Fic: A Rough Portrait in Black and White
For infinitejoys, who gave me the rather wonderful prompt of Turlough/Charlotte Lucas.
And I begin to realise that I fail at the 'no background whatsover, just a conversation for fun' bit of this meme, but I am having fun. And, amazingly, this is the first Doctor Who story.
***
Rough Portrait in Black and White
Turlough was sketching idly. The sun was beating down on green fields and an English country lane and he was currently sitting on a low wall with paper and pencil, nobody else in sight. His blazer was beside him and he now removed the tie, leaving him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
On learning that the TARDIS had yet again landed them on earth (and this time on earth during an even more primitive period), he had revolted and requested that they leave without exploring for once and go somewhere that was actually interesting. They had the whole of the universe, all of time and space, to choose from and the Doctor had to keep on landing on the planet and the very country that had been his prison. He didn’t think that was too much to ask, but apparently it was, since Tegan, on learning the date had verged on enthusiastic (for her) and the Doctor had been babbling on about something he wanted to see, or do, or maybe it had just been the weather. He’d stopped listening by then.
“You go on,” he’d said. “I’m sure you can get into trouble quite as easily without me to cramp your style. I’ll sit this one out, thanks.”
Tegan had eyed him with suspicion and demanded to know what he was going to be doing.
“Drawing,” he told her.
So, here he was. It was summer here and he wasn’t trying to deny that the English countryside could have its charms, provided he had the TARDIS nearly visible through the trees and no one was forcing him to study pointless and antiquated lessons when he’d left school years before and lost a war in between.
“Very good,” commented someone, walking up behind him. “I would venture to say that you have some talent.
Turlough started violently, having to clutch at the pencil and notebook to keep them from falling. Despite all his comments, he’d lost himself in the sunshine and peace of the location. He cursed under his breath and turned to see who had disturbed him.
It was a woman, wearing one of the ridiculously impractical costumes of the day, plain enough but with an intelligent light in her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. “Are you going to tell me I’m trespassing and ask me to get lost?”
“Your words are a little odd,” she informed him, with an edge of humour in her voice, “however I was indeed about to warn you that you are on Lady Catherine’s land. Do not fear, if all you wish to take from here is a drawing, I am sure you are harmless enough. If anyone should ask, you may tell them that you are an acquaintance of the Collinses and I shall endeavour to smooth matters over, should there be need.”
He wasn’t sure he liked being described as ‘harmless’, but he appreciated the offer and smiled. “Thanks. Presumably that makes you… Mrs Collins?”
“Indeed.”
Turlough swung his legs around so that he was sitting in the opposite direction on the wall, facing her. “Are you off somewhere in a hurry?”
“I do have some business to attend to at home, but truly, no,” she answered. “My husband has been summoned to see her ladyship, so he may be some time.”
He tried his most engaging smile. “Well, I’m bored of trees. You wouldn’t mind if I sketched you instead?”
“How flattering,” she said, but that playful look was back in her eyes. “Are you about to tell me that I have a most interesting countenance?”
Turlough had been thinking something along those lines, but he rallied swiftly. “No. I certainly wasn’t about to say something so -.”
“Truthful?”
He frowned. “Uncomplimentary. Is that a no?”
“I do not think any other passing stranger has ever offered to take my likeness,” she said. “I have no intention of refusing, providing you are able to work with tolerable speed.”
He straightened the pad of paper on his knee. “Oh, hastily done rubbish is all I have time for. Just sit there a moment. I won’t be long, I promise.”
“I trust you shall correct my flaws,” she commented, after he had made a start, remaining carefully still. “I shall await with interest to see my nose shrunk to more delicate proportions and my eyes a little more evenly placed. I believe that is the custom.”
He concentrated, squinting between her and the rapidly-forming sketch on the paper. “I thought you valued truth.”
“But I have my vanity, as the rest of my sex,” she returned. “I do hope that you do not aim for some dreadful caricature?”
Turlough shook his head. “It might end up that way, though. To be honest, I’m better at trees.”
“I am most remiss,” she said, after another pause. “Quite shockingly brazen, in fact. I have no notion who you may be.”
He corrected a line. “Turlough,” he said. “I’m travelling around with two friends, but I let them go on without me this time. They mean well, but it’s nice to be on my own for a bit.”
Mrs Collins merely stared ahead, past his ear.
