Sanctuary fic -- Best Laid Plans
This is the first story of a series with The Five in their early days -- gen, so far.
Dr. Magnus did not need a protege.
Dr. Magnus was not seeking a protégé. He was more than finished with bright young men who doubtless would wind up mauled by a hieracosphinx in ways that would prove difficult to explain, or simply expire of a rare tropical disease contracted in the course of their work. Protégés were remarkably fragile. They were also prone to either extreme silliness or to the kind of pompous overbearing certainty of their own rightness that was barely tolerable in the Lord Mayor of London and was completely unsupportable in a young man of twenty two. He did not want a protégé.
Thus, when his good friend Bothan (the distinguished professor of anatomy) put forward the young gentleman's name, Magnus' reaction was to wave a hand in Bothan's general direction accompanied by the words, "Bah! Bah!"
He was much more interested in a husband. Not for himself, of course, but for his daughter, Helen, who was withering on the vine. Not that her continuing spinsterhood past the age of twenty had anything to do with a lack of personal charms, as quite frankly it often does. She was not nearsighted and squinty, and her figure was a pleasing medium between fat and thin. Her hair, left to itself, was an unremarkable shade of brown, but she remedied that herself with a quantity of lemon juice. Hot irons gave her the cascading curls beloved by the school of Pre-Raphaelites. No, her person was pleasing enough, as well as a father may judge these things.
The problem was her brain, insomuch as she had rather too much of one. In a boy her braininess might have been a pleasing asset, an expected hazard of being the child of one of the leading surgeons of the age. A good school, good preparation, and timely matriculation would have set all to rights. Of course those things were out of the question in a young lady. It was entirely possible for her to audit lectures at Oxford, as a young lady of the town with a father who was prepared to pay for her leisure, though many a don found it disconcerting to have penetrating questions about the function of intestinal enzymes put to him by a pair of wide blue eyes beneath golden curls.
Still, her father continued to pay. The only course that held any hope of happiness for his Helen involved the right sort of young man, the right sort being uninclined to interfere too much with her intellectual pursuits while being of firm enough will to somewhat rein in her impulsive nature. In a boy one would have called it daring and hoped that the Empire survived it. A tour in India or South Africa, or perhaps a year's adventure as a doctor aboard a China Clipper would satisfy, and if a young man survived his adventure he would be the wiser for it. However, he could hardly ship his daughter to Madras, or for that matter to Sydney.
In his youth there had been more opportunities for mayhem available to young ladies, but the world had grown more civilized and a latter-day Becky Sharp was no heroine at all. He had watched closely lest she be provoked into a ruinous adventure involving rogues, scoundrels, and a hurried trip to Gretna Green, but fortunately Helen seemed more taken with monsters than men.
But the only course for lasting happiness lay in a good marriage, and the secret of a good marriage was a good prospect. To that end, Bothan's insistence that he should meet the would be protégé was more intriguing.
"Come now," Bothan said, "You won't do any better than this in a protégé. He's one of the cleverest young men I've ever met, and at Oxford that's saying a lot. Top of his class at Winchester, and you know that's a rough school."
In more ways than one, Magnus thought. "Isn't that where they had the horrible scandal a few years ago? Lads being hazed within an inch of their lives? Little fellows of twelve and thirteen being beaten with rods?"
"Oh well," Bothan said unconcernedly. "Those things happen. Builds character."
Magnus did not bother to disagree, though he privately thought that he was glad he'd spared the rod. He had enough trouble without Helen hating him. If that marked him as an overindulgent papa, so be it. "Does this stellar young gentleman have any virtues other than being hit with sticks?"
Bothan grinned. "Well, he's seeking double Honors in Natural Sciences and Classics, if that's anything to you."
Magnus snorted. "He'll never make it. They say they will, but they won't."
"This one will," Bothan said. "I tell you, he's a wizard. Even by your exacting standards. He's planning a career as a surgeon, but he reads Latin like an old Roman himself. Translates Pliny to make your heart bleed!"
"I'm not sure that making me bleed is the best recommendation in a protégé," Magnus said, but he knew Bothan could see him softening.
"Good looking young fellow," Bothan said shrewdly. "Only son. Sole support of his aging mother. Has a good income and the principal to revert to him on his twenty-fifth birthday. One of these lads with advanced ideas about the problem of women. Created to be man's helpmeet and all that, Adam's rib, rather than a lesser species."
That did sound promising, as his daughter was less Eve than Lilit. The sort of man who tried to take her in hand was like to find arsenic in his tea. Except of course that was too readily traceable. No, more likely he'd be trampled by his own horses in a tragic accident, leaving a young widow of independent means.
"Vices?"
"Bit of a know it all," Bothan said doubtfully. "But that's what you get in brilliant young men. He'll have it knocked out of him in good time. He just needs a mentor to set him right."
"I suppose he's worth having to tea," Magnus said. "Bring him round and we'll make a party. What's this paragon's name, anyhow?"
