A/N: This occurred to me a while ago, and the episode "Out of the Blue" made it a viable possibility in canon (kinda. not really sure how all that works). So basically it's set in the mind!verse of Out of the Blue, where maybe Helen's mother is still alive and kicking.
Helen stood in front of the ornate wooden door, knowing that the beauty of its engravings belied the evil lurking behind it.
It was a beautiful door, a solid one that had weathered time and the elements with all the grace a door possibly could. It was set deep in the rugged stone face of the estate's main house, recessed as if to prove it really did hide all the secrets of a family's generations within its walls.
With a sigh, she thought of her own home, with its expansive windows and exposed ambiance. She missed it already, despite the loneliness she had come to associate with it these past few months.
Steeling herself, Helen raised her hand to knock as the door swung open of its own volition. With a lurch of her stomach, she forced a smile for the countenance that regarded her with a chill, judgmental eye.
Her mother.
"Helen, dear, how lovely to see you. I know I only saw you just last week, but it always seems much longer, doesn't it?"
Patricia Magnus née Heathering was a willowy woman with soft gray hair and a pert nose. A stubborn chin was the only physical indicator that there was a countenance of steel beneath the visage of a well-bred Englishwoman.
"Come in and have a seat, won't you? Iced tea, dear?"
Helen gave a grim smile as she lowered herself onto a familiar chair. "Water is fine," she answered.
As expected, her mother's eyes narrowed at the quiet dissention.
"But Josie just made this batch. It's wonderful."
The easy way out would be to just take the tea—Helen knew in the back of her mind that she would in the end. But her pride, and the hint of teenage rebellion she hadn't quite grown out of, wouldn't let her give in so easily.
"Just water, please."
Her mother always said it was her father's stubbornness. Helen didn't disagree.
"It took her all morning to make," Patricia returned, her tone honed to a sharp edge. "And you know her arthritis is particularly bad this time of year."
Cue the requisite guilt trip. There was always at least one per visit.
In the back of her mind, Helen heard her father's voice reminding her to choose her battles.
"An iced tea would be lovely."
"Here you are, dear. Now, tell me all about your week."
Back onto familiar ground, then. The same prompt was given at every weekly visit. "Just about as exciting as last week, mother."
"Oh, come now, there must be something."
Helen sighed. "Well, as you already know, John returned from his trip to London—"
"Oh, yes, of course! How is he doing? You know, you really should bring him to dinner soon. I haven't seen nearly enough of him since your father died."
Helen hid the instinctive grimace that twitched her shoulders every time her father was mentioned. His loss to cancer two years ago was still too fresh, too painful, to linger on.
"John is well, I suppose."
"Helen."
"Yes, mother?"
"You suppose?" The disdain was apparent in the regal, accented voice. "That's hardly something a wife should be saying about her husband's well-being. Haven't you spoken to him lately?"
"That's just it, mother," Helen exhaled, the tension of the past weeks finally spilling over. "I've only seen him a few times since his return from London. He's been so busy with work that he's been coming home after I've already gone to sleep, and is gone again before I get up in the morning. The only way I know he's even been and gone is his discarded clothes."
"Helen, you know that lawyers work obscenely long hours. You simply have to accept it. You know that he does it to provide for you and to put food on the table."
But that was just it.
For John, it had never been so impersonal. He'd been so passionate about his work, even when he'd been fresh out of law school. It had been part of what had drawn Helen to him. It was more than just a job, more than just a paycheck. It had been a calling.
Now though, Helen wasn't so sure it was passion—not anymore. Ever since the Ripper case started, his fervor had bordered on obsession.
"Yes, mother, I know that." There was no sense in bringing up those particular concerns. "But when I do see him, it's as if we're strangers. When we first married—" Helen cursed silently as her voice caught in her throat.
She'd told herself she'd accepted it. That her circumstances were simply the new way of things. But as she looked at her mother, she couldn't keep her fears from surfacing.
"Mother, when John and I first married, I was in heaven. We told each other everything, about anything. We were best friends. And now—now, whenever we see each other it's as if we've barely even met."
For a long moment, the house was silent, save for the faint chink of metal on metal. Josie must have moved on to polishing the silver.
But Helen held her breath—maybe, just maybe, her mother would give the comfort that was so desperately needed. Even if not comfort, a sympathetic ear would be an equal relief, or a warm word of understanding.
"You certainly can't expect him to succeed in his job and cater to your whims, Helen."
Patricia's voice was cold and unforgiving. Helen's heart fell, and silently she pulled back the entreating tendrils of hope she'd allowed to escape.
"It simply doesn't work that way. It is a wife's duty to provide stability in the home, a safe haven for a husband to return home to."
