Author's Note: This story (belatedly) fulfills the fifth prompt from the third Chair Week – scars.
Soft, light, and happy chatter continues to fill the room even as people pause to sip gracefully from their teacups or bite delicately into a scone, and the little girl with perfectly curled, brown hair seated on the center tables flushes red when her teacup clatters against the porcelain saucer sending the silver spoon flying to the floor and the noise carries across the room, when the patrons seated at the tables nearest to her own turn to seek out the source of the loud interruption. The negative attention causes her to shift uncomfortably in her seat, to slouch before she remembers she is supposed to sit up straight, and her grip on the table cloth as she tries to adjust her position causes the whole table to move.
"Oh, dear," Lily van der Woodsen says as the hot, amber-colored liquid sloshes over the rims of the four teacups staining the tablecloth. She signals discreetly for the waiter, and her granddaughter flushes an even deeper shade of red when the waiter appears and comments about how this happens all the time with small children because Gemma is five and has been practicing all week at following the rules of etiquette for this event.
Napkin folded daintily over her lap. Back straight. White gloves on. Cup held carefully without spilling. And, most importantly, absolutely no swinging of her legs least she scuff her new Moschino ballet slippers or accidentally kick Grandmére under the table. Again.
The fact that her feet hover high off the ground – her legs far too short to place her feet on the floor – make it difficult to conform to that last rule. The struggle intensifies as the second waiter attending to their table places three tiers of treats in the middle of the table and her excitement bubbles forth only to be squashed at the way her grandmére raises one eyebrow in her direction. And the poised and perfect woman seated to her right sweeps in to correct her mistake with an encouraging smile as she gently taps Gemma's elbow in a reminder that elbows do not belong on the table.
"Sorry," Gemma says quietly with a frown as she quickly drops her hands to her lap. The dainty, white gloves feel itchy against her skin, and she fiddles with them for the voice in the back of her mind creeps forth to reminder her quite sternly that she's a lady not a heathen from Brooklyn.
Her mother's gentle smile as she waves away her daughter's apology and gingerly sweeps a lock of Gemma's hair off her shoulder causes the little girl to brighten once more, and Gemma stares in obvious amazement as her mother continues to answer Eleanor's rapid fire questions without hesitation.
"I'll be leaving for China on Monday to meet with our distributors there and renegotiate the production contract. Jenny will be coming down from Albany then to keep the atelier running smoothly in my absence," Blair replies calmly before pausing the conversation to lean over to converse with the youngest Waldorf woman seated at the table. "Which one would you like, Gemma?"
"Um," the little girl hums as she contemplates her choices. Her eyes dart hungrily from scone to cake to the sandwich, and she eventually settles one of the biggest selections on the tray pointing towards it with a gleeful grin. Her hand is pushed down, however, by the woman seated to her left, and Eleanor hisses under her breath that it is rude to point, especially at food.
The rebuttal causes Gemma's gaze to fall to her empty plate as she retracts her hand, and her sudden fascination with the pattern on her plate causes her to miss the sharp look her mother shoots at her grandmére.
"Enjoy, ma chérie," Blair says as she places the scone on Gemma's plate before turning her attention to Lily and inquiring about the plans for her mother-in-law's upcoming charity gala. The conversation moves onward as Gemma happily picks up the scone with her white gloved hand and takes a series of as delicate bites as she can manage in her excitement and hunger, but the delicious looking scone suddenly feels dry on her tongue when her grandmére and her grandmother both exuberantly greet the two crashers of their little party.
"Serena," Lily exclaims brightly when the statuesque blonde with the little girl perched on her hip rounds the surrounding tables to stand beside theirs. Her dark washed jeans look out of place in this upscale environment despite their designer label, and Gemma waits to hear a muffled comment from her grandmére about the inappropriateness of her aunt's attire.
Yet no comment comes as Eleanor moves to flag down the waiter and asks him to accommodate the expansion of their party, and Gemma shoots an incredulous look at her mother as her chair is shifted aside to make room for two more. Blair's face echoes that of her daughter's because the reservation she made six weeks ago was for a party of four not six, because today was supposed to be about celebrating Gemma's recent birthday and she knows Serena and Addie were both in attendance at the larger party earlier in the week.
But Eleanor and Lily are already carrying on as nothing is amiss, and both Gemma and Blair find themselves seated next to those who are supposed to be their best friends – Serena between Lily and Blair, Addison between Eleanor and Lily. And Blair reaches discreetly under the table to squeeze her daughter's hand in apology, offers her a smile when the little girl asks politely for another scone, and moves to oblige her without a second thought.
"Do you think that's wise?" Eleanor questions under her breath so as not to attract the attention of the other three people seated at the table. "Maybe you should cut it in—"
"She's fine, Mother," Blair interrupts tersely as she moves the scone from the platter to her daughter's plate. The little girl eyes drop suspiciously to look at the scone placed before her and she hesitates about picking it up until her mother offers her an encouraging smile. The second scone tastes better than the first, and Gemma forgets about delicate bites or being careful with her white gloves as she eagerly bites into the pastry.
