Fic: "Nine Years Later," Chapter 4/7
Title: Nine Years Later, Chapter 4 of 7
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: Pike/One, Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura
Rating: PG for this chapter
Content Advisory: Opera.
Word Count: This chapter, about 2400; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 4
In which there is a musicale, and Nyota Uhura makes an appearance
St. Ives House
London
Friday evening
All of fashionable London had, this evening, decided to attend the Duke of St. Ives’s musicale, and the Earl of Patterson and his family were no exception, although they were sitting rather haphazardly. The earl and countess were in one row, along with Lady Eve and the Viscount Spockton. Lady Christine had chosen to join Lord Seabourne’s party; Lord Michael swore he’d be along later but Eve privately had her doubts. The two other daughters-the Countess of Barrows and Lady Tracy-were with their husbands in different corners.
Eve and the viscount discussed his latest scientific endeavor-using kites, apparently, to measure wind currents-as they waited for the much-anticipated young Indian singer. A murmur went through the crowd, and she turned to follow their attention.
Ah; three gentlemen had just entered-one with dark blond hair, one with light brown hair, and a slightly taller one with dark brown hair. They did, she was forced to admit, make an excellent picture.
Just then, the pianist launched into a rendition of an orchestral overture-Don Giovanni, Eve realized after a few measures. She’d seen the opera a month or so before, at its London premiere.
Lord Spockton sat up in his chair; he never particularly slouched, but his back was ramrod straight, his shoulders precisely aligned perpendicular to his spine, and his chin exact. If she hadn’t known he was human, Eve might have suspected she was sitting next to an unknown Elgin marble. She was rarely one to speak during musical performances, but she had the near-overwhelming urge to say something to Lord Spockton, to break his façade. Somehow she managed to keep herself under control, and contented herself with watching him out of the corner of one eye and pointedly ignoring Lord Prescott and his party.
The overture ended, and a young woman, long black hair pulled into a braid, wearing a gold dress in the European fashion, draped with a matching gold cloth over her shoulder, crossed to the front of the open area by the pianoforte-the much-anticipated (at least by Lord Spockton) Nyota Uhura. She certainly looked Indian, but when she opened her mouth to deliver an aria by Handel, her voice wasn’t in the least exotic.
An hour passed, of mixed vocal and solo pianoforte work, with the entire audience transfixed. Eve was no exception; she had never heard such a pure, silvery soprano tone in her entire life. Unlike the majority of the audience, she’d actually paid attention to most of the sopranos she’d heard at the opera, and she was still enthralled with the Indian woman’s voice.
After Miss Uhura and the accompanist had withdrawn for intermission, Eve turned to Lord Spockton. “Well! Did she meet your expectations?”
“And then some,” Lord Spockton said, with something not entirely unlike a smile.
“She certainly had an amazing voice,” Lady Patterson agreed. “Why, I believe your father actually remained awake for the majority of the first half.”
Lord Patterson snored.
A polite cough sounded, and Eve’s father started awake. “Eh?” Evie, her mother, and Lord Spockton all turned to their left, and Lord Riverside, Lord Prescott, and Lieutenant McCoy stood there. Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Lord Spockton stiffen minutely. She plastered a pleasant expression on her face and greeted all three men appropriately.
“Did you enjoy the vocalist?” her mother asked.
“Very much so, Lady Patterson,” Lord Riverside said, nodding. “I had not had the pleasure of hearing any of the arias from Don Giovanni yet-I understand it is one of Herr Mozart’s later operas?”
“It was his fourth-to-last opera,” Lord Spockton confirmed, unexpectedly in Eve’s view. “His second with the librettist da Ponte.”
“Ah,” Lord Riverside said, obviously not as knowledgeable about opera as Lord Spockton-but then again, few were. “And do you know the composer of the lied performed about two works before the end? I found myself quite captivated by that song.”
“Herr Franz Schubert, a young man from Austria,” Lord Spockton said. “The title is Gretchen am Spinnrade.”
