A/N: Here, my friends, is what happens when you start a work and pick it up again when you are in a considerably fouler mood. I had requests for more domestic moments for Gemily, a pairing that is woefully lacking in such vignettes, but I didn't want to do so without some added historical significance. This little story takes place on June 28, 1914. If you don't recognize the date, it's probably been a while since your last collegiate history course!
Bless all of you for your continued support. I'm having a great time at university, and seeing that it is Labor Day, I wanted to treat all of you in the United States to a holiday gift. That's one thing I'll never get used to about living in America...holidays for the slightest of reasons! Anyway, this story is unbetaed and complete as published. Little blips in historical accuracy are my fault alone. Enjoy!
A Foregoing Knowledge of a World Forever Changed
In the impregnable hours of the early evening, a raven-haired little girl sat at the foot of the stairs in her family's home, her eyes following the movement of the grandfather clock's pendulum. It had been a fairly average afternoon, as far as Sundays in June were to go—the hours passed far too slowly for anyone's benefit, and everyone languished in the oppressive heat. Indeed, the city seemed oddly silent when it should have been bustling with grown people exchanging how-do-you-dos on the avenue and street vendors bravely venturing into the suburbs to hawk their wares to children not unlike she would had just received their weekly allowance and were not too keen on preserving their riches. Every window and sash in the house had been thrown up, and the electric lights hadn't been switched on all afternoon. The notable exception was the lone candle keeping watch over the armchairs in the sitting room, whose fragrant wick the girl could detect from her position in the foyer. Momma was insistent on keeping a decorous ambience to the rooms in which they entertained, even though they rarely did so and there was currently sickness in the home.
The child's eyes darted right, and then to the left; the family's housekeeper had excused herself for the evening, perhaps to get in a few hours of respite before evening mass. She too had attended services that morning, when the air was still cool enough to venture into the city's center. Heading up the expedition was her Auntie Julia, a precocious lady whom the girl revered almost as much as her own mother. Every movement of hers was graceful, calculated; the doctor was the epitome of poise. She was immaculately groomed without one of her blonde locks out of place; Rose was clandestinely counting down the days to when she would come of age and be allowed to wear her hair in the style of the grown women she knew. But for now, being only eight years old, she had to remain in the impressionable age of childhood, terrycloth aprons over tapered frocks and heavy play boots.
Every morning after her necessary ablutions, the second eldest Crabtree daughter often found herself perched on the end of her parents' bed. Through the cracks in the door that led to the washroom, she could observe her mother getting dressed for the day. Just as her mother had applied a coquettish rouge to her cheeks and lips and scrubbed her hands free of the residue, the maid would slip in and help her into her corset. Normally this privilege would be reserved for the head of the household, but father was a busy man who would often leave for the constabulary before the sun was even up. So the maid had to help, drawing her mother's waist into a more streamlined, feminine shape. More often than not, she'd lean over the cabinet at the same time, selecting a pair of earrings or dabbing a spot of perfume on her wrists. To any of her daughters that were old enough to take notice, Emily Grace was the embodiment of beauty.
This daily routine had been interrupted by the sound of feet pounding down the steps and the door of the lavatory crashing against the adjacent wall. It seemed that her mother had taken ill sometime during the night, rendering her abed for much of the daylight hours. Her father, present for her sudden departure of their bedchamber, had helped his wife back up the stairs. She was pale and hunched over in the abdomen, her temples sticky with perspiration.
From the threshold of the room they shared, Rose and Violet heard the commotion and went to investigate. Their feet, bare for the sweltering evenings of the summer, made subtle pattering noises as they sneaked down the hall.
