Year After Year (Hathaway/Wallflower Next Generation)
As NaNo 2012 slowly starts to scare the crap out of me, I bring you more NaNo 2011!
Title: Year After Year
Characters: Mirela Merripen, Anna Rutledge, Kev Merripen, Cian Ryder, Evangeline St. Vincent, Edward Hathaway, Leo Hathaway, Jeremy Hunt, Isabelle Hunt, Nicholas Hunt, Simon Hunt, Annabelle Hunt
Rating: pg
Word Count: 5,001
Summary: You put your arms around me and I'm home...
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: Random cuts from my 2011 NaNo, Next Generation fic for Lisa Kleypas's Wallflower & Hathaway series. Not all will be posted, but if you have any certain character you would like to see, let me know and I will see what I have (or perhaps write something new in this universe). This is all set about 20 years after the Hathaway series. For your convenience, cast of characters listed here.
The home of the Duke and Duchess of Kingston was a prime invite for any family event, but the Duchess gave a small tea in the beginning of each season for young girls and their mothers. It was a tradition that was started when her eldest daughter, Phoebe, was thirteen years old, and even though Phoebe and her second daughter, Miranda were both married now, and Claire, the youngest girl was a shining star in her second season, Lady Kingston still invited younger girls, not just her daughters’ contemporaries. Even for being one of the most high ranking families in the country, and richest to boot, Lady Kingston had a reputation for warmth and sweet generosity. It was rumored that she had been a painfully shy wallflower before she married, but it was hard to picture now, especially when one saw her with her still-handsome and obviously unshy husband.
Mirela’s dress was light blue silk. She had thought she might wear it to a more formal dinner party, but Anna had insisted it was the only dress suitable for visiting the Duchess of Kingston. It wasn’t unkind, Mirela always appreciated that special brand of blunt honesty that she could only get from her cousin who was always wishing for just a bit more than she had, but she never understood why it all had to be so silly when her family was in town. Back at home, she usually wore the same lightweight red poplin for parties, because it was cool to dance in, and her family -- her village, everyone she knew -- so loved to dance, and parties were always a wild, loud affair until the wee hours of the morning. Nothing like these quiet, stuffy afternoons, calmly sipping at tea and lazily making conversation, as if to do any more exertion would surely cause a fit of vapors.
Although, Mirela didn’t know if she could even jig for a few minutes now. Anna had somehow convinced her that she had to be in a corset. It was completely unfamiliar to her, as her mother hadn’t worn one in years, since long before she was born (and still with a tiny waist, even after five children) and she had nearly strangled herself, getting the in the way of the poor maid who had the unlucky task of trying to lace her up. “At least you’re already slender,” Anna had said, shooting an unkind look at her younger sister Caroline who was a tad on the plumper side, though still quite pretty. She was forever teasing her, and their older sister Elizabeth played mediator.
Anna could be cruel sometimes, but she would never allow an outsider to do the same to her sister. And Caroline adored her nonetheless, but still Mirela wished there would be more peace at the Rutledge. But then again, the constant squabbling was a good distraction. And Mirela desperately needed to be distracted.
After that night in the stables -- that kiss -- Cian had stayed far away from her until the day the family left for London. Jado noticed, she was sure of it, and he even seemed to cool towards his childhood friend. But the whole household had turned out to see the family off, and it was unavoidable for both of them. He seemed to tolerate the kisses from her mother and baby sister, and Tamas and Mihai chattered excitedly to him when he ruffled their hair. Papa shook his hand, and Cian spoke for the first time, thanking him for everything he’d ever done for him. “It’s not goodbye, boy,” the earl had answered, with his usual solemnity, but that touch of gentleness that Mirela only heard from him in Ireland.
She was last, and he helped her up into the carriage, his hand sure and warm beneath hers. She looked at him desperately for any sign that he realized she was leaving, that her heart was breaking, that he saw her, for goodness sake. But he looked at the ground when he said, “Have a safe and pleasant voyage, Lady Mary.” He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d cut her heart out.
Maybe he had. Because since then, she’d felt nothing, no joy or excitement or anything but the overpowering nothing, the blackness that was only compounded by the gray, flat, suffocating air of London.
They were staying at the Rutledge with Uncle Harry and Aunt Poppy and Aunt Amelia and Uncle Cam, and it was easy to get lost among all of those Hathaways, everyone laughing and enjoying their time together. Mama, Papa and Jado dressed for some fancy ball or another nearly every night and she was mostly left alone -- everyone seemed to just accept that she was homesick, or that she was upset she couldn’t be out, like Anna. Mirela let them believe what was convenient, she had only confided in her oldest girl cousin, Elizabeth.
“Why Mary, we didn’t know you’d be here, how delightful!” Laura Draymore was the daughter of a well-placed baron and the lowborn mistress who had managed to trick him into coming up to scratch. They moved in the same circle as her aunts and uncles, but the Hathaways did not seem to like the family very much. Mirela had already met her when she and her mother had paid a round of calls the week that they arrived, but Anna had more stories about the girl that were not shared in polite parlors.
Anna and Laura were the same age and apparently had competed for everything their entire lives. Sabotaged each other in school when they were younger, tattled on each other at parties when they were quite small and then when they were older, found ways to get back at each other without involving chaperones. And when Laura met Mirela, she knew she had a leg up on Anna. At least she didn’t have Irish Gypsy cousins.
So far, Mirela hadn’t had to navigate any of London society without Anna firmly by her side. But today, Anna was punished (for teasing Caroline, of course), and Rebecca and Tali were still too young for events like this. Caroline had volunteered to stay home as well and keep Anna company, which only infuriated her further. And so Mirela had gone with her mother, alone.
Mama loved being in London, Mirela knew. She had lived near the city most of her life, and she had many friends to visit and catch up with, and Mirela put on the pretense of being happy to socialize with the other girls her own age for her mother’s sake.
“Good afternoon, Miss Draymore,” Mirela said quietly and carefully, turning to address Laura and the two sallow-faced girls she always seemed to be carrying around with her..
