Poddington Lending Library
By the light of the morning, Letitia Farnsworth's lending library seems dimly lit and gloomy. Once a glorious Jacobean inn, the building now reeks of damp, dust, and old books. The room's narrow windows are nearly opaque from clinging vines of ivy, which rattle the panes from time to time with the breezes. A draught of cold air blows from underneath the old door. The main room of the library is simply crammed with books--tattered books, preserved books, old books, older books than that, and any number of leather-bound journals and sermons. Many are stuffed haphazardly into Victorian bookcases. Most, however, are stacked on tables, on cabinets, in corners, and on Letitia's desk.
Contents:
Prudence
Obvious exits:
Front Door

Vicar Warrenton bounces in. "Hallo, Trudy!"

Prudence gazes up shyly. "Good morning, V-Vicar."

[ Prudence's Desc: ]
Willowy, reticent and painfully shy, Prudence Buttock blinks at you nervously from behind the enormous wire-thin spectacles that cover her wide hazel-green eyes--and, indeed, much of her pale face--effectively shielding her from the notice of others. Prudence's thick brown hair, tightly pulled back into a reserved bun, creates a properly austere effect in spite of the occasional lock which half-heartedly strays from its hold. She blends into her surroundings, wherever she goes, a faint shadow on a cloudy day, clad in a simple dress of dove-grey wool that ends just above her stockinged ankles.
Carrying:
Ivory Brooch

You say "Gosh, you look simply ripping. All soaped up and ready for the day!"

Prudence pinkens appealingly.

Vicar Warrenton sniffs the air. "A hint of lemon verbena, is it?"

Prudence shakes her head mutely, gazing adoringly at you for one full moment before answering, "No, that is Miss F-Farnsworth. She was in earlier."

Vicar Warrenton leans in a little closer, his nostrils flaring. "A hint of Parisian cologne? Eh? Eh? Eh?"

Prudence blushes. "N-No."

Vicar Warrenton's nose is perilously close. "Toilet water?"

Prudence demurs.

You say "Well, it's jolly ripping, whatever it is."

Prudence gives a breathy little sigh. "Th-thank you."

Vicar Warrenton boldly reaches and and takes one of your hands.

Prudence's tiny hand quivers within your masculine paw.

In the distance, you hear the Poddington Church bells signaling the arrival of a new hour.

Vicar Warrenton says in a low, husky voice, "You know...Trudy...."

The church bells distantly begin to toll the hour, proclaiming it to be ten o'clock.

You say "The Bish says that...er...well...ah...you know. What a man and woman do...before...er...that is..."

You say "Well, it's all right."

Prudence's cheeks burn a furious scarlet. "I d-do not understand," she whispers very timidly.

Vicar Warrenton looks at Prudence's small, delicate hand, a fairy hand, a hand that looks as if it has been made of white roses and toffee. "Your hand...er...is jolly warm. Do you mind if I...ah...hold it like this?"

Prudence leans upon the table, using her other hand as a crutch. "Y-You m-may," she replies in a weak voice.

Vicar Warrenton's voice turns even huskier. "But...er...do you...like...it?"

Prudence mutely nods her head.

You say "Er...rather a lot? Or just a little? Or are you saying you just don't mind it, but that you'd rather be doing the dishes, or cleaning a fish?"

Prudence trembles. "It m-makes me feel safe."

Vicar Warrenton coughs. "Rather like a father, or a brother, or a vicar, or er...something else?

Prudence hesitates. "I ... I ... l-like a ... like a .... "

Vicar Warrenton licks his lips.

Prudence hedges nervously. "A f-f-friend."

 In the distance, you hear the Poddington Church bells announcing the quarter hour.

Vicar Warrenton clears his throat several times. "A jolly school friend, or a friend in the Girl Guides, or a friend you'd like to...er...take tea with...some very hot tea?"

Prudence nods very shyly, when you say the last.

You say "Er...you have rather delicate...lips...Miss...Buttock...."

Outside a window, a sparrow squawks in the foliage.

Prudence demurs. "Th-thank you, V-Vicar," she replies, her eyes widening perceptibly behind the spectacles.

Vicar Warrenton turns beet red. "Er...think they'll ever be kissed...one day? Hah-hah-hah!"

Prudence trembles. "I ... I ... I ... "

Vicar Warrenton leans forward suddenly, then stops.

You say "Er...the Bish said it was all right, if a man's intentions were....er...you know. Honourable."

 The musty odour of aged paper fills the room.

Vicar Warrenton clears his throat. "And...er...they are, you know."