“Ah, yes, the one with the text from Faust,” Lieutenant McCoy said. Everyone in the box turned to look at him, and he colored. “At least, I believe it was from Faust.”
“It was,” Lord Spockton said.
Eve sat back and let the three men awkwardly discuss music and literature; it was highly amusing. A moment or two later, she glanced up and happened to catch Lord Prescott’s eye. He wasn’t paying attention to Riverside, Spockton, and McCoy; he was watching her with a peculiar half-smile on his face. Rather than looking away immediately, her first instinct, she met his gaze for a moment or two. The half-smile deepened into a full smile, one she remembered from nine years ago. More than anything she wanted to smile back, but that was a purely instinctual response and she tamped it down with the ease of nine years of practice.
Before she could decide whether to break the eye contact or to let him do so, the lights dimmed and the three men quickly said their farewells and left. As soon as it was polite to do so, Eve turned back to face the stage. However, when the men were out of earshot, Lady Patterson leaned over to her daughter and whispered in her ear, barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “He still loves you.”
Eve gave her mother a short nod. She knew.
* * *
Alex, Lord Spockton, was grateful to Lord Riverside and his party for perhaps the first time in his life; they had provided a focus to his scattered thoughts during the intermission. He had come to the musicale with the intention of enjoying the music, and had very much done so. Upon the discovery that Nyota Uhura was not only from his mother’s land but quite young and possessed of very symmetrical features, his customary composure was somewhat overset. Lady Eve was her usual calming influence; serene herself, she expected nothing from him other than what he was, and he might have considered her a potential mate except for the fact that, from the first day he’d known her, he’d realized that the absent Lord Prescott still occupied the entirety of her heart.
As evidenced by the fact that she was so assiduously avoiding the man when she could, and gaining a haunted look when she could not. If it were not in his nature to stand back and observe, he might consider dropping a hint to one of the two parties so that their difficulties could be resolved more precipitously. On the other hand, Lord Prescott had treated her abominably, and he should under no circumstances encourage that.
He closed his eyes briefly and attempted to re-order his thoughts, concentrating on his breath as his mother had taught him so many years ago. A few minutes later, Miss Uhura retook the stage, and the audience focused much of its attention on her presence, tall and slender and gowned in deep green.
Time dilated strangely; it was as if he were experiencing every single moment of Miss Uhura’s performance simultaneously as a lifetime and a mere second. He heard every note she sang as an entire chorus and the pure tones of her voice alone. Just under an hour later, she took her final bow, and Alex was able to resurface enough to know what he had to do.
He made polite excuses to Lady Eve and her family and escaped just before the mad crush of the crowd; a well-placed hundred-pound note got him to the door of her dressing room (and a second to keep others away), and a moment later he tapped at the door to Miss Uhura’s room.
“Come,” she said, and he entered; the room, normally a guest chamber, was neat as a pin, and she sat at one end of it, still fully dressed, removing makeup with a cloth. The sight of her without makeup-he froze. Her eyes were still almond-shaped and dark; her cheekbones were still high, but her skin was much, much darker than it had been on stage, and the lovely fall of straight black hair was apparently a wig, as it sat on a head-shaped stand on the table. Her actual hair was tightly curled and cropped close to her head.
It was clearly a sign of his surprise-perhaps even distress-that he could not think of the societally-expected statement at this juncture; instead, what came out of his mouth was, “You are not from India.”
“No, my lord,” she said, turning to look at him, apology in her tone. “You are, though.” Her voice was still musical; her accent, carefully upper-class Londoner.
“My mother was,” he explained. “I-I am sorry, Miss Uhura. I should not have come.”
“You are not the first to visit after a performance, and I doubt you will be the last, my lord. If I may know your name?” She stood, barely shorter than he.
“Spockton,” he said. “Alexander Grayson, Viscount Spockton.”
“And you expected me to resemble your mother?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “It is terribly presumptuous of me, but I would ask from where you originally hail?”
“Africa,” she said, smiling. “A city called Kisiwa Cha Mvita-I believe the English call it Mombasa.”
