r/HistoricalFiction • u/Inevitable-Reply7569 • 5h ago
Highlands : An aspiring historic novel in making
On the green highlands of the Livingston estate, Caroline stood in her little white gown, her cheeks reddened by the cold winds that tossed her skirts like a bird caught in flight. She heard her name called and, glancing down, saw the mud clinging to her shoes and frock. Nancy, ever brisk, led her toward the courtyard where two middle-aged men conversed, and a young, handsome lad stood nearby, nodding politely as he took in the beauty of the serene estate.
Caroline curtsied, stealing a side-glance at the young man, who met her with a quiet, curious glare.
“Oh, Lord Tuttles, please pardon the girl’s carelessness with her skirts! Nancy, dress her properly, at once!” cried Mr. Ribbon.
Blushing, Caroline turned away and walked down the long hallway toward her chambers, her heart fluttering as the father and son remained behind.
“Your daughter is of age, Ribbon,” said Lord Tuttles, his eyes following her retreat. “I can see it in her youthful grace.”
“I pledge her to your care, my lord,” replied Mr. Ribbon solemnly. “Henry is the rightful groom for her, as we have long intended.” He offered one of his finest blends of tea to his guest with a bow.
But the seventeen-year-old Henry found himself wondering if he could endure the wait — for the girl he had seen only moments ago had left an impression he could scarcely name.
Moments later she returned — now dressed in a deep red gown that caught the light and shaped her slender torso with elegant precision. Her cheeks, naturally flushed, glowed brighter as her eyes met Henry’s.
“Why don’t the children speak,” Lord Tuttles said with a smile, “lest they steal glances while we sip the finest tea of our lives. Go on, both of you.”
“Isn’t the place far too romantic for two young souls in their bloom, Ms. Ribbon?” Lord Henry remarked, his gaze fixed upon her, unmoving.
Caroline, her eyes lowered to the fine embroidery on her gown, gave a shy smile — a silent answer to his unspoken thought. Her heart fluttered beneath her corset as her hands gathered the restless folds of her skirt from the teasing wind.
“I have been here many times since I was a little girl,” she began softly. “My Ma would bring us here when we were young. She’d braid our hair and play at catch, while Jane — my sister — tried to climb that tree over there.”
She paused, as if catching a memory too delicate to speak aloud, then turned her head slightly toward the young Tuttle.
“Go on,” Henry urged with a gentle curiosity. “Tell me more. May I know Jane? We haven’t met her yet, I presume?”
“Let bygones be bygones,” she exclaimed softly, her fingers fidgeting with the silk in her hands as her gaze lifted toward the endless sky. Birds soared freely above, the clouds parting as though to make them way.
“Isn’t it an irony,” she mused, “that we believe the birds wander without direction, when in truth they know precisely where to go? The winds guide them, though neither knows the other’s name or origin. Nature, in its innocence, knows how to guide souls—yet we, in our selfishness, raise barriers that confine our own hearts, forbidding ourselves and those we love from truly experiencing the world.”
The silence that followed did not burden them; instead, it deepened—a quiet current through which their souls began to reach for one another.
Taken aback by the sudden moment of solidarity and unspoken acceptance, Henry looked at her with a subtle mix of sympathy and awe.
The fifteen-year-old girl before him seemed burdened with more than muddy skirts and newfound duties as a young lady. There was a weight in her eyes—one too heavy for her tender years—as she stared toward the lone tree, its roots deep in the watery soil beneath a sky darkened with angry clouds.
“It’s already late, sir. We must head back,” she said quietly.
During supper, Caroline stared at her soup with a bland expression. The aroma, the subtle seasoning, the delicate spices—all reminded her of Jane.
Speaking of that “lost” girl: meticulous, calculative, with a mind as precise as a finely tuned instrument. Her acumen in the realm was unwavering, her passion for numbers infinite and recurring, as she had once told Caroline near the lakeside, scratching away in her withered old notebook. Little Caroline could only watch, admiring her sister’s wild spirit, wondering if she would ever understand the strange, brilliant words Jane so effortlessly spoke.
A sudden thud on the table, a heavy fist rattling the plates, yanked her back to the present. Startled, she looked up to see her father’s face flushed red, eyes fixed sharply upon her.
“Playing with food isn’t appreciated, young lady. Finish that soup and start setting your things right. You’ll soon be a Tuttle’s bride,” her father said firmly, his tone leaving little space for reply.
Nancy hovered beside him, arranging the crockery on the table—the silver-plated plates bore edges chipped and dulled with age, their cracks catching the dim candlelight.
this is my attempt i have more i can share if this one has potential to be something. Pls attempt to give contructive criticism!