Helen bowed her head, focusing her attention on her lap. Her fingers worked the edge of her scarf—a nervous habit that drove her mother to madness as surely as the scarf itself did.
It was a ratty, threadbare old thing that was as much for trend as for the memories it held. Most would compliment her on it; Patricia belittled it as often as she possibly could.
Offhandedly, Helen wondered why it hadn't been mentioned yet.
"Perhaps it is your needy disposition that keeps him away at night, have you thought about that?"
She didn't offer a response. She couldn't have anyway, around the lump that had leapt to her throat.
"You should be grateful that John came into your life," Patricia continued. "There aren't many men like him, and even fewer have his kind of background. And with the reputation you've made yourself, it's a miracle that you managed to find a husband of John's status."
It was a tired subject; Helen's affinity for the arts had pleased only her father. Where any other mother in Patricia's circle might have been overjoyed at the thought of a daughter being a successful painter, Patricia saw only the uncouth nature of most of Helen's subjects.
Her current project might be a series of landscapes, but her usual themes were hardly so tame.
"I know that, mother—"
"Sit up straight, and don't interrupt. You'd think you were raised in a barn, the way you're slouching."
Helen knew she was doing no such slouching, but her spine stiffened reflexively. Patricia didn't seem to notice.
"Now, the Social Committee is having a meeting next Wednesday, and I would like you to come, if you're available."
"Actually, mother—"
She had a meeting with her agent that afternoon, to discuss her next collection.
"Excellent!" Patricia brushed off the conflict with her usual grace. "I'll make sure the new secretary knows to expect you. You'll absolutely love the menu we have planned. Pâté hors d'oeuvres, as well as the traditional assortment of fruits and cheeses. Then we'll sit down for a delightful apple and avocado salad served with a tangerine dressing."
"Delicious."
"Oh, I haven't even gotten to the main course! There will be three, in the traditional style of course. The first will be fresh herbed halibut with lemon and dill, served with an excellent wine. I have a man in the wine industry that gave us a very good deal on a divine vintage."
Helen bit her tongue against the sharper of her quips, as her mother passed her photographs of the intended dishes. She might have no interest in talking menus with her mother, but Patricia was in her element, and Helen knew better than to butt into it.
"Now, the second course will be a superb filet mignon with an oriental brown sauce, served with asparagus and butternut squash. Not too many, though, as they take away from the presentation of the mignon. Oh, and the third will be Cornish game hen. Each hen will have herb rubs and an interesting new sauce that my dear friend Pierre has created. Have you met Pierre, Helen?"
"I introduced you two, mother."
"Really? I don't remember that. Are you sure?"
"Yes, mother." Pierre was sure too. He'd cursed Helen's name for months afterward.
"Oh well, he is a divine chef, I must say. This new sauce is wonderful. It's tangy, which complements the sweet taste of the Cornish game hen beautifully."
"Mother…"
"Yes, what is it? I haven't gotten to the dessert selection yet, and I've really outdone myself this year—"
Helen steeled herself, and pressed on. "Mother, you know I'm vegetarian."
A beat passed, as cool blue eyes regarded her with a look that bordered on contempt.
"No, you're not."
She sighed. "Yes, mother."
"Oh, really? And how long has this fad been in style for? I swear, you have a new theme each week."
"I've been vegetarian for ten years, mother."
"Well, you can eat meat for one night can't you?"
"Mother—"
"Helen, I have worked very hard on making this meal perfect. It is a very special event for me and the menu of any event is the backbone on which the entire evening rests. I cannot believe that you would ask me to change it simply on one of your whims."
"Mother—"
"Helen."
She knew that tone. There would be no escaping it this time.
"The menu is fine."
"Good," Patricia returned with a nod. "Now the dessert. This month we're going to have a very large selection. We're actually going to have more than one menu. We found an excellent sachertorte, much better than the one my cousin presented last year. Oh, and there is also a delightful chocolate raspberry cheesecake. It's not really cheesecake, of course—too fattening. But I found this pastry chef that is excellent at making imitation desserts."
"How convenient." Helen didn't even bother to hide her sarcasm. Her mother detested it, but it was a trait her father had subtly nurtured in her. For Helen and Gregory both, it went hand in hand with speaking one's mind.
Luckily, Patricia was too preoccupied with her menu to hear it.
"Oh, I know, especially with the demographic we're catering to. It's difficult for us older women to maintain our figures. You know, I should give you his number, see what he could do for you."
"Thank you, mother." If Helen had been any less confident in herself, she might have found offense in the offer, thinly veiled as it was. Apparently her mother hadn't noticed she'd already lost several pounds to the stress of her strained marriage.
"Well, I'm simply saying, you don't want to give John an excuse not to come home at night."