“What was that, I could hardly understand you,” Laura answered, her voice rather shrill. She laughed. “You really are a regular little Brigid, aren’t you? How charming!”
Mirela fumed. “That’s right.” She was proud of being Irish, and had no use for these girls. “I hardly know any English at all. Pogue muh hoin.”
Laura tittered merrily at that and her two henchmen joined in, though they clearly had no idea what Mirela had just said, but even so, she must know she had insulted her. Mirela herself had never even said such a phrase -- had only heard Jado say it when their parents weren’t around. It felt almost that she had wasted her first real, honest curse on someone who wasn’t worthy of it.
“Girls, can I help you with anything out here?” None of the girls had seen the Duchess of Kingston approaching through the arched doorways, but there she was, standing behind Mirela, in her elegant dark green velvet afternoon dress, with a sweet, placid expression on her serene face.
“Oh no, Lady Kingston.” Laura quickly pasted a sickly sweet smile on. “We were just asking Mary here all about her lovely home it sounds so quaint and...rustic.”
“County Down is lovely, the Duke and I had the privilege of visiting there a few years ago,” the duchess smoothly lied, and Mirela had to stop herself from dropping her jaw in shock. “And my apologies, Miss Draymore, but I think you should be addressing Mary by her correct title. Her father is an earl, if you recall.”
Laura rolled her eyes and spoke before she could stop herself. “Yes, but he’s an Irish-” And she stopped short when she saw the Duchess make the slightest motion that indicated she was treading on thin ice. Mirela edged closer to Lady Kingston and resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.
“I...yes, Lady Mary, you’re quite right,” Laura was flabbergasted, and her two friends did not seem to know whether to cheer or cower in fear. “I...We’re needed elsewhere, if you will excuse us.”
Lady Kingston turned and smiled at Mirela when they were alone.
“Your grace, thank you for-”
“Nothing to thank me for,” Lady Kingston shook her head, cutting off Mirela’s apology. “I understand what was happening, and I apologize to you for inviting such behavior in my home. They shan’t be invited back.”
“I...” Mirela was speechless. “Your grace, you would do that for me? But...how can you...”
Lady Kingston’s smile was one of the most genuinely kind ones Mirela had ever seen, without a hint of mischief behind it. “I know what it’s like to be made a joke of, for the way you speak.”
“You, your grace?” Mirela could hardly imagine it. Who would dare?
“I wasn’t always the duchess of Kingston you know, my dear,” Lady Kingston smiled as if at a fond memory. “When I was a girl, I had an unbearable stammer.”
It was unfathomable -- the poised and strikingly beautiful duchess of Kingston trying to force her way through a conversation. But...that was a stammer, and it went away. Mirela would always be herself -- daughter of the Irish Gypsy earl. She would have it no other way. She wouldn’t lose herself.
Lady Kingston looked at her in the eye. “You have just as much a right to be here as anyone. Don’t let anyone ever push you aside.” And then she patted Mirela’s cheek kindly and seemed to all but sail away. Mirela watched her go with awe.
She could see her mother across the room, laughing and chatting with ease. She belonged in both places, she belonged everywhere. Mirela had told Cian that she would always be his, wherever he went, and wherever she went, and she could feel that chain around her neck, even now. All she wanted was to feel like she belonged somewhere.
She went back into the parlor.
*
“...They’ll tire of it easily enough in a month or so, and then we can finally get some peace and quiet,” Hugh, Lord Rombson puffed two or three more times on his cigar. “You know women, always finding something new to occupy their time.”
Edward paused with his fingers tight around the warm glass of port, and looked across the room at his father, who was calmly sipping his own brandy, hardly looking as if he was paying any mind to the conversation going on around them. Edward opened his mouth to speak, and then (as if he could sense it from across the din), Lord Ramsay lifted his gaze to his eldest son and subtly shook his head no.
Edward clamped his mouth shut. Now was not the time.
But when? He knew that laws were really changed in parlors and over nightcaps, it was just the paperwork they took care of at Parliament.
But this was the way, he knew better than to go shouting off in front of half the members of the peerage, and who would listen to him anyway? Barely eighteen years old, and not set to hold a title for many years, God willing. It was his Hathaway side though that always crept up at times like this. When he should be silent, and take it all in, when his first instinct was to stand on a chair, shout for everyone’s attention and then give a stirring oration that would surely bring all of England to the side of the right.
Lord Ramsay caught his eye across the room and gave a slight nod toward the corridor next to the smoking room in Lord Rombson’s east wing. Edward bit back a grunt. This was for his own good, he knew that. He still felt like a child being chastised.
“Now is not the time,” he said quietly to his father when they were outside and down the hallway a little ways.
Lord Ramsay smiled ruefully. “You took the words out of my mouth, son. No, now is not the time. One needs some patience, and to watch and learn, waiting for the opportune moment.”
Edward sighed, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “None of them even bother to educate themselves, it’s worse than listening to children.”
Lord Ramsay grinned proudly. “How is it you’re already so serious?” He laughed, staring off into the distance. “When I was your age, well...” And Lord Ramsay came back to himself. “Well, it happened the way it happened anyway. Why don’t you...perhaps take a walk in the gardens? Get some air to...cool off?”
Edward had always noted the long pauses his father took in brief sentences. When he was thinking of him kindly, he thought it was because he was choosing his words carefully, but sometimes he expected that Lord Ramsay loved to keep everyone around him on the edge of anticipation.
It was a brisk night for late March, but the bracing air was preferable to the insufferable conversation in the house. Edward sucked in long, deep breaths once he was outdoors. The moon was nearly full, and a slight shade of pink, and straightened out on one side, something of a fat D. He would remember that later, when he thought of this night.
It was a quiet night in London, even in the stately Mayfair neighborhood. He heard no dogs barking or any carriages rolling past down the street, so Edward found himself watching the moon for some time, he did not know how long. His cousins and his twin, Emmaline, sometimes teased him that the entire house could burn down around him if he was distracted with his nose in a book, and he very often got caught by the moon, or an extraordinarily beautiful patch of flowers in the meadow near Ramsay House, or the sound of the river. He didn’t know how to explain it, even to himself, he would just try to smile good-naturedly when Rye and Jado would give him a hard time for it.
