[fic] badly done, Dawn. badly done. (2/4)
fic: badly done, Dawn. badly done. (2/4)
fandom: tvd/btvs fusion in an Austen universe
pairing/characters: dawn/elena as emma/knightly; buffy/tara as the westons; alaric as mr woodhouse; spike as harriet; harmony as miss bates; caroline as jane fairfax; jeremy as knightly/frank churchill
summary: after the successful marriage of her sister to Miss Tara Maclay, Dawn sets her sights on matchmaking, much to longtime friend Miss Elena Gilbert's consternation
a/n: I had hoped to get through the strawberry picking with this chapter - Jane and Frank have not even arrived yet!!! /ugh So let's hope that this can all get wrapped up in four chapters so that I can get back to Pomegranates and anyway now I realize that I want a whole chapter for Box Hill/proposal so four chapters is better anyway see end for notes
[ chapter one]
Mr. Alaric Saltzman was - in his youth - a man of great intellect, but little fortune, and it was to his greatest surprise when, at the age of eight and twenty, a distant relation gave him claim over such an impressive spot of land in the countryside. Leaving behind his seat as an instructor at a mildly impressive institution, and carrying with him only his collection of books, he came into the small town he now called home and immediately shut himself away. There were rumors, mild and not at all consequential to this tale, that said he suffered from a broken heart. At the age of two and thirty a parcel in the shape of two small girls arrived at his doorstep. Presumably they were to be left in the hands of the same gentleman from whom Mr. Saltzman inherited his fortune. In just a few short years, the young man went from being a penniless professor to a gentleman and father. Although many villages felt as though he would not be up to the task, he proved himself in short order to be quite the family man, if a bit unorthodox in his ways.
It was probably not until after the untimely death of Miss Jenna Sommers, the maternal aunt and temporary guardian of Miss Elena Gilbert, just after their engagement was officially announced, that the village really began to feel deep affection for Mr. Saltzman. Small communities such as that found in this small village are shameful in their distrust of strangers and newcomers, and yet so delightfully heartwarming in their reaction to tragedy. It seemed almost as though the deposit of two orphan girls on his doorstep was seen by the village as a boon and it was not until he stood in the local cemetery, one arm around Miss Elena’s narrow shoulders and one hand held by Miss Buffy, and cried with them, that the small townsfolk really began to feel as though he was part of their tribe. And like with most small towns, once you are part of the tribe, you are never lost to it. The girls in his care, of course, were welcomed with open arms by one and all the moment of their arrival, being mere infants and not responsible for the fact that their tragedy was enacted away from public view.
Tragedy is, as it has always been, a public event. As are weddings and births, everyone likes the intrigue of a good wedding. As a rule, however, the private goings on of great houses are of no more interest than that of the smallest cottage overrun with children of varying ages and temperament. This truth of the mundane is most likely the root cause that the daily lives of the very wealthy become so very much a matter of supreme secrecy. Were it ever admitted that in between grand parties and extravagant balls, young women of every walk of life daydream the same silly dreams while mending stockings, why it would almost be as if chaos had fallen. A fact that allowed Mr. Alaric Saltzman quite a bit of freedom in the raising of his two young wards; had he been a poor but well-meaning farmer, likely more interference from his neighborhood peers would have been presented over the years. We can speculate that the late Miss Jenna Sommers did her best to lend her wisdom as much as she could, and there is a memory of a young governess by the name of Miss Winnifred Burkle that undoubtedly had a small but necessary hand in the raising of the girls in the limited time that she occupied the house.
Indeed, although Dawn and her elder sister never did seem to catch the enthusiasm from their guardian and neighbor for local history, nevertheless they did maintain their own passions. Miss Buffy, in particular, had a wide social influence, a penchant for physical sport - mastering anything suitable for a lady (and much else besides), and a dear love of playing silly pranks on her loved ones. While Miss Buffy was out in the garden, damaging the rose bushes with her golf clubs, wreaking havoc on the gardening staff with her archery practice, and running the horses through areas she shouldn’t, the younger Miss Summers was in the library studying. Among the few possessions that were left to the two girls from their previous guardian, a Mr. Rupert Giles, there was a mysterious book of dubious origin on the occult. The elder Miss Summers dismissed this article of their former life without a second glance, the man had only been their guardian for a few short months before their journey to Mr. Saltzman’s home. Miss Dawn, on the other hand, felt a deep and personal kinship with this mysterious artefact and worked many long and hard hours attempting to decipher the many mysteries within it. Despite Miss Gilbert’s best efforts, and a series of short conversations with her guardian, Dawn was determined to untangle every scrap in the strange book.
