fic: the yellow silk scarf, part 3a
Title: The Yellow Silk Scarf 3/3
Author: Jackie Thomas
Date: 16 Jan 2010
Category: Noelian AU
Pairing: Noel/Julian
Summary: A story set in Soho and the London music hall during the 1890s
Word count for 3a and 3b: 6000/18000
Warning: RPS though very AU. Cross dressing. Man Corsets
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Although this story contains real people it is fictional in all respects. Also Noel and Julian were never Victorian music hall artistes (despite what they might say).
Author's note: to those interested in these things, Rose Street is still around in Soho, though it changed its name to Manette St around the time of the last part of the story (named after a Dickens character). It's mostly got Foyles on it now but Hercules Pillars is still there. Here is a picture, its very atmospheric - pic
The poem is Symphony in Yellow by Oscar Wilde
Part 1a
Part 1b
Part 2a
Part 2b
Part three
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Julian received a reply from Noel, delivered with the first post the following morning.
My dear Jude,
I read your letter with sorrow.
You have no need to apologise; you had received a shock and cannot be blamed. You would never say so, but if I was responsible for what happened, please find it in your heart to forgive me. It was never my intention to mislead or embarrass you.
You will know by now that I have cancelled our engagements. I saw no point in prolonging your discomfort. But if you could reply with your address in Yorkshire I will make sure you have your portion of our remaining salaries as they come to me. I do not expect to be at Rose Street for much longer, so reply with haste.
Thank you my Captain, for sharing your beautiful music with me, and thank you for your friendship. These months we have had will always be precious to me.
Yours always, NF, April 1895
Julian found it impossible not to cry again.
He folded the letter and put it into his jacket pocket. Later, in the afternoon, he took it out to re-read. There was something about the short, despondent note nagging at him. Why did Noel not expect to stay in Rose Street? He loved living there, at London’s chaotic centre, and he had never considered moving in all the time Julian had known him.
Except once, when he had spoken about going back to Mallory. Julian feared he was, again, planning this move.
He remembered months ago, crossing a pub to intervene in a dispute on behalf of someone he barely knew. Mallory had frightened him before he knew anything about him; he had seemed powerful, violent, and endlessly dangerous to Noel.
What kind of life would Noel have with Mallory? Julian was certain it would not be the one he envisaged. Noel was no fool, but there was a childlike quality about him; Julian had seen how he tended to take an uncomplicated view of the people he came across, accepting them at face value. He would believe it possible to build a life with Mallory because, for some reason, Mallory wanted him to believe it.
Why, he wondered, was Hitcher’s stall still permanently pitched at Rose Street? Months had passed, and he was still noting every coming and going. Why did Mallory still care to keep him on, if not because he had not yet given up on Noel?
When Julian left the house for the omnibus stop, it was with the intention of talking Noel out of the plan he was sure he was formulating.
~*~
His fears were confirmed when he arrived in Soho. Outside the house, a lad was stacking cases and boxes on to a cart. Upstairs, the flat door stood open; Noel was not there but Hitcher was inside, a vile intrusion. He leaned on his cane, supervising the packing up of Noel’s possessions by a gang of boys, who could only be his sons.
The place was transformed. The beautiful gowns that had hung along the wall of the living room had all been taken away, exposing fading wallpaper beneath. The chaos and clutter that so spoke of Noel had gone. The world had been drained of all colour and all life.
He pushed passed Hitcher into the bedroom. Here, the contents of drawers and wardrobe were being tipped into boxes. One boy was taking Noel’s paintings from the wall and tossing them into a crate. Furious, Julian snatched one away from him. It was the little crouching monkey.
“Take care with these. They’re not a pile of eels.”
Hitcher appeared in the doorway. “Something amiss, squire?”
“Yes. No. Where’s Mr Fielding?”
“He was here just a moment ago, sir,” one of the boys piped up, earning himself a hard stare from his dad.
Noel was not in the house or in Hercules Pillars, but he wasn’t hard to find. He rarely passed unnoticed, and one of the regulars had seen him wandering in the direction of Soho Square.
Julian found him on a bench there, sitting stiffly on the edge of the seat. He wore a black jacket that was too big for him, and something clenched around Julian’s heart when he realised it was his own, crumpled evening jacket.
“You’ve got monkey,” Noel said. Julian still had the painting, held protectively under his arm.
“They’re not treating your creatures very gently.”
“Poor things,” he replied.