So he did not hear the whisper of silk skirts behind him, nor smell the jasmine water that would later become so familiar to him. And as much as he would search his memory, all he would remember of that night was the pink moon.
But then she was there, out of the corner of his eye, so still that he wondered if she was an outdoor painting. And once he saw her, he could look at nothing else.
She was stunning, and even that was not a strong enough sentiment. For a moment Edward stopped breathing it was as if the entire world had stopped. Her hair shone different shades of spun gold in the moonlight, piled on her head in a heavy mass to reveal a slender graceful neck and smooth white skin. She wore no shawl, and she was obviously dressed for the opera in a pale green silk, or a ball...anywhere other than a quiet garden with a boy too shy to move.
She appeared not to know that he was there, which Edward was grateful for, that he might look at her undisturbed, without having to explain himself or make conversation. He could see in her profile, her lips were full and pink, and her nose was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.
But then she turned to him. She had known he was there all along.
Edward felt his feet stuck to the ground as she approached him. She was of medium height, still a good three or four inches shorter than him. Her feet were silent on the ground, she just sailed over as if by wind. And when she got close, he could see her eyes. Pale green like her gown, heavily lashed and absolutely unflinching.
She did not speak, and Edward guessed that she was waiting for him to do so, but what could he say? He had no gift for this, always left it to Rye to make introductions and even then, he would usually mumble a polite good evening and fade into the background. His sister’s former suitor, Russell Bowman, had known Emmaline since she was a child. He had no such advantage here.
He could read in five languages. How was it that he could form not even one word?
But finally, she smiled. “Oh,” her voice had a magical fairylike quality. He had heard his Aunt Win reading to her youngest, Brenna, and she talked of the way fairies could enchant mortals with just the sound of their voice. And Edward opened his mouth to speak.
*
Jeremy was sleeping in the rain. And the rain smelled sweet, like summer flowers. The fragrance surrounded him, hitting his bare arms and face. It was almost...overpowering. And then petals started to fall on him. Petals that stung like little slaps.
Jeremy’s eyes flew open. His three-year-old niece, Sophie, was dousing him with her mother’s perfume water and then vigorously rubbing it in to ensure that the scent really absorbed. She grinned happily at him when she saw that he was awake. “Bonjour, Oncle Gerom’!”
“Why you little...” He reached for her and pulled her to him under her arms, tickling her wildly and she squealed with delight, and he knew he had made a grave mistake. Her high, baby voice cut right through his skull like a blade. “Ugh, you little demon,” he groaned when she flopped belly-first on his chest and started poking her fingers into his cheeks.
“That’s what you get for falling asleep in the parlor.” His sister Isabelle pulled her daughter off of his chest and kissed her sweet little face. “Couldn’t make it up the stairs, little brother?”
Jeremy sagged into the sofa, and lazily pointed over at the snoring mass on the floor, a few feet away. “I did better than him.” They looked down at their youngest sibling, Nicky, blond and soused and completely dead to the world. “Let him rest, though. I think he carried me home last night, after I was kicked out of Boodle’s.”
“Jeremy,” Isabelle chided, tucking Sophie’s head against her chest.
“She can’t understand me, you only speak bloody French to her,” Jeremy groaned. He reached a hand toward his adorable niece, smiling angelically with her fingers in her mouth. “You can’t understand a word I’m saying, my darling, can you? I could curse a bloody blue streak.” At this implied naughtiness, Sophie giggled.
Isabelle took her daughter’s fingers out of her mouth. “I think she knows more than she lets on, don’t you, ma petite?” Sophie’s only response was happy, innocent babblings en francais, but Jeremy would venture a guess that his sister was right.
Finally starting to wake up, even though the pounding in his head persisted, Jeremy made an effort to sit up, and saw that his dear sister had a pot of steaming French roast set and waiting for him. “Oh you’re an angel,” he garbled. “Your mothering instincts have improved you. I thank my dear niece for that.”
“I do too,” Isabelle smiled softly. She set Sophie back on the floor, who went to her Uncle Nicky and continued to use him like a great climbing gymnasium. Isabelle exchanged a look with Jeremy, and they both laughed, remembering a full childhood of mutually tormenting their youngest sibling. Isabelle turned back to Jeremy. “You were at Boodle’s last night? Well, it’s no wonder you were tossed out on your arse, you probably gave all those stuffy old bastards a poplexy, with all your wicked ways.”
Jeremy raised a dark eyebrow. “I thought we were watching our language in front of the cherub?” They looked over to where Sophie was sitting on Nicky’s shoulders, picking up his head by pulling his hair and then dropping him. He slept on.
Isabelle shrugged. “A little bit of cursing won’t harm her irreparably.” Isabelle’s dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “So tell me, brother...why the old gentlemen’s very proper brandy room? I thought all you young bucks were running wild at Jenner’s after all the official Season events have ended.”
Jeremy had to grin at his still very youthful sister using the phrase you young bucks, as if she were speaking from the point of view of a grandmother -- a few short years ago, she was holding the town in the palm of her delicate hand. It wasn’t unlike what he had seen the other week at the Rutledge ball, with Elizabeth Rutledge.
He had not seen her since that night. In fact, he had skipped two balls and three dinner parties just on the off-chance he might run into her again. He wasn’t missed at such affairs he was not a peer, just a pesky, nouveau riche member of the gauche middle class.
He was still stuck in that damn linen closet, the scent of her surrounding him, the soft pressure of her skirts against his legs, and her eyes. He had never seen eyes that deep, rich blue. He had thought of little else, and he refused to be caught off guard with her again. That was why he had taken matters into his own hands, and that was why he had not returned to Jenner’s.
In two weeks time, he would see her again, over his own dinner table, in front of both of their entire families. And he would give her the surprise of her life. It was a gamble, but it would pay off in the long run...he hoped.
“Jeremy,” Isabelle sing-songed out. “Where did you go, little brother?”
“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, and shoved his unruly black hair off his forehead. It was forever flopping forward. “What did you ask?”
