Red Thread

By @Moonshine18
Red Thread

For five years Chalice Grace Arthur was a simple first maid at the whim of a very lavish and decorated family, the Winsteads. Now she tackles a bigger challenge, Becoming the Lady's Maid of Mistress, an aquaintence of Queen Elizabeth, in 1800 England

Chapter 3


At first, I couldn’t care less about what happened to the old town. Antiqued it had become from the piles of tradition that it had been layered with. Those were my very first thoughts as I arrived in old northern Boston; just on the outskirts of it really. The private estates were more lively than the whole city itself, and i had really no liking to it at all. But now, it seemed to be the thing i missed most about my old life: hating this place and all it’s glory.

The trees whished passed, like little children chasing after the bus for school. It was no more than a haze of green and a blemish of gray clouds lurking behind it. Not at all how my last day in America would thought to turn out to be. Hardly, in fact, i thought it would be when I prearranged for my dead body to be shipped off to Ireland to be buried on a quiet and peaceful hill.

“Excuse me, Miss Arthur?” the woman Laurenline asked, leaning forward in the leather carriage seat.

“Chalice is fine” I responded, glancing over to her in the seat. I’ll admit, Laurenline was probably the most interesting person in the carriage to date. However kind, she was also very simplistic. Her hair was a dusty brown and she had bright brown eyes and freckles littering her cheeks. Dimples the size of quarters made canyons on the face, and she always seemed to show them off when she smiled, like a baby on the sugar rush.

“We, or rather I, since Line won’t remember this, will address you as Chalice from now on. But in the presence of Mistress, will call you Miss Arthur” the other woman, whose name I now know is Elaina (or rather Elaine as she calls it) spoke out with confidence beside Laurenline.

Elaina, or Elaine, was a more…sophisticated woman. Or at least she was more than the simple Laurenline was. Her posture, her attitude, and even her voice held proper etiquette i can’t remember anyone besides a high ranking official would have. It almost prompted me to ask if she’s had an audience with the queen before, but i reframed. Her own hair was much more fashioned than Laurenline’s was, pulled back into a tight bun with a simple hairpin sticking out from the swirl. Any person who couldn’t afford a simple loaf, would of marveled at it, as if it was god themselves. Or, rather i thought, because it would bring them prosperity should they sell it to the right man.

“Thank you” I responded taking to the new, sea shoreline scenery. Seagulls, as annoying as it was to see them squawk and hoot all over the port, was not my main concern. Rather, it was the fact of the fact that this might be the last time I am in America for as long as I live. And who knows, maybe living in England was not as bad as I make out to be. However the case, I could not bring myself to like what was about to happen to me.


Stepping out of the carriage, I breathed in the salty air. The clouds lolled on in boredom, drifting westward as an easterly sea breezed filled my lungs once more. Murky ocean waters lapped against the rocky built shores as huge tin cans of what American’s called “boats”, harbored by the wooden docks.

Any entrepreneur would of sold these giants as the groundwork for a new era. I would know, I waited on one by the name of John Mongrew, who strolled into town looking for a new person to harass into sponsoring the whole project.

“Are you excited? Is it your first time riding a big boat like this one?” Laurenline asked, trotting up beside me as I gazed on at the giants.

In truth it wasn’t, I had ridden plenty of smaller, more portable and less ginormous boats before. The Winsteads, in addition to owning a boat of their own, had leisured their savings into a private lake to which the young kits took to fishing and enjoying their childhood. Their faces still giggled on in my head.

I refused to remember them in agony as death gripped their little hearts and stole their souls form me.

“No” I said plainly, strolling slowly down the docks to where passengers were already boarding. “I’ve seen, and even been on boats before. Just not something of this caliber”

I closely examined the large metal boat, taking in its thick rusted nails and the moist seaweed clinging desperately to the hull partly submerged below the opaque waves. The bubbles of salt smashed against it as the unrest among the oceans continued to push the water to and fro. I peered up at the top decks and wandered my eyes over the words, painted in a faded black and almost murky gray, MOIRSALA.

“Do you know how the ships got it’s name?” Laurenline asked, her own furnished oak wood eyes gazing at the same painted words as mine. I doubt I could say that I know, simply of the fact that she would ask how. Then I would be seen as a fool for trying to lie to her. And if I asked how, I was sure to here one of two answers: the actual story or another I don’t know.

It was obvious as to which option I had to choose. “How?”

“Apparently the captain of the ship married a beautiful woman by the name of Moirsala. A French name I think, though I’m not sure. She went on a business trip, a few months after being married, and she went on a boat. The boat was soon attacked by thieves, Pirates even! She died and the captain grieved for his loss for almost a year. Then he bought a boat and named it Moirsala, after his beautiful wife, so that his love for her will never sink”

I little cared for the story, however much Laurenline made it sound as if it was the most saddest story she had ever heard. I had just lived through the most saddest event in my own history. I had no reason the care about anything else

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