“Ah,” Alex said. He was not as familiar with the geography of Africa as he was of Asia, but he thought it was on the coast. “And-it is certainly none of my business and I do not mean to pry, but-“
“An Italian woman-I do not know what was her business in Mvita, but she was there-heard me sing, seven years ago, and offered me lessons and a hopeful career. I traveled to Naples under her protection, and became the student of a man named Manuel Garcia. Perhaps you have heard of him? Earlier this year he sang the lead in a new opera based on a Beaumarchais play.”
“I have not. We do not get much news from the Continental opera scene,” he said.
“Ah,” Miss Uhura said. “Do you enjoy music, or were you merely here to see a countrywoman of your mother’s, Lord Spockton?”
“I would be attending the musicale regardless,” Alex said, “but I would not be speaking to the soloist had I not thought you to be from India.”
She shrugged, an elegantly sensual gesture. “Senor Garcia and Signora Lamberti agreed that if I were to tour England, I would be less of an oddity were I Indian rather than African.” One long-fingered hand rose from her side a few inches into the air. “Not, however, by a great deal.”
“No,” he agreed. The feeling of disappointment in the pit of his stomach was, he noticed in the pause in the conversation, gradually mutating to something else. What, he was not entirely sure. “Your performance was exemplary,” he said. “I apologize for not stating that earlier. It was rude of me to inquire about your race before I complimented your voice.”
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled, teeth a slash of white against her skin.
Suddenly, Alex knew exactly to what the feeling in the pit of his stomach had mutated. Even without the golden powder and straight black wig, Nyota Uhura was an astonishingly beautiful woman. Not in the way he had been accustomed to seeing ladies, with rosy-pale complexions and elaborately-piled curls, but as he’d noted earlier, her features were very symmetrical, if exotic, and they somehow felt-familiar, as if he’d seen her face many times before.
He hadn’t. She didn’t look in the least Indian, or in the least like his mother or anyone he’d ever known before. This was-entirely illogical, that he should be attracted to an opera singer. She was not of his social class. Even his mother had been a prince’s daughter. He opened his mouth to take his leave of her, but instead, as before, he said, “What does your name mean?”
She laughed at him, a musical fall of notes. “What does your name mean?”
“’Alexander’ means ‘defender of man,’” he replied immediately. “’Grayson’ means ‘son of the gray-haired man.’ I have other names, but they are immaterial.”
“You are a strange man, my lord,” she said. “I hope you do not take offense at my words.”
“I do not,” he said. He was well aware of the fact that he was strange, and he’d been called worse. “I must go.”
Miss Uhura blinked. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I am sure you must attend to social matters. Thank you for your kind words about my performance. I trust you will not give my secret away?”
“I will not,” he promised, but did not move to leave. “Are you in the country long?”
“Our ship does not leave until Monday,” she said. “We return to Naples after that. Senor Garcia has performances in the near future, and I am to sing for the Principessa di Marchesi.”
“Are you much occupied between now and then?” He did not know why he asked such a question; he had no intention of seeing her again after this night.
“I sing at a private party hosted by the Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh in honor of an Oriental prince late tomorrow, but I am otherwise unoccupied.”
“Ah,” he said, and paused.
“I am staying at Grillion’s, but I do not anticipate receiving visitors,” Miss Uhura said.
He was fairly certain that by that she meant she was taking no lovers, but despite his physical attraction to her, his thoughts had not strayed that direction. “I must go,” he said again.
“Yes,” she agreed again. “My given name, Nyota, means ‘star.’ My surname derives from the word ‘uhuru,’ which means ‘freedom.’”
Alex felt his face widening into one of his rare smiles. “Lovely, poetic, and fitting,” he said. “I take my leave of you, Miss Nyota Uhura. May you have a long, prosperous, and fulfilling career.”
“Thank you, Lord Spockton. May you enjoy the same.” She smiled back at him, and his heart flipped in his chest-or, at least, it felt so.
He gave a short bow and left. Once outside, he stood still for a moment and took a deep breath, re-squaring his shoulders, before heading to his carriage and home.