Isabelle shook her head, and laughed. “Oh, it has finally happened. Who is she?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A-ha!” She snapped her fingers. “Of course there is a girl. Oh, she must be someone very special for you to be so distracted, why...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this careless with your liquor and your nights out in over ten years.”
“No, it’s-” Jeremy was saved from having to make up a plausible argument and excuse when the French doors of the parlor slammed open and his father bellowed his name.
This finally awoke Nicky with a start, and as he leapt up, the baby went tumbling off of him, sending her into a fit of tears and she scampered off to her mother for comfort, and Jeremy grimly faced his own mother, who looked positively ready to conjure a storm in the middle of their formal parlor.
“Yes, Mother,” he said, his voice very small. He tried to smile at her with a sweet and innocent expression, but he had bypassed that years ago.
“Jeremy, Margie just returned from the market, where she heard the most disturbing news that Mrs. Nanes just relayed to me,” Annabelle Hunt was in no mood for any schemes of her son’s. He’d been a born salesman, like his father, and she had learned to eventually be immune to his manipulations. “Apparently, somebody placed an order for enough lobsters to feed forty-seven people on the twelfth of April. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?”
Jeremy felt exactly like he did when he was fourteen years old and had been caught with an empty bottle of aged Scotch whiskey from Lord Westcliff’s reserves. Young Simon, the future earl of Westcliff, aged eleven, had been his somewhat willing accomplice. Fortunately, as the Earl held the Hunts in such high esteem as to name his only son after Jeremy’s father, he was forgiven.
Annabelle looked at her younger son on the floor, still clutching his pounding head. He weakly reached toward the pot of coffee next to Isabelle that had cooled slightly, and Annabelle huffed and went to pour her baby a cup. “Serves you right,” she muttered to him. As she turned back to her older son, her daughter, who had raised so many concerns in the years before her marriage, that her husband had threatened so many duels over, looked on in glee.
“I...arranged to have a small dinner party, just family,” Jeremy answered carefully. He had meant to inform his mother, as she was far more accustomed to handling such details. In fact, this was a completely first time experience for him. He was a dinner-party planning virgin.
“Jeremy.” His father glowered over him, and Jeremy did his best not to flinch. He’d been a fun sort of parent to have at times, always ready for a fishing trip or happy to move the parlor furniture to allow for a wrestling match to settle any small dispute between his boys. But Jeremy had always known that Simon Hunt expected a certain amount from his sons, and total, unconditional respect toward his mother. This was the uncrossable line.
“It’s...just...the family,” Jeremy began. They had a rather large family, as it extended to his mother’s best friends and their own large broods. But, also, both of his parents could add. “And a few other...families.”
“Which families?” Annabelle would not be charmed. She would not.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Rohan,” he answered. Their estate abutted the home of Lord Westcliff, where the Hunts spent most of their summers. “And the Earl and Countess of Riverton, and...a few others.”
“You invited all of the Hathaways, didn’t you?” Annabelle prompted. The Hathaways were one of the most eccentric families of the ton, and for all that there were three titles between the five families. They comprised of a group of one brother (Leo, Lord Ramsay), and his four sisters. Out of those four, the youngest was the Countess of Riverton, and another of the ladies was married to the Irish Earl of Cavan, the famous Gypsy lord. And then the eldest lady was married to Cam Rohan, and the then there were the Rutledges.
Jeremy could see his father begin to smile behind his mother. He smiled back. He had an ally now.
“Oh, I thought you liked them, Mother. Didn’t you say how amusing and refreshing those ladies are?” Jeremy asked. “Informal and witty, you said?”
“They are, but...” Annabelle turned to her husband, all of her ire redirected for the moment. “This house had better be harmonious on that night.”
“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” If Jeremy Hunt was past his years of trying to look innocent, then Simon Hunt had no prayer.
“I mean, behave yourself with Harry Rutledge,” Annabelle enunciated each word as carefully as if she were giving testimony in a court room. She fixed her husband with a pointed stare. “I mean it this time, Simon.”
“I never-”
“You always,” Annabelle finished for him, but she smiled, and Simon winked at his son over her head as he pulled her in for a little cuddle. His wife’s temper was always quick to rise and just as quick to fall, and he so loved the color it made in her cheeks.
“It’s so easy though,” Simon wheedled. “Sophie is harder to rackle than that man, he’s so...sensitive.”
Thank you, Jeremy mouthed to his father, as Simon led his wife into the hallway, still discussing his relative merit of good behavior.
Once they were free of their parents, Isabelle turned to Jeremy with wonder in her eyes. “Why, little brother, who ever would have thought...You, playing Romeo, to Miss Elizabeth Rutledge’s Juliet?’
Now romantic balderdash such as that, he simply could not abide. “I’ll welcome you to leave Shakespeare out of it, thank you very much,” Jeremy snipped, rather prissily for him, and Isabelle had to bite her lip to keep from grinning.
“Even so,” Isabelle mused. “I always thought that Nicky would be the family rebel, throwing all caution to the wind for romance.”
“What?” Nicky quite obviously still hadn’t recovered from the way he was woken up. He held his hands to his head as if it would fall off if he were to let go.
“And anyway,” Jeremy mused. Sophie was quite content from her mama’s cuddles and crawled back into her Oncle Gerom’s lap, searching his pockets for any hidden treasures. She had already found many little bundles of candy and shiny buttons to play with and some other things that her maman made sure to immediately grab away. “Since when is finding a conventional romance a family tradition? Look at our parents. Look at you.” Isabelle said nothing but smiled serenely. Jeremy pointed to the little bundle in his lap. “Look at this precious little gem. Do you remember that sodding old fool who wanted to marry you all those years ago?” Isabelle’s eyes shone brightly, remembering that wild summer when she met Charles. She had caused a scandal or two that secretly made her mother so proud. “And look at you now. Regular bohemian. It’s practically indecent.”
Isabelle laughed merrily. “And now you lecture me on decency, little brother? We shall see. You’ll be in your own fix soon enough.”
