Ξ From the Journals of Edward Rochester ~ circa 1796 Ξ
“Rowland has told me this was so, only I didn’t wish to believe it. But, I can see it now. All too clearly. Otherwise, why would you do such a thing to his prize colt?”
“No, that’s not how it was!” I protested, my resentment against Rowland beginning to efface my terror of Henry’s wrath. “He lied to you!”
“What?”
My brazen accusation caught him off guard. Before he could interrupt me, I followed up my advantage.
“It’s Rowland who lies, Father, not me! If you don’t believe I’m telling the truth, at least go look for yourself. The colt is not ruined! There is a small cut on his foreleg, but he is by no means a cripple. I…I would rather that Rowland broke his leg than Sirocco should come to harm!”
“Bloody Hell!” cried Henry.
I saw the look of horror and shock on my father’s face and realized what I had just said. Before I could retract the statement, however, out of the corner of my eye I saw his gloved fist raise the riding crop high above him, then swoop down toward the side of my head. Instinctively, I raised my arm, and caught most of the blow, just below my wrist. The force of the impact knocked me over, and I crumpled to the floor, blinded by my burning tears, my arm afire with an agonizing, searing pain from wrist to elbow, and my hand tingling and numb. I could not move.
Unable to rise and flee, every muscle and nerve nevertheless tensed in full expectation that he should strike me again. My right arm throbbed with pain; I could not lift it to ward off another blow, so I tried to roll over that I might raise my unhurt arm to my defense, but at length, it proved unnecessary. The second blow never fell.
After several moments, I dared to look up. My father was just standing over me; the riding crop hung loosely in his hand, as though he was unaware he was still holding it. Something seemed to go out of him, and as he looked down at me, his face rapidly changed from the flushed, red heat of anger to the slate grey paleness of shock and fear. I thought for a moment that he was going to help me up from the floor, but his face twisted in an anguished sort of grimace. He dropped the riding crop, then without a word to me, turned and left the room.
~ End ~