This venture, though deemed by her guardian, sister, governess, and - most especially - Miss Gilbert, to be a cause not worthy of her time, was her chief employment during the long hours in which a girl must find herself occupied. Of course, both Summers sisters could - with a modicum of talent - produce ladylike crafts such as needlework and water coloring, as well as entertain guests at the piano. Early in their lives, Mr. Saltzman refused anyone beside Dawn the right to darn his socks. Miss Buffy was, after all, the better singer of the two, but Dawn excelled in the art of dancing. And, according to Mr. Saltzman, though Miss Buffy had the better hand, it was Dawn who he trusted to compose his personal notes and invitations for social engagements, as she had a far more superior turn of phrase when she put pen to paper. Yet, in her quiet and private hours, Dawn taught herself many exotic and dead languages, bent over her volume, and writing translations and epistles alike. She had, in her short life, filled many small diaries with her work, research, and little stories (that she would call theories but were in fact mere fanciful tales) concerning the origins of the book in her possession.
Of course, scholarship of this nature was not at all ladylike and was her chief and most closely guarded secret. Perhaps no one in her small village would have looked askance at her hobby, the occult - especially the communion with ghosts and specters - was a pursuit very much in fashion, and though she undertook it with a seriousness and veracity that her friends would not have understood, Dawn was not the sort of creature that anyone would ever shame for a secret dalliance of such an innocent nature; aside from the resolutely practical Miss Gilbert, who had become an apprentice and research partner of sorts to Mr. Saltzman from an early age. The books and papers she left in the foyer for the younger Miss Summers were as much a call to engage in a suitable topic as they were a silent jab at the girl’s preferred mode of scholarship. That Dawn created her own secret language at the ripe old age of ten and only taught it to her sister and guardian in order to tease Miss Gilbert only exasperated her brimming hostility.
Over the years Mr. Saltzman’s opinion of the project had grown from a mild reluctance to a silent but steady approval, as Dawn’s skill in languages developed to the point of almost envy. He had also, rightly or wrongly, spied upon the little books full of her handwriting several times over the years and the girlish, yet knowledgeable, words that he found there eased his mind. The rivalry between Miss Gilbert and Dawn over proper scholarship seemed, in Mr. Saltzman’s mind at the very least, to be only a silly game between the two of them and as such, he did little to discourage or encourage either side, even if - for his own interests - Dawn’s resolute work ethic and passion for her subject were enviable properties any scholar would hope to have in their corner. As it was, Mr. Saltzman was in pursuit of a rare volume of tales said to have originated in their small corner of the country, but only available in a language he had never learned, and planned on gifting it to Dawn at the earliest opportunity. Only a foolish man ignored a talent blossoming under his own roof and did nothing to profit from it.
It was for this reason that upon the day of the Christmas party to be hosted at the Summers-Maclay household, Dawn had only a few moments to consider the implications of the limerick penned by Spike and delivered to her door by a young boy from the village, and the actual catastrophe that was his sudden onslaught of the flu was only truly felt by the young lady as she dashed out the door on the arm of her guardian, Miss Gilbert holding the door open for them as she often did, eager to escort them to the festivities.
“Oh dear, Mr. Donovan will be so greatly disappointed,” Dawn said as Miss Gilbert assisted her into the conveyance.
“Why is that dear Dawn?” Miss Gilbert intoned quietly, her eye apparently on the time and the quickly falling snow. The change in weather had not been noted by either Dawn or her guardian, absorbed as they both were in their private studies.
“Why his absolute distraction at the absence of poor Spike, who has contracted a nasty sore throat and cannot join us this evening,” Dawn said brightly. “I am sure Mr. Donovan will be most distraught over the news.”
Miss Gilbert bowed her head in what the young Miss Summers took as an acknowledgment of the truth she spoke, before shutting the door and going for her horse. It was rather silly, in Dawn’s mind, for Miss Gilbert to choose to ride so exposed on such a cold evening, but it was very much in keeping with the older girl’s humor and so she returned her thoughts to the festivities.