And Jeremy just smiled, cuddling his little niece closer.
<<<333
Title: Year After Year
Characters: Mirela Merripen, Anna Rutledge, Kev Merripen, Cian Ryder, Evangeline St. Vincent, Edward Hathaway, Leo Hathaway, Jeremy Hunt, Isabelle Hunt, Nicholas Hunt, Simon Hunt, Annabelle Hunt
Rating: pg
Word Count: 5,001
Summary: You put your arms around me and I'm home...
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: Random cuts from my 2011 NaNo, Next Generation fic for Lisa Kleypas's Wallflower & Hathaway series. Not all will be posted, but if you have any certain character you would like to see, let me know and I will see what I have (or perhaps write something new in this universe). This is all set about 20 years after the Hathaway series. For your convenience, cast of characters listed here.
The home of the Duke and Duchess of Kingston was a prime invite for any family event, but the Duchess gave a small tea in the beginning of each season for young girls and their mothers. It was a tradition that was started when her eldest daughter, Phoebe, was thirteen years old, and even though Phoebe and her second daughter, Miranda were both married now, and Claire, the youngest girl was a shining star in her second season, Lady Kingston still invited younger girls, not just her daughters’ contemporaries. Even for being one of the most high ranking families in the country, and richest to boot, Lady Kingston had a reputation for warmth and sweet generosity. It was rumored that she had been a painfully shy wallflower before she married, but it was hard to picture now, especially when one saw her with her still-handsome and obviously unshy husband.
Mirela’s dress was light blue silk. She had thought she might wear it to a more formal dinner party, but Anna had insisted it was the only dress suitable for visiting the Duchess of Kingston. It wasn’t unkind, Mirela always appreciated that special brand of blunt honesty that she could only get from her cousin who was always wishing for just a bit more than she had, but she never understood why it all had to be so silly when her family was in town. Back at home, she usually wore the same lightweight red poplin for parties, because it was cool to dance in, and her family -- her village, everyone she knew -- so loved to dance, and parties were always a wild, loud affair until the wee hours of the morning. Nothing like these quiet, stuffy afternoons, calmly sipping at tea and lazily making conversation, as if to do any more exertion would surely cause a fit of vapors.
Although, Mirela didn’t know if she could even jig for a few minutes now. Anna had somehow convinced her that she had to be in a corset. It was completely unfamiliar to her, as her mother hadn’t worn one in years, since long before she was born (and still with a tiny waist, even after five children) and she had nearly strangled herself, getting the in the way of the poor maid who had the unlucky task of trying to lace her up. “At least you’re already slender,” Anna had said, shooting an unkind look at her younger sister Caroline who was a tad on the plumper side, though still quite pretty. She was forever teasing her, and their older sister Elizabeth played mediator.
Anna could be cruel sometimes, but she would never allow an outsider to do the same to her sister. And Caroline adored her nonetheless, but still Mirela wished there would be more peace at the Rutledge. But then again, the constant squabbling was a good distraction. And Mirela desperately needed to be distracted.
After that night in the stables -- that kiss -- Cian had stayed far away from her until the day the family left for London. Jado noticed, she was sure of it, and he even seemed to cool towards his childhood friend. But the whole household had turned out to see the family off, and it was unavoidable for both of them. He seemed to tolerate the kisses from her mother and baby sister, and Tamas and Mihai chattered excitedly to him when he ruffled their hair. Papa shook his hand, and Cian spoke for the first time, thanking him for everything he’d ever done for him. “It’s not goodbye, boy,” the earl had answered, with his usual solemnity, but that touch of gentleness that Mirela only heard from him in Ireland.
She was last, and he helped her up into the carriage, his hand sure and warm beneath hers. She looked at him desperately for any sign that he realized she was leaving, that her heart was breaking, that he saw her, for goodness sake. But he looked at the ground when he said, “Have a safe and pleasant voyage, Lady Mary.” He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d cut her heart out.
Maybe he had. Because since then, she’d felt nothing, no joy or excitement or anything but the overpowering nothing, the blackness that was only compounded by the gray, flat, suffocating air of London.
They were staying at the Rutledge with Uncle Harry and Aunt Poppy and Aunt Amelia and Uncle Cam, and it was easy to get lost among all of those Hathaways, everyone laughing and enjoying their time together. Mama, Papa and Jado dressed for some fancy ball or another nearly every night and she was mostly left alone -- everyone seemed to just accept that she was homesick, or that she was upset she couldn’t be out, like Anna. Mirela let them believe what was convenient, she had only confided in her oldest girl cousin, Elizabeth.
“Why Mary, we didn’t know you’d be here, how delightful!” Laura Draymore was the daughter of a well-placed baron and the lowborn mistress who had managed to trick him into coming up to scratch. They moved in the same circle as her aunts and uncles, but the Hathaways did not seem to like the family very much. Mirela had already met her when she and her mother had paid a round of calls the week that they arrived, but Anna had more stories about the girl that were not shared in polite parlors.
Anna and Laura were the same age and apparently had competed for everything their entire lives. Sabotaged each other in school when they were younger, tattled on each other at parties when they were quite small and then when they were older, found ways to get back at each other without involving chaperones. And when Laura met Mirela, she knew she had a leg up on Anna. At least she didn’t have Irish Gypsy cousins.
So far, Mirela hadn’t had to navigate any of London society without Anna firmly by her side. But today, Anna was punished (for teasing Caroline, of course), and Rebecca and Tali were still too young for events like this. Caroline had volunteered to stay home as well and keep Anna company, which only infuriated her further. And so Mirela had gone with her mother, alone.
Mama loved being in London, Mirela knew. She had lived near the city most of her life, and she had many friends to visit and catch up with, and Mirela put on the pretense of being happy to socialize with the other girls her own age for her mother’s sake.
“Good afternoon, Miss Draymore,” Mirela said quietly and carefully, turning to address Laura and the two sallow-faced girls she always seemed to be carrying around with her..
“What was that, I could hardly understand you,” Laura answered, her voice rather shrill. She laughed. “You really are a regular little Brigid, aren’t you? How charming!”
