Assignment 4 - The Protagonist's Story

Sunday, Oct. 04

CONTEST ROUND: Write a background story about your protagonist. Make your readers relate to him or her in such a way that we would be devastated if he or she were to experience conflict (which, ultimately, sometime in November, he/she will.) The object of the contest is to make your judges root for your protagonist! Simply put: the character we like best, wins. If your protagonist is an assassin or someone similarly "unlikeable," never fear! I love Vlad Taltos, the professional assassin (reference: "Dragaera" series by Steven Brust.) You can make us love your character, too.





         “Well, it was a wonderful trip, but I’m glad to get home,” Alice said as she tugged on her gloves.  She pointed out the slowing train’s window and squealed, “Look!  Momma and Poppa are waiting for me.”

         Lizzie gave a cursory glance at the platform, pursed her lips dryly and buttoned her own gloves.  “That’s nice, Alice.  I don’t see Father.  I expect that he had business to attend to.”  She refused to look at her cousin.  She didn’t want to see the look of pity she was sure she’d have found. 

Instead, she scanned the people waiting outside the Fall River train station.  At last her eyes fell upon the slight figure of her older sister, Emma, slipping through the already crowded platform.  Lizzie took a deep breath and prepared herself for what she’d been dreading from the outset of their trip, four months earlier—returning home.

She joined the shuffling line of people—mostly the girls she’d been traveling with—that filled the aisle and with the stoic attitude of her Puritanical forebearers, stepped down from the train. 

Emma hurried to her, a prim smile on her face.  “Oh Lizzie…at last.”  She presented Lizzie with a dry cheek for her to kiss, before she straightened her narrow shoulders and moved away.  Lizzie followed behind, watching as the other girls received welcoming hugs—a lucky few were even handed large bouquets of flowers by young men in stiff-necked shirts and white linen suits. 

Emma had no carriage waiting.  She gave the porter curt instruction regarding Lizzie’s trunks and then marched through the station and out to the street.  Lizzie trailed behind, struggling with her carpetbag, parasol and pocketbook. 

A hot gust of wind puffed over them.  Emma was able to grab hold of her hat—a small, flat crowned, narrow brimmed hat of rusty black straw with a grim black bird perched on top.  Lizzie, already juggling her purse, case and parasol, was unable to hold on to the wide brim of her own hat. 

It was made of straw the color of ripe corn and decorated with a wide, flat bow of sapphire grosgrain ribbon and sporting a jaunty bit of a veil.  It had been the last thing she’d purchased before they’d left London, and, she thought glumly, probably the last she would buy for quite a while.  She was sure that Emma found it inappropriate—and only waiting until they were safely upstairs in the privacy of Lizzie’s room before she voiced her disapproval. 

It lifted up, pulling at the hatpin in her hair.  She stopped, set the carpetbag onto the sidewalk, and hung the parasol and pocketbook on her arm.  Then she removed the hatpin and hat, revealing a mass of soft hair, piled high on top of her head, glinting like burnished copper in the afternoon sun.  She slapped the hat back on her head and stabbed the hatpin through it and her hair, positioning it securely.  She knew there would only be more unspoken tension if she stopped again. 

They trudged along, nodding as they passed acquaintances.  Several times someone greeted Lizzie with enthusiasm and gave every appearance of wanting to hear about her trip.  She would manage to answer a question or two, before Emma would give a pained expression—as if she had a headache—and Lizzie would to cut the conversation off.  Somehow, it always seemed that Emma was more than willing to stand there chatting, and it she—Lizzie—who was unwilling to exchange pleasantries. 

Lizzie had looked at Emma as a mother for as long as she could remember.  Her father marrying her stepmother hadn’t effected her at all.  She continued to seek out Emma for help and advice.  She didn’t quite remember if that had been her idea, or if her stepmother, Abby, had suggested it…  She didn’t think it was because of something Emma, herself, had suggested.  It was something that had just…happened.

Why, until she had gone to Europe, she had never even bought a pair of stockings or a petticoat without first consulting Emma.  She had been so excited about her new things—not that she had bought anything that important, extravagant or expensive—but each purchase had been an adventure.  One she had wanted to share it with her dear sister.  Only now she wished they would never arrive at the house.

The house… 

It hadn’t seemed like this on that bright spring morning she’d left for her trip.  Now Lizzie saw it for what it truly was—a small, dingy gray house on a cramped plot of land in the middle of a shabby residential street, a mere stone’s throw from businesses.  It was a far cry from the beautiful hotels and pensiones they been accommodated in on their travels. 