She found Mr. Donovan within moments of her arrival, and broke the news regarding Spike’s ailments as gently as she could, and was quite surprised at the brave face the Mr. Donovan put on for the rest of the evening. It even seemed to Dawn as though he was more attentive to her than on any other occasion, an obvious sign that he was missing poor Spike. And though his constant buzzing was a bit of an annoyance, and she missed Miss Gilbert telling of the latest news from the mysterious Mr. Gilbert, she was quite patient with the dear man, for surely his nervousness bespoke a wounded heart from being separated from his dearest love on such an auspicious night. Dawn prided herself on her attentiveness to her friends and did her best to be as kindly and gentle with the gentleman as she could find it in herself to be. And when the young man insisted on shepherding her home when it became clear that Mr. Saltzman’s conversation with the young Mrs. Tara Summers-Maclay was in no sign of ending quickly, despite the late hour and the house being resolutely empty of guests, Miss Kendall already escorted home by the aid of Miss Gilbert herself, and all other guests long since retired to the safety of their homes. After ensuring that her guardian would be safe and sound in the home of her sister, Dawn cheerfully began her journey home. She was looking out the window, her thoughts having already returned to the passage she had translated earlier that day in her great book, when something extraordinary happened, Mr. Donovan threw himself into the seat beside her, took her hands in hers, and proclaimed love to her!
“Mr. Donovan, I appreciate your desire to practice your demonstrations of love so that you might not be nervous upon the occasion when you are free to declare them to the true object of your affection, but please do release me, this sort of play-acting is not something that I enjoy.”
Mr. Donovan looked at her for a long moment, releasing her hands slowly, before asking, “Whatever are you talking about Miss Dawn?”
Dawn smiled at him kindly, “I know the object of your affections and am quite happy for the match, but perhaps it were better that you speak so gently to him and not to me.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Dawn, but I believe there has been some confusion. I most assuredly do mean for you to be the audience to this declaration and no one else, have you not guessed at my feelings for you?”
Dawn switched seats and giggled, “Oh you are so silly, Mr. Donovan. Why anyone with eyes can see you are quite taken with my darling friend, Mr. William Blood.”
“Spike!? Are you mad Miss Summers?”
Dawn flicked at a piece of lint on her skirt, “I assure I am quite sane. And your actions of late have suggested - no! Have resolutely lead to the conclusion that you are very much in love with Spike.”
Mr. Donovan gaped at her for a long moment before swallowing and turning his head to the window. Dawn followed suit and caught her breath, the whole event had been remarkably uncomfortable. In a few minutes, Mr. Donovan’s voice came through the stillness low and solemn, “I very sure that there is no possible way for you to have mistaken my affection for you and displaced it upon your young friend. Surely you are teasing me in some cruel, distasteful way.” He grabbed her hands again, “But I would forgive you of such a jest if you would only release me from this torment and agree to marry me!”
Dawn was very much at a loss, this was not the way she had anticipated her first proposal to go - god forbid anyone proposed to her ever as she was stanchly opposed to the idea of ever marrying herself. “Sir,” she said firmly, shaking off his hands. “You must explain yourself at once. The painting! The letter! All directed towards my dear friend. My interest in you over the past months has only been in kindness and affection for your pursuit of him.”
“The letter was directed to you!”
“And the painting of Spike in the garden that you were so interested in?”
“The painting that you created!” Mr. Donovan looked down at his hands, “I’m … you are mistaken I am not… that sort of man.”
Dawn gasped “Mr. Donovan, do you mean to say that you… prefer the company of women?!” The idea was almost laughable in her mind, a conclusion that she had never considered before in her short life. Mr. Donovan, chasing skirts, the very idea was absurd.
“That is precisely what I mean,” Mr. Donovan ground out rather harshly, bringing a sharp spot of red to Dawn’s cheeks.
“Oh dear…” she fumbled about for something to say, anything, to excuse how wrong - how terribly, terribly mistaken she had been in her assessment of his character.
“Oh dear indeed, Miss Summers!” Mr. Donovan picked up his hat and pounded on the roof, opening the door of the conveyance with a sharp snap.
“Well,” Dawn said to herself solemnly, leaning up against the door of her own dear home, “that was a veritable disaster.”
After the New Year, Dawn had the very unfortunate task of breaking the news to her darling Spike that his hopes of a good match with Mr. Donovan were quite dashed. She was very proud of him for being such a good sport about the whole affair, smiling up at her and saying with a wink, “Always other boys, pet,” and she supposed if that was your inclination, his statement was rather true. Dawn clung to the beautiful love poetry Spike had composed in the months of Mr. Donovan’s courtship of him, crying over it with a heavy heart.