This time, instead of offense, it was anger that rankled the frayed edges of Helen's patience. "Mother, the dessert menu?"
"Ah, yes. Well, getting away from the chocolate, we are also supplying a coffee-themed selection. Since it's been so hot this summer I decided to feature a chilled confection of crushed chocolate biscuits and coffee topped with whipped cream. Doesn't it sound delectable?"
"Mother—"
"Don't interrupt. Oh, and you know who is going to be at this meeting? Genevieve Innes-Keats. Do you remember her?"
"Of course I do."
How could she not? The miserable wretch had made boarding school a hell on earth, between juvenile pranks and vicious rumors that had attacked everything from her virtue to her family name.
Her mother must have heard the undercurrent of bitterness in her voice, because her gaze narrowed into a glare.
"Don't tell me you hate her too. That's always been your problem, Helen. You were always so abrasive towards your schoolmates. You know, the Havershams still refuse to speak to your father and me."
The prospect of a stroll down memory lane snapped what good spirit Helen still clung to.
"I can't imagine why you would want to speak with them in the first place. Their daughter inherited her ability to lie and cheat from somewhere."
"What a horrible thing to say!" her mother chided, her voice breathless with scandal.
"What else could I possibly say about her, mother?" Helen countered bitingly. "She stole my biology thesis and tried to pass it off as her own! And then she had the gall to tell the professor that I was the one who plagiarized her!"
Patricia shook her head in denial. "I still don't believe that she would do such a thing, not with her breeding. And besides, I never heard from your professor about you receiving a zero on your thesis."
"That's because Professor Watson had mind enough to deduce that Lily Haversham was intellectually incapable of writing something like my paper on her own."
"Nevertheless, it took months for the turmoil to die down. The Havershams are very well connected."
Helen glared at her lap, to hide the ire from her mother's sharp gaze. "Ah, yes," she muttered, "I keep forgetting that no matter how monstrously vile my peers are, their parents are ten times worse."
"Helen, what on Earth has gotten into you?"
"It's the tea," she delivered in a deadpan that would have had her father glowing with pride. "I told you I should have stayed with the water."
"Well, whatever it is, you better get it out of your system before the Social Committee meeting next week. I would prefer to avoid a repeat of last Christmas."
"What happened last Christmas?"
"Helen!"
"So, I know what to avoid, of course," she assured in a modest tone. It was a half-truth; she truly didn't remember what her mother was warning against.
"You nearly had Richard Lindtz in tears after you got into a discussion with him about religion."
Helen fought to keep a self-satisfied smirk from her lips. "Ah, yes… It was Easter, actually."
"Really?"
"Mm-hm. He's a fundamentalist Christian who condemns all things occult, and yet maintains that Easter is the most important of Christian holidays."
"And what is so special about that combination, pray tell?"
"Easter celebrates the rebirth of Jesus of Nazareth, who died and then returned to life three days later. For someone who condemns the ritualism of voodoo zombies with the vehemence Richard Lindtz does, I find it interesting that Easter is his holiday of choice."
"Oh, you are just like your father—"
"Thank you."
"He was near tears, Helen!"
"So, he needs to grow a spine!" Or another important piece of male anatomy, she added to herself. "That's really not all that surprising in your social committee."
"Helen!"
"Mother."
"I can't believe you would say such a thing!"
"Do you not agree?"
"Well…"
"Exactly." The victory came as a shock, but Helen refused to show it. She would marvel at it when she was back at home, venting her frustration onto a canvas with the music blaring.
"You should have more respect for your elders."
"Why, because they're older?"
"Because they have had more experiences than you have," her mother corrected, "which means they are far wiser than you."
"When they use their wisdom for something more worthwhile than navigating the stock market, I will be the first to gladly start respecting."
"Does that mean you do not respect me?"
"I need more iced tea."
"Helen!"
"What would you like me to say, mother?"
"A yes would do well."
"Sorry. You and Father stressed honesty too much in my early developmental stages."
"Helen!"
"I have to go," she said curtly, standing to demonstrate her resolve. "I have menus of my own to plan—perhaps I can lure John back home with a nice sachertorte."
"Helen, do not walk away from me. We are not finished discussing this."
"It's late, mother, and I do have things to do."
It was true; they simply didn't involve planning menus. Even so, she couldn't help but hope that John might be already waiting for her.
"Helen, I am your mother, and I forbid you to walk out that door—"
"Mother, I will see you next week at the committee meeting. I will temporarily become carnivorous, and will avoid any kind of tear-inducing conversations. But right now, I am leaving. I'm going home."
She closed the door with enough force to convey both her determination and her frustration. But even as the grating voice from within was cut off, Helen knew it would only be a matter of time.
It would only be a matter of time before she stood before it yet again, cursing its steadfast apathy.