The Ink Well Contest : Week One Draft | Drinking and Driving While Ambitious

The latter part of the 18th century witnessed Malcolm Adelbury still clawing his way into the position of power he'd envisioned; however, his burning desire to cross the threshold into the aristocracy was fading with each passing month the government's attention focused on the debate across the pond.

His sword now hung above the fireplace. Desire for any substantial confrontation, other than admonishing Mrs. Adelbury, was in the rear.

He didn't want to concentrate on the news concerning the uprising in the Americas. He'd gladly lend his military knowledge, of course; his body, he had other plans. Besides, his propensity for the decanter these past few years didn't take his uniform into consideration.

This night, the short statured, former military captain wished he could cast off the mediocrity of his hasty decision to advance his political and social standing with an alliance.

But it wasn't that easy once Margaret, the magistrate's daughter, set sights on what she heard was a future member of the English Parliament.

Too late for self-recrimination. Sweat beaded up his brow quickly, then fell.

Malcolm's headache intensified. Overindulgence the night before. He stood staring at the fireplace, touching his forehead. When can I take these damn bandages off, he thought. The empty blaze of the embers stared back with no answer.

He clenched his teeth as the vein in his neck bulged. With hands holding his head, he almost stumbled as he swung away from the fire.

"Every time I look at those damn threadbare, color-faded curtains, it makes me sick. Even the dust mites have packed up and moved out. Not to mention the tattered edges of that second-hand rug. I shudder at the neighbors' whispers.

"You're on a roll tonight, Dear. What's got you stirred up in a shepherds pie?"

"It'll be over soon Dearest. Just wait. I deserve a better life than the bottom of Bromington Heights. A war is coming. My scrap metal business will triple. I can't believe those who think we won't retaliate."

"What brought you to that conclusion, Dear? I haven't seen you mingling lately with Club members."

"These matters are too delicate for women, Dearest."

"Not necessarily, Dear. Tea's not the only thing taken in over conversation. Why, you wouldn't believe my friend's husband overheard one of the members say he's applying for a position in the Americas. Supposedly, he has a cousin who infiltrated the the dock workers. It's all hush-hush, mind you. Of course, I told them I'd not say a word to anyone.

"You just told Me."

"Well, that's different, Dear. You have no ambition."

Malcolm clinched his fist and pressed his temple hard. "How many times have I told you I'm done with war. Why are you trying to send me to my death?"

"Dear, you're doing a fabulous job yourself. Besides, everyone's in an uproar over the latest incident that happened in that Massachusetts' colony harbor. Seems as though all that planning has gone horribly wrong. That's what happens when you allow too much freedom. Why my friend said her husband..."

Interrupting, Malcolm yelled, "Oh my God, woman, shut up!" Rolling his eyes in the direction of the decanter, he muttered just above his breath, "I need a drink."

Headed toward the bar, he remembered why he summoned his Dearest to the parlour in the first place.

"I'm arranging a dinner party for 10 guests this Saturday, including our Jeffrey. He's old enough. I'm trying to secure a sponsor to the Club." A large gulp burned his throat.

"Well, Dear. I'd like to oblige. And don't drag our son into your schemes. Anyway, there's no way physically possible I can."

"What do you mean, Dearest? I wish you'd quit nagging. I'm fed up with your complaining. I already told you we can't afford a butler, a driver, and a maid just because you want to play socialite. And I've also told you a hundred times. You can't find but maybe one of those socialites, and I use the term loosely, that qualify as a friend."

"Well, Dear. It's one more than you have." Shaking her head, sighing, she continued in her usual soft, endearing manner, "and, you know exactly what I mean when I say it's not possible to make the arrangements."

"Humor me, Dearest. I'm dying to know why."

Mrs. Adelbury stood up, looking him squarely in the eye. "Because I've been dead for the past three months, the moment I was knocked out of the carriage from your bad driving. I told you many times one day your drinking would be the death of me."

He swirled around. He didn't dare look at her straightaway. His mouth twisted to one side. His eyes bulged as though truly seeing his wife for the first time. Her words, thunderous in their roar, pierced his ears. Rejected, they reverberated, then headed in another direction as he shook his head violently. His left arm rose quickly in his attempt to control the sweat droplets now pouring.

Too late. His face was wet with previously denied sorrow. As the reckoning landed on his shiny black shoes, he couldn't hold back the acknowledgement he knew deep down would one day surface.

It's preposterous! he finally admitted. However, his lips firmly gave voice to the ringing in his head as he blurted out in half denial, "You're lying. You're still harboring resentment from my encounter with Lady Tinsdale last summer."

With a horrified look, he backed up. His drink spilled as the rug entangled his foot. He tried to brace for the approaching sofa table, but the rug's hole ensnared it.

Margaret watched as the table's sharp edge pierced his skull.

Malcolm stood up slowly. Taking stock of the tattered rug, dusty shelves, smelly curtains, and the guest list, he wondered why they didn't seem to matter that much now.

His eyes fixed on her.

"You ready to go, Dear! Remember I told you that one day your drinking would be the death of you too."