Fanfic100-Dracula, Prompt #001.-"Beginnings"
Title: Another Blasted Party
Fandom: Dracula: General Novel
Characters: Arthur Holmwood, Quincey Morris, several references to others
Prompt: 001. Beginnings
Word Count: 905
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: LDT here. Arthur meets Quincey for the first time. (And even when I send him out of the country, Seward manages to show up in the story.)
Arthur Holmwood shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot. He supposed it was rather silly to dislike these parties as much as he did, considering that he’d been dragged to them since he was old enough to sit still. Then again, he thought, that might better explain why he got so utterly bored at them. They were all the same, really: the ladies would sit in the parlor or the garden, depending on the weather, and gossip about each other, and the gentlemen would patiently lurk elsewhere talking of racing, business, and politics, always in that order. If it was a dinner party, there might be some dancing, if it was an afternoon party though, the most Arthur might be able to look forward to was the opportunity to take one of the ladies for a turn about the garden.
Lord Godalming was in an opposite corner of the room, talking to a stocky older gent who was undoubtedly a prominent businessman of some sort. People were always commenting on how much Arthur looked like his father had as a young man. Arthur indeed had his father’s sharp profile and that build which was sturdy without being quite so stocky. However, even he could see that he had his mother’s eyes, which were much softer than his father’s piercing glare.
Somewhere in the next room there was a burst of laughter from the ladies. Arthur could pick out his mother’s shrill one, as well as his younger sister Alice’s twitter. They sounded like birds, he thought, and would probably look like birds too when the party moved into the garden and they were once again wearing their ridiculously expensive hats.
He made a conscious effort not to shift his weight anymore as he took a sip from the champagne glass he’d been holding all afternoon. He had never much cared for the taste of champagne, but since he’d grown up going to these blasted parties, he’d grown up drinking it, and was rather used to it by now. As he swallowed and glanced about the room, he caught the eye of Alice’s husband, a rather dull fellow named Lewis Wharton whose only redeeming quality, as far as Arthur could tell, was that his father was bloody rich. He nodded slightly and looked away, hoping his brother-in-law didn’t come to chat with him. Thankfully, he was quickly pulled into a conversation with Peter Hawkins, a solicitor Arthur had met only once, and another gentleman.
Damn Jack and his bloody infernal mentor, Arthur thought as he let his eyes wander to the window and stare out. If it weren’t for that silly doctor being so obsessed with the lunatics in his bleeding asylum I could have brought Jack along; or better yet, I could have had him invite me out and tell Mother I accepted his invitation first. But no, he has to go off to bloomin’ Amster-damn with his Professor Van What’s-his-name.
Arthur realized that another fellow had come near him and was staring out the same window. The man was about his own age, sturdier and with a ruggedness about him, and he didn’t recognize him as being someone he’d met before. The man noticed Arthur’s glance and gave him a sheepish grin.
“Sorry to bother you; it just seemed like you had the right idea, getting’ over here away from everyone else.” The man had an accent Arthur couldn’t quite place, not so think as to make him unintelligible, but certainly distinct.
Arthur offered his hand to the fellow. “It’s no bother, I assure you. I’m Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming’s son.”
The young man shook his offered hand firmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmwood. I’m Quincey P. Morris or Texas, or just Quincey, as the rest’s rather a mouthful.”
Texas, of course: the fellow was an American. That was the accent. Arthur smiled. “Really, you’re welcome to call me Arthur. Morris, did you say? I don’t presume you’re any relation to the…‘cattle baron’, do you Americans call it…Preston Morris?”
Quincey laughed. “He’s my pa-father, I guess I should say. That’s what the ‘P’ stands for, Preston. He’s right over there.” He indicated the gentleman who had been talking to Lord Godalming earlier.
The two young men talked for some time, lamenting the stuffiness of the party and comparing stories about social events they’d been forced to attend due to affluent parents. Arthur pointed out Alice and Lewis and explained how unbearable they were, and Quincey told tales of his three younger brothers, Rawley, Stanley, and Timothy.
“Someday you’ll have to come visit us out in the barberies of America,” said Quincey, “and let me teach you how to ride a stallion and rope a bull. I’ve seen a few of your polo matches, and let me tell you: there’s not an Englishman alive who knows how to really ride a horse.”
“Is that right? Well, I’ve never understood how you Americans can stomach coffee. Nasty stuff, all the way down, and there’s no amount of sugar or milk can help it.” Arthur chuckled half to himself when he suddenly remembered that Jack seemed to swear by the awful drink.
Quincey clapped Arthur on the back. “Y’know, Art, I get the feeling we’re going to get along just swell, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
Arthur smiled. “I have to say I agree.” The party hadn’t been such a bore after all.