“They’re nothing but trouble,” he finished. “Sometimes they drive me up the wall.”
“That is not an affectionate or respectful manner in which to talk of your friends,” she said.
He saw that she meant it and realised that he had crossed a cultural barrier. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Or not very much, anyway. You’d understand if you met them. It’s only being back here again. Reminds me of - somewhere -.” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’d know how it feels to be a prisoner, but -.”
Spots of colour appeared on her cheeks. “I am a woman, Mr Turlough and I have been dependent on others all my life. One might say that I have never been anything else.”
“Sorry,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Evidently, he’d put his foot in it.
She smiled. “Oh, do not imagine that I am not content. I am at least mistress of my own household now and that is a comfort in itself.”
“And your husband -?”
Mrs Collins set her gaze on one of the trees. “He is a parson and a most worthy man, much in favour with Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Have you done, sir?”
“Not quite,” he told her. “Look, I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I’m a stranger here: you have no idea how much.”
She gave another small smile. “You spoke of imprisonment. I trust that you are not a criminal, sir?
“No,” he said, tweaking his work. “A political prisoner.” Not a criminal, despite everything.
Mrs Collins arched a brow. “An émigré? I had not suspected. You have no trace of the accent.”
“Something like that,” he agreed. “I was young at the time, you see.”
She laughed. “How very mysterious. You would indeed be an object of some curiosity in this neighbourhood.” Then she reflected. “Although I fear it is true that Lady Catherine is not fond of the French.”
“She doesn’t have to know, does she?” he grinned back. “I’d rather not be an object of curiosity anyway, thanks. If I’d wanted that I could have tagged along with the Doctor. He’s pretty eccentric and he never fails to attract attention.”
“How fascinating. Do you stay long?”
“Probably not,” said Turlough. He surveyed the results of his work, then tore off the page and presented it to her.
She studied it as she got to her feet. “I see I shall have to scold you if we should meet again. You promised me truth. This, sir, is flattery.”
“Well,” said Turlough, “I have to admit I’m not always the most honest person, but I drew what I saw. If it doesn’t please you, then my skill must be to blame. I never said I was actually any good at this.”
Charlotte Collins passed the picture back to him as she took her leave. “Yes, I daresay that would explain it.”
***
And I begin to realise that I fail at the 'no background whatsover, just a conversation for fun' bit of this meme, but I am having fun. And, amazingly, this is the first Doctor Who story.
***
Rough Portrait in Black and White
Turlough was sketching idly. The sun was beating down on green fields and an English country lane and he was currently sitting on a low wall with paper and pencil, nobody else in sight. His blazer was beside him and he now removed the tie, leaving him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
On learning that the TARDIS had yet again landed them on earth (and this time on earth during an even more primitive period), he had revolted and requested that they leave without exploring for once and go somewhere that was actually interesting. They had the whole of the universe, all of time and space, to choose from and the Doctor had to keep on landing on the planet and the very country that had been his prison. He didn’t think that was too much to ask, but apparently it was, since Tegan, on learning the date had verged on enthusiastic (for her) and the Doctor had been babbling on about something he wanted to see, or do, or maybe it had just been the weather. He’d stopped listening by then.
“You go on,” he’d said. “I’m sure you can get into trouble quite as easily without me to cramp your style. I’ll sit this one out, thanks.”
Tegan had eyed him with suspicion and demanded to know what he was going to be doing.
“Drawing,” he told her.
So, here he was. It was summer here and he wasn’t trying to deny that the English countryside could have its charms, provided he had the TARDIS nearly visible through the trees and no one was forcing him to study pointless and antiquated lessons when he’d left school years before and lost a war in between.
“Very good,” commented someone, walking up behind him. “I would venture to say that you have some talent.
Turlough started violently, having to clutch at the pencil and notebook to keep them from falling. Despite all his comments, he’d lost himself in the sunshine and peace of the location. He cursed under his breath and turned to see who had disturbed him.
It was a woman, wearing one of the ridiculously impractical costumes of the day, plain enough but with an intelligent light in her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. “Are you going to tell me I’m trespassing and ask me to get lost?”
“Your words are a little odd,” she informed him, with an edge of humour in her voice, “however I was indeed about to warn you that you are on Lady Catherine’s land. Do not fear, if all you wish to take from here is a drawing, I am sure you are harmless enough. If anyone should ask, you may tell them that you are an acquaintance of the Collinses and I shall endeavour to smooth matters over, should there be need.”