Mirela fumed. “That’s right.” She was proud of being Irish, and had no use for these girls. “I hardly know any English at all. Pogue muh hoin.”
Laura tittered merrily at that and her two henchmen joined in, though they clearly had no idea what Mirela had just said, but even so, she must know she had insulted her. Mirela herself had never even said such a phrase -- had only heard Jado say it when their parents weren’t around. It felt almost that she had wasted her first real, honest curse on someone who wasn’t worthy of it.
“Girls, can I help you with anything out here?” None of the girls had seen the Duchess of Kingston approaching through the arched doorways, but there she was, standing behind Mirela, in her elegant dark green velvet afternoon dress, with a sweet, placid expression on her serene face.
“Oh no, Lady Kingston.” Laura quickly pasted a sickly sweet smile on. “We were just asking Mary here all about her lovely home it sounds so quaint and...rustic.”
“County Down is lovely, the Duke and I had the privilege of visiting there a few years ago,” the duchess smoothly lied, and Mirela had to stop herself from dropping her jaw in shock. “And my apologies, Miss Draymore, but I think you should be addressing Mary by her correct title. Her father is an earl, if you recall.”
Laura rolled her eyes and spoke before she could stop herself. “Yes, but he’s an Irish-” And she stopped short when she saw the Duchess make the slightest motion that indicated she was treading on thin ice. Mirela edged closer to Lady Kingston and resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.
“I...yes, Lady Mary, you’re quite right,” Laura was flabbergasted, and her two friends did not seem to know whether to cheer or cower in fear. “I...We’re needed elsewhere, if you will excuse us.”
Lady Kingston turned and smiled at Mirela when they were alone.
“Your grace, thank you for-”
“Nothing to thank me for,” Lady Kingston shook her head, cutting off Mirela’s apology. “I understand what was happening, and I apologize to you for inviting such behavior in my home. They shan’t be invited back.”
“I...” Mirela was speechless. “Your grace, you would do that for me? But...how can you...”
Lady Kingston’s smile was one of the most genuinely kind ones Mirela had ever seen, without a hint of mischief behind it. “I know what it’s like to be made a joke of, for the way you speak.”
“You, your grace?” Mirela could hardly imagine it. Who would dare?
“I wasn’t always the duchess of Kingston you know, my dear,” Lady Kingston smiled as if at a fond memory. “When I was a girl, I had an unbearable stammer.”
It was unfathomable -- the poised and strikingly beautiful duchess of Kingston trying to force her way through a conversation. But...that was a stammer, and it went away. Mirela would always be herself -- daughter of the Irish Gypsy earl. She would have it no other way. She wouldn’t lose herself.
Lady Kingston looked at her in the eye. “You have just as much a right to be here as anyone. Don’t let anyone ever push you aside.” And then she patted Mirela’s cheek kindly and seemed to all but sail away. Mirela watched her go with awe.
She could see her mother across the room, laughing and chatting with ease. She belonged in both places, she belonged everywhere. Mirela had told Cian that she would always be his, wherever he went, and wherever she went, and she could feel that chain around her neck, even now. All she wanted was to feel like she belonged somewhere.
She went back into the parlor.
*
“...They’ll tire of it easily enough in a month or so, and then we can finally get some peace and quiet,” Hugh, Lord Rombson puffed two or three more times on his cigar. “You know women, always finding something new to occupy their time.”
Edward paused with his fingers tight around the warm glass of port, and looked across the room at his father, who was calmly sipping his own brandy, hardly looking as if he was paying any mind to the conversation going on around them. Edward opened his mouth to speak, and then (as if he could sense it from across the din), Lord Ramsay lifted his gaze to his eldest son and subtly shook his head no.
Edward clamped his mouth shut. Now was not the time.
But when? He knew that laws were really changed in parlors and over nightcaps, it was just the paperwork they took care of at Parliament.
But this was the way, he knew better than to go shouting off in front of half the members of the peerage, and who would listen to him anyway? Barely eighteen years old, and not set to hold a title for many years, God willing. It was his Hathaway side though that always crept up at times like this. When he should be silent, and take it all in, when his first instinct was to stand on a chair, shout for everyone’s attention and then give a stirring oration that would surely bring all of England to the side of the right.
Lord Ramsay caught his eye across the room and gave a slight nod toward the corridor next to the smoking room in Lord Rombson’s east wing. Edward bit back a grunt. This was for his own good, he knew that. He still felt like a child being chastised.
“Now is not the time,” he said quietly to his father when they were outside and down the hallway a little ways.
Lord Ramsay smiled ruefully. “You took the words out of my mouth, son. No, now is not the time. One needs some patience, and to watch and learn, waiting for the opportune moment.”
Edward sighed, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “None of them even bother to educate themselves, it’s worse than listening to children.”
Lord Ramsay grinned proudly. “How is it you’re already so serious?” He laughed, staring off into the distance. “When I was your age, well...” And Lord Ramsay came back to himself. “Well, it happened the way it happened anyway. Why don’t you...perhaps take a walk in the gardens? Get some air to...cool off?”
Edward had always noted the long pauses his father took in brief sentences. When he was thinking of him kindly, he thought it was because he was choosing his words carefully, but sometimes he expected that Lord Ramsay loved to keep everyone around him on the edge of anticipation.
It was a brisk night for late March, but the bracing air was preferable to the insufferable conversation in the house. Edward sucked in long, deep breaths once he was outdoors. The moon was nearly full, and a slight shade of pink, and straightened out on one side, something of a fat D. He would remember that later, when he thought of this night.
It was a quiet night in London, even in the stately Mayfair neighborhood. He heard no dogs barking or any carriages rolling past down the street, so Edward found himself watching the moon for some time, he did not know how long. His cousins and his twin, Emmaline, sometimes teased him that the entire house could burn down around him if he was distracted with his nose in a book, and he very often got caught by the moon, or an extraordinarily beautiful patch of flowers in the meadow near Ramsay House, or the sound of the river. He didn’t know how to explain it, even to himself, he would just try to smile good-naturedly when Rye and Jado would give him a hard time for it.
