Balances of Power, a charles dickens fanfic

Balances of Power

By Laura Schiller

Based on: David Copperfield

"Agnes, my dear?"

She put her finger between the pages of a book in which she had been (unsuccessfully) trying to lose herself. The voice calling her name was her father's.

She looked up – and suppressed a shudder. Her Papa, gray-faced and unsteady, looked as if he had not slept all night. Behind him, with a face almost as red as his hair, each lanky limb as tense as piano wire, was Uriah Heep.

"My … partner … has something to say to you, my child," said Mr. Wickfield, looking miserable in a way that, she knew now, for once did not relate to the aftereffects of drinking. "He's requested to … to speak to you … in private."

Uriah Heep made an abrupt movement, a nod or a bow, in her direction, which made her jump. She could guess all too well what he had come to say after last night's disaster, and it made her sick to contemplate.

"No, please," she protested, even her good manners failing for once. "I – I am sure, whatever you have to say, you may say in front of Papa."

With a glance, she begged her father not to leave her alone, but the look he gave her in return was so remorseful – I would protect you if I could, my darling girl, but don't you see he has us in his power? – that she felt guilty for even trying.

She thought of how her father's scream had sent her running back toward the dining room; how she had lingered behind the door to eavesdrop almost despite herself; how her own ears had finally confirmed what she had suspected for so long. If I say I've an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to it as any other man. I have a better right! … Look at my torturer! Before him, I have step by step abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home …

More than anything, she wished for Trotwood, for his fierce, earnest, uncondional support. Could he not have delayed his return to Dora for one more hour?

But Trotwood was not there. As Mr. Wickfield slunk out of the room and Uriah closed the door on him, Agnes had no one to rely on but herself.

Uriah hovered by the door, wringing his sweaty palms and lowering his eyes to the carpet. For a blackmailer and fraud about to claim his prize, he looked absurdly shy; he reminded her of one of Dr. Strong's schoolboys at his first dance. But was it all part of his act? Agnes, who had prided herself on her perception when it came to people like Steerforth, found it impossible to tell.

If only he would say something, or at least straighten up and look her in the face. The silence stetched out between them with the weight of years, so thick it threatened to choke her.

"Well, Uriah?" she finally prompted, just to get it over with. "What is it you wished to discuss with me?"

Hearing her call him by his Christian name seemed to encourage him. He smiled and shivered a little, as if the sound gave him physical pleasure. Ten years ago, he had begged her for that name too humbly to refuse; if she had known then the effect it would have on him, she never would have given in.

"Miss Agnes," he breathed, taking a step closer. "First of all, I must apologize for interrupting you at your reading. It's rather forward of me, being such an 'umble person, you know …"

"It's all right," she lied through her teeth. "Please – continue."

"Thank you." He ducked his head again. "Most kind, as always, Miss Agnes. As I was saying … well, now … it is difficult to begin … "

He gestured awkwardly with his large, long-fingered hands, reminding Agnes of all of Trotwood's and Miss Betsey's wicked remarks about his appearance. Serpentining and corkscrewing, indeed. She had reproved them often enough – after all, poor Uriah's body was not his choice – but today she missed the jokes, if only to keep him at a distance.

"You may have noticed that your father – my esteemed fellow-partner – was unfortunately … unwell last night."

"I have," she replied, forcing her voice to keep steady. 'Unwell' had become the household euphemism for 'drunk' or 'hungover', as they both knew.

"I regret, Miss Agnes," said Uriah, "I deeply regret that you were a witness to that most distressing scene."

A scene you caused, she thought but did not say. Insulting him now would be the worst possible thing to do; a few words from him could ruin both her father's life and hers.

"During the course of our conversation before your arrival, you may have … accidentally … overheard certain things. About me, for instance. My place in the firm, my intentions towards … " He broke off and looked away, the rest of the sentence refusing to leave his mouth.

"I turned back from the staircase when Papa cried out," Agnes admitted, allowing, for the first time, a hint of steel in her tone. His hesitation was starting to drive her mad. "I waited by the door in case he should need my help. I heard every word."