Fandom: Dracula: General Novel
Characters: Arthur Holmwood, Quincey Morris, several references to others
Prompt: 001. Beginnings
Word Count: 905
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: LDT here. Arthur meets Quincey for the first time. (And even when I send him out of the country, Seward manages to show up in the story.)
Arthur Holmwood shifted his weight back and forth from foot to foot. He supposed it was rather silly to dislike these parties as much as he did, considering that he’d been dragged to them since he was old enough to sit still. Then again, he thought, that might better explain why he got so utterly bored at them. They were all the same, really: the ladies would sit in the parlor or the garden, depending on the weather, and gossip about each other, and the gentlemen would patiently lurk elsewhere talking of racing, business, and politics, always in that order. If it was a dinner party, there might be some dancing, if it was an afternoon party though, the most Arthur might be able to look forward to was the opportunity to take one of the ladies for a turn about the garden.
Lord Godalming was in an opposite corner of the room, talking to a stocky older gent who was undoubtedly a prominent businessman of some sort. People were always commenting on how much Arthur looked like his father had as a young man. Arthur indeed had his father’s sharp profile and that build which was sturdy without being quite so stocky. However, even he could see that he had his mother’s eyes, which were much softer than his father’s piercing glare.
Somewhere in the next room there was a burst of laughter from the ladies. Arthur could pick out his mother’s shrill one, as well as his younger sister Alice’s twitter. They sounded like birds, he thought, and would probably look like birds too when the party moved into the garden and they were once again wearing their ridiculously expensive hats.
He made a conscious effort not to shift his weight anymore as he took a sip from the champagne glass he’d been holding all afternoon. He had never much cared for the taste of champagne, but since he’d grown up going to these blasted parties, he’d grown up drinking it, and was rather used to it by now. As he swallowed and glanced about the room, he caught the eye of Alice’s husband, a rather dull fellow named Lewis Wharton whose only redeeming quality, as far as Arthur could tell, was that his father was bloody rich. He nodded slightly and looked away, hoping his brother-in-law didn’t come to chat with him. Thankfully, he was quickly pulled into a conversation with Peter Hawkins, a solicitor Arthur had met only once, and another gentleman.
Damn Jack and his bloody infernal mentor, Arthur thought as he let his eyes wander to the window and stare out. If it weren’t for that silly doctor being so obsessed with the lunatics in his bleeding asylum I could have brought Jack along; or better yet, I could have had him invite me out and tell Mother I accepted his invitation first. But no, he has to go off to bloomin’ Amster-damn with his Professor Van What’s-his-name.
Arthur realized that another fellow had come near him and was staring out the same window. The man was about his own age, sturdier and with a ruggedness about him, and he didn’t recognize him as being someone he’d met before. The man noticed Arthur’s glance and gave him a sheepish grin.
“Sorry to bother you; it just seemed like you had the right idea, getting’ over here away from everyone else.” The man had an accent Arthur couldn’t quite place, not so think as to make him unintelligible, but certainly distinct.
Arthur offered his hand to the fellow. “It’s no bother, I assure you. I’m Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming’s son.”
The young man shook his offered hand firmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmwood. I’m Quincey P. Morris or Texas, or just Quincey, as the rest’s rather a mouthful.”
Texas, of course: the fellow was an American. That was the accent. Arthur smiled. “Really, you’re welcome to call me Arthur. Morris, did you say? I don’t presume you’re any relation to the…‘cattle baron’, do you Americans call it…Preston Morris?”
Quincey laughed. “He’s my pa-father, I guess I should say. That’s what the ‘P’ stands for, Preston. He’s right over there.” He indicated the gentleman who had been talking to Lord Godalming earlier.
The two young men talked for some time, lamenting the stuffiness of the party and comparing stories about social events they’d been forced to attend due to affluent parents. Arthur pointed out Alice and Lewis and explained how unbearable they were, and Quincey told tales of his three younger brothers, Rawley, Stanley, and Timothy.
“Someday you’ll have to come visit us out in the barberies of America,” said Quincey, “and let me teach you how to ride a stallion and rope a bull. I’ve seen a few of your polo matches, and let me tell you: there’s not an Englishman alive who knows how to really ride a horse.”
“Is that right? Well, I’ve never understood how you Americans can stomach coffee. Nasty stuff, all the way down, and there’s no amount of sugar or milk can help it.” Arthur chuckled half to himself when he suddenly remembered that Jack seemed to swear by the awful drink.
Quincey clapped Arthur on the back. “Y’know, Art, I get the feeling we’re going to get along just swell, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
Arthur smiled. “I have to say I agree.” The party hadn’t been such a bore after all.