Author's Note: This makes for a beautiful secret, eh? I've been writing this, waiting until something else got finished to publish the first few chapters and keep writing. For me, this is a first. A definite first. You see, in all my fanfiction ... ing, I've never done a series between "my character" and the canon. Never. Usually, as a story hits me, I change the character to suit the story. But now I'm doing an actual series, because I've always admired authors who can find a character they like and stick with him/her. So, at least for this series, and Skittery, here's mine. I figured trying to do a series with David would be tough, considering the different characters he's already had -- Hellie, Evangeline, Allie, Rubix, Ice, Moseph,(another one that I can't name here), and so on. So, I thought, I'll do a Skittery series. A het Skittery series. Because all the really good romance about him (okay, not all, but a lot of it) is slash, and I think it's time for a different twist.
Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies. I don't own Skittery. I'm sure there'll be more in here I don't own; historical people and whatnot. Hey, I actually own a character! I mean, one that you'll see more than once! Oh, the chapter titles, are from Bebo Norman's song, "Drifting." He's a Christian singer (God, forgive me, I'm taking the lyrics out of context), and I just found the lyrics so creative, and beautiful. So here we are.
Sometimes, When I'm All Alone
Ursula Wellington didn't believe in love. She didn't believe in it because she'd never seen it manifested, and therefore figured that in reality, it probably didn't exist. Oh, she'd been to weddings, and anniversaries, and a good many other celebrations of the joys of romance, but she had decided that these were simply reflections of people trying to attain a fairytale. Love, she decided, had been invented by Shakespeare.
She never believed this theory more fervently than at a funeral. Today she was at the funeral of Cornelius Gwynne Vanderbilt, Sr., and she was doing exactly as she was instructed to do; her piano-player's fingers enclosed in black lace gloves were entwined with the fingers of the weeping Elsie French, who was forcing tears with all the strength of her being.
As it was, Ursula didn't much care for Elsie, but it was important to put on a show for the sake of her father's business investments. Everybody knew Alfie, the second Vanderbilt, was going to propose, and ever since Cornelius, Jr. had married that dreadful Wilson girl ... well, Alfie was the next in line to the Vanderbilt fortune.
Ursula, to stay consistent, didn't believe that Aflie and Elsie were in love, either. They didn't love each other any more than Ursula loved the deceased Cornelius, Sr., despite her own soft, lady-like sobs. Everyone was supposed to be in a shock and knee-deep in tears because Cornelius Gwynne Vanderbilt, Sr. had suddenly died of a hemorrhage in his brain, and so young -- fifty-six, not a far cry over her own father's years. It was enough to make the wealthy mourners nervous, at least. But their sorrows were not for the railroad tycoon. They were in premature mourning for themselves.
And that was why Ursula didn't believe in love. Because the divorce rate was skyrocketing to five percent. Because businessmen shamelessly kept mistresses well-housed and well-clothed on Fifth Avenue. Because nobody was really thinking about Cornelius Vanderbilt at his own funeral. Because her parents had named her Ursula Mildred Drusilla. Because Elsie was sniffing out the Vanderbilt fortune. Because Alfie had made more than one pass at her since they had met.
But Alfie made passes at everyone. He was an attractive dandy and knew it; he reeked of gentlemanly charm and a woman couldn't help but adore him for it. Despite himself, he had a genuine reverence for chivalry, and his manners came from his heart. He was never mechanical in his airs like those boys that had had to learn the disciplines of opening doors and standing when a lady left the table. A female simply couldn't allow herself the audacity of denying her affections for him. Ursula believed in affections, and she did have affections for Alfie because she was a lady and he was Alfie Vanderbilt. Her mother said all of feminine society wept when Elsie snagged him.
Ursula hadn't wept. She'd shrugged her shoulders and agreed that they were a lovely couple, and started warming up to Elsie because her mother wanted her as a bridesmaid in the wedding. Because it was a big deal to mothers like Ursula's to have their daughters as bridesmaids in a Vanderbilt wedding, oh dear, can you imagine? And Ursula had been there right along with them, oohing and ahhing at the very thought of the elaborations of the day, when it would come. And all of the sweet, prim old hens sitting around tea would chuckle quietly and might even crack a half-hearted joke, Well who will you marry now, Ursula? As if there had ever been the hope of a romance between her and that charming Alfie.