Chapter 5 | Master Post
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: Pike/One, Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura
Rating: PG for this chapter
Content Advisory: Opera.
Word Count: This chapter, about 2400; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 4
In which there is a musicale, and Nyota Uhura makes an appearance
St. Ives House
London
Friday evening
All of fashionable London had, this evening, decided to attend the Duke of St. Ives’s musicale, and the Earl of Patterson and his family were no exception, although they were sitting rather haphazardly. The earl and countess were in one row, along with Lady Eve and the Viscount Spockton. Lady Christine had chosen to join Lord Seabourne’s party; Lord Michael swore he’d be along later but Eve privately had her doubts. The two other daughters-the Countess of Barrows and Lady Tracy-were with their husbands in different corners.
Eve and the viscount discussed his latest scientific endeavor-using kites, apparently, to measure wind currents-as they waited for the much-anticipated young Indian singer. A murmur went through the crowd, and she turned to follow their attention.
Ah; three gentlemen had just entered-one with dark blond hair, one with light brown hair, and a slightly taller one with dark brown hair. They did, she was forced to admit, make an excellent picture.
Just then, the pianist launched into a rendition of an orchestral overture-Don Giovanni, Eve realized after a few measures. She’d seen the opera a month or so before, at its London premiere.
Lord Spockton sat up in his chair; he never particularly slouched, but his back was ramrod straight, his shoulders precisely aligned perpendicular to his spine, and his chin exact. If she hadn’t known he was human, Eve might have suspected she was sitting next to an unknown Elgin marble. She was rarely one to speak during musical performances, but she had the near-overwhelming urge to say something to Lord Spockton, to break his façade. Somehow she managed to keep herself under control, and contented herself with watching him out of the corner of one eye and pointedly ignoring Lord Prescott and his party.
The overture ended, and a young woman, long black hair pulled into a braid, wearing a gold dress in the European fashion, draped with a matching gold cloth over her shoulder, crossed to the front of the open area by the pianoforte-the much-anticipated (at least by Lord Spockton) Nyota Uhura. She certainly looked Indian, but when she opened her mouth to deliver an aria by Handel, her voice wasn’t in the least exotic.
An hour passed, of mixed vocal and solo pianoforte work, with the entire audience transfixed. Eve was no exception; she had never heard such a pure, silvery soprano tone in her entire life. Unlike the majority of the audience, she’d actually paid attention to most of the sopranos she’d heard at the opera, and she was still enthralled with the Indian woman’s voice.
After Miss Uhura and the accompanist had withdrawn for intermission, Eve turned to Lord Spockton. “Well! Did she meet your expectations?”
“And then some,” Lord Spockton said, with something not entirely unlike a smile.
“She certainly had an amazing voice,” Lady Patterson agreed. “Why, I believe your father actually remained awake for the majority of the first half.”
Lord Patterson snored.
A polite cough sounded, and Eve’s father started awake. “Eh?” Evie, her mother, and Lord Spockton all turned to their left, and Lord Riverside, Lord Prescott, and Lieutenant McCoy stood there. Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw Lord Spockton stiffen minutely. She plastered a pleasant expression on her face and greeted all three men appropriately.
“Did you enjoy the vocalist?” her mother asked.
“Very much so, Lady Patterson,” Lord Riverside said, nodding. “I had not had the pleasure of hearing any of the arias from Don Giovanni yet-I understand it is one of Herr Mozart’s later operas?”
“It was his fourth-to-last opera,” Lord Spockton confirmed, unexpectedly in Eve’s view. “His second with the librettist da Ponte.”
“Ah,” Lord Riverside said, obviously not as knowledgeable about opera as Lord Spockton-but then again, few were. “And do you know the composer of the lied performed about two works before the end? I found myself quite captivated by that song.”
“Herr Franz Schubert, a young man from Austria,” Lord Spockton said. “The title is Gretchen am Spinnrade.”
“Ah, yes, the one with the text from Faust,” Lieutenant McCoy said. Everyone in the box turned to look at him, and he colored. “At least, I believe it was from Faust.”