So he did not hear the whisper of silk skirts behind him, nor smell the jasmine water that would later become so familiar to him. And as much as he would search his memory, all he would remember of that night was the pink moon.
But then she was there, out of the corner of his eye, so still that he wondered if she was an outdoor painting. And once he saw her, he could look at nothing else.
She was stunning, and even that was not a strong enough sentiment. For a moment Edward stopped breathing it was as if the entire world had stopped. Her hair shone different shades of spun gold in the moonlight, piled on her head in a heavy mass to reveal a slender graceful neck and smooth white skin. She wore no shawl, and she was obviously dressed for the opera in a pale green silk, or a ball...anywhere other than a quiet garden with a boy too shy to move.
She appeared not to know that he was there, which Edward was grateful for, that he might look at her undisturbed, without having to explain himself or make conversation. He could see in her profile, her lips were full and pink, and her nose was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.
But then she turned to him. She had known he was there all along.
Edward felt his feet stuck to the ground as she approached him. She was of medium height, still a good three or four inches shorter than him. Her feet were silent on the ground, she just sailed over as if by wind. And when she got close, he could see her eyes. Pale green like her gown, heavily lashed and absolutely unflinching.
She did not speak, and Edward guessed that she was waiting for him to do so, but what could he say? He had no gift for this, always left it to Rye to make introductions and even then, he would usually mumble a polite good evening and fade into the background. His sister’s former suitor, Russell Bowman, had known Emmaline since she was a child. He had no such advantage here.
He could read in five languages. How was it that he could form not even one word?
But finally, she smiled. “Oh,” her voice had a magical fairylike quality. He had heard his Aunt Win reading to her youngest, Brenna, and she talked of the way fairies could enchant mortals with just the sound of their voice. And Edward opened his mouth to speak.
*
Jeremy was sleeping in the rain. And the rain smelled sweet, like summer flowers. The fragrance surrounded him, hitting his bare arms and face. It was almost...overpowering. And then petals started to fall on him. Petals that stung like little slaps.
Jeremy’s eyes flew open. His three-year-old niece, Sophie, was dousing him with her mother’s perfume water and then vigorously rubbing it in to ensure that the scent really absorbed. She grinned happily at him when she saw that he was awake. “Bonjour, Oncle Gerom’!”
“Why you little...” He reached for her and pulled her to him under her arms, tickling her wildly and she squealed with delight, and he knew he had made a grave mistake. Her high, baby voice cut right through his skull like a blade. “Ugh, you little demon,” he groaned when she flopped belly-first on his chest and started poking her fingers into his cheeks.
“That’s what you get for falling asleep in the parlor.” His sister Isabelle pulled her daughter off of his chest and kissed her sweet little face. “Couldn’t make it up the stairs, little brother?”
Jeremy sagged into the sofa, and lazily pointed over at the snoring mass on the floor, a few feet away. “I did better than him.” They looked down at their youngest sibling, Nicky, blond and soused and completely dead to the world. “Let him rest, though. I think he carried me home last night, after I was kicked out of Boodle’s.”
“Jeremy,” Isabelle chided, tucking Sophie’s head against her chest.
“She can’t understand me, you only speak bloody French to her,” Jeremy groaned. He reached a hand toward his adorable niece, smiling angelically with her fingers in her mouth. “You can’t understand a word I’m saying, my darling, can you? I could curse a bloody blue streak.” At this implied naughtiness, Sophie giggled.
Isabelle took her daughter’s fingers out of her mouth. “I think she knows more than she lets on, don’t you, ma petite?” Sophie’s only response was happy, innocent babblings en francais, but Jeremy would venture a guess that his sister was right.
Finally starting to wake up, even though the pounding in his head persisted, Jeremy made an effort to sit up, and saw that his dear sister had a pot of steaming French roast set and waiting for him. “Oh you’re an angel,” he garbled. “Your mothering instincts have improved you. I thank my dear niece for that.”
“I do too,” Isabelle smiled softly. She set Sophie back on the floor, who went to her Uncle Nicky and continued to use him like a great climbing gymnasium. Isabelle exchanged a look with Jeremy, and they both laughed, remembering a full childhood of mutually tormenting their youngest sibling. Isabelle turned back to Jeremy. “You were at Boodle’s last night? Well, it’s no wonder you were tossed out on your arse, you probably gave all those stuffy old bastards a poplexy, with all your wicked ways.”
Jeremy raised a dark eyebrow. “I thought we were watching our language in front of the cherub?” They looked over to where Sophie was sitting on Nicky’s shoulders, picking up his head by pulling his hair and then dropping him. He slept on.
Isabelle shrugged. “A little bit of cursing won’t harm her irreparably.” Isabelle’s dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “So tell me, brother...why the old gentlemen’s very proper brandy room? I thought all you young bucks were running wild at Jenner’s after all the official Season events have ended.”
Jeremy had to grin at his still very youthful sister using the phrase you young bucks, as if she were speaking from the point of view of a grandmother -- a few short years ago, she was holding the town in the palm of her delicate hand. It wasn’t unlike what he had seen the other week at the Rutledge ball, with Elizabeth Rutledge.
He had not seen her since that night. In fact, he had skipped two balls and three dinner parties just on the off-chance he might run into her again. He wasn’t missed at such affairs he was not a peer, just a pesky, nouveau riche member of the gauche middle class.
He was still stuck in that damn linen closet, the scent of her surrounding him, the soft pressure of her skirts against his legs, and her eyes. He had never seen eyes that deep, rich blue. He had thought of little else, and he refused to be caught off guard with her again. That was why he had taken matters into his own hands, and that was why he had not returned to Jenner’s.
In two weeks time, he would see her again, over his own dinner table, in front of both of their entire families. And he would give her the surprise of her life. It was a gamble, but it would pay off in the long run...he hoped.
“Jeremy,” Isabelle sing-songed out. “Where did you go, little brother?”
“I’m sorry,” he shook his head, and shoved his unruly black hair off his forehead. It was forever flopping forward. “What did you ask?”