Ursula would chatter along with them, and later her mother would tell her how impressed her lady friends were with her poised, mature daughter. And that made Ursula sure of things ... for a while. She knew who she was supposed to be, and she could even enjoy herself while doing it. She could chat and sip tea and attend parties and warm up to Vanderbilt fiances in order to become a bridesmaid. And yet ... while her obedience was simple and recieved praise, she would find herself at times wondering if this was truly the life that would always make her happy. If praise produced only a temporary certainty, then what would she do when her glory faded and she was married and no longer the pet of society's ladies? What would she do when she had children that didn't really need her because she would, of course, have a well-trained nanny? What would become of her when her husband separated from her completely into the world of men and politics, and left her to the company of ladies and tea?
She knew she could please the crowd; she would be pleasing the crowd when she married, and when she had children at the age they told her she should. She was very good at doing what was expected of her, but ... when the crowd dwindled and surrounded a fresher face, where would her happiness come from? She would be the coolly beautiful form they had hoped she would be: never flustered and never shaken, calm to the very end. But then ... then they would forget about her and lose interest, and she would be quite alone. She would subdue her loneliness, of course, but it would still linger inside of her. No one would have any interest in her, and then ... Then maybe she'd start reading those pathetic dime romances, and she'd start believing in love. And then she'd try and make herself believe that she was and always had been in love with her husband, and the children she'd given ghastly names because some old society woman had hoped against hope there would be another one of her, and Ursula's mother had advised it.
"Oh, dear, Ursula, I feel faint."
The tiny whisper made Ursula's spine tingle, and she glanced at Elsie in surprise. Elsie's wide green eyes prompted her almost too obviously.
"Where are your smelling salts?" Ursula asked, not quite catching her companion's ulterior motive.
"I forgot them. Please, Ursula, lead me outside for some fresh air."
She nodded quickly, taking Elsie by the arm gently and scurrying nonchalantly out of the church. Nobody paid them any mind, and those that did simply commented approvingly on the girls' ladylike weakness.
They stepped out into the cool September air. Elsie took a deep breath, grinning at Ursula mischeviously.
"God, I was dying in there."
Ursula laughed because Elsie wanted her to. "Goodness, Elsie, you're outside of a church!"
Elsie covered her mouth with an innocent guiltiness, her gaze dancing playfully. She crossed herself quickly, bursting into laughter. Ursula's brow furrowed in amazement.
"Where'd you learn that?"
Elsie bit her lip cautiously, looking about her in case of listening ears. "This Irish boy in the Lower East Side." She squealed, a gleeful expression consuming her. Ursula's large brown eyes widened at the scandal, jerking Elsie's arm.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Elsie hushed her quickly, her eyes darting about the street. She seemed to catch something out of the corner of her gaze, but didn't state anything on it at the moment. She looked back to Ursula.
"Haven't you ever ... wondered about these street people before?"
"Elsie - "
"Well I have. Men are always talking about how drunken Irishmen are, and how untrustworthy Italians are with women, and oh, Ursula! I want to meet an Italian!"
Ursula worked her bottom lip with her teeth, looking away from Elsie momentarily. Her friend nudged her impatiently.
"So are you going to go running to Alfie, or can I trust you?"
Ursula nodded slowly, shrugging stiffly. "Of course you can trust me, Elsie."
Suddenly Elsie's long, slender arms were wrapped around Ursula's equally narrow shoulders. They both fulfilled their society's call for conformity.
"I knew you weren't such a prude underneath it all, Ursula."
Ursula swallowed uneasily. She wasn't entirely sure what she was supposed to do. But she knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to go to the Lower East Side and meet an Irish boy, too, and learn how to cross herself, and carry on scandalously, and show that Ellen - oh, right, Elsie - French that she wasn't a prude at all.