“It was,” Lord Spockton said.
Eve sat back and let the three men awkwardly discuss music and literature; it was highly amusing. A moment or two later, she glanced up and happened to catch Lord Prescott’s eye. He wasn’t paying attention to Riverside, Spockton, and McCoy; he was watching her with a peculiar half-smile on his face. Rather than looking away immediately, her first instinct, she met his gaze for a moment or two. The half-smile deepened into a full smile, one she remembered from nine years ago. More than anything she wanted to smile back, but that was a purely instinctual response and she tamped it down with the ease of nine years of practice.
Before she could decide whether to break the eye contact or to let him do so, the lights dimmed and the three men quickly said their farewells and left. As soon as it was polite to do so, Eve turned back to face the stage. However, when the men were out of earshot, Lady Patterson leaned over to her daughter and whispered in her ear, barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “He still loves you.”
Eve gave her mother a short nod. She knew.
* * *
Alex, Lord Spockton, was grateful to Lord Riverside and his party for perhaps the first time in his life; they had provided a focus to his scattered thoughts during the intermission. He had come to the musicale with the intention of enjoying the music, and had very much done so. Upon the discovery that Nyota Uhura was not only from his mother’s land but quite young and possessed of very symmetrical features, his customary composure was somewhat overset. Lady Eve was her usual calming influence; serene herself, she expected nothing from him other than what he was, and he might have considered her a potential mate except for the fact that, from the first day he’d known her, he’d realized that the absent Lord Prescott still occupied the entirety of her heart.
As evidenced by the fact that she was so assiduously avoiding the man when she could, and gaining a haunted look when she could not. If it were not in his nature to stand back and observe, he might consider dropping a hint to one of the two parties so that their difficulties could be resolved more precipitously. On the other hand, Lord Prescott had treated her abominably, and he should under no circumstances encourage that.
He closed his eyes briefly and attempted to re-order his thoughts, concentrating on his breath as his mother had taught him so many years ago. A few minutes later, Miss Uhura retook the stage, and the audience focused much of its attention on her presence, tall and slender and gowned in deep green.
Time dilated strangely; it was as if he were experiencing every single moment of Miss Uhura’s performance simultaneously as a lifetime and a mere second. He heard every note she sang as an entire chorus and the pure tones of her voice alone. Just under an hour later, she took her final bow, and Alex was able to resurface enough to know what he had to do.
He made polite excuses to Lady Eve and her family and escaped just before the mad crush of the crowd; a well-placed hundred-pound note got him to the door of her dressing room (and a second to keep others away), and a moment later he tapped at the door to Miss Uhura’s room.
“Come,” she said, and he entered; the room, normally a guest chamber, was neat as a pin, and she sat at one end of it, still fully dressed, removing makeup with a cloth. The sight of her without makeup-he froze. Her eyes were still almond-shaped and dark; her cheekbones were still high, but her skin was much, much darker than it had been on stage, and the lovely fall of straight black hair was apparently a wig, as it sat on a head-shaped stand on the table. Her actual hair was tightly curled and cropped close to her head.
It was clearly a sign of his surprise-perhaps even distress-that he could not think of the societally-expected statement at this juncture; instead, what came out of his mouth was, “You are not from India.”
“No, my lord,” she said, turning to look at him, apology in her tone. “You are, though.” Her voice was still musical; her accent, carefully upper-class Londoner.
“My mother was,” he explained. “I-I am sorry, Miss Uhura. I should not have come.”
“You are not the first to visit after a performance, and I doubt you will be the last, my lord. If I may know your name?” She stood, barely shorter than he.
“Spockton,” he said. “Alexander Grayson, Viscount Spockton.”
“And you expected me to resemble your mother?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “It is terribly presumptuous of me, but I would ask from where you originally hail?”
“Africa,” she said, smiling. “A city called Kisiwa Cha Mvita-I believe the English call it Mombasa.”
