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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 19, 2008 0:27:34 GMT
Kate sat at the desk, a pair of scissors in hand. She was busy concentrating on a new edition of a dress she was doing. It wasn't going to be amazing, but it wasn't anything she had really seen before. She liked the inventive side of things. It was much more fun than tapering and tailoring. Far more interesting.
She put the material down and flattened it out on the desk. She tilted her head and quirked her mouth. What else could she do before doing the seams and hems. She had a thought. Excellent. She ran over to the cupboard, nearly knocking the chair over in her speediness. she pulled out the crate and reached up for her new added height for the scraps box. Pulling it down she rested it on the table.
She pulled out some of the lengthier thinner scraps of material. Right... How could she do this? The easiest way would be to stick her arm into the sleeve to flesh it out and tied the material around and pin it. Probably a lot easier said than done. She would try it anyway.
As she thought. Not easy. But do able. She just need to make it flesh out so it didn't bunch up when attached. She smiled. She could do whatever she wanted to the thing and she wouldn't care. She'd wear it anyway. Her father would probably complain about her wasting her time doing something not for somebody else. But nobody had placed an order. And the outlaws had paid more than enough for what they'd bought.
She'd have to try tit on later. Or get Sarah to so she could make some final adjustments to the sleeves before sewing them on finally.
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Post by Peter Miller on Jan 19, 2008 0:42:12 GMT
Peter had woken up in a foul mood, and he was fairly sure it stemmed from his eldest's disobedience last night. He had quickly gotten up, grumbling as he slipped some shoes on and wandered into his mill to grind some flour. He found the action soothing to his troubled mind - who was that man, were his intentions really honourable, is he rich enough to warrant letting him have the wretch? - and calm him down a little before he encountered anyone and snapped at them. He wasn't fond of it - the following arguments gave him a headache.
After a good while, he stood up and stretched, leaving his work to go and wake his good-for-nothing daughters. He stomped into the main house, throwing open the door and grumbling before he stopped. He was startled, and slightly pleased, to see Kate was already up and working, and if the open curtain meant anything, then the whoever-it-was had left them.
He'd better have left the money behind...
"What are you making?" he asked gruffly, the closest he'd ever probably get to a "Good Morning" - even to his wife. Life had just made him perpetually grumpy.
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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 19, 2008 0:50:25 GMT
Kate turned her head away from the him as her father opened the door through to the mill. Her eyes wide, if last night was anything to go by she was for it this morning. By the tone in voice he didn't sound very happy. Not that he ever was, but that's another matter altogether.
"A dress." she stated simply. Not turning from her work. She found herself sitting up slightly straighter, slightly... tenser. If anybody scared her more than the Sheriff, it was her father in a foul mood. Which he was currently. She just hoped that he didn't, which he would, bring up Allan's presence last night. It would by all means break out in an argument. Most probably landing her with another bruise, or slip lip.
When it came down to it, she couldn't fight back. She could disrespect her father. And as much as she hated the man. She loved him unconditionally. He was her father - no matter how he acted.
Another argument meant having to come up with another excuse as to how she got her latest injury. Avoiding her father for a few days. Hiding in the forest during the light hours if need be. Not doing what she liked most, sitting at the window looking over the village as she worked. Getting a view of what was going on with everybody else.
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Post by Peter Miller on Jan 19, 2008 1:10:22 GMT
A dress. A bloody dress. What did she think, that he was stupid? He could see it was a bloody dress!
"That's not what I meant and you know it," he snarled back, stomping his way past her and into the changing room. The git! He'd left his blankets and his clothes on the floor, as if expecting them to clean up for him! The nerve! He kicked the clothes out into the main room and pointed at them, glaring daggers.
"Piss about with that later, you've got tidying to be doing." He walked up behind her and laid a firm hand on her shoulder. "And you let another man into the house without one of us here and I promise you, he won't be coming to play dress up again."
Tone softening ever so slightly that she might not notice, he added, "I don't want men taking advanatadge of you."