She would not apologize for that, no matter how rude it was. One humble person was already too much for this room.

Uriah winced as if he had been kicked; evidently he had been hoping she didn't know.

"It is my wish," he said, "My 'umble wish, to try and prevent any – misunderstanding between us. Mr. Wickfield – forgive me for saying this, but it's true – Mr. Wickfield was not himself last night. His judgment was impaired. He has admitted it himself, this morning, and apologized to me most graciously – which, needless to say, I accepted."

He began to speak more rapidly, in a rush of words as eager and intense as his reddish-brown eyes finally meeting hers.

"You do understand, Miss Agnes, that the accusations levelled against me last night – for which I do not blame your father, not at all! The stress of his position, I know – that these accusations have no grounds for truth? I would not have you believe that I mean you, or your respected father, anything but good! I would not, for the world, have you think any less of me! Miss Agnes, my regard for you – "

He could not say it. Why would the most eloquent speaker she had ever met (apart from Mr. Micawber and sometimes Trotwood) be so incapable of telling her what she already knew?

Looking into his eyes for one more moment before he turned abruptly away, Agnes saw the reason why.

"I understand, Uriah," she said, surprised at the gentleness of her own voice. "There is no need for you to say anything."

He flashed a momentary glare at her repetition of his own scornful words to Mr. Wickfield, but sighed with relief when he realized what she meant. She was giving them time; delaying the inevitable moment for as long as she could.

"Of course, of course. Much obliged. Thank you for your time. Good day, Miss Agnes."

He backed away from her and bowed himself out with a painfully awkward smile. Outside in the corridor, moments later, she thought she heard a thump and a snarl, as if he had kicked the wall in his frustration.

Agnes collapsed into her armchair, exhausted from the effort of keeping up her mask of calm. Uriah's red eyes, both imploring and commanding, were burned into the back of her mind. She understood him now.

He had the power to send her and Papa to debtor's prison or worse, but she had the power to break his heart. He was so terrified of rejection by the object of his love – not real love, but as close to it as his warped mind could reach – that he had worked for years to make his offer impossible to refuse.

And after all this, he was still afraid to face her.

It was a cruel, petty, selfish way for him to act, but she found it impossible to hate him for it when he so obviously hated himself.

That look in his eyes reminded her of Trotwood when he'd first come to stay with her: Trotwood at twelve years old, turning white at the sight of Mr. Wickfield's walking-stick, pressing his hand to the window whenever a mother and son walked by. They were the eyes of a child who was desperate to earn someone's love, but had no idea where to begin.

Without the warmth of Peggotty, the vitality of the Micawbers, the fierce protection of Miss Betsey, the safety of Dr. Strong's school and Agnes' own wholehearted friendship and support, would Trotwood have become another Uriah? And most importantly, was there anything Agnes could have done when they were younger – any kindness, any advice she could have given – to help Uriah become a better man?

You mustn't blame yourself, Agnes, she imagined Trotwood telling her. This is no time to pity him. Think of the choice he is forcing you to make, if not now, then someday soon. Think of your father … think of yourself.

The memory of Trotwood's warm voice and bright blue eyes returned her confidence, and with it, her common sense. Uriah could live without her much more easily than she and Papa could without their freedom. They were at a stalemate for now, but the odds for victory were clearly on his side.

She would have to marry him. The idea was unacceptable, for so many reasons she could not begin to list them. Any husband would be unacceptable (except for Trotwood, a childish dream she might as well give up), let alone a greedy, selfish, manipulative liar like Uriah. Besides – if even the touch of his cold, clammy hands was unpleasant, how would it feel to share his bed?

It did not bear thinking about. There had to be some way to escape.

What would Trotwood do? she asked herself.

The answer, when it came, was so simple, she could not decide whether to laugh or cry.

Change the odds.