“It is just so like a man of his caliber to not burden his friends with his broken heart,” she said over dinner one night to her guardian and Miss Gilbert. “Why just today, he wrote the most tragic poem about a butterfly’s death that was the very pinnacle of romantic misery, I cried at his recitation of it and again when I read it after he had left. I fear that though his art has strengthened, this whole ordeal has very much weakened his already fragile sensibilities.”
Mr. Saltzman looked up from his newspaper and smiled across the table at Miss Gilbert when Dawn turned her head to wipe her eyes very prettily with her handkerchief, “Your matchmaking skills seem to be more of the tradition of an ancient Muse than a town crier. You don’t anticipate the next wedding so much as a new creation. What great art will you inspire next?”
“Don’t tease me so, sir.”
Miss Gilbert did not hide her displeasure at the turn of conversation that night - or indeed, the past several weeks - and set down her glass with a loud clink. “Don’t encourage her Alaric,” she said harshly. “It was a silly and thoughtless thing Dawn did, playing a game with other people’s lives this way.”
Mr. Saltzman very wisely took this moment to signal for dessert to be brought out, a walnut pie, Miss Gilbert’s second favorite treat, and the interruption put any further lectures from the family friend on hold for the time being. Luckily, there had been another fire in the North of the country, a march in the East, and a wedding in town, and so conversation flowed much more smoothly. As they settled into the sitting room, Miss Gilbert settling into her red chair with the air of someone very much at home, Dawn proclaimed that she was washing her hands of the whole matchmaking business, never again would she take matters of the heart into her own hands. Upon a gentle inquiry from her guardian as to what she would do with all of this now freed time, she very solemnly declared that she would take up such pursuits as those around her had constantly encouraged her to seek out in order to better herself. Mr. Saltzman believed the matter to be at rest, and his life in no more danger of the kind of disruptions that weddings and the like are bound to create, and went back to his brandy in better humor than he had felt in several months. Miss Gilbert said nothing at all, a fact that was largely remarked on by Dawn and not at all noticed by Mr. Saltzman.
While seeing Miss Gilbert to the door, Dawn very gravely apologized for her behavior, seeking forgiveness from this, her oldest and dearest acquaintance. “I cannot believe that I have been so foolish and so blind. What a silly, ridiculous creature you must think me to be,” she looked down at her hands in embarrassment.
Miss Gilbert tugged on Dawn’s improperly loose hair falling in long waves down to her waist, a style that she indulged in only when among family, as Miss Gilbert often did when they were children, causing the younger girl to smile and look up at her. “You are very silly sometimes, dear Dawn,” Miss Gilbert said. “But you have a good heart, and your friends will forgive you your small failings.”
“Will they?” Dawn asked, brow furrowed in concern. “What is the use of being twenty-one years old and feeling as though I know nothing at all?”
Miss Gilbert rubbed the strand of hair she still held between her fingers thoughtfully, “I think it shall be a lesson that you will have to learn in your own way.”
Dawn sighed restlessly, “Can’t you just teach me what I must know, as you did when we were children, just Elena and Dawn playing silly games of your creation in the garden?”
Miss Gilbert stiffened, dropped her hand back to her side as if burned, “No, I’m afraid we have lost those days forever.”
Dawn laughed merrily, unaware of the change in her friend’s demeanor, “All’s well anyhow I suppose. I do not envy childhood me and the perverse amount of porridge Alaric felt was necessary to a child’s mental security.”
The two laughed a little while longer over memories long shared but now rarely spoken of for a few minutes longer until Miss Gilbert began her short journey home. Dawn tucked herself into bed and cried no more about the poor heart of her dear friend, broken as she supposed, and slept deeply, now convinced that they could once again return to the lazy pace of their lives with no further interruptions. Little did Miss Summers know that on their way to her sleepy town that very night were two letters that would prove full of distractions enough to make her forget she had ever longed for silence.
note: since this "Harriet" is not previously pursued/engaged to a poor farmer, there was no real reason for Dawn and Elena to have a serious fight in the first chapter, and the pacing of this one didn't really allow for one, either? I'm hoping to get some more hostility working up between them in chapter three, but they aren't really cooperating? Elena is being too nice! Anyway, let me know how you feel about Elena as Knightly in general b/c she's being the most cumbersome. and in the next chapter we get THREE new characters! ack!! lol this is going to be five chapters I just know it, damnit
[next chapter...]
