The Silent Women

By Erin Rogers

This time, they speak for themselves.

Long represented in the words of men, a group of iconic literary women reclaim their identities by finally telling their own stories. Raised in a society that denied their voices, these women have snatched them back.

From a woman unfairly propositioned to one trapped by convention… from women cornered into ruin to those endangered or killed prematurely – the so-called muses have their say. And they are no longer shy about telling their side of the tale.

In this stunning reimagining of seminal poems across centuries, the women within come alive on the page. Their lived experiences unfold in their own powerful words and images.

Be quiet? Not anymore. This collection gives voice to the voiceless and upends outdated representations of womanhood – once and for all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035827411

Erin Rogers

Erin Rogers and Vikki Hansen are friends, colleagues, fellow creatives, and literary enthusiasts with a penchant for exploring the written word. With a combined experience of over 40 years of studying the works of some of the world’s most celebrated novelists, poets, and playwrights, they chose to share their first collaborative effort, a short story collection named The Silent Women. Living and working in Peterborough, England, the two are particularly interested in exploring what can be learned from literature through the nuances of life presented there and challenging the preconceived ideas of what life should be now and in the future.

Book preview

About the Author

Erin Rogers and Vikki Hansen are friends, colleagues, fellow creatives, and literary enthusiasts with a penchant for exploring the written word. With a combined experience of over 40 years of studying the works of some of the world’s most celebrated novelists, poets, and playwrights, they chose to share their first collaborative effort, a short story collection named The Silent Women. Living and working in Peterborough, England, the two are particularly interested in exploring what can be learned from literature through the nuances of life presented there and challenging the preconceived ideas of what life should be now and in the future.

Dedication

We would like to dedicate this collection to the inspirational women in our lives now; those who came before us fighting for our right to have a voice; our families; our friends, and those who have encouraged and motivated us to explore our passion for the written word. Thank you.

Copyright Information ©

Erin Rogers and Vikki Hansen 2024

The right of Erin Rogers and Vikki Hansen to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035827404 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035827411 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

We would like to acknowledge Austin Macauley Publishers for taking a chance on a pair of unknown writers. The faith you showed in us is much appreciated.

The Laboratory – By Browning

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,

May gaze thro’ these faint smokes curling whitely,

As thou pliest thy trade in this devil’s-smithy—

Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

He is with her, and they know that I know,

Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow

While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear

Empty church, to pray God in, for them—I am here.

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,

Pound at thy powder—I am not in haste!

Better sit thus and observe thy strange things,

Than go where men wait me and dance at the King’s.

That in the mortar—you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!

And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,

Sure to taste sweetly—is that poison too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,

What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!

To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,

A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!

Soon, at the King’s, a mere lozenge to give

And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!

But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head

And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

Quick—is it finished? The colour’s too grim!

Why not soft like the phial’s, enticing and dim?

Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,

And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

What a drop! She’s not little, no minion like me—

That’s why she ensnared him: this never will free

The soul from those masculine eyes—say, no!

To that pulse’s magnificent come-and-go.

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought

My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought

Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall,

Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

Not that I bid you spare her the pain!

Let death be felt and the proof remain;

Brand, burn up, bite into its grace—

He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose;

It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:

The delicate droplet, my whole fortune’s fee—

If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,

You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!

But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings

Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King’s!

The Laboratory

Scandal in the palace, duo of debutante deaths discovered at King’s.

Apothecary

Sitting at my desk, I pause in my reading, shake out the newspaper, and stare again at the headline. It just cannot be. I hope this cannot be…I knew… Usually, I am so principled in my creations… Thoughts swirl around my head, my heart pounds in my chest and my hands grip more tightly around the newspaper, scrunching the edges.

Breathe.

One…Two…Three… I force myself to take some deep breaths. Even if… No… I knew that woman was irreproachable. Surely, that can be the only explanation for what I have just read. Again, I force myself to breathe. As I take those deep breaths, I look around the laboratory. My laboratory. Hopefully, not for the last time. For the first time though, I consider my surroundings. The phials sit on the shelves, the ingredients wait to be used, the equipment sits quietly—all there to be worked into something special by my hands. The light from the window behind me flashes off the glass masks on the table, and I remember that woman. I flinch at the memory—I know I should not have…But she was just so… So unlike any woman I have encountered before.

Getting up from where I am sitting to pace, I touch all of those objects to calm myself; it usually works. Today, I still feel unsettled—the smooth glass of the receptacles and the rough edges of the desk do nothing to really settle my thoughts. They keep careening back to her. I cannot believe it. What was I thinking? No, that is not right—of course I can believe it, it is just that I do not want to believe it. That woman on that day seemed so…well… Disturbed? Insane? Manic? Devious? It was her fault. Not mine.