How could she ever reconcile herself to this?  How could she accept the reality that ‘this’ was her life.  She almost wished the ship had sunk…that she’d died…then to accept that this was going to be her life—for the rest of her life.

She followed as Emma stomped through the yard, up the wooden steps to the door.  But it was locked, forcing her to rap sharply until the shadow of a young woman appeared through the screen.

“Welcome home, Miss Lizzie,” the maid said as she unhooked the screen door and swung it out.  She let Emma slip passed her before she accepted Lizzie’s carpet bag and umbrella.  “I’ll run these upstairs in just a minute.  But I need to make sure the fire is going good and hot.  I’ve got to set the jelly jars to boil.  Mrs. Borden is making jam…”

Lizzie sleepwalked through the already hot and humid kitchen, paused at the doorway to the sitting room and listened.  There was no sound of voices, and she thought she could hear footsteps in the floor above.  That meant someone was upstairs.  She peeped in, and seeing the room was empty, hurried through to the foyer.  Even a few minutes before she was forced to confront her father and stepmother was a blessing.  She climbed the stairs with weary steps, seeking the solace of her room.

But if Lizzie had hoped for a few moments of peace and quiet, she was disappointed. Emma was waiting for her.  She was sitting in the only chair in Lizzie’s room, with her hands primly folded.  Lizzie perched on the edge of her bed, and unpinned her hat and removed it.  Without thinking, she set it down on the bed.

“Oh Lizzie, you know better than to do that.”

She snatched her hat up from the bed and carried it over to the dresser—but not before Emma let out a clucking sound.  Lizzie tried to distract her sister and asked, “How are you?  Have you been well?  Did you go to the farm as you’d planned?”

A loud plaintive sigh preceded her answer, “I’m well, I suppose.  Father had a cold several weeks ago, but he’s much better now.  And…Mrs. Borden is…ah…the same.”

“It never occurred to me that Father would come to the train station, but I did think he would be here to welcome me home.”

“I suspect he’s upstairs working on some contract or figures.  Mrs. Borden has been busy canning most of the day.  I’m sure she made a point to not be downstairs when we got back.  It’s so typical of her.”  Emma made another sound of disdain before continuing, “You have no idea what I’ve had to put up with.  I didn’t have the luxury of four months of traveling abroad.”

“You were the one who insisted I go.  You even gave me money for the trip.  Why are you saying these things now?”  Lizzie replied in a pained tone.

“Oh Lizzie, you know I did want you to go.  But it was hard for me—left here by myself.  And Father found out about my giving you money.  I was going to go to Marion one Sunday and forgot to get to the bank.  So I asked him for a little money so I could still go…”

Lizzie dropped to her knees before her sister, reached out for her hands and asked, “Don’t tell me that he refused to give you the money?”

“No, he gave it to me.  But I had to listen to a lecture on giving money away and on planning ahead.  And then she went on about it for a week after I got back.  I had already repaid Father and she was still prattling on.”

Lizzie squeezed Emma’s hands sympathetically, stood up and walked over to the window.  She stared out of the window, not seeing anything.  She knew she should go back downstairs.  She dreaded the idea—but knew it was expected of her.

Emma crossed the room and opened the door leading into her room and went in.  But she talked to Lizzie, “I’ll go down with you.  Just take off my hat and gloves.  I hope…’

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a red-faced Bridget knocked on the frame of the open door.

“Thank you, Maggie,” Lizzie said, and gave a gentle smile.  She shot a glance at her sister’s open doorway and mouthed, “I brought you something.  I’ll give it to you later, when we can talk.”

Bridget raised an eyebrow, smirked and answered, “Yes ma’am.”  Then she trudged out.  But she stopped at the head of the stairs, turned and added, “Mr. and Mrs. Borden asked that you both eat with them this evening.    Your father brought ice cream home.  He knows how much you love it.”  Then she clunked down the stairs and out of sight.

Lizzie turned around to find Emma practically on top of her, wearing a scowl.  “Of course he’d bring ice cream home for you.”

In an attempt to placate her older sister, Lizzie cooed, “Now Emma…you know you always complain about the coldness hurting your teeth.”  She picked up the carpetbag that Bridget had set inside the door, carried it to the chaise lounge and opened it.  “I brought you some things.  Most are packed away in my trunks, but I made sure I had this,” she swung around, exhibiting a small crystal bottle and continued, “I hope you like it.”

Emma took the delicate little bottle and gave it a tentative sniff.  She made a weak simpering smile and set it on Lizzie’s dresser.  “Thank you.  We had better go down now.”