The two oldest Crabtree girls, only thirteen months apart in age, were partners in crime. At the school where they and much of the children of the constables of Station House Number Four attended, they were rarely seen apart. They shared a desk and slate, and ate from the same tin pail at lunchtime. Even when Felix Murdoch appeared at Rose's heels, offering a handful of the least wilted clover he could find along the perimeter of the school yard, her sister was there to act as a barrier of sorts. Naturally she would graciously accept his gifts in the decorous manner her mother had instructed her, but at soon as the boy's back was turned, she would clasp hands with her sister and giggle helplessly at his misguided affections. Both knew in the evenings Rose would sit before a hand mirror propped up against her headboard and blow kisses in the mirror, pretending that it was Felix's reflection she saw in the glass. But there would be time for that when they were older, and there was no point in mooning over a boy when she wasn't even old enough to cross the avenue in front of their house by herself. After the moment had passed, they would kick up dust on the way to join Felix and the other children at the seesaw.
In the bedroom, George was busy propping up pillows and throwing up the sash of the window. All the while, her mother was murmuring something about her work at the morgue, and catching her death, and this dreadful summer heat. When she caught a glimpse of twin white nightgowns just out of her line of sight in the hallway, she called out around the corner, "Don't fret, girls. Momma's just taken ill, but she'll be right as rain in the—"
From the opposite end of the hall where the other bedroom was located, a high pitched wailing started up. Their father visibly sighed, knowing that his newborn daughter had probably awoken the entire rest of the house. Sure enough, before he could even reach the corridor, Holly and Sage were on their feet and peering out from their door.
Emily looked on helplessly as her husband set his sights on diffusing the situation. Before everyone turned in for the night, she called her daughters to the bedside. Kissing her fingertips, she experimentally ran them over each of their brows. When she was satisfied that no one else in the home was feverish, she sent them on their way, with the promise that she would be around to rouse them from their beds in the morning.
It wasn't her that accomplished this task, but their father, who seemed to be in a tremendous hurry. Indeed, he was struggling to turn down his shirt collar when he answered the telephone in the sitting room downstairs. There was a series of hushed exclamations, and it was quite some time before he joined his daughters in the kitchen.
They were feasting on apples and bread with jam, to the insistence of their mother, who had declared that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. It was there that the patriarch of the Crabtree household declared that he would be working on a case this morning, and not attending mass with the rest of the family.
The girls were dismayed to hear this until their Auntie Julia materialized on their front stoop, followed by the housekeeper, who would be deputized into caring for four month old Aster while the lady of the house was on the mend. There was talk of a proposed outing to the park, where they might even persuade Mrs. Murdoch to splurge on an ice cream cone for each of them.
There was no reason for further discussion after that; the girls did adore the kindly doctor, and loved their frozen treats. In fact, Rose put little thought to her mother's illness until she returned home that afternoon.
She knew that Violet was in the sitting room perched in father's favorite arm chair, her baby sister supine in her lap. Every time she went to check on her, the nine-year-old would reverently gaze up at her companion, then back down at the infant in her arms. Lost in a world full of aspirations for the future, it was clear that Violet had no intentions of engaging in play.
Holly and Sage were making quick work of an anthill in the backyard, piling dirt this way and that and directing the paths of the insects with sticks. Rose certainly didn't consider herself above such activities, but it was infernally hot and her dress's stiff collar was already threatening to suffocate her. Mother was upstairs, sleeping away whatever sickness had afflicted her, so she didn't want to risk venturing upstairs and making the predicament worse. That was how she found herself, moments before seven in the evening, eyes trained on the front door as she waited for her father to arrive home.
Suddenly a shadow appeared against the frosted glass, standing about five and a half feet in height. The doorbell lurched as a key was turned in the jamb, heralding the arrival of none other than Detective George Crabtree. His expression was forlorn and his eyes trained towards the ground as he stepped over the threshold, suit jacket slung over his arm and tie loosened to an improper degree. In his hands were clasped several deeply lined pieces of paper, worn from anxious and repeated readings.
To his credit, he dropped everything when he saw his daughter stand up, and readily caught her when she leapt into his arms. The lines in his forehead decreased in depth, while his countenance relaxed slightly. It had been a difficult day at the station house. The decisions he would make tomorrow could affect more than just the good people of Toronto. The responsibility that he had been dealt, while not entirely unfamiliar, would go on to weigh heavily on him over the course of the evening.