"James Watson," Bothan said.
Dr. Magnus did not need a protege.
Dr. Magnus was not seeking a protégé. He was more than finished with bright young men who doubtless would wind up mauled by a hieracosphinx in ways that would prove difficult to explain, or simply expire of a rare tropical disease contracted in the course of their work. Protégés were remarkably fragile. They were also prone to either extreme silliness or to the kind of pompous overbearing certainty of their own rightness that was barely tolerable in the Lord Mayor of London and was completely unsupportable in a young man of twenty two. He did not want a protégé.
Thus, when his good friend Bothan (the distinguished professor of anatomy) put forward the young gentleman's name, Magnus' reaction was to wave a hand in Bothan's general direction accompanied by the words, "Bah! Bah!"
He was much more interested in a husband. Not for himself, of course, but for his daughter, Helen, who was withering on the vine. Not that her continuing spinsterhood past the age of twenty had anything to do with a lack of personal charms, as quite frankly it often does. She was not nearsighted and squinty, and her figure was a pleasing medium between fat and thin. Her hair, left to itself, was an unremarkable shade of brown, but she remedied that herself with a quantity of lemon juice. Hot irons gave her the cascading curls beloved by the school of Pre-Raphaelites. No, her person was pleasing enough, as well as a father may judge these things.
The problem was her brain, insomuch as she had rather too much of one. In a boy her braininess might have been a pleasing asset, an expected hazard of being the child of one of the leading surgeons of the age. A good school, good preparation, and timely matriculation would have set all to rights. Of course those things were out of the question in a young lady. It was entirely possible for her to audit lectures at Oxford, as a young lady of the town with a father who was prepared to pay for her leisure, though many a don found it disconcerting to have penetrating questions about the function of intestinal enzymes put to him by a pair of wide blue eyes beneath golden curls.
Still, her father continued to pay. The only course that held any hope of happiness for his Helen involved the right sort of young man, the right sort being uninclined to interfere too much with her intellectual pursuits while being of firm enough will to somewhat rein in her impulsive nature. In a boy one would have called it daring and hoped that the Empire survived it. A tour in India or South Africa, or perhaps a year's adventure as a doctor aboard a China Clipper would satisfy, and if a young man survived his adventure he would be the wiser for it. However, he could hardly ship his daughter to Madras, or for that matter to Sydney.
In his youth there had been more opportunities for mayhem available to young ladies, but the world had grown more civilized and a latter-day Becky Sharp was no heroine at all. He had watched closely lest she be provoked into a ruinous adventure involving rogues, scoundrels, and a hurried trip to Gretna Green, but fortunately Helen seemed more taken with monsters than men.
But the only course for lasting happiness lay in a good marriage, and the secret of a good marriage was a good prospect. To that end, Bothan's insistence that he should meet the would be protégé was more intriguing.
"Come now," Bothan said, "You won't do any better than this in a protégé. He's one of the cleverest young men I've ever met, and at Oxford that's saying a lot. Top of his class at Winchester, and you know that's a rough school."
In more ways than one, Magnus thought. "Isn't that where they had the horrible scandal a few years ago? Lads being hazed within an inch of their lives? Little fellows of twelve and thirteen being beaten with rods?"
"Oh well," Bothan said unconcernedly. "Those things happen. Builds character."
Magnus did not bother to disagree, though he privately thought that he was glad he'd spared the rod. He had enough trouble without Helen hating him. If that marked him as an overindulgent papa, so be it. "Does this stellar young gentleman have any virtues other than being hit with sticks?"
Bothan grinned. "Well, he's seeking double Honors in Natural Sciences and Classics, if that's anything to you."
Magnus snorted. "He'll never make it. They say they will, but they won't."
"This one will," Bothan said. "I tell you, he's a wizard. Even by your exacting standards. He's planning a career as a surgeon, but he reads Latin like an old Roman himself. Translates Pliny to make your heart bleed!"
"I'm not sure that making me bleed is the best recommendation in a protégé," Magnus said, but he knew Bothan could see him softening.
"Good looking young fellow," Bothan said shrewdly. "Only son. Sole support of his aging mother. Has a good income and the principal to revert to him on his twenty-fifth birthday. One of these lads with advanced ideas about the problem of women. Created to be man's helpmeet and all that, Adam's rib, rather than a lesser species."
That did sound promising, as his daughter was less Eve than Lilit. The sort of man who tried to take her in hand was like to find arsenic in his tea. Except of course that was too readily traceable. No, more likely he'd be trampled by his own horses in a tragic accident, leaving a young widow of independent means.
"Vices?"
"Bit of a know it all," Bothan said doubtfully. "But that's what you get in brilliant young men. He'll have it knocked out of him in good time. He just needs a mentor to set him right."
"I suppose he's worth having to tea," Magnus said. "Bring him round and we'll make a party. What's this paragon's name, anyhow?"
"James Watson," Bothan said.