She was his daughter, after all, and he did care. He just didn't realise he wasn't quite going about it the right way.
"When in blazes did he place an order anyway? He's not from Knighton."
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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 19, 2008 1:28:08 GMT
Wrong answer. Well at least she’d get a kick out of this argument. Quite literally. ”No father. I’m making something for our Sarah.” a lie, but it would pass for now. It’s not like he paid attention to what she wore anyway. Otherwise she really would be strung up by him for not being ‘modest in the presence of a male’. Or whatever crap he was going to reel off at her today.
"Piss about with that later, you've got tidying to be doing." Had she indeed. Granted, Allan had left the blankets on the floor, but she was getting to that. Slowly. She muttered a ‘Yes, sir’ sarcastically under her breath, before putting the scissors down heavily on the desk.
"And you let another man into the house without one of us here and I promise you, he won't be coming to play dress up again."[/i] She stopped herself from rolling her eyes and pushing past him. She stood in front of him. Okay, so they hadn’t been here. Originally her father had. But he’d disappeared. Not like she could say that him though. He’d only turn it back on her somehow. ”He wasn’t playing dress-up. He was collecting his clothing, and merely trying it on.” She tried not to let him get the better of her. It was annoying as it was. He would turn this to be all her fault. He was already angry with her. No change there.
"I don't want men taking advantage of you." How kind of him to take me into consideration.[/i] she laughed to herself. She wasn’t stupid. She could take care of herself. And she’d be damned if she let anybody take advantage of her. And Allan certainly was not! ”Thank you for your concern, father, but he was here for clothing, not to make an indecent woman of me.”
"When in blazes did he place an order anyway? He's not from Knighton."[/i] He had a point. Would the fact that he rolled into the village ad was pointed in her direction suffice? She doubted it, but it was always worth a try. ”He arrived in the village yesterday evening, late afternoon, he needed some clothes after his journey. He asked about, was pointed in my direction.” she smiled slightly and walked past him into the changing room. Beginning to gather up the blankets, folding them one by one.
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Post by Peter Miller on Jan 19, 2008 1:45:25 GMT
Peter cast an eye briefly over the garment and shrugged. What did he know about clothes? He wasn't fond of it, though.
"Too red, she'll look like a strumpet. I'll not have any of you wearing that." He wondered if she had any more scarlet pieces lying around - it attracted the wrong sort of attention, that did, and God damn him if he'd let his daughters be mistaken for... for... prostitutes!
"He didn't bloody well act like he had only just met you," the miller replied, spitting. He turned round and watched his daughter as she went about her business. "And don't feed me no line about you being worried about us, that were closer than a bit of concern over our welfare - he was not holding you the way he should. Which is not at all!"
He huffed and folded his arms. "Besides, how'd those clothes fit so well? If you'd only just met him, hm? And what took so long? Why did you let him stay the night?"
(OOC - sorry short ^_^;; )
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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 19, 2008 1:56:18 GMT
Too Red? Right the man was officially weird. Okay so it didn’t attract the best of attention. But it was modest. Not too gaudy. And Lady Marian had had some gorgeous red dresses. She shook her head slightly. He really wanted his daughters to hate him didn’t he?
”He didn’t bloody well act like he had only just met you,” Busted… she cringed slightly. She was about to say: ‘I don’t know what you mean.” But he cut her off before she even began. "And don't feed me no line about you being worried about us, that were closer than a bit of concern over our welfare - he was not holding you the way he should. Which is not at all!" She was astonished. She had been worried about them. That was why she had cried. She was terrified. She didn’t know where they were.
”You had gone! I didn’t know where you were! Last I’d seen the Sheriff had been in town! I WAS worried! It was getting late! Where were you?” she near shouted. Not the best of plans. She’d stood up to face him during her outburst. Squaring up to him always resulted in another bruise. But he couldn’t assume things about her like that. ”I was upset. I was crying. He was trying to make me feel better!”