Trotwood, even as a child, had refused to live under his stepfamily's control. He had not only escaped them, but surrounded himself with allies – the Micawbers, Miss Betsey, Mr. Dick, Dr. Strong – so that the Murdstones had had no choice but to retreat. Agnes did not have Trotwood's gift of making friends … but she knew someone who did.

"Mr. Micawber," she asked him point-blank, making the new clerk bump his head against the slanted office ceiling in surprise, "Are you quite happy here, working for Uriah?"

One look at the exhausted, bitter lines on his normally jolly face was answer enough; she hardly needed to hear his elaborate, evasive speech.

He felt stifled in his powers of creative expression. He felt guilty for keeping secrets from his wife (as he should, thought Agnes, considering all the hardship and anxiety he had put Mrs. Micawber through before). He hinted, with profound embarrassment, that he depended on Uriah to keep him out of his pecuniary difficulties. "But," he wound up with unconvincing cheer, "The law is still a great pursuit – a great pursuit!"

"Is it really, though?" she asked him, hoping to strike just the right balance between politeness and skepticism.

Judging by the way he crumpled into his chair, wiped his bald head with a handkerchief and scattered a pile of documents with his sigh, it worked.

"My dear Miss Wickfield," he said, "Those honest eyes of yours have put me quite out of countenance. I could not deceive you if I tried. I am lost, Miss Wickfield. I have sold my soul to a very Devil – forgive my language. Wilkins Micawber is reduced to a shadow of his former self. If I were to relate to you the lies I have told, the abominable fraud and hypocrisy I am daily forced to perpetrate … oh, Miss Wickfield, even your angelic nature might find it impossible to forgive me."

Theatrics aside, Mr. Micawber was as sincere in misery as in joy. He could no more hide his feelings than his children could. Agnes could think of nothing more exhausting for him than to be pressured into a life of secrets and lies.

"You are a good man, Mr. Micawber," she told him. "You have been a good friend to Trotwood and to me. I trust you … which is why I have come to you for help."

By the time she had finished explaining Uriah's plot against her (in as simple terms as possible, since she did not wish to sound self-pitying or melodramatic), Mr. Micawber's despair over his own situation had grown into towering fury over hers.

"How dare he?" he snarled, jumping to his feet so forcefully, she had to step back. His chair clattered onto the floor behind him. "To form such villainous designs against you, of all people, the sweetest, most virtuous young lady of my acquaintance – excepting always my beloved Emma and our daughters, of course – That scoundrel, that blackguard, that … Heep of infamy!"

"Calm yourself, sir, please!" She moved to block the door, alarmed by his thundering voice and the vein throbbing in his forehead. This was not the result she had been hoping for.

"Let me pass, Miss Wickfield! I'll kill him – I'll pitch him out of window – I'll blow his brains out, that repulsive worm, that weasel in sheep's clothing, that slimy self-serving serpent - "

"Sir!" The title, combined with her hands on his shoulders, startled him out of his tirade like a dash of cold water. He shook his head, blinked down at her through his monocle and blushed again, this time with shame instead of anger.

"Sir," said Agnes, quietly but firmly. "I must ask you to do no such thing. Since Uriah has broken the law, it is the law to whom he must answer. If you and I work together, if we can find enough evidence of his crimes, we can ensure that he never troubles us again. Will you be the legal expert of the operation and," she patted the ring of keys at her belt, including keys to unlock every secret corner of the house, "Let me be Papa's little housekeeper? For all our sakes, Mr. Micawber, will you please consent to keeping one more secret?"

The mention of her father distracted her for a moment. Why am I relying on Mr. Micawber instead of Papa? she could not help but think. She suppressed this thought, however, as soon as it came. Mr. Micawber always knew when to stop drinking his famous punch. Mr. Micawber had a wife to comfort and support him. There was no comparison.

To her shock and amusement, Mr. Micawber signaled his consent by kissing her hand in his most theatrical manner. She giggled, surprised for once into sounding her own age.

"Something will turn up, my fair fellow conspirator," he assured her, beaming like a bald, monocled sun. "I have no doubt."

For the moment, neither did she.