Next Century

By H. C. Turk

Next Century tells the same story set in three different eras and locales: 1799 (London), 1999 (Midwest America), and 2099 (the Moon). In each story, a young woman (Claire) seeks vengeance against her father, who has been abusing her mother for years. In each era, Claire is raped by thugs, becomes pregnant, and has to proceed in society with her child but no legitimate father.

Next Century tells the same story set in three different eras and locales: 1799 (London), 1999 (Midwest America), and 2099 (the Moon). In each story, a young woman (Claire) seeks vengeance against her father, who has been abusing her mother for years. In each era, Claire is raped by thugs, becomes pregnant, and has to proceed in society with her child but no legitimate father.

Next Century tells the same story set in three different eras and locales: 1799 (London), 1999 (Midwest America), and 2099 (the Moon). In each story, a young woman (Claire) seeks vengeance against her father, who has been abusing her mother for years. In each era, Claire is raped by thugs, becomes pregnant, and has to proceed in society with her child but no legitimate father.

Next Century tells the same story set in three different eras and locales: 1799 (London), 1999 (Midwest America), and 2099 (the Moon). In each story, a young woman (Claire) seeks vengeance against her father, who has been abusing her mother for years. In each era, Claire is raped by thugs, becomes pregnant, and has to proceed in society with her child but no legitimate father.

*****

Book 1: London, 1799. Playing with a lad named Walter, Claire Easton learns that boys are sent to school for an education, though girls are taught to sew at home. She learns of social punition by seeing her mother receive a caning from her husband for not having born an heir.

As a young adult, Claire tries to gain employment, but is reviled for behaving like a man. Seeing her mother beaten once too often, Claire goes to Walter. She convinces him to lead her to a thugs’ roost, where Claire will purchase a thrashing for her father. Instead, thugs force Walter to have sex with Claire. The men are enjailed, and Claire becomes pregnant.

Claire is fired due to her wanton behavior. But her employer’s son, Richmond, proposes marriage. Claire accepts. After the child is born, Claire petitions for Walter’s release from prison. She tries to achieve an emotional bond with her husband, but fails. Two years later, hearing that Walter will be freed, Richmond kills himself.

Though not in love, Claire and Walter are together in life. Claire now understands that she can best succeed not by attacking society, but by progressing with her living. In 1825, Claire, Walter, and their daughter leave for America.

Books 2 and 3 tell the same story modified to account for the different settings and societies: Mid-West America, 1999; and the Moon, 2099.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. C. Turk
• Release date: Sep 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393816225

Book preview

BOOK I : 1 7 9 9

Chapter I

Dream Of Vanished Family

Never before had the handmaid seen a gentleman’s forearms. Menfolk immersed in more common occupations typically denuded themselves to the elbow to avoid soiling their clothing with the tangential results of their smithing or butchering. Blood that grimes butchers, however, is not human, unlike the fluid coating this physician’s skin with a viscous red.

In a previous era, a gentleman would have soiled his apparel rather than his pride. But this learned gent accepted his task as well as the average cordwainer accepted his booting. The doctor would not have rolled up his sleeves had he expected to remain dry. Childbirth is no tidy endeavor.

He cut the nurturing cord shared by mother and infant, then became rushed to relieve himself of the baby. Scarcely viewing the living product he had extracted, Dr. Maccoby turned to press the silent child into the midwife’s waiting blanket.

The smell in milady’s chambers told of visceral activity—hard breaths and perspiration—and their result: blood. Too much blood. On his elbows in the remnants of the butchery between Alexandra Easton’s legs, the physician declared:

This bleeding will not subside without inducement.

Without looking away from the mother’s rent flesh, he asked of the midwife, Does it live?

Every person in the room but Dr. Maccoby saw the midwife bending with the child, whom she abruptly turned head down. A spate of mild coughing ensued, answering the doctor’s query. No weeping came thereafter, only a superfluous reply.

Quite beautifully, yes, the midwife smiled.

Standing by the window, not too near and not too far from her mistress, the handmaid wondered of the physician’s referring to the child as it. A beautiful baby, yes, Elizabeth knew, though she could not see its shape, its gender, only a bit of face and forehead. And no crying came from the newborn. What a precious lad, or lass.

Place the child with the mother where it belongs, Dr. Maccoby instructed the midwife, then bring the bleeding powder and binding to me.