fandom: tvd/btvs fusion in an Austen universe
pairing/characters: dawn/elena as emma/knightly; buffy/tara as the westons; alaric as mr woodhouse; spike as harriet; harmony as miss bates; caroline as jane fairfax; jeremy as knightly/frank churchill
summary: after the successful marriage of her sister to Miss Tara Maclay, Dawn sets her sights on matchmaking, much to longtime friend Miss Elena Gilbert's consternation
a/n: I had hoped to get through the strawberry picking with this chapter - Jane and Frank have not even arrived yet!!! /ugh So let's hope that this can all get wrapped up in four chapters so that I can get back to Pomegranates and anyway now I realize that I want a whole chapter for Box Hill/proposal so four chapters is better anyway see end for notes
[ chapter one]
Mr. Alaric Saltzman was - in his youth - a man of great intellect, but little fortune, and it was to his greatest surprise when, at the age of eight and twenty, a distant relation gave him claim over such an impressive spot of land in the countryside. Leaving behind his seat as an instructor at a mildly impressive institution, and carrying with him only his collection of books, he came into the small town he now called home and immediately shut himself away. There were rumors, mild and not at all consequential to this tale, that said he suffered from a broken heart. At the age of two and thirty a parcel in the shape of two small girls arrived at his doorstep. Presumably they were to be left in the hands of the same gentleman from whom Mr. Saltzman inherited his fortune. In just a few short years, the young man went from being a penniless professor to a gentleman and father. Although many villages felt as though he would not be up to the task, he proved himself in short order to be quite the family man, if a bit unorthodox in his ways.
It was probably not until after the untimely death of Miss Jenna Sommers, the maternal aunt and temporary guardian of Miss Elena Gilbert, just after their engagement was officially announced, that the village really began to feel deep affection for Mr. Saltzman. Small communities such as that found in this small village are shameful in their distrust of strangers and newcomers, and yet so delightfully heartwarming in their reaction to tragedy. It seemed almost as though the deposit of two orphan girls on his doorstep was seen by the village as a boon and it was not until he stood in the local cemetery, one arm around Miss Elena’s narrow shoulders and one hand held by Miss Buffy, and cried with them, that the small townsfolk really began to feel as though he was part of their tribe. And like with most small towns, once you are part of the tribe, you are never lost to it. The girls in his care, of course, were welcomed with open arms by one and all the moment of their arrival, being mere infants and not responsible for the fact that their tragedy was enacted away from public view.
Tragedy is, as it has always been, a public event. As are weddings and births, everyone likes the intrigue of a good wedding. As a rule, however, the private goings on of great houses are of no more interest than that of the smallest cottage overrun with children of varying ages and temperament. This truth of the mundane is most likely the root cause that the daily lives of the very wealthy become so very much a matter of supreme secrecy. Were it ever admitted that in between grand parties and extravagant balls, young women of every walk of life daydream the same silly dreams while mending stockings, why it would almost be as if chaos had fallen. A fact that allowed Mr. Alaric Saltzman quite a bit of freedom in the raising of his two young wards; had he been a poor but well-meaning farmer, likely more interference from his neighborhood peers would have been presented over the years. We can speculate that the late Miss Jenna Sommers did her best to lend her wisdom as much as she could, and there is a memory of a young governess by the name of Miss Winnifred Burkle that undoubtedly had a small but necessary hand in the raising of the girls in the limited time that she occupied the house.
Indeed, although Dawn and her elder sister never did seem to catch the enthusiasm from their guardian and neighbor for local history, nevertheless they did maintain their own passions. Miss Buffy, in particular, had a wide social influence, a penchant for physical sport - mastering anything suitable for a lady (and much else besides), and a dear love of playing silly pranks on her loved ones. While Miss Buffy was out in the garden, damaging the rose bushes with her golf clubs, wreaking havoc on the gardening staff with her archery practice, and running the horses through areas she shouldn’t, the younger Miss Summers was in the library studying. Among the few possessions that were left to the two girls from their previous guardian, a Mr. Rupert Giles, there was a mysterious book of dubious origin on the occult. The elder Miss Summers dismissed this article of their former life without a second glance, the man had only been their guardian for a few short months before their journey to Mr. Saltzman’s home. Miss Dawn, on the other hand, felt a deep and personal kinship with this mysterious artefact and worked many long and hard hours attempting to decipher the many mysteries within it. Despite Miss Gilbert’s best efforts, and a series of short conversations with her guardian, Dawn was determined to untangle every scrap in the strange book.
