August 13: A Desperate Situation, Indeed [Mansfield Park]
Title: A Desperate Situation, Indeed
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: T/PG-13
Crossover: Mansfield Park (novel)
Spoilers: B:tVS 2.06 "Halloween"; Canon divergence for Mansfield Park (1814)
Notes: I've recently been rereading my way through Austen; sorry? :)
Summary: Buffy accidentally chose a dress from 1814, not 1775, one particular Halloween. And Maria Rushworth had a very disconcerting evening. 1500 words.
Maria Rushworth stared up into the face of the man leaning over her, and raised one hand to her forehead with a groan to cover her gasp of confusion. She had the most terrible head ache; not, granted, that that had been unusual since her marriage to perhaps the most stultifying man of her acquaintance, but normally she did not faint in the middle of a dance and wake upon a couch staring up into the face of a former lover.
"Maria, are you all right?" Henry Crawford asked, face a mask of carefully detached concern.
She sat up slowly, accepting the help of an arm, as she struggled to marshal her thoughts back into order. She had attended Mrs. Fraser's party, aware that Mr. Crawford would be present, and had determined to treat him with nothing but a resentful coldness; had in fact begun to do so; but over the course of the evening, his animated perseverance in addressing her, the absence of her husband from the proceedings, and the knowledge of what had passed between him and Fanny of all people, had all combined to pique her interest and unearth the feelings she had tried in vain to bury. She had just begun to imagine how she might contrive an interlude alone with him when something had caused the room to spin about her, and then-- she hardly dared think of what had happened next.
Surely it had been nothing but a dire fever dream. Mrs. Fraser's cook obviously needed to be sacked; what had she put into the food? Or-- no; no; she could not be with child, though according to her aunt Norris, it did take some women so. Anything but-- but what it had seemed to be.
One moment, Maria had been whirling in the warm room, filled with the laughter of her London acquaintances. The next, she had found herself in a strange street, confronted by a man holding a strange musket and a ghostly woman in low apparel who spoke in foreign accents, and accosted by all manner of other perversity. Carriages that moved without horses, lit from within without flame; images of a girl with her own face, with her charms on display for all to see; men who took women's orders; and women who actually fought. Who expected her to fight.
Her upbringing at Mansfield Park had prepared her to look pretty and marry well, not to run down strangely paved streets chased by men with rotten teeth offering unwanted attentions, to be defended by a man who claimed to be a 'good' vampire, and then held by the hair and nearly bitten by another who was not 'good' in the slightest.
It was all very disconcerting. And rather sapped her enjoyment of illicit flirtation with Henry.
Maria had nearly forgot, after everything, how unattractive he had seemed at first sight. Further acquaintance, and his undiluted attention, had altered her opinion of him, as it had Julia's; how triumphant she had felt, exerting her power with him over her sister's! Julia had even declined the invitation to this party, chusing instead to visit relatives of Sir Thomas in another part of town, rather than be in the same room with him once more. But after what Maria had just experienced, she suddenly wondered whether Julia had had the better idea after all. She could now see only the smug, predatory glitter in Henry's eye, so like the expression of the creature who had meant to rip out her throat, and felt nothing but revulsion at the touch of his hand upon her arm.
Perhaps it had been some sort of-- vision? A warning against her intended misdeeds? Little Fanny, or pious Edmund, might even call it divine intervention.
"I am perfectly well," she said stiffly, pulling back from Henry's grasp. "Thank you."
"Might I call your carriage? Or perhaps see you to a quieter room?" he replied warmly, lowering his voice with a self-assured curl at the corner of his mouth.
She knew what he was about; knew what he thought she was about. Nausea roiled in Maria's stomach, and she gave him a tight, pinched smile in return. "No, it was only a moment's dizziness. A glass of sherry, perhaps...?"
He made even that attempt to send him away seem like a flirtation, of course, bending over her hand again and offering some little barbed compliment she did not care to pay attention to. Really, why had she ever been jealous of Fanny at all? Maria sneered, and wished her cousin joy of him.
The moment he withdrew from her presence, Maria stirred from the couch and went in search of the party again. Henry had carried her, it seemed, to the library; she passed one or two very knowing expressions as she returned, and felt with sudden force her own recklessness.
She had thought herself trapped before, bound in an unequal marriage whose only consolations were the size of her house and the amount of her pin money; now that she had had a glimpse of another world-- whatever its source, infernal or imaginary-- she felt it with even stronger force. The freedom in that world-- and the violence! The unfamiliarity had overwhelmed her during the experience, but now that she was back in her golden cage once more, she could also acknowledge that at least half of her palpitations had been due not to fear, but to excitement. Henry Crawford was not the way out-- but there had to be something she could do. Something more than this endless, miserable existence of glittering masks and empty cheer.