I look back at the newspaper article; I had not realised she would actually go through with it—especially a woman who looked so much like a minion. I only believe it could even be possible for a woman because I met her. What if…? No, it cannot come back to me. My honourable behaviour over all these years will be ruined…

Thinking about the conversation with her here was what showed me she was serious though—I should have known then really that she would go through with what she intended. She was so demanding. I do not usually have anything directly to do with women. Few would demean themselves enough to come to my laboratory. They stay away. Besides which, women do not have the type of devious mind that would mean they wanted what she wanted. She was clear—she wanted something dangerous. I was not sure; I questioned the morality of it, and I questioned my own scruples, but she was demanding, persistent. Manipulative. She had thought about it all: the type, the colour, the amount—even ways to be able to carry and disguise it. This was a woman who had planned, and was not likely to let a mere apothecary come in the way of those plans.

People tell me that women are kind, fair and gentle; she was not. The way she spoke of the man was nothing short of perturbing. He was (I assume) her husband, and she was furious. They say, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ and she was the personification of that. She was obsessed. She was angry. She was wanting revenge. On the women who scorned her. Her man was caught up in a trap; he had been deceived, duped, and she was not going to withdraw from the situation without having her…revenge.

Gentry flee spa town as debutante deaths remain unexplained.

Debutante

Society is quaking today; they are quaking in their hessians and their silk slippers alike. The pump rooms, milliner’s shops, auction houses and gaming hells are buzzing with whispers of scandalous betrayals and intrigues. There’s theories about spies and disgraceful, immoral, acts of treason by two ridiculous, twittering little feathers-for-brains debutantes.

Well, let society whitter away. Let them fret. It would seem they have good cause. Me. I am the cause.

For years, I stayed quiet. For years, I let others dictate my way in the world. For years, I let others take what they would from me, be it my belongings, my self-esteem or my dignity. They chose my clothing, fussed with my hair pinning it in whichever outré style was most fashionable, pinioning me into a cage which I was never meant to inhabit.

I’m short, not tall; plump, not thin; brown haired, not blonde, and with hair so stubbornly straight the curlers I’m forced to endure leave little evidence of their having touched my hair, let alone having their intended impact from overnight wearing. The latest fashions favour the taller and slender, fashionable, pouter pigeon shapes of the belle monde, while I’m a shorter, stubbier homing pigeon, stuffed in a lace handkerchief, wrapped up in ribbons and pulled tight until my feathers are ruffled and sticking out at odd angles. It’s no surprise my own debut was met with such ennui. But theirs…

I remember the day of my presentation. I was trussed up like a Christmas bird in a presentation gown so silked, ribboned, frilled, flounced and laced that it was nearly impossible to see through the forest of material. I’d thought myself the height of fashion as Madame Melanie had designed my dress herself. My mother had spared no cost. Jewels draped my neck in layers, to ‘sweeten the pot.’ My father had dared not argue with my mother as she dealt with my fledgling voyage into society. While I was told I was not the fashion, at least my clothing and accoutrements would be.

I’d seen him that day. Tall, handsome, dashing. He wore black leather pumps with large silver buckles, white silk stockings which encased muscular legs and which led to slim fitting knee breeches. A black cutaway coat, adorned again with silver buttons, rested atop a smart silver waistcoat with a pure white linen shirt beneath and each worked to emphasise his broad shoulders. A waterfall cravat was the final flourish and drew my eyes directly to his beautiful countenance. He smiled easily and conversed gaily with all who approached him. His smile seemed kind; any expression was a far cry from the stoic, sober superciliousness of the faces crowding the room. He was a ray of hope. I decided then that I wanted him. He was mine.

Bow Street still stymied by debutante deaths.

Apothecary

Society continues to quake. Recent events seem to have shocked the new season debutantes; I see the fear in the faces of the young. If this could happen to them—those perfect pictures of beauty—it could surely happen to anyone? It makes me uneasy too. I cannot help but think… Normally, I would not let a newspaper headline impact me in such a way. Normally, I would not recognise the impact this was having. Normally, I would remain restricted, almost incarcerated, in my laboratory with only the equipment and ingredients for company. Normally however, this would not potentially affect me… Always in my work, I am level headed and logical. I have to be: I must always ensure I have the right composite of ingredients; after all, there would be serious consequences if I mixed up the chamomile with the witch hazel. I am always careful, precise, accurate and my reputation precedes me for this. Maybe this is why she chose me?

Maybe I am paranoid. I have never felt like this before; it has never been necessary. My work has always been honest, reliable, helpful to those patients I have administered it to. I knew she was no ordinary patient. I should have realised by her short stature, her plump appearance and her untrustworthy almost straight brown hair. She wanted to be inconspicuous, but her very being was unusual, so different to those other new, fresh, feature-for-brains debutantes. There was something altogether more… sinister about her.

In a vain attempt to forget the day’s shocking headline revelation, I consult my ledger, and begin to gather the ingredients for the most recent patient. This particular one requires a paste for an external facial blemish. As I always do, I meticulously start to place the ingredients in the mortar and grind them together. I am methodical, almost fastidious. I am attentive to my work.

I pound away at this new potion; I enjoy the monotony of the work. It is tiring, toilsome and demanding; not all potions are simple—they require an imaginative and experimental mind. What I am able to create does not necessarily come