An Eighth Doctor & Dr. Grace Holloway Story
By Bex
Milan, 1884
At the café Osteria Aida, a large group of Bohemians sat
carousing far into the evening, around several tables that they
had pushed together.
It was a mixed, motley group. A number were students at the
Conservatoire; the rest were artists, actors, and writers, with
an emphasis on the poor and starving variety. Roughly half of
the revelers had just wandered across the party and had decided
to stay. No one minded. Wine, food, and song flowed freely.
Occasionally, an argument would threaten to break out, as
someone succumbed to a bellicose impulse, perhaps fueled by an
excess of spirits. The group's natural peacekeepers generally
managed to sort it out, though, keeping the celebration from
spinning out of control, and the café owner from an excess of
anxiety.
No one had started to dance on the table-tops, either - yet.
What was the party for? It might have been to celebrate the
end of exams, but those were still some time away. Perhaps one
of the writers at the table had just sold a novel to a
publisher?
Actually, no. Most of the revelers there were hanging on,
financially speaking, by their fingernails. They were
celebrating for no good reason at all. Just because.
One of the few woman at the table, Grace Holloway, a traveler
from the United States, sat, resplendent in rust-colored silk.
She was talking, laughing, and enjoying herself more than she
had in quite a long time. Most of the men at the table were
flirting with her outrageously, much to her amusement.
Well, all except one.
She flicked a quick, amused glance at the chestnut-haired man
in the green coat who sat at ease across the table from her,
conversing with great animation with several artists and writers.
The Doctor, her time-traveling companion from Gallifrey
seemed to be oblivious to her. A cup sat at his elbow, but he
seemed to have forgotten it, as well. She gave a mental shrug
and turned her attention back to the man next to her. Was he a
writer, or a playwright? She couldn't remember. She took a sip
of her glass of wine and snickered inwardly - she was drinking
for mere pennies what snobbish wineconnoisseurs in her time, the
end of the 20th century, would eventually pay top dollar for.
The Doctor noted Grace's glance, but did not acknowledge it,
deep as he was in discussion. To his left, he could just see
out of the corner of his eye that the fellow next to him was
sketching with a charcoal pencil on a small scrap of paper. As
soon as there was a lull in the conversation, the Doctor took
the opportunity to look more closely at what he was drawing.
To his surprise, he saw a portrait of Grace forming before
his eyes. The artist had caught her spirit with just a few
perfectly-placed lines.
"Oh, well done!" the Doctor said in admiration. The artist
smiled, pleased. "It's yours, then," he declared, carefully
handing the impromptu portrait to a delighted Doctor. "Keep it;
I insist."
"Thank you!" he said, and meant it. Displaying the sketch
with a flourish, he turned to his fellow conversationalists.
The others leaned forward to admire his prize and compare it
ith the real thing across the table, before returning to the
debate. The Doctor fished in his pocket, removed a small tube,
rolled up the small piece of paper carefully to avoid smudging
the portrait, and slid it inside the tube. He then returned it
to his pocket.
The artist leaned over. "You are a lucky man, to have such
a lovely companion," he commented slyly, a hint of a question in
his inflection. The Doctor deliberately turned a bland gaze to
him.
"Hhmm? Oh, yes..." he replied, distractedly. The artist sat
back with a speculative look.
The Doctor looked to see what exactly Grace was up to. It
appeared she had seen none of his portrait presentation; she was
too busy being chatted up by a handsome, dark-haired, mustachioed
fellow. He was holding one of her hands, under the pretext that
he was about to read her palm.
"Your hand...it is so cold," he said, smiling at her. "Ah,
yes," the fellow exclaimed. "Here is your life-line..." He
paused suddenly, frowning down at her palm, as if puzzled, but
continued. The Doctor saw Grace roll her eyes. Did she need
rescuing? No - she was handling that rascal, Giacomo, well
enough.
Still...
The Doctor shot a glance of pure mischief their way. Everyone at the table flinched, startled, as he abruptly stood
up and slammed a fist down on the table top, hard enough to jolt
wine out of several glasses. Most of the party-goers looked up
in anticipation. Was there about to be a row over the American
woman? Grace was gazing at him speculatingly, an eyebrow
raised, as the Doctor leaned forward, glaring.
"It's been going on long enough, Giacomo!" he said sternly.