How did he think the clothes fitted? ”I do have some ready made clothing! He wanted a quick order to be made. Not one that would take a few days. So I merely tapered the clothing he chose. That’s how it fitted. It took a long time because I had to taper. And that doesn’t take five minutes. And I let him stay the night because his journey would take him through the forest. And it is not safe at the best of times! Let alone in the dark at night! He paid for his bed! I didn’t give it to him for free!”
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Post by Peter Miller on Jan 20, 2008 0:03:52 GMT
He nearly backhanded her there and then, but managed to keep his cool. Barely. Inside, he was screaming. How dare she speak to him like that? He was her father, this was his house, and God be damned if he was going to put up with some lippy little girl and her cheek!
He breathed in. Alright, fine, she'd been distracted. Clearly she hadn't heard... He calmed back down from the frenzy he’d nearly whipped himself up into.
"We called through to you before we left, said we were nipping down the road for dinner and weren't you coming? We assumed you were ignoring us," he replied, hand tapping a rhythm on his arm to keep himself calm.
They had assumed she was ignoring them - it had only been a few days before that she'd shouted at him for coming home drunk and a few coins poorer. He'd hit her, then, without pause for thought. He put the excuse down to drunkenness, at the time, as when he’d woken the next day, head pounding like there was a dozen tiny Saracens in his head mining away at his memories, he’d seen the dark bruise on the side of her face, and felt an ever-so-slight pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to hit her that hard, really - it had just happened. But he’d long ago found it was the only way to discipline his unruly eldest girl, even if it was becoming less effective of late. He’d been getting concerned; he didn’t want her running off to marry some lowly farmhand or a “fishmonger” - to be used as a tool for carnal pleasures by other, baser men - but he had no idea as to what he could do to make her listen to him. If hitting her didn’t work, what on earth would suffice? He didn’t want to hit her harder - while slapping your daughter certainly wasn’t unheard of, and certainly wasn’t condoned, the frequency with which he already disciplined her was causing rumours amongst the gossips, and he was certain that increasing the power behind that would simply encourage the whispers and possibly even turn them into full blown attacks on his person, screams of “demon” and “stone him!” following. Or, at least, a decrease in his already dwindling list of customers.
No one had money for flour anymore, and he found himself relying more and more on the skills of his wife and daughter. Yet another reason to keep her round without hurting her too much. To break her arm in an argument, to disable the sight from one eye with a swollen face, to drip a single drop of blood from a split lip on the precious cloth as she stitched it together… It wouldn’t do.
He sighed, scratched his elbow. ”Well next time he can bloody well reassure you of our safety from a distance, got it?” And only if I allow a next time… he added silently.
Oh, now he was angry. As Kate continued on her small tirade, explaining the details of a business he knew about in brief (and how had he known she had some clothes lying around? She kept them hidden away, it wasn’t like he went digging around her drawers!), the itch in his mind begged him to retaliate - slap, grip her shoulders, shake some sense into her like sense was shaken into you, a little bit of effort behind it won’t do much damage. He tapped his arm faster, a warning to her, adding in a little shifting of his weight from his left leg to his right. She ought to know when he was mad, she ought to know she shouldn’t answer in such a fashion. And was it just him, or was her voice daring to get higher, louder, more enraged as she came to the end of her mini-rant?
”I bloody well hope you didn’t give it to him for free!” he roared, taking a step forward and grabbing her shoulders, digging his bony hands into them and realising, idly, he‘d probably leave a bruise, leave small crescent marks in her flesh and flour fingerprints all over her dress. ”But he’s a grown man, Katherine! He’s fully capable of going down the road to the tavern, or making his way to wherever it is he lives! He made it here, didn’t he? Just because you think he’s good looking doesn’t mean you can keep him around!”
He let go of her and walked away, pacing the small room, shaking his head. ”I sometimes despair of you, Kate. Why can’t you just go offer yourself to some good strong lad, with a promising future, and make your old man proud? You could have most men of decent status! I’m sure the blacksmith would welcome a new, young wife after the death of Eliza! He earns a fair bit, he’d do you proud!”