She made her way through the press with half-hearted smiles and absent compliments, intent on finding her hostess and a way back to the house in Twickenham that did not involve Henry's assistance, when her eye caught on something in a dark corner, and she felt the blood drain from her face once more.
A tall, dark-haired man, unfamiliar of feature, stood in one of the window alcoves, pressing his mouth to the column of a lady's throat: but it was more than just a moment of daring, there was blood trickling from between his lips. The lady's eyes were drifting closed, not in pleasure, but in approaching unconsciousness-- and the arm around her waist was clearly holding her up, not holding her close.
Maria sucked in a sharp breath, then looked wildly about her for something made of wood. A spindly little, elegant table, tucked against the wall-- there! She picked it up, snapped a leg free without even thinking about it, and advanced on the couple without heed to all the potential observers she had the moment before shied away from. She did not know what had possessed her, but suddenly it seemed the most important thing in the world to stop that villain.
It was real, it was real, and if that was real, then what else could she--
The vampire, for so it must be, was not attending to anything but his meal; Maria advanced upon him without hesitation, to one side where he would have to turn his head to perceive her clearly, and stabbed toward his ribs with the broken leg before he even appeared to notice her presence. The gash in his side, however, did alert him; the girl was dropt to the floor, and a steel-strong hand closed around Maria's own throat within an eyeblink.
Maria gasped, clutching at his arm-- but did not allow the shock to loosen her grip on the makeshift stake. A sense of strength, of fiery purpose filled her; she angled her hand below the range of his vision, and let herself fall just that bit more limply-- so.
"This is the Slayer of whom I've heard so much?" he laughed, in arch, aristocratic tones. "Why, you are only a...."
This time, she did not miss the heart. A moment later, she found herself once more in a heap on the floor, the vampire's hapless victim-- and what remained of the table leg-- beneath her. No trace remained of the attacker; but the young woman stirred, pale and weak, but clearly still alive.
In all Maria's life, she had never felt such triumph. What was mere love, or social approbation at another's expense, to this? The vampire had called her Slayer. That was the title for that other woman she was supposed to have been, in that glimpse of another life. And if vampires were real, if the other monsters of that vision were real, how many others might be in the city? Perhaps even in that very house? And who else might be aware of these unspeakable truths?
She raised her voice, calling to her friend, as concerned voices began to cluster behind her once more. "Oh, help! Miss Bingham has fallen; I think she has wounded herself upon this poor table!"
Clearly, she would have to persuade her husband to move to London full time.
-x-
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Rating: T/PG-13
Crossover: Mansfield Park (novel)
Spoilers: B:tVS 2.06 "Halloween"; Canon divergence for Mansfield Park (1814)
Notes: I've recently been rereading my way through Austen; sorry? :)
Summary: Buffy accidentally chose a dress from 1814, not 1775, one particular Halloween. And Maria Rushworth had a very disconcerting evening. 1500 words.
Maria Rushworth stared up into the face of the man leaning over her, and raised one hand to her forehead with a groan to cover her gasp of confusion. She had the most terrible head ache; not, granted, that that had been unusual since her marriage to perhaps the most stultifying man of her acquaintance, but normally she did not faint in the middle of a dance and wake upon a couch staring up into the face of a former lover.
"Maria, are you all right?" Henry Crawford asked, face a mask of carefully detached concern.
She sat up slowly, accepting the help of an arm, as she struggled to marshal her thoughts back into order. She had attended Mrs. Fraser's party, aware that Mr. Crawford would be present, and had determined to treat him with nothing but a resentful coldness; had in fact begun to do so; but over the course of the evening, his animated perseverance in addressing her, the absence of her husband from the proceedings, and the knowledge of what had passed between him and Fanny of all people, had all combined to pique her interest and unearth the feelings she had tried in vain to bury. She had just begun to imagine how she might contrive an interlude alone with him when something had caused the room to spin about her, and then-- she hardly dared think of what had happened next.
Surely it had been nothing but a dire fever dream. Mrs. Fraser's cook obviously needed to be sacked; what had she put into the food? Or-- no; no; she could not be with child, though according to her aunt Norris, it did take some women so. Anything but-- but what it had seemed to be.
One moment, Maria had been whirling in the warm room, filled with the laughter of her London acquaintances. The next, she had found herself in a strange street, confronted by a man holding a strange musket and a ghostly woman in low apparel who spoke in foreign accents, and accosted by all manner of other perversity. Carriages that moved without horses, lit from within without flame; images of a girl with her own face, with her charms on display for all to see; men who took women's orders; and women who actually fought. Who expected her to fight.
Her upbringing at Mansfield Park had prepared her to look pretty and marry well, not to run down strangely paved streets chased by men with rotten teeth offering unwanted attentions, to be defended by a man who claimed to be a 'good' vampire, and then held by the hair and nearly bitten by another who was not 'good' in the slightest.