Grace's would-be swain dropped her hand somewhat guiltily.
The Doctor continued. "Everyone's been telling me that you
have yet to finish that opera, what was it - 'Le Villi', that
you've been working on! When will it be produced, and the name
Puccini begin to get the recognition it deserves?" He sat back
down.
Grace's jaw dropped, and her head swiveled around to stare at
the man next to her. "Giacomo Puccini? You're the
Giacomo Puccini?"
"Er...yes," the man replied, surprised by her reaction.
She'd just spent the last ten minutes being chatted up by her
favorite opera composer.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, grabbing hold of his hands, feeling
star-struck. "I love all of your operas! In fact,
I just recently saw Madame-"
Across the table, someone cleared their throat meaningfully,
and she stopped, wincing. She'd been babbling. What had she
been saying?
Puccini was looking at her, confusion written all over his
face. "I'm sorry," he said. "You must have me confused with
someone else. I'm scoring an opera, but I haven't yet finished
it."
"Ah...What I meant," she said quickly, back-pedaling, "is
that I'm sure that you're going to write the music for a number
of operas, and that people will love them." She squeezed
Puccini's hands in hers, and smiled broadly as he looked back at
her, bemused.
"You are going to write operas, aren't you? You must!"
She thought she heard a strangled noise from across the table,
but ignored it.
"In fact," she said, a wicked gleam in her eye, "I know
you will!" Puccini stared at her, obviously a little unnerved by
her intensity. She leaned forward conspiratively. "You see,"
she said, dropping her voice down low, "I have a...feeling for these kinds of thing, sometimes. And I just know that you will be a successful composer."
He smiled back at her, now, not at all displeased by her words
of encouragement, as she released his hands. She could see why
the Doctor did this sort of hint-dropping so often - this was
fun!
The Doctor captured everybody's attention again as he got to
his feet once more and raised his cup. "A toast!" he shouted
and the rest gladly took up the cry. "A toast to all the Arts,
that bring Beauty to our lives!"
Everyone raised their glasses and cheered, and the party wound
on into the night.
As the party finally broke up, hours later, the revelers began
drifting off somewhat tipsily into the mist-shrouded Milan
streets. Grace wrapped the shawl that was serving as a jacket
around herself, as the Doctor waited nearby. She probably
looked, she mused, like a character from one of Puccini's
operas.
Ahead of them, Giacomo Puccini, future composer of several
operas that would in time become standards in the repertoires of
opera houses around the world, was heading out of the square.
He looked back at her and the Doctor, and she waved. He grinned
wistfully, and lifted a hand in farewell.
The Doctor regarded Grace slyly. "What if I told you that
what little you said to him here tonight was going to change
history, cause him not to go on to write those operas?"
She snorted, a distinctly unladylike sound. "I'd say that
you were full of it."
"Oh? How does that follow?" he asked, amused. She looked
momentarily skyward as she slipped the drawstring of her reticule
over her wrist.
"Well...if he had gone on and not written those operas, I'd
have no memory of them right now. But I do. So he did." She
rolled her gaze expectantly back to him.
"Well," he conceded, "as it happens, you're correct about
history remaining unchanged, though it's not quite as
simple as you described it. You've got to be very careful about
that sort of thing; you have no idea what historical events and
minute details may be important, in the end."
She put her hands on her hips and gave him a Look. "You're a
fine one to talk - you do it all the time!"
"Yes, but I know what I'm doing."
"Uh-huh," she said, sardonically. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the
Time Lord is a Professional. Do not try this at home!"
"Something like that, yes," he laughed. "So, what do you
think of Puccini, now that you've met him?"
She considered, thoughtfully. "I didn't really know that much
about him before; I just enjoyed his music. He certainly was fun
to talk to, though he is an awful skirt-chaser, isn't he?
I mean, please - 'Grace, your hand is so cold-'" She stopped abruptly. "Oh, my." She shook her head and laughed, as
her friend grinned. "Well, at least it worked for Rodolfo!*"
The Doctor gallantly offered her his arm in the proper
gentlemanly fashion of the time. Grace took it, and they set off
through the lamp-lit streets, for the TARDIS.
Fin.
* Who used that line on his love, Mimi, in Puccini's opera 'La Boheme', with considerably more success...;-)