This venture, though deemed by her guardian, sister, governess, and - most especially - Miss Gilbert, to be a cause not worthy of her time, was her chief employment during the long hours in which a girl must find herself occupied. Of course, both Summers sisters could - with a modicum of talent - produce ladylike crafts such as needlework and water coloring, as well as entertain guests at the piano. Early in their lives, Mr. Saltzman refused anyone beside Dawn the right to darn his socks. Miss Buffy was, after all, the better singer of the two, but Dawn excelled in the art of dancing. And, according to Mr. Saltzman, though Miss Buffy had the better hand, it was Dawn who he trusted to compose his personal notes and invitations for social engagements, as she had a far more superior turn of phrase when she put pen to paper. Yet, in her quiet and private hours, Dawn taught herself many exotic and dead languages, bent over her volume, and writing translations and epistles alike. She had, in her short life, filled many small diaries with her work, research, and little stories (that she would call theories but were in fact mere fanciful tales) concerning the origins of the book in her possession.
Of course, scholarship of this nature was not at all ladylike and was her chief and most closely guarded secret. Perhaps no one in her small village would have looked askance at her hobby, the occult - especially the communion with ghosts and specters - was a pursuit very much in fashion, and though she undertook it with a seriousness and veracity that her friends would not have understood, Dawn was not the sort of creature that anyone would ever shame for a secret dalliance of such an innocent nature; aside from the resolutely practical Miss Gilbert, who had become an apprentice and research partner of sorts to Mr. Saltzman from an early age. The books and papers she left in the foyer for the younger Miss Summers were as much a call to engage in a suitable topic as they were a silent jab at the girl’s preferred mode of scholarship. That Dawn created her own secret language at the ripe old age of ten and only taught it to her sister and guardian in order to tease Miss Gilbert only exasperated her brimming hostility.
Over the years Mr. Saltzman’s opinion of the project had grown from a mild reluctance to a silent but steady approval, as Dawn’s skill in languages developed to the point of almost envy. He had also, rightly or wrongly, spied upon the little books full of her handwriting several times over the years and the girlish, yet knowledgeable, words that he found there eased his mind. The rivalry between Miss Gilbert and Dawn over proper scholarship seemed, in Mr. Saltzman’s mind at the very least, to be only a silly game between the two of them and as such, he did little to discourage or encourage either side, even if - for his own interests - Dawn’s resolute work ethic and passion for her subject were enviable properties any scholar would hope to have in their corner. As it was, Mr. Saltzman was in pursuit of a rare volume of tales said to have originated in their small corner of the country, but only available in a language he had never learned, and planned on gifting it to Dawn at the earliest opportunity. Only a foolish man ignored a talent blossoming under his own roof and did nothing to profit from it.
It was for this reason that upon the day of the Christmas party to be hosted at the Summers-Maclay household, Dawn had only a few moments to consider the implications of the limerick penned by Spike and delivered to her door by a young boy from the village, and the actual catastrophe that was his sudden onslaught of the flu was only truly felt by the young lady as she dashed out the door on the arm of her guardian, Miss Gilbert holding the door open for them as she often did, eager to escort them to the festivities.
“Oh dear, Mr. Donovan will be so greatly disappointed,” Dawn said as Miss Gilbert assisted her into the conveyance.
“Why is that dear Dawn?” Miss Gilbert intoned quietly, her eye apparently on the time and the quickly falling snow. The change in weather had not been noted by either Dawn or her guardian, absorbed as they both were in their private studies.
“Why his absolute distraction at the absence of poor Spike, who has contracted a nasty sore throat and cannot join us this evening,” Dawn said brightly. “I am sure Mr. Donovan will be most distraught over the news.”
Miss Gilbert bowed her head in what the young Miss Summers took as an acknowledgment of the truth she spoke, before shutting the door and going for her horse. It was rather silly, in Dawn’s mind, for Miss Gilbert to choose to ride so exposed on such a cold evening, but it was very much in keeping with the older girl’s humor and so she returned her thoughts to the festivities.