They moved together, the midwife approaching the bed as Dr. Maccoby turned to the stand supporting a glazed bathing bowl filled with water steaming cleanly, soon stained pink by the immersion of his rarely exposed forearms. As the doctor quickly cleaned himself before continuing, the midwife stepped past Elizabeth, to Alexandra reclining with her head and knees propped by pillows, her face as pale as the passing clouds. Accepting her offspring, the mother could not quite smile upon staring down to the strange form. Alexandra did not see a child, but an embryonic entity, its human appearance and faculties of perception and movement still undeveloped. She did not see a person, but a promise.

In the corridor, concerned servants waited to relay news to the remainder of the household. Peering through the doorway, the anxious chambermaid saw Elizabeth approach the baby and the midwife approach blood. The chambermaid viewed a scene of human expressions so dissimilar they seemed not to have been predicated by a common event. Above, Alexandra and Elizabeth formed a type of serenity between themselves, one woman smiling shyly, the lady’s calmness depicted by her exhausted face. These women shared no activity but their moderate viewing of the child. Below, the kneeling doctor and bending midwife shared a concern denoted by their hard stares at a woman’s aspect more personal than even her baby. Newborns are displayed in public.

This will cause no more than a bit of discomfort, the physician mentioned as he applied a dust to Alexandra’s baby wound after swabbing away blood with white linen.

Alexandra gasped, her entire body contracting, as though the second member of a set of twins exited at that moment.

Dr. Maccoby knew he had not heard the end of the groaning caused by this baby’s exit. Even Alexandra’s following words were painful.

Praise God I do for never allowing Jesus to gift me with another child, if this agony ever be birth’s companion.

A tiny voice from the corridor entered as softly as candlelight:

Be he a boy, or she a girl child?

Alexandra and her handmaid looked to each other. Neither could answer.

A girl child, the midwife smiled, speaking to no particular person as she aided the doctor in his stretching and securing fabric lengths around the mother’s bottom.

The chambermaid retreated, hurrying past the cook while saying, Away, away I am to tell the lady grand while her ears yet can hear.

Off I am to inform the husband, the cook spoke to the chambermaid’s receding back, the neutral hues of servant attire disappearing in the corridor as dim as a lady’s nether areas. Unless an exiting baby splits a sphincter, then all brightened with blood.

The cook stepped away in no rush, having neither joyous news nor a need to convey it before her audience expired. The master of the household remained in fine health, and had not been delivered with an heir.

Alexandra knew by Elizabeth’s smile that the handmaid offered warmth, not a sermon. Her words were much warmer than the physician’s hands pressing Alexandra’s skin. He pressed her flesh made hot from extended pain, extended to the fear of never ending, not until the blood reservoir emptied.

Ah, but I’m saying, Mistress Alexandra, that the child is not coming from only the Lord of this world, but also the lord of this household.

Jesus is the offspring of the greatest Lord, Alexandra sighed, speaking to the servant while considering her life oozing away. This child is mine more than Jeremiah’s, if only due to her gender. Elizabeth, would you care to hold her now?

The handmaid blanched, misplacing her smile.

Oh, and how precious to be holding this dear lass, mistress, but not in the first moment.

Elizabeth, surely you held me at this age. No longer is she very damp.

Ah, but holding you I weren’t, ma’am, at the age of minutes, though holding you I often did when all completely wet in every manner. But these first moments are so strong for a mother and babe, as though the two were yet joined. Ah, not at this time, Alexandra, for the moment is yours.

If you bear with me another moment, Dr. Maccoby remarked to his patient, God’s grace will have your bleeding ended and your healing begun.

Alexandra felt relief, though not from a reduction of discomfort. But the relief was genuine, improving her spirits, if not her pain.

Elizabeth, I feel that I have swallowed a baby horse, which passed from my body through the incorrect exit, kicking me repetitively with its shod hooves upon leaving.

Elizabeth only smiled; she knew her mistress’s wit. The physician was the embarrassed person, unable to press his lips together as he rose and turned from Alexandra.

You might tidy my workings, he told the midwife. The servants here will clean the remainder.

