laceanddoodles
Your run of the mill Victorian lady
The sun had started to set while her father had been preaching. Now, after the service, Penny glanced around to try and find Tibway, knowing the poor dear would be disappointed that there was no more sunlight to play by. The summer was coming to a close, and the gloaming hours came far more quickly. A thin mist had settled over the town, and as Penny stood outside the little church, on top of the little hill, it seemed as if the fog had swallowed up the whole of the world. All was dim and soft and grayish purple in the low light of the evening. Only chimneys poked out from the mist like little fingers, pointing towards heaven. Then, a little to the East, the part of town that belonged to the nonbelievers sat proud and unaware in its sin. Those houses were much taller, much grander, than any in the Neighborhood.
The sermon that day, a Wednesday, had been on the dangers of being seduced by wealth and material things. It wasn’t an uncommon theme, as Pastor Kipling said it was terribly important, but it was one of the more bearable ones. The stories centered around those who’d been destroyed by greed and lust for gold and fine houses and clothes and food. He’d admonished men who sought jobs that paid too much or kept them away from the home and the family too long, and he admonished women who wished to work outside the home at all. Women should not, he said, seek to be seamstresses or doll makers or servants for wealthy and worldly folk. The work of a woman is meant to stay within the confines of a good marriage, attending a husband and raising a family. He cast the devil as a kindly employer, offering a promotion and pay raise, telling the misguided soul that he saw their true potential. Poverty, he said, was a godly state of existence, and he raised the challenge to all his followers to embrace deliberate, prayerful, poverty.
Penny liked this sermon a lot more than some of the other ones. They were a lot better off than many of the families in The Group, by her father’s design, but they were by no means wealthy. There were still nine children living in the Kipling house, after all, and often more besides, when the family allowed members to stay in the few vacant beds when they’d grown truly destitute, or didn’t otherwise have a place to stay. That sucked up money at an alarming rate. So, his stories of the wealthy falling to Satan felt uplifting. For once, she was not the sinner. For once, she could allow herself to feel righteous. He was talking about those people over there, in their grand houses and beautiful clothes. Not her. Not her family. Still, four and a half hours of sitting on a hard wooden bench, silently trying to keep her siblings from embarrassing themselves and incurring Father’s wrath, was exhausting.
But now, all there remained to do was to corral her siblings one last time, and shepherd them all home again. And where was Tibway?
“Tibway,” she called, her voice echoing over the murmurs of the crowd, “Tibby! Where did you run off to, my darling?”
Penny, the name, was short for Penitence. Penitence Prayer Kipling. But rather than shame and a bowed head, the young lady who inhabited the name was like a ray of warm sunlight, or a babbling brook right after the snow melt. She knew of nothing outside the group, and she had that sweet optimism that comes only from not knowing that there could be a better, kinder, world. For the time being, she was happy to help her mother care for the little ones, mind father, and help keep the house clean and bright and warm. Her family was her world, and while it was small, it was more than big enough for her. She shook her head, her mass of long, golden curls shaking out in full. The girl shifted her weight, putting a hand on her hip and letting a tired, amused, smile settle across her face.
“Tibby!!” She called, again, “It’s getting dark, we can play tomorrow!!”
The sermon that day, a Wednesday, had been on the dangers of being seduced by wealth and material things. It wasn’t an uncommon theme, as Pastor Kipling said it was terribly important, but it was one of the more bearable ones. The stories centered around those who’d been destroyed by greed and lust for gold and fine houses and clothes and food. He’d admonished men who sought jobs that paid too much or kept them away from the home and the family too long, and he admonished women who wished to work outside the home at all. Women should not, he said, seek to be seamstresses or doll makers or servants for wealthy and worldly folk. The work of a woman is meant to stay within the confines of a good marriage, attending a husband and raising a family. He cast the devil as a kindly employer, offering a promotion and pay raise, telling the misguided soul that he saw their true potential. Poverty, he said, was a godly state of existence, and he raised the challenge to all his followers to embrace deliberate, prayerful, poverty.
Penny liked this sermon a lot more than some of the other ones. They were a lot better off than many of the families in The Group, by her father’s design, but they were by no means wealthy. There were still nine children living in the Kipling house, after all, and often more besides, when the family allowed members to stay in the few vacant beds when they’d grown truly destitute, or didn’t otherwise have a place to stay. That sucked up money at an alarming rate. So, his stories of the wealthy falling to Satan felt uplifting. For once, she was not the sinner. For once, she could allow herself to feel righteous. He was talking about those people over there, in their grand houses and beautiful clothes. Not her. Not her family. Still, four and a half hours of sitting on a hard wooden bench, silently trying to keep her siblings from embarrassing themselves and incurring Father’s wrath, was exhausting.
But now, all there remained to do was to corral her siblings one last time, and shepherd them all home again. And where was Tibway?
“Tibway,” she called, her voice echoing over the murmurs of the crowd, “Tibby! Where did you run off to, my darling?”
Penny, the name, was short for Penitence. Penitence Prayer Kipling. But rather than shame and a bowed head, the young lady who inhabited the name was like a ray of warm sunlight, or a babbling brook right after the snow melt. She knew of nothing outside the group, and she had that sweet optimism that comes only from not knowing that there could be a better, kinder, world. For the time being, she was happy to help her mother care for the little ones, mind father, and help keep the house clean and bright and warm. Her family was her world, and while it was small, it was more than big enough for her. She shook her head, her mass of long, golden curls shaking out in full. The girl shifted her weight, putting a hand on her hip and letting a tired, amused, smile settle across her face.
“Tibby!!” She called, again, “It’s getting dark, we can play tomorrow!!”