Soon the rest of the Crabtree girls were in the foyer, embracing their father and babbling excitedly about their day. George listened patiently as his daughters bickered amongst themselves about whether chocolate or vanilla flavor was best, and how frightened they had been when a squirrel had charged them during their walk in the park. Their innocence was so palpable, so fragile, that the emotion that had been building up within him since the morning finally overtook him.
Rose watched, utterly shocked, as tears began to stream down her father's cheeks. This was backwards to how things usually were. He was the one to clean and bandage their scabbed knees, to clear up any sibling squabble and keep the peace. Her father was strong. Something tragic must have come to pass for something like this to happen.
"What happened, Papa?" Her older sister questioned carefully, passing baby Aster into his arms.
He took some time to reply, lifting the infant's bonneted head to his shoulder and inhaling her scent. All the while, the gears in his head were turning as he thought of how he could possibly explain his current predicament in the way a small child could understand.
The girls listened carefully as he relayed the content of the mysterious telephone call that morning. Try as she might, Rose couldn't understand how an Archduke getting hurt in a faraway place called Bosnia could cause her father to be so emotional. Did he know Mr. Ferdinand personally?
After the words had stopped tumbling out, George felt a bit more at peace. His daughters, however, looked so stricken that he was afraid he might have made a mistake. But his worries were erased as Rose approached him and without a second thought threw her arms around his neck.
Her sisters followed suit, kissing away his salty tears in an endearing imitation of one of his habits with them. Even little Aster, who couldn't have possibly comprehended his words, sighed contentedly and relaxed into his shoulder at the sensation of her family gathered around her.
After an extended period of time, all parties involved separated. "It's all okay now," Holly assured him, realizing now that she was quite dirty from playing outside and crossing her hands behind her back.
"Do you want to play hide and go seek?" Sage prompted as her father collected his briefcase from the floor.
George spared a glance at the grandfather clock and confirmed that it was almost seven in the evening. Emily, if she were to awake from the restorative sleep she'd spent most of the day in, would be dismayed that her daughters had yet to be fed. Yet, he needed a way to decompress. That much was evident.
As he broke off from the group and entered the sitting room, he was amused to find four very excited little girls at his heels. Gingerly, he laid Aster in her bassinet, and covered his youngest daughter with a blanket. Her lips formed in a tiny O of surprise, for even as a baby she could tell when something exciting was about to occur.
"I want to go first!" Rose declared, before anyone else could say it.
"Why should you? I'm the oldest," Violet said, using her tried and true defense for many of her actions.
Before an argument could break out between the two, George intervened. "I'll go first." Making a big show of covering his eyes and sitting down on the couch, he began to count loudly, "One…two…three…"
The soft sound of stockinged feet fleeing away from him filled his ears. Smiling for the first time in the entire day, the detective continued his vocal ascension up to fifty.
-0-
Half an hour later, George Crabtree found himself on his hands and knees, eyeing the great expanse underneath the couch in the sitting room. Usually this location was the domain of forgotten toys and dust, but he had a feeling that the space could easily fit a grown man.
As he lowered himself to his elbows and crawled forward on his stomach, the rational portion of his mind made itself known, much as it had when he'd confronted Archibald Brooks all those years ago, or as a child when he'd risked sneaking a cookie from Aunt Azalea's baking jar without permission. This couch was an heirloom in the Grace family, and his wife would surely have his hide if he damaged it.
But would his life had been any fun at all if he'd ever listened to that minority of his psyche? In the foyer, he could hear Rose call out, "Olly Olly oxen free!"
It was time to commit to his decision. Reaching his hiding place and laying himself flat on his abdomen, George craned his neck around so he could see whomever was approaching.
Across the room, Aster was rousing herself from a late evening nap. After having a grand total of five infants pass through his arms and into the same crib, he knew that the most adorable moments could be witnessed in the nebulous time between sleep and alertness. As he looked on, his baby blinked several times and yawned. Cooed.
Then, catching a glimpse of her papa hidden underneath the sofa, she began to babble excitedly.