Alexandra did not know babies, but she expected weeping and wailing. She held the child against her breast, but did not look. Look to her child. As Alexandra viewed past Elizabeth, the baby’s twitches impeded at the edge of her vision. Her baby. Alexandra hoped to accept the doctor’s gift of relief more fully. Not considering her infant, Alexandra longed to recuperate, if only for a moment. Her moment.

As the doctor straightened his cuffs, Alexandra faced the window. Looking toward nothing, she saw God’s unavoidable profundity. Neither the chandler’s shop across the lane nor the Thames’ bank beyond nor clouds above achieved her focus. In the window itself, Alexandra saw God’s concentric houses of church and Earth. Though not portraying a greater scene, and without discernible color, the window’s design mimed the structure of cathedral glass. The rectangular panes existed not only as pellucid pieces of Earth, but clear achievements of Mankind. These parts had been secured into a greater whole by lead, formerly as hot and shapeless as blood, now forming a firm bond, like mother and child.

Alexandra looked away from her vision.

Oh, how I love my Claire, she wept, caressing her daughter’s head. Her daughter.

Then came a loud sound from the doorway.

Oh, and Mistress Claire is failing! cried the previously meek chambermaid.

Ah, wench, and what are ye saying? terrified Elizabeth replied with an equally loud sound, her speaking more fearful than exhorting.

Oh, mistress, and I did inform the lady grand of this birthing, the chambermaid told Alexandra. All weak she appeared, as long she has appeared. Upon learning that the child is a she, why, a great strength your mother receives, which opens wide her eyes and forces a loud speaking and a terrific quaking of her face, which in itself would have driven me from her chamber, were it not for those words.

Katherine, you must tell me of her words, Alexandra urged.

Yes, mistress, and Lady Flagsworth spake loudly that a girl child is a doom to herself, forced by her own home and nation to live as the, the…to live as the dog bitch.

With the firm stride of a confident man, Dr. Maccoby quit the room, his open satchel containing the accouterments of a physician’s work. Did he now proceed to the foyer for his black cloak and gilded cane, those final affectations, along with a whitish wig, of his profession?

Alexandra turned to the midwife.

Does Dr. Maccoby depart the house, or aid my mother?

The midwife had no answer. Attempting to look away from Alexandra, from the household, she rubbed, rubbed her fingers with the damp fabric that had previously cleansed her hands.

Katherine, you must elaborate on my mother’s condition, Alexandra demanded.

Oh, mistress, and your mum rather fell back against her bedding thereafter, with but these final words: ‘Please, please, I must see, I must see.’ Oh, mistress, and God would completely please me if never again I heard such a sorrowful weakness in a great lady’s speaking.

Alexandra produced a wrenching grimace caused by her sitting upright.

Elizabeth, you must accept the child, she wheezed to the handmaid.

Bending over Alexandra with arms extended uncertainly, the servant pleaded:

Ah, ah, and I’m begging you, mistress, not to be moving and causing yourself to open the bleeding flow again.

Midwife, Alexandra moaned, placing her legs together and pivoting toward the bed’s edge, kindly receive this child so that the handmaid might aid me in dressing.

The midwife cooperated, but the handmaid would not comply.

Ah, missus, and I’m saying you must be waiting now.

I must wait for what, Elizabeth?

Aye, and wait for at least a bit of healing, Mistress Alexandra.

Elizabeth, you well know my mother’s condition. Do you believe in your heart that if I wait now I will see her before we are joined in Heaven?

After a gaze and a blink of comprehension, Elizabeth stepped to a tall armoire, arranging her mistress’s petticoats.

Alexandra looked down to the flooring. Reaching with even one foot produced a pain that extended from her innards completely up her spine.

Elizabeth, she moaned, you must not neglect my stockings. I cannot visit my ill mother without shoes. Lady Flagsworth would not understand.

* * *

Mrs. Easton! I can only pray God that He guide you toward returning to your bedchamber at once.

Dr. Maccoby became aghast upon seeing the ill lady entering her mother’s chambers as aided by her handmaid, the midwife with child one pace behind.

Seeing that Dr. Maccoby did not immediately assist the infirm woman, Elizabeth implored:

Aye, and Dr. Maccoby, I am begging you, sir, to assist me as a physician with your patient, only to help her step to that chair, sir.

Affronted, Dr. Maccoby seemed the superior upon replying:

Woman, I inform you that although physicians may deliver babies, gentlemen do not handle ladies.