He wasn’t sure he liked being described as ‘harmless’, but he appreciated the offer and smiled. “Thanks. Presumably that makes you… Mrs Collins?”
“Indeed.”
Turlough swung his legs around so that he was sitting in the opposite direction on the wall, facing her. “Are you off somewhere in a hurry?”
“I do have some business to attend to at home, but truly, no,” she answered. “My husband has been summoned to see her ladyship, so he may be some time.”
He tried his most engaging smile. “Well, I’m bored of trees. You wouldn’t mind if I sketched you instead?”
“How flattering,” she said, but that playful look was back in her eyes. “Are you about to tell me that I have a most interesting countenance?”
Turlough had been thinking something along those lines, but he rallied swiftly. “No. I certainly wasn’t about to say something so -.”
“Truthful?”
He frowned. “Uncomplimentary. Is that a no?”
“I do not think any other passing stranger has ever offered to take my likeness,” she said. “I have no intention of refusing, providing you are able to work with tolerable speed.”
He straightened the pad of paper on his knee. “Oh, hastily done rubbish is all I have time for. Just sit there a moment. I won’t be long, I promise.”
“I trust you shall correct my flaws,” she commented, after he had made a start, remaining carefully still. “I shall await with interest to see my nose shrunk to more delicate proportions and my eyes a little more evenly placed. I believe that is the custom.”
He concentrated, squinting between her and the rapidly-forming sketch on the paper. “I thought you valued truth.”
“But I have my vanity, as the rest of my sex,” she returned. “I do hope that you do not aim for some dreadful caricature?”
Turlough shook his head. “It might end up that way, though. To be honest, I’m better at trees.”
“I am most remiss,” she said, after another pause. “Quite shockingly brazen, in fact. I have no notion who you may be.”
He corrected a line. “Turlough,” he said. “I’m travelling around with two friends, but I let them go on without me this time. They mean well, but it’s nice to be on my own for a bit.”
Mrs Collins merely stared ahead, past his ear.
“They’re nothing but trouble,” he finished. “Sometimes they drive me up the wall.”
“That is not an affectionate or respectful manner in which to talk of your friends,” she said.
He saw that she meant it and realised that he had crossed a cultural barrier. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Or not very much, anyway. You’d understand if you met them. It’s only being back here again. Reminds me of - somewhere -.” He shrugged. “I don’t suppose you’d know how it feels to be a prisoner, but -.”
Spots of colour appeared on her cheeks. “I am a woman, Mr Turlough and I have been dependent on others all my life. One might say that I have never been anything else.”
“Sorry,” he said, raising his eyebrows. Evidently, he’d put his foot in it.
She smiled. “Oh, do not imagine that I am not content. I am at least mistress of my own household now and that is a comfort in itself.”
“And your husband -?”
Mrs Collins set her gaze on one of the trees. “He is a parson and a most worthy man, much in favour with Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Have you done, sir?”
“Not quite,” he told her. “Look, I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I’m a stranger here: you have no idea how much.”
She gave another small smile. “You spoke of imprisonment. I trust that you are not a criminal, sir?
“No,” he said, tweaking his work. “A political prisoner.” Not a criminal, despite everything.
Mrs Collins arched a brow. “An émigré? I had not suspected. You have no trace of the accent.”
“Something like that,” he agreed. “I was young at the time, you see.”
She laughed. “How very mysterious. You would indeed be an object of some curiosity in this neighbourhood.” Then she reflected. “Although I fear it is true that Lady Catherine is not fond of the French.”
“She doesn’t have to know, does she?” he grinned back. “I’d rather not be an object of curiosity anyway, thanks. If I’d wanted that I could have tagged along with the Doctor. He’s pretty eccentric and he never fails to attract attention.”
“How fascinating. Do you stay long?”
“Probably not,” said Turlough. He surveyed the results of his work, then tore off the page and presented it to her.
She studied it as she got to her feet. “I see I shall have to scold you if we should meet again. You promised me truth. This, sir, is flattery.”
“Well,” said Turlough, “I have to admit I’m not always the most honest person, but I drew what I saw. If it doesn’t please you, then my skill must be to blame. I never said I was actually any good at this.”
Charlotte Collins passed the picture back to him as she took her leave. “Yes, I daresay that would explain it.”
***