had been to serve. She had never made life-changing decisions. But that little journal, proof her husband’s love, helped make the hole in her heart shrink. It helped clear her head and Florence, for the first time, sitting in that haunted office, made a decision.

She would work in the Museum as a founder and as the curator of the biology section. She would uphold Louis’ legacy, for him but for herself too. For her old self who had loved watching the birds fly and who had questioned every little wonder.

Looking out the window the world seemed a little brighter, a little more colourful. Florence still felt empty but she was no longer haunted by coffins and death. She would have to make her own path, her own way. Florence finally had a reason to live and she would not spend her time sleeping.