A/N: I am so unreasonably excited to post this. Welcome my newest project, a side-thing that I've been fiddling with that is turning out to be really fun so far. I know that I've a lot of stuff I need to work on – heaven knows that another project is just what I should be doing right now – but who doesn't like a good old-fashioned romance set in Miss Austen's era? I'm tickled by this plot and I've been wanting to mention it as an up-and-coming for a long time, but... I decided to start it instead. Huzzah!
So! Before we begin, I have a few little introductory things that I need to say. First of all, I am nowhere near an all-knowing expert of the Regency era. I've read the period novels, I've seen a few of the movies, and I've done quite a bit of research; I know the difference between a petticoat and a chemise, the stone-to-kilogram-to-pound ratio of weighing, and the formations of the cotillion dance. I do strive for historical accuracy, but I know – and I hope you know – that I'm not going to get every little thing correct. Nit-pick if you'd like, and certainly feel free to correct me when needed – an upbraiding of my staggered Regency knowledge definitely won't be a bad thing, I promise. But hopefully my errors won't be too glaring that you won't be able to enjoy the story.
And, like Miss Austen, I'm making up all the towns and the names of the houses as I go (save London and Paris and the like). They all have their meanings, of course, and I know that might make things overly complicated if you can't just look up towns for background info, pictures, etc, but this is so much easier. Besides, an estate named Willoughby? How could I resist?
This is a completely Alternate Universe story. There will be NO MAGIC. None. At all. I do make reference to witchcraft and nymphs and the like in this chapter and probably will again throughout, but it's the (charmed, hah!) observation of a character and not an actual description of magic. People from the HP-verse will populate this fic and pop up occasionally, but there will definitely be some OCs floating around, too. I will make sure you can recognize our beloved characters when they appear.
And… I think that's it. I tried to get the narrative and the dialogue authentic-sounding without going full-out Austen style, so I hope the hybrid writing is, uh, not complete crap. Hah. The narrative of this first chapter is a bit of a prologue of sorts, and I'll probably be jumping POV for the next chapter, so no worries.
WHEW. ENJOY. I LOVE YOU ALL.
As always!
Mina
Women and Wives
Chapter One
"Does he fair well, Thomas?"
The young Miss Evans wrung her hands as soon as she was free of her hat and her long, damp traveling cloak. Thomas watched her with a familiar fondness as he stored her heavy velvet away, watched her pace the foyer in her worried agitation. She was a charming thing, barely twenty and one, with hair as vivid as fire and bright, playful eyes. As the daughter of one of his mistress' distant cousins, she was often calling upon Thomas' master, especially when his health started to decline a few years ago. In the hidden part of his heart, Thomas was a bit thankful of his master's unfortunate maladies, if only because it brought this woman to their door.
His reluctance to tell her any further of his master's illness, however, stemmed less from his adherence to the rules of society and more from his desire not to disturb the lady's feelings. Of what state would she then be in if he told her of the late nights that his mistress stayed awake to watch over her son, sweating and pale, struggling to grasp the tail end of a sleep that tried so hard to escape him? If he told her of the trays of food, hardly picked at, that he took from his master's room back to the kitchen, or of the long moments it took for the young man to simply descend the staircase?
No, Thomas decided, bowing his head slightly. He would not say anything of the matter. The bright young woman would deduce for herself shortly, perhaps; in the many years he'd had the fortune to know her, to admit her into this home, he had learned that she was quite a cunning little creature, more sprite than human, a nymph lifted from the pages of the beloved books that his master let him peruse. Perhaps she could already read it in his face, taste it in the air. Perhaps she did not require a spoken answer.
"He shall be better to see you, Miss Evans," he said nevertheless, passing the entrance to the parlor and standing at the foot of the stairs, knowing full well that neither formalities nor conventions would hinder her from running straight to his master's bedroom. "The rain has been terrible for his joints, yet his perseverance has always been admirable. If you would follow me."
With a smile, she followed him up the stairs, lifting her light, green-hued skirts as to not trip on them, and Thomas blushed to see an accidental stretch of her bare, white calf. He turned quickly, his face forward, his hand gripping the banister; it would not do to fancy such absurd thoughts or to observe Miss Evans in such a manner. She was a lady, and he was hired help. It would do to remember that.
