Ms.Appropriately

This story has been a treat for me to write. Whereas the core stories of Baker and Jones are focused on two parts: romance and plot, The Now Former Lady Deveroux has little interest in complex plot. I didn't expect to be writing a spin-off before a sequel, but, this is where motivation has taken me.

It is important to know that this story involves religion even more than Baker and Jones - The Winchester Conspiracy does. If that is something which you find may be a triggering experience, specifically around religious homophobia, I want to ensure you have a head's up. I've had the strange experience of attending a Divinity School whilst being out as a queer trans woman, so I approach theology with a really robust understanding of not only its pitfalls, but its insights. This story will draw upon that experience, and I intend to do some interesting things with these dynamics. 

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have been enjoying writing it!

Chapter One

 Samantha had always felt that those who were taken in towards conspiracy mindsets were overly ridiculous. There were many within the upper echelons of society who, when faced with any discomfort, swore up and down that there were covens of witches or whispering servants or conniving rivals conspiring to thwart them. The less pleasant would take it a step further, convincing themselves that it was the Kerish, or the Jews, or the colonists taking up action against them. The Mallet’s revolt did little to dampen the circuitous rhetoric of such individuals, and Samantha had found them all intolerable to be around. 

But, when her husband was made aware of her infidelity, when her divorce became the highest subject of scandal, when she found herself removed from the landed elite and she was forced to take up residence in the home of two women who’d rejected her in favor of one another… Samantha found herself trending towards conspiracy. It had all fallen apart with such speed and bravado it must be considered an act of divine judgment upon her, nothing else could account for such a casting down from grace. 

She made awareness of this unfairness the cornerstone of nearly all conversations these days, allowing herself to spit and spiral and grumble to any who would hear her. It hardly took any time at all for her to exhaust her list of available conversation partners, and when her new and unexpected roommates, Annette Baker and Cordelia Jones, announced that their detective work would be taking them away to Kereland for an undetermined amount of time, she found her options pathetically slim. 

So, Samantha finds herself in a position that has become frustratingly and pitiably familiar this past week: slumped over the bar counter of the Fleeting Faery, complaining to the increasingly impatient bartender, Bill. 

“It’s not as though I thought her less than me,” Samantha complains, her chest pressing deep into the weary wood counter while her feet hook onto the rungs of the stool below. 

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he shrugs. 

“It’s-, I-,” she stammers, winding up to begin the next phase of her practiced rant. She takes another swig of her beer and says, “She always adored that sort of treatment. She was looking for directions and I could direct her. It made sense!” 

Bill doesn’t look up from the mug he has been cleaning the last three minutes. He simply replies, “As you say, my lady.” 

Samantha bristles at the term. She’d loved the honorific of “Lady.” Now, she was simply “Miss” once more. Humiliating. “I’m sophisticated,” she tells him, able to read his disinterest but unable to prevent herself from continuing. “I’m ambitious. I’m beautiful. And she-?” She released a frustrated groan. “I just don’t understand it.” 

“We’re not meant to understand everything,” Bill offers as explanation. 

“A proper theologian,” she accuses, taking another draft of the beer that’s grown warm between her palms. “Why isn’t man to understand everything? I-I’m intelligent. I’ve fought and worked for an education. I’ve dined in the halls of power, Bill!” She sets the pint glass down, tapping it loudly to support her point. “Christ’s sake, I deserve to know what has misguided her so!” 

Bill rolls his eyes, placing his thoroughly cleaned glass on the counter. “You’ve been living with them. You could simply ask Annette.” 

“And suffer the embarrassment?” She scoffs and tries to disengage. Instead, she finds herself treading down a different path of her own woes. “I’m sure you’re going to snip at me for saying this, but it is wretched to return to cooking and cleaning and taking care of-,”

A door opening across the room pulls her attention away from her words. In the Faery, most times it simply meant that another woman had arrived looking for the attentions of the assembled bar. But it was also always a possibility that a police officer would stroll inside instead, hoping to catch someone in the act of immodesty with another woman, and Samantha had learned to always keep her eyes on the door. 