Prudence stares mutely at you.

Vicar Warrenton impulsively closes his eyes and leans forwards, lips out.

Prudence freezes.

Vicar Warrenton plants a kiss, delicate and tender, upon Trudy's lips.

Prudence murmurs with incoherent shock and contentment.

Vicar Warrenton stands back several feet. "Er....sorry."

Prudence opens her eyes, and then blinks, not expecting you to be pressed almost against the door.

You say "So...very...sorry...."

Vicar Warrenton looks panic-stricken.

Prudence sinks into her chair, suddenly overcome with remorse at her wanton acceptance of your kisses.

You say "Miss Buttock...I meant no forwardness...I...I...I...I...only...I...that is...I...you know I.. ..have...thoughts...of you...and...I hoped you....returned the..."

Vicar Warrenton puts his hand on the handle of the door.

Prudence murmurs something behind the trembling palm of her hand.

You hear the sound of birds in the eaves of the building.

Vicar Warrenton looks at his feet. "I suppose you don't."

Prudence's cheeks burn a fiery peach.

Vicar Warrenton coughs. "I will burden you no more with my clumsy manlike attentions, Miss Buttock, if you do not desire them."

Vicar Warrenton begins to exit the library, slowly and dispiritedly. Even his curly locks seem to have lost their zest for life.

'N-No,' implores Prudence suddenly.

Vicar Warrenton nods. "No, you don't desire them. Very well then."

Vicar Warrenton's shoulders hang roughly parallel to the ground.

Prudence cries out. "But I ... I ... I ... I !"

Vicar Warrenton turns. "Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi. The wail of a woman who has been sorely wronged. Oh, Trudy. If only you know how honourably I meant that small...er...kiss."

Dust falls from the cracks between ceiling plaster and beams.

Prudence wrings her hands.

Vicar Warrenton shuffles out. "I had rather hoped that you and I would be joined as man and...well, it is no matter, now."

You pull open the heavy front door and exit the wee lending library.

Acorn Lane
Only a few buildings remain on Acorn Lane since the mysterious fire of forty years ago. The trees of the street are bare of leaves, their naked branches skeletal in the winter air. The ruins of the burned buildings are overgrown with withered, dried weeds, and tall oaks loom over the ancient stone wall surrounding the church graveyard. Light breezes from the moors blow across the dry and dusty street. A sweet stillness hangs over the tiny lane, almost melancholy in its cold and windy solitude. At noon, activity quickens upon the lane. Several town matrons can be seen heading to the tea house for an afternoon's gossip over scones, while a steady stream of villagers make the trek from Acorn Lane to the Market Street to finish their day's shopping.
Contents:
Gypsy Caravan
Obvious exits:
Graveyard Cinder Path Village Green Market Street Clinic Boarding House
Diva's Tea House Lending Library
 

@pemit *prudence=Outside your window, you hear the sudden retort of gunfire.

Prudence steps into the street from the lending library.

Vicar Warrenton is waving his fist at a retreating car. "Blasted backfire!"

Prudence rushes out of the library, her hazel eyes as wide as saucers.

Vicar Warrenton turns, surprised, to see Trudy emerge from the library.

You say "These motors. So much smoke and ruination."

Prudence halts weakly upon the steps of the library. "You're n-not ... you're n-not ... ?" she inquires tremblingly, her face turning white as a sheet.

Vicar Warrenton looks stricken. "I'm not off the property yet, Miss Buttock. But I shall be soon."

'Oh, thank the Lord,' cries out Prudence, before sinking into a faint.

You hear the sound of footsteps on gravel on the other side of the church wall.

Vicar Warrenton looks torn between answering Miss Buttock's prayer and vacating the property as quickly as possible, or seeing after her faint.

The church tower bells above begin clamorously signalling the arrival of a new hour.

Vicar Warrenton considers to himself. "I daren't lay hands on her again. She might think I was...er...fresh."

The church bells loudly toll the hour, proclaiming it to be eleven o'clock.

You say "And I simply cannot offer her the Breath of Life."

Henry Litefoot arrives from the heart of the village.

Vicar Warrenton looks inspired as he sees another person strolling along the lane. "Excuse me! Sir? Sir?"