Dr. Maccoby concluded securing his satchel, a task he had not completed in Alexandra’s chamber. The accouterments of his craft had not been required at the current bedside.

The women continued walking those several paces. Alexandra sat, her face unable to form an expression, not even one of pain. After glimpsing her mother and ignoring the doctor, Alexandra turned to the midwife, raising her hands to accept her child.

After placing the infant in her mother’s arms, the midwife retreated. Without looking to the physician or any woman in the room, she withdrew, returning to that chamber of the baby’s birth.

Alexandra faced her mother. Not for years had Alexandra looked to her without being startled by her age. Her eyes half closed, head lolling, the elder Claire breathed slowly, loudly, as though air had to be pulled through rags before reaching her lungs.

Be so kind, doctor, as to inform me of my mother’s strength, Alexandra requested.

Upon hearing her daughter’s voice, Grandmother Claire fully opened her eyes. She viewed no person upon requesting:

Hold the child.

I must inform you, Mrs. Easton, the physician stated, that your mother’s bodily strength is low, and shall not likely increase. Praise God that her spiritual health remains great. This is the energy that will accompany your mother through her ending life, and guide her to the next.

With her mother’s words, Alexandra had turned to Elizabeth. The handmaid acknowledged by reaching for the infant.

Inspired by that spiritual expression’s being pronounced by a professional instead of clergy, the chambermaid spoke to her mistress. Eyes averted, she enunciated her words as though each formed a quiet, complete sentence.

We have sent for the priest, missus.

Elizabeth stepped past the chambermaid to deliver young Claire to the elder. Upon settling against her grandmother’s chest, the infant emitted one small cough, inducing Claire, Lady Flagsworth, to fully open her eyes. She did not look to the child, but to the physician. She did not hold the child, lacking the ability to grasp. Bending uncomfortably, Elizabeth retained the infant with a light touch of both hands. That supporting surface rose and fell with a rough strength, as though a blacksmith’s exposed forearms working iron.

Lady Flagsworth’s weak speaking did not lack strength of content.

I have been dying my entire life because of you.

Not so superior now, the doctor faced the elder woman with ignorance, and surprise.

Your kind would not allow me to become a doctor. Nor a priest. England would not allow me to be a midwife. Too base a task for a lady. The profession of gentlemen would not allow me to undertake a profession, because I was not a gentleman. I have been dying my entire life for lack of activity. The baby grew into adulthood long ago. Being a wife and lady is not an activity, but a position.

I pray that you rest, Lady Flagsworth, and retain your energy for prayer.

Being a gentleman, you will not argue with a lady, the elder Claire wheezed, her breaths remaining as rough as rags. You will not pay me the courtesy of considering my intellect, even in our final meeting.

We meet finally in Heaven, madam. There, all people are equals, being souls without torment. End your torment, Lady Flagsworth, and pray for final guidance.

God guides most people here to the nineteenth century, not Heaven, she replied, hard breaths softened by being extruded into careful words. Heaven will be my home those two years from now, but I pray that Earth finally achieves an era wherein children are neither heirs nor burdens, but replenishing gifts from God.

Lady Flagsworth said no more. Looking beneath the baby, Elizabeth pulled the infant away with an unexpected suddenness. That surface supporting the new Claire, a human breast, had lost its erratic disposition, resting now with the perfect smoothness of stasis.

Alexandra wept with a restriction to her sound and breathing that implied she had no tears to spare. Her eyes closed as though she could not share her vision. Intuitively she placed both hands around her daughter as Elizabeth pressed the infant near, against that chest rising and falling with the living emotion of despair. Accepting her child, Alexandra did not open her eyes, and did not end her weeping. Claire began.

Perhaps from hearing that sound, or feeling that vibration from the nearest person in her world, the baby released her first tears. She did not initiate an infant’s terrific wail, but expelled gasping sobs as though from sorrow, a mourning that seemed sad enough to last into the next century.

This sound did not travel into the adjacent wing of the manor house. Ascending the central stairway, the household’s master proceeded to his wife’s bedchamber to find her absent. He saw neither wife, offspring, nor servants. Jeremiah might have suffered a dream of vanished family if the midwife had not provided witness. She remained in order to aid the occupied, affected servants in cleaning the rank bedclothes and soiled linens. She performed a woman’s work, not the unavoidable drudgery of cleansing grime, but manifesting a consideration as immortal as emotion.