She found Mr. Donovan within moments of her arrival, and broke the news regarding Spike’s ailments as gently as she could, and was quite surprised at the brave face the Mr. Donovan put on for the rest of the evening. It even seemed to Dawn as though he was more attentive to her than on any other occasion, an obvious sign that he was missing poor Spike. And though his constant buzzing was a bit of an annoyance, and she missed Miss Gilbert telling of the latest news from the mysterious Mr. Gilbert, she was quite patient with the dear man, for surely his nervousness bespoke a wounded heart from being separated from his dearest love on such an auspicious night. Dawn prided herself on her attentiveness to her friends and did her best to be as kindly and gentle with the gentleman as she could find it in herself to be. And when the young man insisted on shepherding her home when it became clear that Mr. Saltzman’s conversation with the young Mrs. Tara Summers-Maclay was in no sign of ending quickly, despite the late hour and the house being resolutely empty of guests, Miss Kendall already escorted home by the aid of Miss Gilbert herself, and all other guests long since retired to the safety of their homes. After ensuring that her guardian would be safe and sound in the home of her sister, Dawn cheerfully began her journey home. She was looking out the window, her thoughts having already returned to the passage she had translated earlier that day in her great book, when something extraordinary happened, Mr. Donovan threw himself into the seat beside her, took her hands in hers, and proclaimed love to her!
“Mr. Donovan, I appreciate your desire to practice your demonstrations of love so that you might not be nervous upon the occasion when you are free to declare them to the true object of your affection, but please do release me, this sort of play-acting is not something that I enjoy.”
Mr. Donovan looked at her for a long moment, releasing her hands slowly, before asking, “Whatever are you talking about Miss Dawn?”
Dawn smiled at him kindly, “I know the object of your affections and am quite happy for the match, but perhaps it were better that you speak so gently to him and not to me.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Dawn, but I believe there has been some confusion. I most assuredly do mean for you to be the audience to this declaration and no one else, have you not guessed at my feelings for you?”
Dawn switched seats and giggled, “Oh you are so silly, Mr. Donovan. Why anyone with eyes can see you are quite taken with my darling friend, Mr. William Blood.”
“Spike!? Are you mad Miss Summers?”
Dawn flicked at a piece of lint on her skirt, “I assure I am quite sane. And your actions of late have suggested - no! Have resolutely lead to the conclusion that you are very much in love with Spike.”
Mr. Donovan gaped at her for a long moment before swallowing and turning his head to the window. Dawn followed suit and caught her breath, the whole event had been remarkably uncomfortable. In a few minutes, Mr. Donovan’s voice came through the stillness low and solemn, “I very sure that there is no possible way for you to have mistaken my affection for you and displaced it upon your young friend. Surely you are teasing me in some cruel, distasteful way.” He grabbed her hands again, “But I would forgive you of such a jest if you would only release me from this torment and agree to marry me!”
Dawn was very much at a loss, this was not the way she had anticipated her first proposal to go - god forbid anyone proposed to her ever as she was stanchly opposed to the idea of ever marrying herself. “Sir,” she said firmly, shaking off his hands. “You must explain yourself at once. The painting! The letter! All directed towards my dear friend. My interest in you over the past months has only been in kindness and affection for your pursuit of him.”
“The letter was directed to you!”
“And the painting of Spike in the garden that you were so interested in?”
“The painting that you created!” Mr. Donovan looked down at his hands, “I’m … you are mistaken I am not… that sort of man.”
Dawn gasped “Mr. Donovan, do you mean to say that you… prefer the company of women?!” The idea was almost laughable in her mind, a conclusion that she had never considered before in her short life. Mr. Donovan, chasing skirts, the very idea was absurd.
“That is precisely what I mean,” Mr. Donovan ground out rather harshly, bringing a sharp spot of red to Dawn’s cheeks.
“Oh dear…” she fumbled about for something to say, anything, to excuse how wrong - how terribly, terribly mistaken she had been in her assessment of his character.
“Oh dear indeed, Miss Summers!” Mr. Donovan picked up his hat and pounded on the roof, opening the door of the conveyance with a sharp snap.
“Well,” Dawn said to herself solemnly, leaning up against the door of her own dear home, “that was a veritable disaster.”
After the New Year, Dawn had the very unfortunate task of breaking the news to her darling Spike that his hopes of a good match with Mr. Donovan were quite dashed. She was very proud of him for being such a good sport about the whole affair, smiling up at her and saying with a wink, “Always other boys, pet,” and she supposed if that was your inclination, his statement was rather true. Dawn clung to the beautiful love poetry Spike had composed in the months of Mr. Donovan’s courtship of him, crying over it with a heavy heart.