He shifted over to make room on the bench, but Julian, who had suddenly remembered the embarrassment of the kiss, was too anxious to sit down.
“Have you come for your suit?” Noel asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to need it again; I’m going back to teaching music.”
“You’re better than that. You mustn’t stop composing.”
“What about you? What are you giving up?” Noel only shrugged in response. “He’ll hurt you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But you do. He did before.”
Noel sighed. “Sit down, Jude,” he said. “I’m not contagious.”
Julian did as he was told.
“I know you think he’s a demon, and I don’t blame you. But, he’s different to when I first knew him; kinder, and gentler.”
“He was neither the times I met him.”
“Not by your standards, it’s true. No one could be. But we spent a lot of time together, and he was good to me.” He lowered his voice. “It wasn’t all tea and cucumber sandwiches. You do understand that?” He glanced at Julian when he didn’t answer. “Perhaps you don’t, you always think of me as better than I am.
“Noel, I wouldn’t trust him to pour you a cup of tea. You deserve better than someone who only wants to control you.”
“Honestly, I never knew you were such a romantic. Every second marriage is like this.”
“And are the others happy ones?” Julian asked.
“That’s not an option for me, is it?”
“Yes it is,” he said.
“With who?” A spark of interest lit Noel’s dulled, sad gaze.
“No, I mean -“ Julian hesitated. “What I mean is. No one is forcing you to go, you’re financially independent, you don’t need him.”
“Oh.” Noel turned away, giving up on the argument. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t.”
When the silence became too much, Noel shrugged off Julian’s jacket, leaving it to fall onto the bench. “It doesn’t matter, Jude,” he said. “Don’t worry.” Then he walked away, without looking back.
Later Julian watched from the upstairs window of Hercules Pillars as the last of the carts left with Noel’s belongings. He saw Mallory’s Brougham draw up, and Noel get inside.
With the monkey painting held carefully, and his jacket forgotten, he started walking; following the carriage on foot, at the horse’s halting pace, to Bloomsbury. He saw Noel alight, and one of Mallory’s servants admit him to a fine, Georgian town house.
He watched the house from a safe distance, but he did not see Noel again. Eventually, when darkness had settled, and the lights in the house were extinguished, he reluctantly left.
~*~
Over the next week, before his return to Yorkshire, he made frequent visits to Bloomsbury. Each morning he concealed himself by a neighbour’s fence, and watched the comings and goings of Mallory’s household.
As the sun rose he saw the first sleepy appearances of maids and delivery boys, the scrubbing of the doorstep, the polishing of the brass, the tumble of coal into the cellar. And once, as the curtains of an upper window opened, a glimpse of a young woman, brushing long dark hair.
Mallory left the house every day at half past ten. Julian normally gave up his vigil shortly after; at least temporarily persuaded Noel was no longer in immediate danger.
He could not rest so he began to walk. He walked miles each day, with no destination. His routes were haphazard and he hardly noticed his surroundings. Once, he followed the river so closely his feet were wet, but he had no consciousness of the floating traffic of barges and steamers that must have been there.
All he did was listen to the whispering sound of a small, inner voice. The voice had always spoken to him, but he had let it go unheeded. He now heard it urgent and insistent, above all other thoughts.
It had been trying, he knew, to send him back to Noel, even though this wasn’t in any way possible. It just wasn’t. Noel had gone to Mallory of his own volition. He had gone because he hated to be alone and he had, once again, been deserted. But Julian couldn’t stay. The kiss they had shared could not be talked about, or even thought about. It was sin, crime and shame all together. So he had to leave. He had to leave, no matter how loud the voice screamed at him to stay.
His walks always returned him to Bloomsbury, aching, hungry and exhausted. Mallory normally returned from his business day at four or five o’clock, but often went out again at dinner time. He never brought Noel to dine with him, and Julian began to suspect Mallory was preventing him from leaving the house.
There were times he could barely stop himself banging on the door and demanding to see Noel; when he believed he would have no peace unless he saw him for one last time. But he knew it would probably be dangerous for Noel if he did, and anyway, seeing him once would not be enough. This realisation alone resulted in at least one sleepless night.
It was the morning of the day he was due to travel, when he at last knew what to do.
He had started, through wakeful nights, restless days, and a panicked sense of running out of time, to understand and define his feelings for Noel. He stared at the walls of his room and learnt to compare them to the feelings a husband might have for a wife. Revelation though this was, it did not begin to express the overwhelming desire he had to be with Noel now he was away from him.