Upon seeing the newest patron of the space, Samantha would rather have witnessed a cop entering. Standing in the doorway, looking innocent, unassuming, and lost, with billowing black-and-white robes and a long veil over her hair, is a nun from the convent attached to St. Bartholomew’s cathedral. She holds her hands at her stomach, fingers latticed together, and surveys the room with curious and surely condemning eyes. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Samantha mutters, staring down into her glass to avoid the embarrassment of watching the Sister any longer. 

Bill perks up, sensing the tension emerging from her arrival. “Anything I can help you with, Sister?” 

The nun tosses him an appreciative glare, spared the awkwardness of trying to ingratiate herself into a room of new faces, and she strolls up to the counter. “Good evening, Mr…”

“Collins,” the barkeep supplies. “You can just call me Bill.” 

“Sister Esther Levy,” the nun chirps back, her voice sweet and sincere, “at your service.” 

“Quite late in the night for a Sister to be out and about, in a pub, no less,” Bill observes, carefully sizing up her intentions. “I’ve never seen you at St. Bartholomew’s.” 

“I’ve only just arrived this week,” she answers back. Her voice has the unaffected and charitable eagerness of a woman who believes herself truly holy indeed. “Father Billings sent for a new Sister to fill the vacancy of Sister Elenore’s retirement.” 

Samantha quickly grows weary of her innocence, peeling her eyes up to glare at Bill and sneer, “Just ask the clueless nun what she’s doing here and let me get on with my misery, Bill.” 

To her frustration, the nun answers her directly. “I simply wish to acquaint myself with my new home.” 

Bill leans forward, furrowing his heavy brows and speaking quietly. “Are… are you aware of the Faery’s reputation, Sister?” 

“It’s what brought me here,” she chirps. 

She says this like it was the happiest, most virtuous response she could make, and the attitude makes Samantha feel sick to her stomach. “Christ, a missionary. Allow me to spare you the trouble, Sister,” she throws back a long drink, then spins around in her stool to face the rest of the bar, cautiously watching the nun to see what she would do. 

“Repent, you vile fornicators!” Samantha preaches to the room, summoning the most ridiculous and self-righteous tone she could muster. “A self-appointed messenger of the vengeful God,” she points at the nun, “has come to exhort you to righteousness and implore you to abandon your shameful desires for a woman’s flesh! A pox upon the loins of ye who ignores her warnings!” The words ring out over the room, and slowly the patrons seem to gather that this warrants none of their attention. The quiet buzz of conversation returns as they continue on with their nights. Samantha turns over to the nun, scowling. “There, I have saved you from the trouble. You can leave now.” 

To her credit, the Sister watches her, undeterred. Her eyes flick up and down Samantha, scanning her watchfully, and she turns to face the counter once more. “Bill, might I have something to drink?” 

Bill, seeing the nun stride over to Samantha and pull out the stool next to her, seems to anoint himself with the easy arithmetic of deciding someone else could be made to suffer Samantha’s ramblings. He grabs another pint glass, pours a full cup from the barrel behind him, sets it on the table before her, and declares, “On the house, Revered Sister.” 

“Esther,” she invites. 

“As you say.” 

The Sister grabs the drink between both of her palms and pulls it close. She scoots up with her stool, resting her forearms onto the counter as she turns to look at Samantha once more. “Are you alright, miss? You seem troubled.” Then, she lets out a polite pip of laughter. “Well, not seem, you actively boasted of your misery.” 

“Then add pride to my ledger and be gone, Sister,” she sneers back. 

“I’ll be sure to keep tally. What ails you?” 

“Bill, would you remov-,” Samantha looks up to see Bill has relieved himself of her company and now resides at the far end of the counter, happily chatting up one of the other patrons. “Jesus,” she sighs. 

“Unfortunately,” the nun smirks, “taking the Lord’s name in such a way is a sin. I’ll have to add it onto your record.” 

“Are you mocking me?” 

“If only to lighten your mood.” 

Samantha scowls. “It’s failing, crone.” 

“Alas,” she takes a sip. “Another strike against you for rudeness.” 

“Stop that.” 

As much as she hates letting her frustration show, something about the Sister has pulled forth the reactions from Samantha. The nun replies, “Well, if I abandon my count of your sins, the Big Guy up there will have to take over,” she points an unassuming finger at the ceiling, “and he’s terribly busy and quite a prude.” 