“It is just so like a man of his caliber to not burden his friends with his broken heart,” she said over dinner one night to her guardian and Miss Gilbert. “Why just today, he wrote the most tragic poem about a butterfly’s death that was the very pinnacle of romantic misery, I cried at his recitation of it and again when I read it after he had left. I fear that though his art has strengthened, this whole ordeal has very much weakened his already fragile sensibilities.”
Mr. Saltzman looked up from his newspaper and smiled across the table at Miss Gilbert when Dawn turned her head to wipe her eyes very prettily with her handkerchief, “Your matchmaking skills seem to be more of the tradition of an ancient Muse than a town crier. You don’t anticipate the next wedding so much as a new creation. What great art will you inspire next?”
“Don’t tease me so, sir.”
Miss Gilbert did not hide her displeasure at the turn of conversation that night - or indeed, the past several weeks - and set down her glass with a loud clink. “Don’t encourage her Alaric,” she said harshly. “It was a silly and thoughtless thing Dawn did, playing a game with other people’s lives this way.”
Mr. Saltzman very wisely took this moment to signal for dessert to be brought out, a walnut pie, Miss Gilbert’s second favorite treat, and the interruption put any further lectures from the family friend on hold for the time being. Luckily, there had been another fire in the North of the country, a march in the East, and a wedding in town, and so conversation flowed much more smoothly. As they settled into the sitting room, Miss Gilbert settling into her red chair with the air of someone very much at home, Dawn proclaimed that she was washing her hands of the whole matchmaking business, never again would she take matters of the heart into her own hands. Upon a gentle inquiry from her guardian as to what she would do with all of this now freed time, she very solemnly declared that she would take up such pursuits as those around her had constantly encouraged her to seek out in order to better herself. Mr. Saltzman believed the matter to be at rest, and his life in no more danger of the kind of disruptions that weddings and the like are bound to create, and went back to his brandy in better humor than he had felt in several months. Miss Gilbert said nothing at all, a fact that was largely remarked on by Dawn and not at all noticed by Mr. Saltzman.
While seeing Miss Gilbert to the door, Dawn very gravely apologized for her behavior, seeking forgiveness from this, her oldest and dearest acquaintance. “I cannot believe that I have been so foolish and so blind. What a silly, ridiculous creature you must think me to be,” she looked down at her hands in embarrassment.
Miss Gilbert tugged on Dawn’s improperly loose hair falling in long waves down to her waist, a style that she indulged in only when among family, as Miss Gilbert often did when they were children, causing the younger girl to smile and look up at her. “You are very silly sometimes, dear Dawn,” Miss Gilbert said. “But you have a good heart, and your friends will forgive you your small failings.”
“Will they?” Dawn asked, brow furrowed in concern. “What is the use of being twenty-one years old and feeling as though I know nothing at all?”
Miss Gilbert rubbed the strand of hair she still held between her fingers thoughtfully, “I think it shall be a lesson that you will have to learn in your own way.”
Dawn sighed restlessly, “Can’t you just teach me what I must know, as you did when we were children, just Elena and Dawn playing silly games of your creation in the garden?”
Miss Gilbert stiffened, dropped her hand back to her side as if burned, “No, I’m afraid we have lost those days forever.”
Dawn laughed merrily, unaware of the change in her friend’s demeanor, “All’s well anyhow I suppose. I do not envy childhood me and the perverse amount of porridge Alaric felt was necessary to a child’s mental security.”
The two laughed a little while longer over memories long shared but now rarely spoken of for a few minutes longer until Miss Gilbert began her short journey home. Dawn tucked herself into bed and cried no more about the poor heart of her dear friend, broken as she supposed, and slept deeply, now convinced that they could once again return to the lazy pace of their lives with no further interruptions. Little did Miss Summers know that on their way to her sleepy town that very night were two letters that would prove full of distractions enough to make her forget she had ever longed for silence.
note: since this "Harriet" is not previously pursued/engaged to a poor farmer, there was no real reason for Dawn and Elena to have a serious fight in the first chapter, and the pacing of this one didn't really allow for one, either? I'm hoping to get some more hostility working up between them in chapter three, but they aren't really cooperating? Elena is being too nice! Anyway, let me know how you feel about Elena as Knightly in general b/c she's being the most cumbersome. and in the next chapter we get THREE new characters! ack!! lol this is going to be five chapters I just know it, damnit
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