From the kitchen came the excited chattering of voices. One of the girls must have been discovered, most likely in one of the more popular hiding places in the house. There was an empty pickle barrel in the pantry, about four feet tall and three spans in width, the perfect size for a mischievous little girl. When Emily had still been pregnant, she'd nearly been scared half to death by Holly jumping out from the cask in the dark. She'd landed solidly on her backside and had the wind knocked out of her, causing their daughter to burst into tears at the possibility that she might be in trouble. The detective had come along to diffuse the situation, as was his wont, and the family had enjoyed a good laugh on the situation.
This would mean that Rose would be making tracks to their second favorite hiding place, the armoire where the family's coats and furs were stored. It now stood in the sitting room, adjacent to the sofa and the resting place of his youngest daughter. It was doubtless that George's cover was about to be blown.
Sure enough, four sets of feet scrambled into the room, intent on locating their final player. Violet, ever perceptive, took heed of the hint first.
"Under the couch!" She crowed, falling to her knees and peering into the darkness. The only light in the room came from one of momma's candles, but if she squinted she could just make out the starched fabric of her father's shirtsleeves.
Most of them came to the same realization at once, giggling and pointing. Even Aster waved her tiny fists in the air in celebration of her treachery. "Silly daddy," Sage tittered. "Come out of there!"
George lurched forward with his hand outstretched, as if he meant to tickle each of them. The girls shrieked and leaned back, creating a mass of raven curls flying upward. It was then he realized that there was one major flaw in his plan.
"I fear I may be stuck just where I am," he admitted after the moment had passed.
A shade of concern passed over Rose's face. "Turn around, and we'll pull you out by your ankles!"
The rest of her siblings seemed to be in agreement with that, and the detective was only too quick to agree. It was getting quite warm underneath the couch.
When Dr. Emily Grace made her way down the stairs for the first time in the evening, fully dressed albeit loopy from her bout with self-medication, the first thing she heard was the childish yelps that normally indicated something had run afoul. She was still a bit disoriented from a nap that had taken most of the day, but her maternal instincts were fierce. Dashing to the sitting room, it took her only seconds to make sense of the scene before her.
The bottom half of her husband was sticking out from under her great-grandfather's couch, shoes off and socks akimbo. Three of her daughters had their hands in and around his knees, pulling with the summation of their juvenile strength. Violet, who had clearly realized that something had to give were they to succeed, was struggling mightily to lift the arm of sofa to ease their efforts. The baby, sensing both that something was wrong and no one was paying attention to her at the moment, was whimpering in a manner that threatened to whip up into a squalor at any instant.
Emily felt faint. Her legs threatened to go out from underneath her; over the course of the day, she'd emptied her stomach of its contents multiple times. It was only now that they sun was setting that she felt well enough to venture out into her home. Surely, this was not the start to the evening she was anticipating.
"What in the world is going on here?" She cried, hands on her hips.
The girls froze; even her husband ceased kicking and wriggling in his efforts to escape. Holly, ever the one to state things plainly, replied, "Hide and go seek."
From under the furniture, George sighed audibly. "Forgive me, Mrs. Crabtree, I thought it prudent to unwind after the difficult day we've all—"
She moved quickly, lifting the armrest from Violet's grasp and raising it high enough so the detective could move out from under it. The cause of his distress was a distant memory; however, there would be no discussion of such things while the girls were still awake.
There was no use in chastising him. If she were in his situation, she would have done something equally foolish—and heaven knew she had, when she had been younger and more free spirited. In her medicated stupor, she had half expected to come downstairs to see the curtains drawn and the family's rifle propped up against the door.
"It seems to me that it might be a little too late for a proper dinner. Why don't we go right down to the shop on the corner and purchase some sandwiches?" The girls immediately sprang into action, dashing up the stairs to retrieve their shoes. They liked Johansson's Deli, with the thick slices of ham and beef hung from giant hooks nestled into the ceiling. The owners even kept a shop cat to rid of the rats that plagued many businesses in the neighborhood; he was a fat, lazy orange tabby who was more than willing to divest the girls of slices of cheese and tomato. If they were quiet and said their pleasantries to the shopkeeper behind the counter, he might even give them a sour pickle to share, the massive kind that could barely be carried in a little girl's palm.