“Hail Satan, then.” 

“I’m sure he didn’t hear that,” she giggles. She actually giggles. Insufferable. “Talk to me,” she insists. “What is aching upon your heart?” 

Resolute in the understanding that she would not be granted reprieve from this woman by remaining in the bar, Samantha briefly considers abandoning her drink and returning home. Yet, the prospect of strolling into the dark and empty townhouse, having to go to sleep with no company, no noise, no importance… she sighs and quietly replies, “Adjusting to a change in circumstance.” 

“What happened?” 

“Well,” Samantha takes a sharp inhale, her rant locked and loaded at the tip of her tongue, “I suspect your Lord God has executed a remarkably effective plan to destroy my life.” 

“I’m sure it was well deserved.” 

“How-? You-?” Samantha glowers, her face flushing with a warm embarrassment. “Are nuns even allowed to talk like this!? You’re actively mocking me!” 

“And you were so innocent of this sin when you ridiculed me to the whole bar,” the Sister snips back, her voice remaining calm and unbothered. She almost looks as though she’s enjoying herself. 

“You’re supposed to be holy.” 

“Does being holy mean abandoning my sense of humor?” She questions. 

“Yes.” 

The nun smiles at her and lifts her shoulders into a peaceable shrug. She sips at her drink and says, “Then we’ll have to add it to my ledger. Maybe I’ll go to confession later.” And, “Maybe not. What circumstances of yours have changed?” 

The invitation to complain once again wins out over the decision to depart and be alone. Samantha relents, telling her, “Up until three-and-a-half months ago, I was a married woman. An esteemed member of the court of the gentry. I had influence, wealth, status… I had servants attending to my beck-and-call. I had a life, luxury… and now…?” She shakes her head, wrapping her fingers around her glass and gazing into the golden liquid. 

“That sounds a difficult change to make,” her guest affirms. “And it seems this was not a voluntary change?” 

Samantha grimaces. “My husband was told of some of my… extramarital habits…” 

“With women?”,

“Is that judgment in your voice?” 

The nun declines. “Only curiosity. Please, continue telling your story.” 

It takes a moment for Samantha to decide to continue, and she watches Bill to see whether or not he’d be returning to this end of the counter anytime soon. It seems unlikely. “He nearly killed me when he found out, which was…” Her voice leaves her, not quite distraught, and not quite heartbroken. “It’s not as though he was a faithful and chaste husband, either. Nor was he even good. He’s now in prison for affiliation with a conspiracy.” 

“And I presume,” she summarizes, “given your particular inclinations there was pressure for an annulment?” 

Samantha nods. “And now I am penniless, save for an allowance from the two women whose mercy I live under, whom I also have history with. To be sure, they have been kind and amicable, but it is nearly impossible to bear.” Her fingers tap at her glass, expending a timid and difficult to placate nervousness. “And now, they’ve departed for a trip to Kereland, so I am alone at home.” 

“With nothing but loneliness for comfort and guilt in your heart,” the Sister completes. Her voice carried just a twinge of humor which Samantha decides to ignore. 

“It isn’t guilt. I’m angry,” she corrects. 

“I’m curious to learn why.” 

Samantha frowns, sitting back on the stool and crossing her arms over one another. “Must I tell you my whole life’s story?” 

“You can return to an empty home and tell it to your fireplace,” she counters. 

“I am appalled they admitted you to the convent.” 

As explanation, the Sister offers, “My aunt was recently promoted to Mother Superior.” 

Samantha’s brow drops and she stares at the woman. “You’re proud of such nepotism?” It isn’t as though the nobility was so different, but it’s a useful accusation to make against clergy. 

“No,” the nun shakes her head, grinning. “I simply derive pleasure from tormenting you so. You may add it to my ledger, should you like.” 

“I very nearly wish to report you to the Mother Superior.” 

“Sister Pullwater would love it if you did.” 

“I will.” 

“Please do,” the nun dismisses, she gazes down the bar counter. “In the meantime, why don’t I order another drink and continue mocking your life’s pain?” She captures Bill’s attention and says, “Another round, if you would be so kind!” Then turns back to Samantha. “So, you are angry.” 