But as far as he knew – and, as a servant to a silly, gossiping mistress, he knew plenty – Miss Evans was neither engaged nor taken, and though he'd heard that she was highly esteemed by many suitors, she was not being courted at the moment. It was no mark against her beauty or compassion, as she was the most beautiful, most kind-hearted woman he knew, but rather one of choice. And if he wanted to aim his unfounded, unreasonable covetousness anywhere, it would be on the forehead of his master, docile and kindly though the young man was. He and Miss Evans had the most lasting, most peculiar friendship, and there was something there that –
"Thomas, before you admit me, I do wish to ask of you a favor," she said, interrupting his presumptuous reverie as they reached the top of the stairs. She blinked up at him innocently, all feminine charms and wily, beguiling witchcraft, and placed her gloved hand on the sleeve of his coat.
Thomas sighed, knowing already what she would want of him today. "Yes, miss?"
Taking a glance up and then down the hall, she stepped towards him and lowered her voice. "You know as well as I do that he hides the true extent of his sickness when I call. What is it, truly, that ails him so this month? Does he sleep? Eat? I know that he must walk about, but it's been so long since I've had him outside of this house that I have forgotten he has a pair of legs to stand on. Truly, Thomas, I beseech you – "
"Ah, Miss Evans," Thomas interrupted. He gently pulled his arm from her grasp. "It is not my place to say – "
"But you! You who cares for him and brings him food and books and friends – you are the only one I can think to ask – and he is so unfairly obstinate, so… so hidden away with himself – "
"Miss Evans," Thomas said, barely able to keep himself from reaching for her gesturing hands. "Pardon me for being forward, but I have not yet announced your call, and as it is nearing three, Dr. Erskine will be here shortly for another examination. I know that you are aware of how that fatigues him, and you mightn't have time to speak with him afterwards."
She frowned – pouted, almost; that lower lip jutting ever so slightly over her upper – and waved him onwards. "Oh, yes, Thomas, fine," she huffed, and continued to wring her hands.
Thomas turned away from her, trying to ignore the hidden betrayal he could no less see in her eyes. It was his place to stay true to his mistress and master, to answer the door, to announce calls, to maintain the privacy he was privy to; it was not his place to alleviate Miss Evans' anxiety, much as he wished it.
She stood silent and unconvincingly patient in the hall as he opened his master's door. Luckily – for her or for his master, Thomas wasn't sure – he was sitting up, awake, and was currently absorbed in another of his worn novels. His brown hair was neat, his peculiarly golden eyes were clear, his skin was less pallid; he looked leagues better than he did yesterday. Thomas was relieved.
"Miss Evans is here to see you, sir."
"Is she terribly worked up, Thomas?" His golden eyes smiled. "My disposition cannot handle her at the moment, if she is. Kindly tell her that I am in the midst of a wonderful dream and that I cannot have her call today."
A small hand pushed against Thomas' back and Miss Evans, rolling her eyes in a most unladylike manner, pushed her way into the room. "Mr. Lupin, you are full of nonsense. I would have called even if you were sleeping."
"Ah, but you know how I loathe to be poor company," he replied, shutting his book and sitting it aside. Miss Evans took his hand as she reached his bedside and he smiled up at her. "And yet I confess that I am glad of your visit."
She laughed, then looked up at Thomas with a smile. "Thank you, Thomas."
That was his sign for dismissal. Reluctantly, slowly, he turned to leave, pretending not to eavesdrop on their now hushed conversation, his nosiness stronger than his sense of propriety. The way they looked at one another! It was as if they needed no words. And yet, behind the door, Thomas could imagine that she had pulled up a chair to his bedside and was now leaning over their clasped hands, the both of them whispering in that private language of two friends who've known one another for all of time. He could imagine Miss Evans' fiery curls glowing in the fire, Mr. Lupin looking upon her with appreciation – for how could he not? – speaking about everything and nothing at all, whatever suited their fancies at the moment, not a care in their simple, uncomplicated lives.
The door shut with an excluding click. Thomas was certainly not jealous; he was curious in the way that servants, shadows of the home, ought to be. Jealousy fell upon those who had a chance.
"How are you feeling, Remus?" Miss Evans said from inside the bedroom. "Do be honest, and also be completely aware that you are the worst liar that I have ever met."
Mr. Lupin's chuckle was muffled. "I am well, I've told you that each time you ask me."
"And yet each time I ask you, you are ill. I am trying to be a friend – "
"Ah, cousin Lily, you are my greatest friend. You must trust in me when I say that I feel much better than I did yesterday, and that alone is a spectacular feat. Now, what news have you of – "
"Thomas! Thomas, you indolent boy, there's been someone at the door for the past minute; you mustn't make them wait so long!"
"Harriet," Thomas mumbled under his breath. He turned away from the door and walked to the top of the staircase to see Harriet, Mrs. Lupin's maid, looking up at him from the parlor doorway. "I'm coming."