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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 20, 2008 0:32:39 GMT
They may have called out to her, but she had been busy. She hadn’t heard them. Surely he should have realised that. He was tapping on his arm, a sure sign that she had annoyed him. He was stopping himself for lashing out. Stopping himself from leaving a mark. He knew people were talking. All too often did they hear shouting from the Miller’s household and Kate sporting a new injury the next day.
All too often Kate woke from her dreams, him about to hit her. Like she had this morning. Repeatedly her mother would ignore it. She was never there when it happened, she was ignorant to it. She very well knew it was happening, but god forbid her stop her husband from doing what it was he wished. Even if it did mean outing her daughter from work in the end. Then where would that leave them?
She could remember when it all started. She remembered each cut, each bruise. The first she remembered the most. She’d been to market. Smiled at that ‘ruffian farm boy’ in the ‘wrong way’. He’d shouted at her, and she’d shouted back. It had been a mistake as soon as the words; “You can’t tell me what to do!” had left her mouth. He’d told her he was shut her mouth, she just dared him to. And he had. With a lot of force. Cutting the inside and outside of her lip, and leaving a hefty bruise to the left side of her face for a week.
She had told her sister’s she had ‘fallen’. She lied.
She could have left. She could leave now. Pack up her things and take off. She didn’t care where she went as long as it was away. But her sister’s needed her. Her father’s flour wasn’t selling, she knew it. He needed her to make money. She did pretty well for herself. She used her wit and charm to get more customers. She messed about with ready made dresses and sold them on. She could do it alone. Make enough for herself. Send a bit home for Sarah and Rachel. She could. But it didn’t mean she would. He’d find her. He always found her.
She’d run away the first time. Hidden in the stables where the guards had been held last night. Cried herself to sleep. Woke up to her angry father throwing water over her. He’d be more fuming then than the night before. Giving her another bruise.
In short she really didn’t like him.
”Well next time he can bloody well reassure you of our safety from a distance, got it?” Whoever said there was going to be a next time? Allan was gone. Back to the forest. He wouldn’t be coming back. Not soon at any rate. She just shook her head at her father. Turning back to folding the sheets. Piling them up. Roughly pulling at them, she didn’t want to bite back, she knew what it would result in. Sometimes though he made it impossible.
He grabbed her.
She could feel his grip tighten on her shoulders. It hurt, a lot. And there was bound to be marks left by him. Whether they bruised or not it would go redder.
Just because you think he’s good looking doesn’t mean you can keep him around!”[/b] she quirked an eyebrow. She hadn’t kept him around because he was good looking - although that didn’t harm it – she’d kept him around because he made her feel safe. He made her feel like she could have a good time.
Then, he surprised her and let go.
”… I’m sure the blacksmith would welcome a new, young wife …”[/i]What!?
“I am not marrying Arnold! I’m 18 years old, he is twice my senior! I can find a decent man who’s closer to my age! I refuse to marry that idiot! Eliza deserved better than him! And so do I! You have another thing coming if you think I would ever contemplate ever accepting his hand in marriage! I don’t care if you want me to marry him. I will not do it to myself!”
She was treading on very dangerous territory. She knew it. She more than knew it. The moment she protested she knew she was for it. Another bruise, another cut. Another feeble alibi to tell her sister’s. Sarah wouldn’t believe it. She was old enough to know what was happening. Rachel, was not. And did not. Kate was more than happy for it to stay that way.
He may not still have had a grip on her. But soon enough he certainly would have his flesh to hers, and not in a good way.
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Post by Peter Miller on Jan 20, 2008 21:55:40 GMT
”It’s not that unusual!” he snapped, glaring at her, taking a menacing step forward. Some small part of him glowed in satisfaction as she flinched.
Marrying the older blacksmith would be beneficial – Kate would be looked after, and he’d probably get better deals on items he needed, being family. He pondered the thought for a moment, stored it away. Whether she wanted to or not, perhaps he could arrange something agreeable in the near future. It was always good to have a back up plan.