[ Henry Litefoot's Description: ]
Tallish without being tall, good-looking without being handsome, refined without being distinguished and courteous without being formal, Henry Litefoot is not a man to leave any lasting impression upon those he meets.
Greying hair frames a smooth and unremarkable face of the sort to be found in the background of any photograph of a large gathering of people ; pale, elegant fingers flutter, dove-like, as though eager to seize things unseen from empty air and present them, with a flourish, to the waiting world. No, the attention is not for a moment tempted to linger upon the man (after all, they are hardly uncommon) : instead, it is his clothing which drapes itself upon the memory - a smart (casual, yet reserved : informal, but impeccable) and cleanly cut suit of November grey, a bowtie rejoicing in its luxurious crimsonness, a sharply-collared shirt that attains a quite ridiculous level of starch-stiff whiteness.

A tiny, blue bird perches on the unconscious librarian's shoulder.

Vicar Warrenton leans forward on tiptoe and gestures to the man in the gray suit.

Henry Litefoot tips a hat he's not wearing, and a momentary expression of bewilderment slinks across his face. "Good day, to you Vicar. What service might I perform for you - no pun intended, of course."

Vicar Warrenton seems uncommonly nervous. "Well...er...you see. This lady...." he points to the figure of Miss Buttock, who is lying on the cobbles of the street, seemingly unconscious, "Just fainted. And I dare not lay hands on her or give her the Breath of Life for reasons that I cannot fully explain lest the...er...reputation of the woman be...er...you know. Could you possibly....?"

Vicar Warrenton says hopefully.

A breeze rustles the branches of the towering church oaks.

Remarkable as it may seem (and a sad testimony to Mr Litefoot's powers of perception - or lack of them), it takes the words of the Vicar to draw Litefoot's attention to the unconscious librarian. "Great leaping labradors! Fainted, you say?"

Vicar Warrenton looks regretful. "Rather. Ripping scene, it was. Almost like straight out of 'East Lynne,' you know."

Vicar Warrenton nudges the figure with his foot. "I believe she's still breathing, though."

Henry Litefoot removes the jacket of his suit, spreads it with a flourish upon the ground by the supine woman, and kneels arduously upon it. "It'll be the heat, I'll warrant. Or, if not the heat, the cold."

Vicar Warrenton nods. "Oh, it always is, isn't it? Jolly insightful of you."

Henry Litefoot clears his throat. "Right, then. Let me see if I still have the old touch." With as much dignity as one can muster under the circumstances (and a murmured plea for the forgiveness of any perceived liberties), he performs the task as best he can.

Vicar Warrenton clears his throat. "Er...careful of her nose. It's the rose that sits upon her face, you know. And those hands...don't trample on them. Er...I rather fancy they way they remind me of...my mother's...."

Vicar Warrenton stifles a manly sob.

Henry Litefoot looks up, dabbing at Prudence's lips with a brightly coloured (and fortunately freshly laundered) silk hankie which he finds in his trouser pocket, and agrees that the hands in question are indeed fine and motherly digital appendages.

Vicar Warrenton takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Isn't the way her face looks like a fresh blancmange a fine and noble thing?"

Henry Litefoot peers at Prudence's face, seeking signs of consciousness. As he wafts air with his hankie towards it, he is forced to concur that the resemblance to gelatine-based dessert is both uncanny and inspiring.

Vicar Warrenton holds his hand over his mouth. "And her ears. So very much like the finest marrowroot that money can buy."

Prudence stirs, her fresh blancmange of an aspect beginning to lose the paleness of unconsciousness.

The emotion seems to be too much for the vicar. "But they'll never be my marrowroots."

Above you, a number of starlings fly by noisily.

Henry Litefoot tucks his hankie delicately away up one now re-rolled sleeve. "Excellent. She appears to be coming 'round again. A minor marvel of medical mastery."

Prudence murmurs incoherently.

Vicar Warrenton cries manfully into his hand, as he has not cried since Harrowsford lost to Chestershire 8-0.

Henry Litefoot stands and recovers his jacket. "Perhaps you'd best comfort her, Vicar? Last thing the poor woman needs is the filthy fizzog of some strange man to be leering down at her first thing she sees, what?"

Prudence's eyelids begin to flicker, like a tiny daisy seeking the rays of the rising sun.

Henry Litefoot offers the sobbing priest a pat on the back, of manly comfort, naturally.

Vicar Warrenton snuffles. "No, sir, her last words were that I should...er...you know. Skedaddle. Vamoose. And to never place my wandering lips upon her again."

Chimney smoke from a nearby home dissipates into a breeze.

Opening her eyes, Prudence blinks mutely at the gentlemen hovering above her.

Henry Litefoot blinks rapidly for some seconds, but if the Vicar's remark startles him (as it surely must), he does not choose to pursue it further. "Right then!" he cries, laboriously kneeling once more. "Now then, madam," he coos in tones of raspberry jam, "You've had a nasty shock, but everything is right as rain now."