Trudging down the stairs, he tried to ignore Harriet's disproving gaze on his back. He didn't care; the crestfallen visage he was sure to be wearing – subsequently wore each time the beautiful Miss Evans called, each time she smiled at him kindly, then fondly as she turned that curve of her lips to Mr. Lupin – was as commonplace as Harriet's glare and the tight lines around her mouth. Six years now he'd suffered that glare. Six long, dreadfully monotonous years…
"Do you have any intention to answer the door or will I have to have a talk with Mrs. Lupin again? You are lucky she even took you in; if Edmund hadn't caught pneumonia, we'd still be running a tight household, " Harriet snapped. "Go, go, welcome our guess; heaven forbid I touch the doorhandle…"
It was not for her benefit that he hid his rolling eyes. That was one of his mistress' silly rules – she insisted upon having a man open the front door whenever visitors called, something which Thomas, being the only male help at Wurley Park since the dim Edmund "caught pneumonia" (he'd actually been acting foolish on the lake, trying to impress the elder Miss Evans, when the ice happened to break and he fell in), had to do each and every someone called. It'd been six long, dull years passed under Harriet's watchful eye, six long years of opening doors to the faces of people more wealthy and statused than he…
He heard them before he saw them, but the door was already halfway open and there wasn't a dignified way to slam it in their faces – not an acceptable reason to, anyway, or at least one that wouldn't condemn him to homelessness. So it was with a practiced, martyred sigh that he rearranged his scowl into a blank expression, one he'd grown quite apt at over the past six years, six years that felt like a lifetime of the hottest hell in their forced, frustrated presence, and pulled the door open completely to face the two men he loathed beyond comprehension.
"Why, hello, Thomas! Greetings and salutations and a good morn' to you and yourn! A thousand well-wishes to your – "
"Good day, Mr. Black," Thomas said, his hand gripping the just slightly finger-shaped impressions on the edge of the door. "I thank you. And you, Mr. Potter: good day."
Each of them would have cut striking, intimidating figures on the threshold, with their impeccably groomed coats and the jaunty tilt of their hats, their confidence, their stances, if it weren't for the manic smile on Mr. Black's face and the blades of grass poking out from underneath Mr. Potter's hat. And, as Thomas sniffed, he could smell something disturbing –
"Thank you, Mr. Selby," Mr. Potter said. He adjusted the buttons on his sleeves. If Thomas cared, he might have thought that they were suspiciously out of breath. "Is Mr. Lupin, ah… is he engaged at the moment? We saw a familiar coach pass by as we came in from Alston; chanced a guess that it was coming from Wurley. Mr. Black here fancied it was one of the Meadowes girls, but I've confidence that Sir Nathan is in London, and if that had been his coach, why, I'll – "
Harriet and her honed housekeeper hearing nearly careened, all perhaps fifteen stones of her robust frame, around the corner. "Mr. Potter! Mr. Black! Oh, gentlemen, come in straight away. It's dreadfully rainy outside today; though, bless the Queen's earth, I suppose it could be far worse! Come in, come in. Thomas, move out of the way, boy! Always standing in the way when gentlemen arrive, what's wrong with you? Stop dithering around and take their hats."
"No!" Mr. Potter exclaimed as Thomas reached out. "No, we shan't stay long. Mr. Lupin is in a fragile state of mind, of course, and we wouldn't want to keep him from his well-needed rest."
Mr. Black nodded. "No sleep like the sleep of the ill, I always say. 'The natural healing force within each one of us is the greatest force in getting well,' after all."
"What is that?" Mr. Potter asked. "Plato?"
"Polybus?"
"Aristotle, perhaps?"
Thomas forced himself to take a breath. His hand twitched at his side, wanting to rub his temple and perhaps cover his eyes to make them disappear. It was wishful thinking, but, oh, how his head throbbed. "Hippocrates."
They turned as one – stupid duffers – to look at him. After a moment's pause, each man wearing an identical, controlled mask of surprise, they glanced at one another before exclaiming, their hands in the air as if in celebration, "Hippocrates!"
"Of course, Mr. Selby, of course," Mr. Potter said, clapping his hands together. "Too right you are. 'All men by nature desire knowledge;' that, my friend, is Polybus! Ah, how I miss our old days of learning, Mr. Black. Miss Castolyn was a marvelous governess."
Thomas did not bother correcting him this time. Miss Castolyn quite obviously did not do right by her benefactors, as those were Aristotle's words, not Polybus'. Whatever possessed Mr. Lupin come to them for friendship?