It was all very disconcerting. And rather sapped her enjoyment of illicit flirtation with Henry.
Maria had nearly forgot, after everything, how unattractive he had seemed at first sight. Further acquaintance, and his undiluted attention, had altered her opinion of him, as it had Julia's; how triumphant she had felt, exerting her power with him over her sister's! Julia had even declined the invitation to this party, chusing instead to visit relatives of Sir Thomas in another part of town, rather than be in the same room with him once more. But after what Maria had just experienced, she suddenly wondered whether Julia had had the better idea after all. She could now see only the smug, predatory glitter in Henry's eye, so like the expression of the creature who had meant to rip out her throat, and felt nothing but revulsion at the touch of his hand upon her arm.
Perhaps it had been some sort of-- vision? A warning against her intended misdeeds? Little Fanny, or pious Edmund, might even call it divine intervention.
"I am perfectly well," she said stiffly, pulling back from Henry's grasp. "Thank you."
"Might I call your carriage? Or perhaps see you to a quieter room?" he replied warmly, lowering his voice with a self-assured curl at the corner of his mouth.
She knew what he was about; knew what he thought she was about. Nausea roiled in Maria's stomach, and she gave him a tight, pinched smile in return. "No, it was only a moment's dizziness. A glass of sherry, perhaps...?"
He made even that attempt to send him away seem like a flirtation, of course, bending over her hand again and offering some little barbed compliment she did not care to pay attention to. Really, why had she ever been jealous of Fanny at all? Maria sneered, and wished her cousin joy of him.
The moment he withdrew from her presence, Maria stirred from the couch and went in search of the party again. Henry had carried her, it seemed, to the library; she passed one or two very knowing expressions as she returned, and felt with sudden force her own recklessness.
She had thought herself trapped before, bound in an unequal marriage whose only consolations were the size of her house and the amount of her pin money; now that she had had a glimpse of another world-- whatever its source, infernal or imaginary-- she felt it with even stronger force. The freedom in that world-- and the violence! The unfamiliarity had overwhelmed her during the experience, but now that she was back in her golden cage once more, she could also acknowledge that at least half of her palpitations had been due not to fear, but to excitement. Henry Crawford was not the way out-- but there had to be something she could do. Something more than this endless, miserable existence of glittering masks and empty cheer.
She made her way through the press with half-hearted smiles and absent compliments, intent on finding her hostess and a way back to the house in Twickenham that did not involve Henry's assistance, when her eye caught on something in a dark corner, and she felt the blood drain from her face once more.
A tall, dark-haired man, unfamiliar of feature, stood in one of the window alcoves, pressing his mouth to the column of a lady's throat: but it was more than just a moment of daring, there was blood trickling from between his lips. The lady's eyes were drifting closed, not in pleasure, but in approaching unconsciousness-- and the arm around her waist was clearly holding her up, not holding her close.
Maria sucked in a sharp breath, then looked wildly about her for something made of wood. A spindly little, elegant table, tucked against the wall-- there! She picked it up, snapped a leg free without even thinking about it, and advanced on the couple without heed to all the potential observers she had the moment before shied away from. She did not know what had possessed her, but suddenly it seemed the most important thing in the world to stop that villain.
It was real, it was real, and if that was real, then what else could she--
The vampire, for so it must be, was not attending to anything but his meal; Maria advanced upon him without hesitation, to one side where he would have to turn his head to perceive her clearly, and stabbed toward his ribs with the broken leg before he even appeared to notice her presence. The gash in his side, however, did alert him; the girl was dropt to the floor, and a steel-strong hand closed around Maria's own throat within an eyeblink.
Maria gasped, clutching at his arm-- but did not allow the shock to loosen her grip on the makeshift stake. A sense of strength, of fiery purpose filled her; she angled her hand below the range of his vision, and let herself fall just that bit more limply-- so.
"This is the Slayer of whom I've heard so much?" he laughed, in arch, aristocratic tones. "Why, you are only a...."
This time, she did not miss the heart. A moment later, she found herself once more in a heap on the floor, the vampire's hapless victim-- and what remained of the table leg-- beneath her. No trace remained of the attacker; but the young woman stirred, pale and weak, but clearly still alive.
In all Maria's life, she had never felt such triumph. What was mere love, or social approbation at another's expense, to this? The vampire had called her Slayer. That was the title for that other woman she was supposed to have been, in that glimpse of another life. And if vampires were real, if the other monsters of that vision were real, how many others might be in the city? Perhaps even in that very house? And who else might be aware of these unspeakable truths?
She raised her voice, calling to her friend, as concerned voices began to cluster behind her once more. "Oh, help! Miss Bingham has fallen; I think she has wounded herself upon this poor table!"
Clearly, she would have to persuade her husband to move to London full time.
-x-