He slapped her when she’d relaxed slightly, sharp across the cheek, finger catching her hair and making it flick out. He snagged the hair and tucked it gently behind her ear, patting the sore cheek slightly as if to comfort her. He loved her, really. She was just infuriating. She’d looked up to Lady Marian as a role model; it hadn’t helped him with his discipline. In fact, it seemed to have made a lot of the local girls rather more headstrong than was desirable. Only the much older ones, and some of the younger ones who didn’t yet realise what an outlaw was, had maintained the age old tradition of listening to their parents.
He circled round her to inspect the bedclothes she’d folded up, muttering in disgust as he tried to find fault and couldn’t. He grumped. He wanted to have a go at her about something else, change the subject, return to more mundane things he was comfortable with.
”Well get on with some work, go take some flour to the Baker’s house or clean up the mill; I don’t care what you do, as long as you do something.”
(OOC - sorry short >_>)
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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 20, 2008 22:42:53 GMT
”It’s not that unusual!” she didn’t care if it wasn’t unusual. She wasn’t doing it. She stood still, standing her ground; this would only end in bloodshed, quite literally. ”It may not be unusual. But I’m not marrying him!” one step way too far. He stepped towards her and she flinched. He seemed pleased that he had caused such a reaction. He raised his hand. And she knew that there was no fighting it. Until such times as he hit her, he would keep looking for her. He would have to conclude this. He would have to win.
She squared up to him, as his hand made contact to her face. The force of the blow made her head whip round. The seething pain that shot through her face centred on her cheek. It redden, and unlike main times the night before it hadn’t been out of embarrassment. The blood shot to the surface of her skin, throbbing in pain. She felt him tuck her hair behind her ear. Like it would make her forgive him. In truth, she’d never forgiven him for any of it. But he was her father. She had to love him didn’t she? So she did regardless.
She my have been his daughter, she may be disobedient, but it didn’t mean he had to hit her. But he still did it. And each time it hurt that little bit more. She could still feel the pang of pain in her cheek. Even if he was being softer, it still hurt. The pain wouldn’t just disappear. She felt his hand drop. Unlike what she had felt when Allan’s hands had left hers, there as no warmth there. To say no love, would be too harsh. But very little would suffice. Yet like a daughter loves her mother and father. A father loves his daughter. Regardless.
He was inspecting the sheets now. He was trying to fault her. But he couldn’t. She was too good at her art. Or well being able to work cloth anyway. Anything to do with the stuff, and she was good.
”Well get on with some work, go take some flour to the Baker’s house or clean up the mill; I don’t care what you do, as long as you do something.”[/i] she was tempted to answer back but then that wouldn’t go down well at all. She would earn herself another slap, and worse this time he could draw blood. But then if she didn’t say anything, he’d do something about her ignoring him. She couldn’t win.
”I was doing something!” was replaced with, ”Yes father.” before she turned to pick up the folded blankets and walked into the main room of the house. She stepped up onto the stool she had left out earlier, and put them back into the top of the wardrobe. She stepped down, and kicked the stool with great force, injuring her foot in the process. She slammed the door in vain of her pain, and nearly shouted out loud about it. She didn’t. She slammed her hand on the surface of the door in her rage, redirecting the pain from her foot and cheek to the tips of her fingers and palm.
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Post by Peter Miller on Jan 22, 2008 12:26:54 GMT
"Yes, father."[/i]
The nerve! How dare she take that tone with him? She might as well have just argued more, it was going to result in the same thing. It had the same impact.
He wondered if she'd ever respected him. If she'd ever cared what he thought, or if she'd always been such a brat about it. He couldn't really remember now; three different girls, their childhoods blending into one huge blur of blonde hair and happy smiles and hurt looks as he slapped her.
She kicked the stool and slammed the door of the wardrobe, and Peter saw red. She knew how much it cost to get those! She knew she had to respect the furniture to make it last! They were old pieces of furniture, they wouldn't be much use for much longer and she'd probably just taken a good few months off it! He wouldn't be surprised if the next time they opened the door, it fell off.
Well, maybe he was exaggerating, but he was angry.