Chapter II

Recalcitrant World

Peaceful, deep sleeping, all calm, until the visions came. In her dream, Claire felt her bedding change, along with her breathing, as though they were the same. How very odd; this was her feeling, even though asleep. As her breaths became deeper and coarse, her sheeting lost the smoothness of worn linen, changing to dream burlap with a texture as thick as a girl. Each inhalation corresponded to a gap in the weave between threads. With every exhalation, the girl fell down, down, to the bottom of the bag. A great breath brought her to the surface and air not full of threads, only to exhale and descend again. Soon her breathing became so difficult that Claire could no longer dream. She could no longer sleep. The child awoke to discover that she had caused her own uneasy breathing by pressing her face so firmly against the counterpane that scant air could reach her lungs. Gasping in that first cool breath, Claire arose, quitting a bad dream only to enter a nightmare.

She stepped through the corridor. The passage remained dark, for Claire was too young to light candles or wick up the oil lamps, which were too high to reach. Feeling that solitude propelled her fear, Claire sought companionship. Though Claire preferred to seek Miss Elizabeth, servants’ quarters were down, down, at the bottom of the manor house’s weave.

A solitary girl moth seeking the brightness of fellowship, Claire followed the light. Bright cracks shone through two doorways along the corridor. Claire knew not to proceed too far, lest she arrive at Father’s chamber. That would be no site of ready comfort. Nearer lay Mother’s bedchamber, which became Claire’s goal. Not frightened of anything silent and still, she walked along the quiet corridor, which became louder as Claire approached her mother. The girl feared things fast and loud: dogs in alleys brandishing their teeth and tongues, high carriages on the cobblestone jerked along by horses as hard as wheel hoops.

For Claire, the most frightening of loud sounds remained the human voice. Along the corridor, stepping toward light, Claire heard loud speaking, recognizing anger not from the words, but those harsh exhalations violently blowing the speaking forth. She would not remember the words. She would not forget that accompanying sound, a fast and hard contact she could nearly place in her brief experience. Not the chambermaid whacking carpets with a beater to drive out soil. Not a woodworker constructing a fence by pounding posts into the ground. As she approached the door, Claire thought of a dog being beaten with a stick. A bitch dog.

She found a latch that needed mending, for the door swung open without the impediment of a functioning lock. The interior seemed bright to a girl who had been venturing through darkness. Not the lovely light of the moon, but an oil lamp’s glow tainted by the stench of burned animal remains filled the bedchamber. Despite the chill, the room was hot, and dark to the child beyond any illumination. Dark as the words being spoken.

Your duty as a wife is to provide me with an heir. Good lord, woman, what purpose on God’s Earth do you think a woman serves?

Lacking sensory experience, the child could not process all of the available perceptual information in an instant. The speaking, she understood, came from her father, who stood beside Mother’s bed. Next came the comprehension that Father wore no shirt. That short hair and shaped skin of his chest formed an utterly foreign landscape to the girl. The reply came from Claire’s mother, who sat on her bedside in common nightclothes.

I, I nearly said companionship.

That speaking would have been proper, Alexandra. The unique companionship a wife provides is that conjoining for which the very Bible provides.

I am saddened to hear you describe marriage as though the relationship were employment.

Let us consider it such, Alexandra. My responsibility is to provide you with the necessities of living as purchased by the monetary income from my career. I provide you with food and clothing, and this house.

I remind you, sir, that we received this home from my mother.

I remind you, missus, that the home belonged to your father. His name remained on the property deed, even as my name is now set down as owner.

Yes, and here is another inequity from the universe of males. My mother did not legally own her own home even though her husband had passed on.

The universe is proceeding nicely, thank you, as officiated by males. The initiator, you well understand, is one Lord God, Whom even the impious refer to as He. Very well, missus, having briefly enumerated my responsibility in this mutual employment of marriage, I shall now hear from you. What is your position in this enterprise?

I entertain your business guests, Jeremiah. I rear your child.

That child is not an heir, Alexandra.

I cooperate in your ludicrous conversations, such as the current.

Do you understand, missus, that I can legally take this coupling from you?

Do you understand, husband, that I would prefer the beating you offer?

Very well, you then refuse to accept the marital conjoining with me?