Yet Harriet, who wouldn't know any better, who would be charmed by their debonair smiles and dashing dress no matter what their discussion consisted of, was beside herself. "Listen to you two, on about your studies! Such fine gentlemen, you are; fit friends for my dear Mr. Lupin, I say again and again, always the closest of companions you three are. Now, let's get you up to see him before that old Dr. Erskine arrives. You know how the both of them together grow irritable. Go on, gentlemen! Thomas shall lead you up."
Mr. Lupin's voice came to him then, a calming (albeit reluctant) reminder of his temper: 'Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something.' Plato. Remember that when they call next, Thomas. I do not deny that they are the two of them absolute buffoons, but they mean well all the same and are very good to me.
Thomas ground his teeth together.
"We know where his room is, unless you've relocated it, Harriet," Mr. Black said, sweeping up the staircase. "I daresay you possess the vigor, m'lady!"
Her blush, in her creased, sun-damaged face, disgusted Thomas. Abandoning decorum and staying where he stood, he watched Mr. Black and Mr. Potter vanish into the hall, heard Mr. Lupin's door open, and, leaning against the banister, he relished the soft laughter floating into the foyer, all for him.
If only he were a gentleman!
"I know that look, Thomas, and it does not bode well in my bosom," Harriet mumbled. She smoothed her apron and looked up at Thomas with those hard, knowing eyes. "You ought not to interfere in anything that does not include you. Edmund learned that his own way – goes to show you, those things are the kind that come back to you, in the end."
"Harriet," Thomas sighed, stepping off the top stair. "You don't know what it is you're saying. I do not have a look upon my face."
"There are some things old Harriet – "
An earsplitting crash echoed from the second floor, and before Thomas could react, before Harriet's hand could fly to her chest, Miss Evans rocketed down the hallway and stomped down the stairs, her skirts flying behind her. Pink-cheeked and shaking, she stopped in the middle of the foyer and looked at the two of them alternately. A curl came undone from her pinned bun. Her nostrils flared. Thomas realized that she was stunning when she was angry.
"My cloak, Thomas. And my hat," she requested, pulling her gloves onto her delicately fine hands. Thomas turned away to retrieve her belongings, irritated with himself for not intercepting Mr. Black and Mr. Potter and irritated at those two impertinent excuses for gentlemen for chasing Miss Evans away.
"Harriet," Miss Evans was saying as he returned with her traveling things, "Would Mrs. Lupin mind terribly if I took her coach to Willoughby? I'm afraid I haven't the time to wait for my own; I shall send hers back the moment I arrive."
Thomas assisted her in putting on her cloak as Harriet disappeared through the entrance to the kitchen. He'd just let go, allowing her to clasp the front, when Mr. Lupin, supported by Mr. Potter's arm, made it to the stairway.
Mr. Lupin already looked tired. "Lily, don't."
Mr. Potter had the decency to look ashamed for whatever it was that he had no doubt said or done wrong. "My sincere apologies, Miss Evans."
"I care nothing for your apologies, Mr. Potter."
Clipped and brusque, Miss Evans' tone left not a sliver of room for any more of his sincerities. Mr. Potter stepped in sync with Mr. Lupin down the stairs, but took his arm back when Miss Evans was yet several paces away; he was soon joined by Mr. Black, and they stood together as Mr. Lupin made his way across the foyer in his morning linen. If Miss Evans was embarrassed by his indecency, she revealed nothing, instead taking his hand and kissing both of his cheeks.
"I shall call again tomorrow, when you have more agreeable company," Thomas heard her whisper. He was certain that she'd spoken loud enough for the disagreeable company to hear, and he'd never admired her more. Mr. Lupin looked likewise enamored. Thomas could not, try though he may, fault him that.
"I will have words with my present company, I assure you," Mr. Lupin responded, pressing her hands. "Be safe. Give my regards to your parents and to your sister, I miss them all dearly."
She smiled. "Do feel better, Remus."
Harriet nudged Thomas in the back. Hard. He stumbled forward to open the door, astounded that Harriet had gotten the coach – and the normally sleeping driver – aroused and outside, in front of the house, already, and held out his arm for Miss Evans. She took it without a look back, and he escorted her to the coach, drizzling rain pattering softly on her velvet cloak.
She gripped his arm as she stepped into the coach. "Thank you, Thomas. I trust you to take care of him; you are doing wonderful so far. Good day."
"Good day, Miss Evans."
He stood in the rain for several long moments, wondering if it would always be him taking care of people and escorting ladies to their coaches and opening doors for boorish gentlemen, before Harriet screeched for his return from the front door. She did not want - I absolutely forbid, Thomas Selby! - to clean up the dirft and filth he would surely track into her pristine foyer.
Thomas stepped in a mud puddle on the way inside.