“Ah,” Alex said. He was not as familiar with the geography of Africa as he was of Asia, but he thought it was on the coast. “And-it is certainly none of my business and I do not mean to pry, but-“
“An Italian woman-I do not know what was her business in Mvita, but she was there-heard me sing, seven years ago, and offered me lessons and a hopeful career. I traveled to Naples under her protection, and became the student of a man named Manuel Garcia. Perhaps you have heard of him? Earlier this year he sang the lead in a new opera based on a Beaumarchais play.”
“I have not. We do not get much news from the Continental opera scene,” he said.
“Ah,” Miss Uhura said. “Do you enjoy music, or were you merely here to see a countrywoman of your mother’s, Lord Spockton?”
“I would be attending the musicale regardless,” Alex said, “but I would not be speaking to the soloist had I not thought you to be from India.”
She shrugged, an elegantly sensual gesture. “Senor Garcia and Signora Lamberti agreed that if I were to tour England, I would be less of an oddity were I Indian rather than African.” One long-fingered hand rose from her side a few inches into the air. “Not, however, by a great deal.”
“No,” he agreed. The feeling of disappointment in the pit of his stomach was, he noticed in the pause in the conversation, gradually mutating to something else. What, he was not entirely sure. “Your performance was exemplary,” he said. “I apologize for not stating that earlier. It was rude of me to inquire about your race before I complimented your voice.”
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled, teeth a slash of white against her skin.
Suddenly, Alex knew exactly to what the feeling in the pit of his stomach had mutated. Even without the golden powder and straight black wig, Nyota Uhura was an astonishingly beautiful woman. Not in the way he had been accustomed to seeing ladies, with rosy-pale complexions and elaborately-piled curls, but as he’d noted earlier, her features were very symmetrical, if exotic, and they somehow felt-familiar, as if he’d seen her face many times before.
He hadn’t. She didn’t look in the least Indian, or in the least like his mother or anyone he’d ever known before. This was-entirely illogical, that he should be attracted to an opera singer. She was not of his social class. Even his mother had been a prince’s daughter. He opened his mouth to take his leave of her, but instead, as before, he said, “What does your name mean?”
She laughed at him, a musical fall of notes. “What does your name mean?”
“’Alexander’ means ‘defender of man,’” he replied immediately. “’Grayson’ means ‘son of the gray-haired man.’ I have other names, but they are immaterial.”
“You are a strange man, my lord,” she said. “I hope you do not take offense at my words.”
“I do not,” he said. He was well aware of the fact that he was strange, and he’d been called worse. “I must go.”
Miss Uhura blinked. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I am sure you must attend to social matters. Thank you for your kind words about my performance. I trust you will not give my secret away?”
“I will not,” he promised, but did not move to leave. “Are you in the country long?”
“Our ship does not leave until Monday,” she said. “We return to Naples after that. Senor Garcia has performances in the near future, and I am to sing for the Principessa di Marchesi.”
“Are you much occupied between now and then?” He did not know why he asked such a question; he had no intention of seeing her again after this night.
“I sing at a private party hosted by the Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh in honor of an Oriental prince late tomorrow, but I am otherwise unoccupied.”
“Ah,” he said, and paused.
“I am staying at Grillion’s, but I do not anticipate receiving visitors,” Miss Uhura said.
He was fairly certain that by that she meant she was taking no lovers, but despite his physical attraction to her, his thoughts had not strayed that direction. “I must go,” he said again.
“Yes,” she agreed again. “My given name, Nyota, means ‘star.’ My surname derives from the word ‘uhuru,’ which means ‘freedom.’”
Alex felt his face widening into one of his rare smiles. “Lovely, poetic, and fitting,” he said. “I take my leave of you, Miss Nyota Uhura. May you have a long, prosperous, and fulfilling career.”
“Thank you, Lord Spockton. May you enjoy the same.” She smiled back at him, and his heart flipped in his chest-or, at least, it felt so.
He gave a short bow and left. Once outside, he stood still for a moment and took a deep breath, re-squaring his shoulders, before heading to his carriage and home.
Chapter 5 | Master Post