I would sign my name to a document affirming that my body belongs to me while on Earth, to God always, and to you as per your commandeering it.

Very well, woman. I then conclude this conversation you have made ludicrous by slandering all husbands. I conclude by performing that unpleasant duty of a husband, which is to castigate disobedient family members who refuse to fulfill their obligations.

Movement brought interpretation to Claire’s perceptions. Only as her father stepped firmly toward Mum did Claire understand that he had been holding a walking stick since her first viewing him. Now Claire viewed her father deliver three quick strikes to Mum’s shoulders and back with the cane, blows forceful enough to produce grunts in both adults.

The sounds existed as an entity, not a mere description of activity. Stiff cane stopped by absorbent torso. Those rapid thumps dulled by Mother’s body expanded in the air to her daughter, pressing against Claire as though smothering objects. A hard sound comprising individual elements formed a wholeness of terror. Father’s power exploded to his wife, who received and softened the energy with her person, as though protecting the greater world from the onslaught of an individual, accepting the responsibility of dissipating his social emotion. This contradiction, Claire would carry. She would not recall the scene, but would never forget that sound.

Alexandra flinched and bent lower with each blow until her forehead nearly touched her knees. She remained perfectly static, silent, not encouraging Jeremiah to further fulfill his marital duties.

Claire best understood in that moment that she would never marry.

Grasping the cane as though holding on to the final buoyant shard of a sinking ship, Jeremiah turned to the doorway. He turned to his daughter. According to his flushed skin and assaulted eyes, Father had beaten himself.

Missus, I see that our child needs an escort to her own bed, came that voice from above as Jeremiah glimpsed his wife. I wish you both a pleasant evening.

Terrified Claire had not been able to move for minutes. Not even when the great beater stepped near enough to swallow her. Claire did not notice his chest hair or exposed skin, but his bulk, his height. She noticed that he managed to quit the chamber without even brushing against the girl centered in the doorway.

Alexandra straightened, turning to stare at her daughter. The silence ensuing extended for the eternity of a moment.

Claire, you must remain settled after being sent to your sleep. Your wandering about at night will cause us all unneeded grief.

Father had seemed more pleasant in his speaking. The difference was that Claire’s mother touched her, stepping to the doorway to lift her child in her arms. Though receiving neither a smile nor kiss as Alexandra carried her to bed, Claire accepted the grasp as a mother’s embrace.

The same as movement and thinking and speech, a child’s budding comprehension is imperfect. In her future, Claire would find difficulty distinguishing sleepy experience from persuasive dream. But she would never doubt her enlightenment. Claire lost her innocence this evening, understanding that a recalcitrant world cannot be rectified by a husband’s hostility, nor cured by a mother’s love.

Chapter III

Babies In Books

"Oh, Elizabeth, the ruffians are playing on our threshold again."

Though viewing through the closed window distorted her sight—glass clearly an imperfect achievement of mankind—Elizabeth recognized those persons of whom her mistress spoke.

Ah, missus, and I’m saying that they’re only neighbor boys playing at their game of skit-stick.

Boys do grow up to become husbands, do they not? And what, might I inquire, is the nature of the game they pursue?

Ah, and it’s an old sport, I’m saying, one of striking a small stick with a larger.

I see. The game is thus called ‘marriage.’ Elizabeth, did not this particular sport cause damage to the parlor window recently?

Aye, and I’m certain of it, mistress. It’s just that the lane, at this corner, has less carriage traffic, thus less droppings from horses.

Why do the streets in this locale begin precisely where the buildings end? Alexandra complained. London’s shopping districts include walkways to provide a tangible separation where persons might walk without vying for position with every passing phaeton.

Aye, Mistress Alexandra.

Alexandra had a final view through her window before deciding the children’s fate.

Elizabeth, I suggest that our home would better retain its health if these minuscule men sported elsewhere. I leave you to encourage their exit.

Aye, and thanking you kindly I am, ma’am, for making me the sergeant-in-arms of childhood.

The handmaid stepped to the chamber’s corner where the wash basin and stand resided. On the floor sat a ceramic piece of good quality, its glazing smooth but not unduly decorated with stenciled fleur-de-lis. A wax cap topped the opening often considered too small by members of a particular gender.

Aye, and apologizing I am, missus, in that I’ve not chastised Katherine for failing to empty your chamber pot this day.