A Suitable Match

My entry for the second half of Round 1 for the NYC Flash Fiction 2020 contest. My assigned elements this round were: Historical Fiction, a fishing hole, and a wooden ruler.

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Jillian ran silently through the slumbering manor house. Dawn was breaking, and she should have been resting for her debut before Queen Victoria that evening. She was too anxious to sleep. She needed one last breath of freedom.

She ran outside, trying to move faster than her thoughts. Father would marry her off to the first suitably noble gentleman who expressed interest. She had begged him to allow her to attend classes, travel, do anything but marry. To Jillian, marriage would be a corset binding her neck, the lacings slowly tightening until the silk-wrapped steel left her unable to breathe. An increasingly contentious series of arguments had clouded the past week, throwing a shadow of familial misery over her debut. 

She turned toward the fishing pond on the boundary between her family’s land and the Duke of Kent’s estate. The pond had a wide shallow wading area surrounding a deep pool. She slowed as she approached it, lifting her nightgown and stepping out into the chilly water. She stared into the dark water, waiting for her tears to come. She thought about the times when she was young and her father and brothers would fish, and she and her mother would clap and cheer them on. 

“Life was much simpler as a child,” she whispered. 

“Do you think so?” said a deep baritone behind her.

Jillian spun around in surprise, tipped backward, flailed and fell. She sat up to see the Duke of Kent standing next to the pond. 

“My Lord,” she said as she stood and attempted a curtsey.

“Does your father know you are out wandering without a chaperone?”

Jillian’s face grew dark, as the question brought back all her fear, frustration, anger, and helplessness. She was tempted to say something ruinous to her reputation. Jillian stared at the water, trying to calm herself. Something near the edge of the pond caught her eye, and she waded toward it. 

“Should I fetch someone?” The Duke sounded concerned. 

Jillian pulled a wooden ruler from a cluster of tangled leaves. She used the sleeve of her nightgown to wipe at a stain along the edge, and saw that the measurement markings had started to wash away. She stared at it. The Duke shifted his weight, unfamiliar with being uncertain of what to do. 

Jillian’s tears finally started to fall. With a shaky voice she said, “I am this ruler.”

“We must get you inside. I think you are unwell.”

“I have value. I have use. I have worth! I am meant for more than  producing heirs and hosting parties and receiving guests! I want to go to the university! I want to travel! It is 1888! The world is exploding with ideas and thoughts and I want to be a part of it! But instead I have been groomed to be married, auctioned off like a show pony with good breeding stock. Like this ruler, I’ve lost the chance to contribute. To create. I will be stuck in the mud of society balls and social functions for the rest of my life, my usefulness worn away over time.” 

For several moments the only sounds were of Jillian’s sobs. Then, there were several splashes, and the Duke’s voice was soft and close as he stood next to Jillian in the water. “I am afraid I do not have a clean handkerchief with me, but perhaps I can offer you something of more material comfort.”

Jillian turned her tear-streaked face toward the Duke, whose dark eyes were fixed on her with equal parts kindness and interest. “Not all men are looking for a show pony. Not all men want a wife solely for breeding.” He took the ruler from her hands, turning it over and running one finger lightly along the remaining marks. “Some men are looking for a woman who can match them measure for measure.” His eyes danced with mischief as he said, “I believe I will attend your debut tonight, Jillian. And I shall so charm and befuddle your mother that she will accidentally place my name on your dance card twice.” He raised her hand and grazed the back of it with his lips, the kiss feeling especially warm against her damp skin. “Run home, little ruler, and polish up your markings for your big evening. You will have many men’s worth to measure, I’m certain.” 

Jillian laughed, and waded out of the pond. She looked back at him once before running back to the house, the sunlight glistening through her hair like a halo. 

He stood in the stream for several minutes, watching her until he could no longer see her. Then he looked carefully at the meadows and forest. No one to be seen. 

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a burlap bag dripping heavy, thickening blood. From the bag he pulled the heart of his latest victim, a slight steam rising from it as its lingering warmth met the crisp morning air. His handkerchief stuck out of the aorta, and he tugged on the corners of it to fan them out like the petals of a blood red lily. He held the heart aloft in the sun, admiring his work. 

“Yes, I think it is time to settle down. Too much attention on Whitechapel, too many copycats. It’s losing its thrill.”

He tossed the heart into the fishing pond and watched it sink. He then tossed in the burlap bag, and pulled the ruler out from under his arm. He ran his finger along the dark brown stain Jillian had not been able to wipe away, remembering how he’d used it on his first victim. He tossed it into the pond, making certain it sunk this time. 

“Yes, time for a new game. Perhaps a honeymoon to the new world.” He smiled darkly. “I must admit, there is no more suitable name than Jill for the Ripper’s wife.”