Prudence gazes anxiously up at the cooing gentleman. "How do you d-do?"

Vicar Warrenton steps back, so as to be out of Trudy's line of sight.

You say "It was very fortunate you happened along, Mr...ah...er..."

"Henry Litefoot at your service, madam." He's halfway to tipping his hat before he remembers he's not wearing one.

Vicar Warrenton completes his sentence. "....Litefoot."

Henry Litefoot is struck by another memory (like buses, they tend to come along all at once). "Can you stand, madam?"

Vicar Warrenton answers. "Her posture is like a gillyflower, bravely waving in the wind, you know."

Prudence nods apprehensively, realizing suddenly that she is in a supine position on Acorn Lane, no less.

Vicar Warrenton waxes tearful and rhapsodic. "And her breath is like a jolly good toffee."

Above you, the branches of the oaks seem to whisper a melancholy refrain.

Vicar Warrenton explains. "The expensive sort, not the kind they sell at the railway stations."

Henry Litefoot rubs his brow in the manner of one thoroughly perplexed (a fortunate coincidence). "No doubt, Vicar, though - if I might be so bold as to make a suggestion - assisting the good lady to a place of comfort aware from the prying and peering of the passersby is perhaps a more pressing priority than poetic polemic?"

Vicar Warrenton blinks several times. "Oh. She belongs in there." Vicar Warrenton points to the door of the lending library.

You say "Though she could get some tea over there."

Vicar Warrenton points to the tea shop.

Henry Litefoot offers Prudence a rather fine attempt at a reassuring smile. "What, in the middle of the - ah. I see."

You say "Perhaps if I took her by the ankles, and you explained carefully that I meant no liberties....."

Prudence responds to the stranger's smile with a tremulous little one of her own.

Vicar Warrenton tentatively steps back into sight, close to Trudy's feet.

"Perhaps," suggests Litefoot, "If you were to order tea in yonder esteemed establishment - hot and sweet as I believe is especially effacious in such circumstances as these - whilst the lady finds her feet?"

Vicar Warrenton brightens. "Er, jolly good!"

You say "I'll be right back!"

Vicar Warrenton dashes across the street, his spirits back again.

The swinging doorway to Diva's Teas jingles with bells as you open it.

Front Parlour of Diva's Tea House
Diva Stedman has transformed the spacious front rooms of her family's house into a tea parlour, open daily. Brightly appointed with gay muslin curtains and linen tablecloths of a not-too-shabby quality, the tea house has become the gathering place for many of the village matrons. Although it is only mid-day, a few matrons of the town are already here nibbling at the salads and pastries. A pot of steaming coffee sits near the blazing fire, inviting patrons to partake of its contents to combat the cold temperatures outside.
 The room is full of tantalizing smells. Diva does not seem to need the money from her business, for her lavish buffet seems to cost rather more than the few shillings she asks. Rather, she seems to crave a house full of company. Usually her brother Giles, fond of a bit of crumpet, can be found here, flirting with the women of the village.
Contents:
Giles
Mrs Bishop
Planchette
Obvious exits:
Front Door
Giles looks over his newspaper at Vicar Warrenton. "Oh. Expecting someone else," he says.

<waiting>

The tiny coral bells gaily clatter as you leave the tea house for the street.

[ Acorn Lane ]

Vicar Warrenton pops out of the tea house very carefully carrying with both hands a cup of tea that he is trying very very hard not to spill all over the street. The remnants of a half-eaten Cornish split seem to be hanging out of the sides of his mouth.

You say "Heef weef rrrrf, veh."

In the sky above you, a lone mallard flies toward the village green.

Vicar Warrenton indicates the tea.

You say "Nive nnn hof."

Henry Litefoot gestures from Vicar to tea to Prudence with his free arm.

Vicar Warrenton kneels down, and chews the rest of his pastry. "Fan fee fit uf? Er...." He swallows. "Can she sit up?"

Honoria Buttock emerges into the Lane from the Market Street.

Vicar Warrenton appears to be kneeling over Miss Trudy Buttock with a cup of tea.

Honoria Buttock strides in, back stiffly straight, a purposeful look in her eye.

Honoria Buttock spies her younger sister in the road, and assesses the situation. "Good Gracious! Vicar! WhatEVER have you done to the girl?"

Vicar Warrenton gulps guiltily.

Prudence is rising unsteadily to her feet, while at the same time clinging to Litefoot's arm like a limpet.

Vicar Warrenton stands, and backs away. "Er....Miss Buttock...I...I...I...I...."