And instead of denying his feelings, instead of picking up and running, as he was still instinctively inclined to, he recalled the taste of Noel’s lips and invoked the single-mindedness Yorkshire men prided themselves in. He began to question his belief that these feelings were wrong.
Who had told him they were? Not his father, whose ghost at least, was at ease with the idea. He had learned it from those who believed themselves qualified to tell others how to live their lives; churchmen, politicians, and those newspaper writers who were speaking so unkindly of Oscar Wilde during his current troubles.
What right had they to tell him how to behave when, he was (reasonably) sure, none of them had ever kissed Noel, none of them...loved him...and so did not have any idea of what they were talking about?
If Noel wanted someone, could he not have Julian? He knew he was poor and dull, and ignorant of the world, but as long as Noel liked him even the tiniest bit better than Mallory, he could save him from a terrible fate and, he finally realised, save himself as well. He abandoned his packing and left his lodgings.
He waited until late morning, when Mallory was sure to be out, before knocking at the door of the Bloomsbury house. The last few days of distracted roaming had taken a toll on his appearance, and the butler seemed startled to find him on his master’s doorstep.
He became more nervous when Julian asked to see Noel, and informed him the gentleman was indisposed. But Julian was persistent, and when the butler unexpectedly admitted to having seen and enjoyed Lady Patricia’s performance on one of his evenings off, he was ushered inside.
He was shown into a finely decorated parlour, at the front of the house, and left alone to wait. The house was quiet, but he was sure he heard the sound of a key unlocking a room on the floor above.
When Noel finally appeared he was wearing a pale, blue gown of Lady Patricia’s, but no wig or stage make up.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly, closing the door and standing against it, as if to stop anyone else entering. “And what happened to you, you look ill?”
“Why are you dressed like that?” Julian asked. “Are you performing this afternoon?”
“No, I -” Noel sighed. “At the moment. I can’t seem to get to any of my other clothes. They’re locked away somewhere.”
Julian stared at him.
“He’s a proud man, and he hasn’t forgiven me for leaving him before. I’ve just got to make him trust me again.”
“But he’s locked you up too, hasn’t he?”
Noel hushed him as his voice rose. “Be quiet. Please. It’s just going to take time.”
“Noel,” Julian said. “I can’t leave you here.”
“You can, I’m well and I’m here by choice. Tell me what you want and then, I’m sorry, you’ve got to go.”
Julian gathered himself, taking a bold step closer to Noel so they faced each other by the parlour door. “You said before, that a happy marriage isn’t possible for you.”
“Oh Jude, I can’t keep arguing with you -“
“Have one with me,” Julian said. “Have a happy marriage with me.”
“What?” Noel’s eyes were wide, and Julian’s own words, said out loud frightened him too.
“Live with me. I -“
“I don’t think you understand,” Noel said. “I’m not looking for a friend; no one could be a better friend than you. It’s more than that.”
“I do understand. If I could, I’d put a ring on your finger.”
“You’re serious,” Noel breathed. He closed his eyes, and moments passed before he spoke. “No,” he said.
“Noel?”
“But I thank you.” His hand closed around Julian’s and Julian gripped it hard in return. “You’ve always held my heart.”
“But then, why not?”
“It’s not what you want. You need a good Yorkshire wife who won’t embarrass you in the street, not a soft southerner who doesn’t know whether he’s a boy or a girl.”
“No, I’ve thought about it, all those things don’t matter. We were happy. Weren’t we?”
Noel smiled. “We were.”
“I - I kissed you.”
“It was a beautiful thing.”
“Then, I don’t understand”
“Jude, listen to yourself. I’ve made you wrong.”
“It wouldn’t be wrong,” Julian said firmly. “How could it be wrong?”
Noel looked surprised; it was evidently not a question he had ever entertained. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’ve never been more certain.”
“When did you last sleep? You’ve just lost your dad, you’re not yourself.”
“I am myself,” Julian claimed dizzily.
“Aye Captain, there’s no other like you,” Noel soothed. “But it would be impossible. This kind of life isn’t for you.”
“Are you sure?” He asked, at last defeated.
“Yes,” Noel placed a soft kiss on Julian’s cheek. “I’m sure.”
He was standing on the pavement staring at the stony facade of the British Museum when he came to his senses.
End of part 3a. Part 3b here