Isabelle shook her head, and laughed. “Oh, it has finally happened. Who is she?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A-ha!” She snapped her fingers. “Of course there is a girl. Oh, she must be someone very special for you to be so distracted, why...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this careless with your liquor and your nights out in over ten years.”
“No, it’s-” Jeremy was saved from having to make up a plausible argument and excuse when the French doors of the parlor slammed open and his father bellowed his name.
This finally awoke Nicky with a start, and as he leapt up, the baby went tumbling off of him, sending her into a fit of tears and she scampered off to her mother for comfort, and Jeremy grimly faced his own mother, who looked positively ready to conjure a storm in the middle of their formal parlor.
“Yes, Mother,” he said, his voice very small. He tried to smile at her with a sweet and innocent expression, but he had bypassed that years ago.
“Jeremy, Margie just returned from the market, where she heard the most disturbing news that Mrs. Nanes just relayed to me,” Annabelle Hunt was in no mood for any schemes of her son’s. He’d been a born salesman, like his father, and she had learned to eventually be immune to his manipulations. “Apparently, somebody placed an order for enough lobsters to feed forty-seven people on the twelfth of April. Do you have any idea who that somebody might be?”
Jeremy felt exactly like he did when he was fourteen years old and had been caught with an empty bottle of aged Scotch whiskey from Lord Westcliff’s reserves. Young Simon, the future earl of Westcliff, aged eleven, had been his somewhat willing accomplice. Fortunately, as the Earl held the Hunts in such high esteem as to name his only son after Jeremy’s father, he was forgiven.
Annabelle looked at her younger son on the floor, still clutching his pounding head. He weakly reached toward the pot of coffee next to Isabelle that had cooled slightly, and Annabelle huffed and went to pour her baby a cup. “Serves you right,” she muttered to him. As she turned back to her older son, her daughter, who had raised so many concerns in the years before her marriage, that her husband had threatened so many duels over, looked on in glee.
“I...arranged to have a small dinner party, just family,” Jeremy answered carefully. He had meant to inform his mother, as she was far more accustomed to handling such details. In fact, this was a completely first time experience for him. He was a dinner-party planning virgin.
“Jeremy.” His father glowered over him, and Jeremy did his best not to flinch. He’d been a fun sort of parent to have at times, always ready for a fishing trip or happy to move the parlor furniture to allow for a wrestling match to settle any small dispute between his boys. But Jeremy had always known that Simon Hunt expected a certain amount from his sons, and total, unconditional respect toward his mother. This was the uncrossable line.
“It’s...just...the family,” Jeremy began. They had a rather large family, as it extended to his mother’s best friends and their own large broods. But, also, both of his parents could add. “And a few other...families.”
“Which families?” Annabelle would not be charmed. She would not.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Rohan,” he answered. Their estate abutted the home of Lord Westcliff, where the Hunts spent most of their summers. “And the Earl and Countess of Riverton, and...a few others.”
“You invited all of the Hathaways, didn’t you?” Annabelle prompted. The Hathaways were one of the most eccentric families of the ton, and for all that there were three titles between the five families. They comprised of a group of one brother (Leo, Lord Ramsay), and his four sisters. Out of those four, the youngest was the Countess of Riverton, and another of the ladies was married to the Irish Earl of Cavan, the famous Gypsy lord. And then the eldest lady was married to Cam Rohan, and the then there were the Rutledges.
Jeremy could see his father begin to smile behind his mother. He smiled back. He had an ally now.
“Oh, I thought you liked them, Mother. Didn’t you say how amusing and refreshing those ladies are?” Jeremy asked. “Informal and witty, you said?”
“They are, but...” Annabelle turned to her husband, all of her ire redirected for the moment. “This house had better be harmonious on that night.”
“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” If Jeremy Hunt was past his years of trying to look innocent, then Simon Hunt had no prayer.
“I mean, behave yourself with Harry Rutledge,” Annabelle enunciated each word as carefully as if she were giving testimony in a court room. She fixed her husband with a pointed stare. “I mean it this time, Simon.”
“I never-”
“You always,” Annabelle finished for him, but she smiled, and Simon winked at his son over her head as he pulled her in for a little cuddle. His wife’s temper was always quick to rise and just as quick to fall, and he so loved the color it made in her cheeks.
“It’s so easy though,” Simon wheedled. “Sophie is harder to rackle than that man, he’s so...sensitive.”
Thank you, Jeremy mouthed to his father, as Simon led his wife into the hallway, still discussing his relative merit of good behavior.
Once they were free of their parents, Isabelle turned to Jeremy with wonder in her eyes. “Why, little brother, who ever would have thought...You, playing Romeo, to Miss Elizabeth Rutledge’s Juliet?’
Now romantic balderdash such as that, he simply could not abide. “I’ll welcome you to leave Shakespeare out of it, thank you very much,” Jeremy snipped, rather prissily for him, and Isabelle had to bite her lip to keep from grinning.
“Even so,” Isabelle mused. “I always thought that Nicky would be the family rebel, throwing all caution to the wind for romance.”
“What?” Nicky quite obviously still hadn’t recovered from the way he was woken up. He held his hands to his head as if it would fall off if he were to let go.
“And anyway,” Jeremy mused. Sophie was quite content from her mama’s cuddles and crawled back into her Oncle Gerom’s lap, searching his pockets for any hidden treasures. She had already found many little bundles of candy and shiny buttons to play with and some other things that her maman made sure to immediately grab away. “Since when is finding a conventional romance a family tradition? Look at our parents. Look at you.” Isabelle said nothing but smiled serenely. Jeremy pointed to the little bundle in his lap. “Look at this precious little gem. Do you remember that sodding old fool who wanted to marry you all those years ago?” Isabelle’s eyes shone brightly, remembering that wild summer when she met Charles. She had caused a scandal or two that secretly made her mother so proud. “And look at you now. Regular bohemian. It’s practically indecent.”
Isabelle laughed merrily. “And now you lecture me on decency, little brother? We shall see. You’ll be in your own fix soon enough.”
And Jeremy just smiled, cuddling his little niece closer.
<<<333