Disclaimer: I do not own Gosford Park, nor have I ever wished to.
-Five Years After the Events at Gosford Park-
.-~ ~-.
Though her eyes were open, Elsie did not see the rows of townhouses as they crawled past her in a continuous stream of greys and browns.
She blew idle wisps of white and sighed tiredly when the driver turned to ask her, for the twentieth time that hour, if she was alright. Shooing him away with a quick nod of her head and stroking the sleeping ball of browns and blacks that had taken residence in her lap, Elsie allowed herself to recline into the velvet seat and forget about the troubles that came with freedom. She wouldn't say she was unhappy with her life. No, she quite liked not having to sneak residual drinks from the cups of her 'superiors'. She'd forgotten how good it felt to spend the night idling away without thoughts of breakfast and petticoats and midnight calls for cocoa. By most standards, including her own, her life was quite enjoyable.
She had fans now. And people who, like her driver, could not stand to let her attempt any task without assistance. Admittedly, she could now understand why the Sir and Lady's enjoyed to be waited on hand and foot. Twenty people at your beck and call left very little will to do anything for oneself. Yet, in an act of final defiance for the world she'd been so long intertwined in, she refused to be waited on by any other person.
This, of course, did nothing to help slow the already rampant growth of rumors and wry looks amongst the supposedly civil society that seemed to follow her like an adhering stench. Sometimes, while she was still a newcomer to the strange and dazzling world of film, the time between shoots was passed listening to gossip amongst the other young actors. At the time it'd been a sort of rush for her; the American way of talking had sounded almost like a new language altogether. But she found it dull now that she had lived amongst them. She supposed it couldn't be helped; even the rumors about her supposed affairs—she liked the ones with Denton especially, because the people that spread them obviously didn't know of how many nights the man was left waiting outside her door while she dozed comfortably in her bed to a good book—had grown to be boring reiterations of the gossipers latest weekend endeavour.
In some ways she preferred being a servant, though she doubted she could ever return. A servant, at least, was thought competent enough to go about their day without a constant onslaught of yelps and yells of 'cut' and 'scene change!' and 'make up!'. A servant was expected to do what they were told for merit that they were not of the same class as their masters. An actor, however, was master of made-believe characters and servant to the eyes of hundreds. She felt more like an animal now than she had when she had been forced to stay in the stable on a visit to one of Lady Sylvia's 'drinking buddies'.
Elsie scoffed; even the horses were better company. They didn't expect her to be snobbish, or to automatically submit to whatever strange workings were in place before her arrival. The horses didn't grin smugly when she gave in, finding a comfortable spot just below what she could do and just above what others thought she could.
Her bitter reminiscence was stopped by a thick, "Milady?" and frenzied yips from the now awake tuft of fur that bounded happily in the seat beside her, eager to run about. Casting a side glance through the square pane of glass, Elsie drifted fully out of aloof at the only form of true camaraderie she had seen in almost two years. Taking small, teetering steps from the stairs behind her, Mary was smiling brazenly. She had barely changed.
"I feel so privileged," Mary began, eyes shining with a spark of excitement as she rubbed her hands for warmth, "and actress in my home! Imagine that?" Elsie held in a laugh and brought her cigarette to her lips once more.
"What's so good about being an actress?" she scoffed bitterly, taking another drag on her dwindling cigarette. "I can barely take a piss without everyone knowing about it by noon."
Mary, undeterred, shook her head and laughed. She turned briefly, bundling Pip into a sort of clump and motioning for Elsie to follow her into the humble home. There was a faint smell of fresh bread. "Robert will—."
"Parks?" Elsie interjected, though she'd long known of her friends' marriage to the murderer—man, she meant. The dark haired man. Noticing the slight look of worry on the younger girls lip, Elsie nodded towards the man with her best grin of fake affection. It came out short. She felt the way it surfaced as a thin line of displeasure.
Just because she'd forgiven him didn't mean she'd forgotten.
Smiling a small smile of what was supposed to be contentment to her brunette friend, Elsie walked through the oak paneled doors and stopped, relishing the familiar smell of fresh bread and some kind of polish. She loved Mary's little home. Though heavily decorated with knickknacks, it lacked the odious smell of gas and rubber. It lacked anything that reminded her of the busy world that had built itself around her. It was quiet and simple; it was Mary. Elsie frowned deeply. She's housing a murderer, she thought darkly, and she's likely still a better person than I've become.
.-~ ~-.
Mary was in the kitchen washing up from the light meal that they'd shared. Pip ran about, stealing nips at exposed ankles and tugging at untied shoelaces. Elsie was vaguely aware of Parks' presence in across from her, but didn't pay any real attention to him until he offered her a cigarette. "So..." he began coolly, slipping some meat to Pip, "How's life treating you?"
"Quite well, Mr. Parks." She felt no obligation to hold conversation with him.
"We watched your last film."
"Oh?" she blew a ghost of smoke, "Really?"
Parks nodded, "Mary insisted."
Briefly stopping and glancing at him with a look of uncertainty, Elsie continued to speak, "It was a bore to film. The lines are repetitive, I felt like I'd done it a million times."
"Mmm..."
Tension dripped in thick globs of silence between the two until Mary returned, smiling and looking chipper as she danced around Pips bounding form. "We saw your latest film last weekend. I loved the ending!" she started, instantly filling the void with warm tones of excitement, "Your character was brilliant."
It took a moment for Elsie to remember what film she'd been talking about, what role she'd played. They'd been quite repetitive of late: either she was the unrequited lover or the sarcastic heroine. It was Weismann's favourite theme of the year; Femme Fatal, he called it. "Thanks." She murmured nonchalantly, "I've been practicing."
Something told her this was going to be a long weekend.