He stormed through to her, punching her squarely in the chin and sending her flying backwards onto the floor, his face red and snarling, the veins in his throat throbbing as he yelled at her.
"Keep your temper in check, Katherine!" he raged, fully aware of the hypocrisy of his statement. He didn't care; he was the parent here, not her. "As long as you live in my house, you follow my rules and treat it, and me, with some respect! Do you hear me?!"
He stood above her, fist still clenched, chest heaving. Dammit, why did she have to go do that? He'd been doing reasonably well for a change. But he'd blame it on her, as usual. Her attitude. He'd blame it on Marian, for her bad influence. Her father, for not being able to be strong and take control (and now look where it had him, dead and buried, and maybe that was where the old man belonged). He blamed the Sheriff for making times so hard. He blamed Guy for robbing them. He blamed the outlaws for antagonising the Sheriff, making their lives harder every day, driving them to this.
He'd find a way to blame anyone but himself.
He looked down at Kate in disgust, and marched out of the house, flinging the door open with some force (but it was his house and he could do what he wanted) and stormed over to his mill to grind away his problems, crush things under his stone and watch as it crumbled and did what it was told, unlike his daughter.
Flour was simple. It did what it was supposed to. He understood flour, he understood his tools, he understood his craft. So why couldn't Kate be more like flour? Then he could understand her, too.
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Post by Kate Miller on Jan 22, 2008 14:57:05 GMT
She knew as soon as she done it that she shouldn’t have. She heard him walking towards her before she saw him. He was in that much of a mood. She was in trouble now. She felt his hand make contact with her arm. Throwing her roughly to the floor. This was going to hurt; she’d annoyed him enough that he wasn’t going to stop. As she made contact with the floor she felt her teeth dig into her lip. The taste of blood filled her mouth. A wonderful experience to be sure. She was close to hit her head on the edge of the bed, but missed it by inches. She flinches as he spat out his words. He didn’t advance on her more, but she was sure her would. She would be more than surprised if he didn’t.
She lived in his house. She lived by his rules. But if he touched her one more time he would lose her respect for good. It was already dwelling on the low end of the scale.
He loomed above her, red in the face and his vein pulsing. He was mad. But he wasn’t reacting. She wanted him to react more. Instead he fumed so more and walked off into the mill. It could have been worse. A lot worse. But the neighbours would talk, he knew that. Everybody was around in the village square, and the shutters were open, they could easily see. She assumed that that was the only reason she was as un-bruised as she was.
Once the door was shut, she wiped the back of her hand across her face, and liked the blood from her lip. Owh. She sat on the floor looking at the door. Slowly standing and sniffing quickly. She backed into her and her sister’s bedroom. She just hoped they weren’t there.
She went to her table, picking up the small bowl and cloth she kept there for washing. Running silently back into the main room and out of the house. Going round to the back and into the forest, she made her way quickly to the well next to the stream. As soon as she reached it she lowered the bucket to retrieve some water. As she let it stay at the bottom for a while, she ran her finger over her lip again. He hadn’t done it to her, but he had been the reason it had happened. She’d nearly bitten through her own lip due to the force that he had thrown her. It hurt.
She took a deep breathe to stop herself from crying. Pulling up the bucket again she took it over to her log. It seemed to have a grove in it from where people had sat on it on their travels over the years. It even had a notch in the wood where her bowl would prop happily without spilling any. She dipped in her cloth and soaked it through. Gently, so not to do herself further injury she dabbed the cloth on her lip. Wincing slightly the first time - she continued.
When she pulled the cloth away to re-emerge it in the water, she looked at it, a red stain. Great. It could be worse she supposed. But all the same. As she repeated her actions she slowly felt the warm liquid trickle down her cheeks. One day she would learn not to answer back to the man. But the next time he even raised his hand to her, she was out of there. He’d be lucky if she returned much sooner than the dark of night. But that would only serve as a further annoyance, but what else could she do? She couldn’t go back now. She couldn’t go anywhere else either. It wasn’t like she’d be able to find anybody.
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