PLOT TWIST-TH' FINAL

TH' SAILIN' O' VIOLET MOORFIELDS: TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE
FINAL PLOT TWIST

Ahoy luvs!

'Tis wit' a wee bit o' sadness I post this final PLOT TWIST submitted by my dear new friend Libby Boswell. It has been fun recountin' th' Jacobite adventures o' Violet Moorfields and creatively sharin' along th' way. Oh, Violet ain't dead yet....jus' sailin' on a sea o' cheese.....and I watch th' horizon fer her return........

My sincere thanks t' ye all fer readin this far......

Fair Winds an' a followin' sea......

~Foxmorton

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Tis Libby's last word--and she has Violet to thank for it.




And ooooh she done right for the lobsterback’s liver she did. Well, says I, here’s me opportunity to get shed of the Cameron’s, the Atholl’s and those bloody soldiers. They raised a proper hue and cry, what with the officer’s shouting for men, and then, ah yes! a messenger to send word to the coast for a pursuing ship.



Well, well, maybe fortune might smile upon me yet. Now among the many things I have to thank Greta Van der Kuiken for, one of them just happens to be the finer points of using a cudgel. You do have to know where to hit, for fastest effect.



I do. Sadly, the messenger boy now does too—or I expect he did when he came to.



They do go down with such a nice sound, I must say. But I couldn’t linger.



It was but a hurried heartbeat to strip off my skirt, to the breeches I wore underneath, grab his coat, frisk him for the coin he was given, and leap into the saddle. I figured his coat would cover my bodice well enough till I was further away.



I clapped my heels to that poor beast and we went off hell for leather.



After a few miles I got to chuckling…Violet will make a very clean get away this time—no message will go to the headland, no ship will pursue: I have no intention of delivering it.



I suppose it were the sisterly thing to do. And oh, we may be that after all—what else, I suppose, would you call a person what leaves her husband for the sea, and the promise of treasure but a pirate, hmmm?



I slowed the horse to a better rhythm, and the miles went on, as I mused. Foolish Willie. He just can’t hold his whisky!



Of course he didn’t need to.



I was holding it—and pouring it down his gullet, him being tied to the bed and all. Funny how that worked out.



Men are simple creatures really, Greta once told me—offer them anything to do with their John Thomas, and you can end up leading them by it.



Oh the stories we tell…



Of course, where the hell he thought I was going to find a willing Hessian in that lot, I will never know, but it sufficed to get me his half of the treasure key, some of his clothes, and a very sharp little boot knife with a stag handle, along with his boots to put it in, and get him foxed enough to forget his own mother, let alone where his ‘wife’ may have taken herself off to.



Soon…soon…the hooves drummed along, taking me further away from hated respectability.



Soon, we could hit the coast, and look for a ship. Then soon it would be back to Albany…the jenever cache… and then maybe a trip up the coast to deal with Greta’s turncoat nephew what sold her to the Frogs.



I wonder if Violet might be interested in a joint venture…I know where there’s a sweet little snow that just begs to spread her white wings to a good wind and what might need new owners…


submitted this day by
---Libby Boswell