Samantha accepts the new drink and finds herself once again reflecting on whether or not it would be worth it to remain. Bill was surely exhausted from listening to her, and every other patron of the bar she either had history with or could see that they had another partner. She grumbles internally that she’d fallen so low that a snarky nun was her only viable choice for conversation and continues. 

“I was born into nothing,” Samantha explains. “A daughter of a collar, serving in a family that wasn’t even nobility. I thought myself less than nothing, until an… instigating factor garnered the attentions of a rising captain, soon to be admiral.” 

She takes a long sip, briefly remembering how exciting that had been at the time, and then feeling how wretched it was now. “I spent countless hours remaking myself into a woman who could compensate for the deficiency of my birth. I became a more adept member of high society than even some who were born into it. Every conversation was a battle, every inhale, a skirmish, and I made myself a warrior.” 

Samantha sighs, concluding by saying, “And now, like cruel poetry, I am nothing once more.” 

While she was unsure of how she thought the holy woman might respond, Samantha had never guessed she would start laughing. The nun giggles to herself, gazing over Samantha like she’d committed a hilarious faux paux. She takes a drink to steady herself. 

Samantha frowns at her. “You’re laughing at me?” 

“Laughing at the naivety of your perspective,” she replies, still smiling. 

“You are a cruel woman, Sister,” Samantha accuses, deciding officially that this conversation was no longer worth it. She slides her drink forward a few inches and makes to stand, only to feel the woman’s hand pull her back into the seat. 

“Forgive me… I…” The nun waves a hand in front of her face, searching for the words. “It’s just… of course you’re not nothing.” 

“I am a peasant. I used to be a Lady.” 

“And yet,” she asserts, “you have value which is immune to either condition.” 

“Are you even listening to me?” Samantha lours. “When I would walk into a ballroom, the most powerful men in the country would burn with jealousy to know they couldn’t have me!” 

“You don’t even like men,” she rebuts. “How could you possibly care?”

Samantha grows frustrated with the naivety of the nuns' perspective. She sits forward and says, “The men would hate their wives for not being me. Their wives would hate themselves for not being me.” 

“So to have value is to inspire covetousness in others?” 

“Yes!” 

The Sister stares at her, her neck dropping her head down a little lower as she does. She looks at Samantha as though she’s stated the most absurd thing a person could say, which was frustrating considering how ridiculous the nun was from her perspective. “What a silly, dissatisfying way to live,” she declares. “Were you happy?” 

“Of course I was.” 

“Which is why you were a heartbroken adulterer?” 

Samantha watches her quietly, expecting the bursting of rage inside her to carry her forward. She’s surprised to find it isn’t there, replaced instead with a profound emptiness. “How… how dare you?” 

“Come now, your heart wasn’t in that rebuttal,” the Sister teases. “I’m beginning to feel as though you know I’m right and you refuse to admit it.” 

Samantha choses to deflect. She takes a drink and asks, “If you’re so clever, what then gives a person value?” 

“Nothing,” she places the word in the air and leaves it there. 

“How useful your perspective is…” Samantha turns away and faces her drink. 

“A man’s value is inherent,” she continues. “No outside condition may change that.” 

“Then what then is the point of life?” Samantha picks up her drink, expecting to take a sip, but sets it down instead. 

“To find peace within one’s self, and once found, administer the secret’s of such process to others,” the woman answers her, voice full of optimism and promise. 

“You think yourself at peace?” 

“More so than you are.” 

Samantha scowls. “And you think I’m prideful.” 

“You are,” she chirps back, smiling as though it was nothing more than a polite joke. “It occurs to me that I’ve not asked your name.” 

“Samantha Deveroux.” 

“Esther Levy,” she places hand on her chest. “Sam, the-,”

“Samantha.” 

“Yes, but now I know calling you ‘Sam’ further displeases you, which almost makes me more inclined to say it,” Esther grins, the corners of her lips twitching with glee. “Samantha, the key to peace is to make oneself right with God.”

“Enter the evangelism. Insufferable.” 

“People frequently misunderstand this,” she tells Samantha, careful that her tone is instructive but not homiletic. “To be right with God is not about being pure and chaste and absent any personality; no, it is to learn to love all people, beginning with oneself. ‘To love another person is to see the face of God.’”

