The Ink Well Contest : Week Two Final Draft | The Last Confrontation

Malcolm Adelbury was still clawing his way to the position he deserved. He burned to cross the threshold into aristocracy for service to his country, but with each passing month his ambition faded.

His musket now hung proudly above the fireplace. Other than admonishing Mrs. Adelbury, he had no interest in any new skirmishes.

His battle confrontations left him with an unsteady gait, while his propensity for the decanter left him with an inaccurate aim. For talking points though, this former Captain kept abreast of the American uprising. He gleefully volunteered his expertise.

This night though Malcolm wished he could cast off the mediocrity of his hasty decision after the war to advance his political and social standing by entering into a marriage alliance.

Truthfully, once Margaret set her sights on Malcolm's perceived future in Parliament, his retreat was not an option.

Self-recrimination. Too late. His head throbbed as liquor overindulgence from the night before produced large-beaded sweat on his brow.

He stood staring at the fireplace, gingerly touching his bandaged forehead. Three months had passed since the horrible accident left him unable to recall critical details from that day.

When can I get rid of this damn bandage? he thought. The empty blaze of the embers stared back with no answer.

Malcolm clinched his teeth, exposing bulging neck veins. Cradling his head, he stumbled from the fireplace.

"Those faded curtains. That tattered rug. I can imagine the neighbors' gossip."

"You're on a roll tonight, Dear. What's got you ruffled?"

"Dearest, a cottage in Bromington Heights won't be a suitable dwelling to properly entertain after my new status. A war is coming. Retaliation is certain. Demand for my scrap metal will ensure a full hosting schedule."

"You need to take it easy on the decanter, Dear. I didn't know you had a social calendar or any knowledge of Parliament's business."

"Those matters are too delicate for ladies, Dearest."

"Not necessarily, Dear. Scones aren't the only topic of conversation. Why, you wouldn't believe my friend's husband is re-enlisting in an undercover capacity. It's all hush-hush, mind you. Of course, I told her I wouldn't say a word."

"You just told me!"

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

Malcolm clinched his fist, then yelled, "how many times have I told you I'm done with war. Are you trying to get me killed?"

"Dear, you're doing a fabulous job yourself. Besides, everyone's in an uproar over the latest incident at that Massachusetts' harbour. 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, "I need a drink!"

Heading toward the console, he remembered why he summoned his Dearest to the parlour in the first place.

"I need you to arrange a dinner party for ten guests this Saturday. Please include Jeffrey. A strategic marriage may help secure both our positions. Additional sponsorships from the Club wouldn't hurt." Smiling at his machinations, he didn't mind the large gulp burning his throat.

"Well, Dear. As far as our son is concerned, I wish you'd forewarn him. As for my arranging your dinner party, I'd like to oblige, but there's no way physically possible I can."

"What do you mean, Dearest?" Exasperated, he continued, "I'm fed up with your complaining. I've told you numerous times we can't afford two maids like the household staff of those you consider your superior. I've also told you it'll be hard to find maybe one of those socialites, and I use the term loosely, that qualifies as a true friend."

"Well, Dear, that's one more than you have." 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." Instantly, a shiver ran through Malcolm's back as he felt Margaret's piercing stare.

He turned just as she stood up. She looked taller than he remembered.

Hurt and infuriated that he knew, but wouldn't acknowledge the truth, Margaret looked him squarely in the eye. Her words, thunderous in their roar, pierced his ears as she countered fiercely, "because I've been dead for the past three months, moments after the carriage flipped over from your driving intoxicated. I told you many times one day your drinking would be the death of me."

Malcolm grimaced. His eyes bulged as though truly seeing his wife for the first time. He shook his head violently, rejecting her words. His left arm rose quickly as he attempted to control the dripping sweat.

His face was wet with previously denied sorrow. As the reckoning landed on his shiny black shoes, he couldn't hold back the memories, especially of her pleading with him not to take his full flask on their outing that day. Memories he hoped wouldn't resurface.

"It's preposterous! I don't deserve these lies!" he blurted. Taking up the only battle cry he thought to use against her, his denial was forceful. "Faithful, I was. Spiteful, you became; and jealous, others concluded, for continuing to harbor resentment towards my affection for Lady Tinsdale!"

He tore the bandage from his forehead. Unaware his right foot was inches away from the large hole in the rug, he advanced quickly in her direction. After two steps, his shoe drove deep inside the hole entangling his foot. Losing his balance, he stumbled forward.

Margaret watched as his head hit the sharp edge of the console.

Silence.

Several minutes later, Malcolm rose. He stared at the blood-stained table. He then canvassed the room. The crackling embers, tattered rug, threadbare curtains, and dusty mantle caught his attention. He wondered why these items no longer irritated him. Better still, the half-empty decanter and guest list sitting on the console felt meaningless.

His gaze finally anchored on his wife.

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