Honoria Buttock looks daggers at the Vicar, "I do not think there is any reason for you to turn into a sailor, with your aye-ayes. A question has been asked, and one expects a reasonable answer post haste"

"The tea, man!" cries Litefoot. "The tea!"

Vicar Warrenton nervously hands Miss Trudy the tea.

You say "Miss Buttock...your sister...had a fainting spell."

Prudence demurs, not at all sure whether it is proper to drink a cup of tea in the middle of the street.

Honoria Buttock narrows her eyes at that remark, "You obviously don't know your Buttocks, Vicar. We are made of sterner stuff than all that."

You say "Er...I'm...ah...sure."

Henry Litefoot looks from Prudence to the Vicar and finally to the stern, stiff-backed woman and with strained nonchalance suggests, "Perhaps it would be better if we were to retire indoors?"

Vicar Warrenton looks a bit taken aback at the suggestion he be trapped indoors with the elder Buttock sister.

Honoria Buttock gives the second gentleman a perfunctory nod, "Obviously a man of action, Vicar. You would do well to emulate him in your thought processes."

Henry Litefoot gestures with a crumpled 'kerchief to the library door.

Prudence weakly clings to Litefoot's reassuring arm.

Honoria Buttock pushes firmly at the weather-warped doorway of the lending library, then enters.

You say "Er...let me get the...ah...door."

Vicar Warrenton holds open the door to the small library.

Henry Litefoot mutters thanks and enters the library (allowing Prudence to step inside first, should she prove capable of such demanding action in her delicate condition).

Prudence gazes gratefully at Litefoot.

Prudence pushes firmly at the weather-warped doorway of the lending library, then enters.

Henry Litefoot pushes firmly at the weather-warped doorway of the lending library, then enters.

The door to the lending library, warped with age and weather, resists at first, but then pops open with an ominous creak.

 [ Poddington Lending Library ]

Vicar Warrenton creeps in last, staying close to the door.

Honoria Buttock stands just inside the door, holding it out, impatiently, for the other people.

Prudence slides her sister an anxious look, her shoulders beginning to droop.

The mantel clock ticks steadily away.

Henry Litefoot ensures Prudence is safely ensconced upon a seat of some sort. "Now then, Vicar, the tea. Though I fear it'll have chilled by now."

"Still," Henry adds, with a virtuous nod, "Tea is tea."

Vicar Warrenton steps forward. "Er...it's still a bit...lukewarm."

Henry Litefoot insists that it will suffice.

Vicar Warrenton tremulously holds it out.

Prudence blinks apprehensively from behind her spectacles.

"A practical posset," declares Litefoot, "Of proliferate power."

Vicar Warrenton laughs weakly. "Pip-pip!"

Vicar Warrenton says to Mr Litefoot, "Listen, old chap. I hope you don't get the wrong idea about Miss Buttock and...er...myself. My intentions were purely honourable."

Henry Litefoot nods firmly. "Of course they were, old chap. I thought nothing else."

A draught brings in sand from the street.

Honoria Buttock's eyes suddenly roll back, and she collapses in a gentle swoon. The whalebone corset is obviously a WEE bit too tight.

Vicar Warrenton whispers very quietly to Mr Litefoot, "I shouldn't worry about her. Happens all the time."

Henry Litefoot blinks several times at the collapsing Buttock, then stares very deliberately at a shelf of books. "I...see." After a brief rummage in a sleeve, he extracts the (now rather crumpled) 'kerchief with which he proceeds to mop his brow before offering it to the Vicar. "Dashed odd. All the time, you say?"

Vicar Warrenton assumes a mournful face. "Runs in the family."

Vicar Warrenton confides, "She's rather a terrifying woman, eh?"

Henry Litefoot replies, "I'm sure I couldn't possibly say. Spirited, I'll agree, but - " Quite suddenly he stops. There's an awkward second of silence - Litefoot frets at his bowtie - before he ends, rather lamely, "Er, yes. Spirited. Spirited woman."

Vicar Warrenton looks at his watch regretfully. "Er...I'm afraid I've a meeting with the Ladies'  Embroidery League about the seat covers for the pews...and...er...Miss Buttock doesn't want to see me anyhow."

Vicar Warrenton holds out his hand. "You're a dashed good fellow to have come along during an emergency, Litefoot."

"Of course!" Litefoot takes the hand and shakes it cheerfully. "Thank you, Vicar. Delighted to have been of use, don't you know."

Vicar Warrenton gives Miss Buttock a regretful glance. "Er. Cheerio."

 [ The End ]