Without thinking much of it, Samantha responds by telling her, “I don’t believe in love.” 

“Well, did you love her?” When Samantha furrows her brow, Esther adds, “The woman you’re clearly heartbroken over?” 

“Women,” she corrects.

“Did you love them?” 

“They both discarded me in favor of one another.” 

“Yes, but did you love them?” 

Samantha looks away. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Esther continues, pulling together Samantha’s thoughts as though she could peer deep into her mind. “You don’t believe in love because romantic love hurts. There are other types of love. I worry that you’ve not experienced them.” 

“My mother loved me,” Samantha defends. 

“And your father?” 

“Didn’t love my mother. Or me, it seems.” 

Esther appears genuinely sympathetic. “How terrible.” 

“It’s just life,” Samantha shrugs. “People use one another and then discard them.” She pokes at her drink as she’s lost in thought, but after Esther doesn’t reply she looks up and asks, “Why are you frowning at me?” 

“People use one another and discard them?” Her brows knit tightly together. “That’s what you believe?” 

“It isn’t what I believe. It is simply what the world is.” 

“So, from your perspective,” Esther continues, belaboring the point, “everything was good and right whilst you were the one using and discarding others. But, now you’ve been discarded, and you’re in pain. Have you no compassion?” 

Samantha buzzes with insult. “Of course I do.” 

“Every person you’ve used and discarded has felt as you do now, and yet you’ve felt nothing was wrong with that until you were no longer holding all the power?” Esther is disappointed. “I pity you.” 

“I didn’t ask for your pity.” 

Samantha feels a twisting sensation in herself as she says this. She did, indeed, want pity from others - the sort where they would agree regarding the unfairness of her current situation. She was meant for the gentry and it was nothing short of apocalyptic to her that she would be so easily cast out. She’d always known her status there was more tenuous than others, it had not been easy to make way given her background, but she’d foolishly assumed that she had garnered a place amongst its ranks even if her ex-husband, Revier, were no longer beside her. And so, Esther’s pity prickles against her; on the one hand providing the satisfying position of recognition, and on the other, far less comforting position, it confirms that she must be pathetic indeed. 

“Samantha,” Esther’s voice drops lower, descending into a tone nearing the sort of compassion one would use with an ill child, “it sounds as though lesbianism hardly even registers on your list of sins. Your true corruption is that you stopped allowing yourself to show love and compassion to people.” 

The ex-noblewoman frowns. “So what? As though you love every person you meet?” 

“I feel comfortable saying I love you.” 

“No, you don’t,” she spits the words into her drink. 

“When I gaze upon you, all I see is that spark of life within you which you are trying to snuff out through your perspective,” Esther tells her, somehow avoiding condescension in her tone despite her words. “I love that spark in all people. It’s God. It’s a person. It doesn’t matter, it’s loveable.” 

“You are a strange woman,” Samantha accuses. 

“Strange,” she admits, “and happy.” Esther scoots back her chair, swiping up her pint glass as her feet meet the ground once again. “Come, throw darts with me.” 

“And why would I do that?” 

“Because,” the nuns head bobs down towards her, not quite teasing, “you’re lonely and I’m someone to talk to.” 

And with that, Esther strolls jauntily across the room, having spied that the dartboard was no longer being used. Some of the patrons watch her carefully, but once they see she was not bothering anyone other than Samantha, they allow her full reign of the bar. Samantha watches her pluck the darts off of the cork target, throws back a little more of her drink, and decides to join her. It was that or go home, and she wasn’t ready to suffer the depravity of being alone with her thoughts or her space just yet. 

Esther takes the first throw, not particularly aiming with any focus. It’s a decent shot, just a few squares out from the center ring. She offers the hand of green darts to her, which Samantha accepts. “So,” Samantha begins after her first throw, “now that you’ve had your turn to criticize every aspect of my life and being, I believe it is mine. Why are you at this bar, of all places?” 

“I’ve been known to struggle with desires for women,” the nun replies casually. “Who better to discuss God’s love with lesbians than one who understands?” 

“I’m amazed you would admit that so openly.” 

