A/N: Yeah so. Probably should stop starting stories like this but ... ! It's CB and historical and I just couldn't resist. Review if you can. It's unbeta'd at the moment.

"In reality they all lived in a kind of hieroglyphic world, where the real thing was never said or done or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs;"
- Edith Wharton, The age of innocence

Chapter One:

1875.

Grey clouds spit droplets of rain like diamonds towards the gravel, sticking its muddy grits in the corners of the large wooden carriage wheels. The servants made sure to duck under tarps, the tarnished felt hats, but the mud swallowed all that it could. Peasant eyes watched while a grand ball was being thrown, the light twinkling like crystal, a dream.

So close, and yet realms away.

The Archibald estate was grandiose, to be sure. With it's long crème pillars and ancient portraits of ancestors long dead.

However, it was none too spectacular for the young man, whose entire life had been spent within its walls, that of the young Nathaniel. He was a boy whose name had been built upon the hard-work of his great, great grandfather, the pride from which he managed with wry smiles and the pomp of quiet obedience.

He was perfection and precisely why Blair swooned at every small glance, an arrow to her heart.

The Duke of Norway was clutching her waste tenderly and with each breath in her ear, his thoughts were sticky and dull. It was all she could do to will herself the composure needed to stay light and dainty on the heels of her shoes.

"He smelt like rotten fruit," She confessed behind the bright glow of her fan, "It was absolutely unbearable."

She gestured a sigh, grateful to be released from the obligation, and had politely joined Serena on a chaise in the sparse entrance.

Serena kicked her shoe with the heel of her own in response, "Dare not say such in public!"

She was poised, like summer beauty in the gentle breeze. Blair rolled her eyes.

"Perhaps you need to speak with Daniel Humphrey, no doubt the cause of that mischievous smile," She deadpanned.

"I am the least bit mischievous tonight," Serena said, with so little conviction.

What secrets the Archibald household knew, Blair mused. All the grand balls and candlelit dinners. It was the simplicity and elegance of society broken into pieces and fed to one on their own dinner plate.

"Besides," She added, "He already thinks me a brute. It should come as little surprise that I am dull too."

"Please," Blair chided. "He's nothing to be in frenzies with."

"No," Serena echoed, "He is not." She reached for her best friends elbow, patted it. "And I will not let it ruin this night."

There was but a small pause, the silent breath of a moment slipping through their fingers.

"You should speak," Serena grinned. "Mr Archibald bates his stare and yet you do not nibble."

It only took twelve summers for his attention to be caught.

"Yes," Blair laughed, "He does. Perhaps I do not bite because I'm not swimming in his pond."

If all of Manhattan society was a stage …

"Oh Blair," Serena shook her head, "But you are what he wants."

"Well, if he does not propose soon, his advances are nothing."

The night passed like honey into tea. It was sweet and still, almost slow with the promise of excitement to come.

Thick seas of social gossip.

By the end of it, her dance card had been filled quite evenly, as much as a young woman could hope for, and her feet were sore. Even Nathaniel Archibald had looked upon her for two conversations, Anne and the captain not far behind, falling on his arm as though every word he said was instrumental.

Albeit slightly drab.

The weather. Her dress.

It swirled inside her though, like a fully formed thought and even the carriage home did little to dampen her high spirits.

Eleanor, rather pleased with the night's outcome, had spent the whole journey tight lipped and beaming.

A secret on her lips so polished.

The horses trotted past the familiar iron wrought gates and Blair slumped against the window, her fingers spread across the tiny glass window. The rain a melody of winter, that seemed to wait on her doorstep.

They slowed to a stop and she withdrew her hand. The cold still imprinted on her flesh. Alfred propped the door open, helping each of the Waldorf women onto the ground. The heels of her shoes seemed to fall into the muddy dirt, just enough that when she moved to take a step, her mother was already lengths ahead of where she walked. When the front entrance was finally in sight, warmth turned over in her stomach.

"Come, come," Eleanor said with exasperation, "Your father may be home yet."

Home.

She took her mothers arm and turned her chin up at the sky. Behind her, in the near frozen park, yelps of excitement could be heard. She turned her head slightly, as her body carried her forward, glimpsing a young man and woman dancing in the rain, to a tune only they knew.

Celebrating winter, she supposed, instead of being ignorant. And for that, if nothing else, a small smile escaped her throat and crept across her features.