Yes, this struck the Crabtree girls as a good plan. George, however, was mystified. Rising to his feet, he waited patiently as his wife scooped up Aster in her arms and turned to face him.
They kissed briefly, assuming whatever sickness that had affected Emily the previous morning was long past. When they separated, she brought her lips close to his ear and whispered, "So we are not at war?"
He shook his head. "You know our Prime Minister. We have been so careful to wage our alliances in the past, he would not declare open combat without the assurance that several other countries would join him. There's been ruminations of trouble in England, but I feel that little shall come from that. We're not the ones that ought to be watching their borders, even if we would be dragged into the conflict by their decision to defend."
Aster reached out and secured one of George's lapels in her fingers. He allows her to pull at it, watching how her eyes light up with interest in the process. Emily is silent, yet cognizant of what this could mean for the constabulary. The station house—most significantly Inspector Murdoch and his former paramour Anna Fulford—have had problems with the organization of terror that calls themselves the Black Hand. If the Serbian nationalists were to attempt to spread their reign of fear, the threat of retaliation could be very real and very close to home. Their family, which had been crafted under great duress over the course of a decade, might be in real danger.
"It's a game of waiting now, my dear," George murmured. "There's really nothing we can do to protect ourselves until Austria-Hungary or Russia makes a move. We've dealt with these criminals before. Just know that security has been increased around the government buildings in the city. I'd prefer that you not walk alone to work until we have some assurance of the Black Hand's motives."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Surely you don't believe…"
The detective disengaged from her and moved to the window, finally bringing the glass panel down to the sill and securing it tight. "We don't know. We thought for sure their criminal activity had ceased, and suddenly they come roaring back. I just can't—"
Emily shifted her baby to her other hip and went to embrace her husband once more, burying her head in the crook of his neck. "You won't lose us, George. On the grand scale of things, do you think that a bunch of washed up military operatives would come after a lawman they'd crossed paths with over fifteen years ago?" It seemed perfectly ludicrous to her. His concerns were fairly unfounded.
"It's not just that," he declared, his voice a touch louder than before. "It may not be today, or tomorrow, or the week after next, but I feel that war is coming. And sooner or later, Canada will have to become involved."
From upstairs, she heard the heavy pounding of feet. Emily only had moments to make her thoughts known. Raising herself up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Surprised by her sudden act of tenderness, George met her gaze and waited for her to speak. What she had to say he would go on to remember for years to come.
"My love, everything you've said to me, everything that could happen, would take place outside of these four walls. The world may come crashing down around us, but you will always have your family. You will always have your writing, and you work, and you will always have me." As Emily spoke, her tone became softer and more fragile until she was struggling to get the words out. Vocalizing her fears suddenly made them a thousand times more real. "And don't you start to doubt that for a moment, because as soon as you do, everything we've worked towards has been for naught."
She was right. My God, was she right. Bringing his forehead to touch hers, George felt an inexplicable peace wash over him. Whatever may be, would be. And it would be alright, because there was no choice otherwise.
"Now that that's settled," Emily began with an air of finality to her voice, leaving his embrace and moving towards the foyer. "We've got an outing to plan. At this lateness of an hour, do you think it would be wise to purchase some chocolate treats for the girls to share?"
"Absolutely not," he replied with a knowing smirk on his face. "But that only means that we're prepared to do it anyways."
At the threshold of the room, Emily beamed. Aster squirmed and made a desperate reach for her hair, which she dodged with practiced ease.
From upstairs came a plaintive request, tinged with bashfulness: "Momma, I can't remember how to tie my shoes. Could you help me?"
"I'll be right there, dear," Emily called, bouncing the baby on her hip. She took a moment to examine her husband from head to foot. Before turning away from him, she couldn't resist getting in the last word. "I'd make some effort to clean yourself, Mr. Crabtree. Your entire shirtfront is simply covered in dust fluff."
-0-
A little over five weeks later, on August 4, 1914, Great Britain declared war on Germany. The day after, Canada followed suit. For George Crabtree, his family, and millions of others over the globe, life would never be the same.
The End