“We’re taught that all sins are equal, but I’ve never really believed it,” Esther explains, tossing her second dart high into the twenty-zone. “How on Earth can murder be equivalent to lust? Desire for another person is a natural emotion, and I’ve not acted upon it in some time. It is no more shameful to admit than petty greed or mild covetousness.” 

Samantha feels her chest tighten. “But you believe acting upon it is wicked?” 

“I suppose,” the nun replies without much conviction. She quickly marches on to add, “Yet, how many men give themselves over to greed and debauchery without repentance. Indeed, the Barons worship greed and are praised for it. They’re sometimes treated as holy because of it.” 

“So you would act upon it?” 

Esther’s lip twitches up and her eyes glimmer mischievously. “Are you propositioning me?” 

“I am simply trying to understand just how tainted this nun is before me,” Samantha rolls her eyes. “She’s been mocking me all evening.” 

She decides not to engage with Samantha’s barb, instead throwing another dart and continuing on with her theology. “Man should strive to be holy, yet we all fall short of perfection. I may be a nun, yet I will undoubtedly sin in some way within my life, it is simply human nature. Would I rather that sin be lust for a woman, or murder?” Esther grins. “At any rate, God will understand my heart and accept my confession.” 

Samantha spins one of her darts between her fingers. She tosses it without much conviction at the board. “That is a surprisingly enlightened position for a Sister,” she exhales. 

“I don’t believe it particularly remarkable,” Esther shrugs. “I believe it to be a neutral position. It is simply that the rest hold a bias against this particular sin.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts before continuing. “Jesus spoke far more often about greed than lust. Indeed, the Apostle Paul is the only disciple to even discuss women lusting for one another, and only once in a long list of other sins. If I am to be shaping myself to be like Jesus, then it seems I ought to show more concern for poverty than lust.” 

Samantha considers her words for a moment. She may disagree with the overall assumption that one shouldn’t act on this lust, but there is a refreshing feeling of speaking with someone on the subject of religion who did not overemphasize this issue. “It doesn’t feel sinful, while in the act,” Samantha replies to her. “In actuality, it often felt more wrong to lay with my husband, even though it was expected of me.” 

Esther is quiet for a few breaths, her face flashing with empathy. “If… I…” It takes a moment for her to solidify her words. “I believe the expectation of marriage and sex thrust upon women is a sin in itself. The Apostle Paul says we should only need to be married if we are burning with lust and cannot bear it. It seems to me that far too many people are forced into such an arrangement who are not burning.” She exhales a sympathetic breath. “I am sorry your husband wronged you so.” 

“That is…” Samantha’s chest releases some of the tension she was holding. Revier was a lively and admirable man, in the eyes of society; handsome, charming, engaging. No one had ever assumed she would want anything other than him, much less apologized to her for the price of her ascension being matrimony to him. “I’ve never… He was useful, in his own way. Marriage gave me status, security…” 

“Being a Sister provides me the same,” Esther offers. 

“So.. you are not burning?” 

“I was, for a time,” she says without expanding upon it. “I’ve felt more peace of late. Are you burning?” 

“Constantly,” Samantha admits. “At times, it feels like it is all that I am. And not just lust, but… I feel consumed by fire at all times, save the few moments Annette or Cordelia gave me.” She drops her hands limply to her side. 

“When I was like that, it was as though I was nothing without the fire,” Esther empathizes. “And I was horrified to realize that was true. There was nothing I cared for, nothing I valued, save for giving into the flames. I felt like a husk of a person.” 

With more sincerity than she expects to speak with, Samantha asks, “And how did you escape them?” 

“The Church, though not for any conversion of God,” she says. “It was simply that the priest in my hometown, during confession, asked me who I was. Not my name, but who I was as a person. I couldn’t answer.” She stares away, watching the wall for a few breaths. “The Sisters have helped me find joy and purpose in all things, large or small, and to see that there is an innate somethingness inside of me. Call it God, or don’t, I’m not particularly cut up over it. But I made myself a whole person, separated from the turmoils of the conditions around me.” She smiles, dropping her shoulders as she sees Samantha listening on with rapture. “I see that something I’ve said has gotten into you. You’ve not taken your turn.”