"You look very pretty today, Addie," Eleanor compliments the little girl seated between her and Lily reaching to finger the fabric of her dress as Lily places one of the smaller tea sandwiches in front of the blonde's plate because, as Eleanor pointed out, the scones are already gone. "Blue is definitely your color. Offsets your hair and eyes beautifully."
Her words cause Serena's little girl to beam brightly, but Blair's features darken as her mother's pronouncement reaches her ears, as she watches over the rim of her tea cup as Gemma glances at her new dress and sits up a little straighter. The look of anticipation, of expectation that her grandmére will compliment her dress on Gemma's face causes Blair's heart to beat faster because she knows that look. Yet before she can intercede, before she can stop the question so clearly written on Gemma's face, the question is out there and her little girl is exposed to the critical eye that tore Blair apart so often during her own childhood.
"Gemma, it's rude to speak with your mouth full or to ask for compliments," Eleanor replies with the air of a society matron before turning her critical eye towards her daughter. "Really, Blair—"
Once again a teacup clatters against the saucer; the noise reverberates around the room attracting the attention of those patrons seated near and far from their table at the center of the room. And all eyes are on the perfectly poised woman as she rises from the table, as she moves to push back her daughter's chair and lifts the little girl to her feet, as she curls her hand around her daughter's and begins to lead her towards the door without another word.
Gemma follows her mother out of the building, down the block towards Park Avenue trying desperately to keep up with Blair's angry strides, but one look at the scuff mark on her right shoe causes her to freeze and refuse to move any further down the busy sidewalk. The little girl tears her hand out of her mother's grasp, bends down with tears welling in her eyes, and tries to rub away the scuff mark.
"I'm sorry, Mommy," Gemma cries pitifully when the mark will not disappear, and she tips her chin upward to meet her mother's gaze expecting to see Blair's face darkened by anger towards her. "I tried to be good, but I was bad."
"No," Blair quickly corrects nearly falling to her knees on the sidewalk in her haste to gather Gemma's hands in her own and look her daughter in the eye. "You did absolutely nothing wrong."
"I spilled the tea," the little girl replies as people pass them with curious looks. "I ate too many scones so Addie didn't get one and Grandmére didn't think my dress was pretty and—"
"Listen to me, Gem," Blair quickly interjects as she tugs the stained gloves off Gemma's tiny hands. She shoves the gloves inside her purse before moving to wipe the tears from Gemma's cheeks, to push back the stray lock of hair, to cup her daughter's cheek. "You are beautiful, and you are going to be a powerful woman when you get older. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?"
"But Grandm—"
"No," Blair interrupts swallowing back her own tears and the lump in her throat because she needs her daughter to hear her words in crystal clarity. "There are no 'buts'. You're beautiful and amazing and powerful, Gemma Bass. The best of the best. Understand?"
Her daughter nods her head – her curls bouncing despite the headband holding back her hair from her face – and after a kiss to her daughter's cheek, Blair moves to resume her poised posture, holds her daughter's hand, and steers them both through the crowded sidewalk in the direction of the Bass family townhouse so that the pitter patter of tiny Moschino flats fall into rhythm with the footfalls of Christian Louboutin heels.
There is no pitter patter of tiny feet against the hardwood floors, no tiny arms outstretched in a demand to be picked up with exuberant, breathy cries of his name when Chuck reaches the top of the stairs. The silence of the Bass family townhouse makes him uncomfortable; the pursing of Dorota's lips as she offers to take his coat and briefcase heightens his concern. He passes over his items, clasps his hands together and wrings them nervously as he questions Dorota about the lack of noise.
"Miss Blair taking bubble bath."
The way the words all from her lips – the quiet, cautious reverence – causes his face to fall, and he dismisses the maid with a subtle nod of his head as he turns and heads up the stairs towards the third floor of the townhouse. The transformation from public to private spheres is striking; the artwork adoring the walls replaced with those created by his children as he moves from the hallway to the first room on the right.
Chuck pushes open the half-propped open door only to frown when he finds the room unoccupied. Textbooks and notebooks are sprawled across the bed, and Chuck immediately reaches into his pocket to pull out his cell phone, quickly taps out a message to his eldest child letting him know that he and Blair are available to help in any way Henry might need them because this – the highlighters and pens still tucked amongst the pages holding the reader's place, the signature item forgotten in the haste to get out the door – is a scene from his youth he knows all too well.
The phone buzzes in his hand before he can slip it back into his pocket, and the message that flashes across the screen – R and Z broke up – causes his skin to prickle with a mixture of relief and acute worry that sixteen-year-old Henry is putting himself in the same position Chuck found himself in around that age. Best friend called upon to comfort the ex-girlfriend, to help her understand why the boy they both care about doesn't pay half as much attention to her as he should.
"He needs to stop living at her beck and call. It's unbecoming of a Bass," a pubescent voice calls from the doorway. Chuck smiles, chuckles at his middle son's words before turning to face the preteen leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his lips. "And no matter what Henry says, it obvious that he loves her."
"Since when did you become such an expert on love?"
"Since I had to look at you and Mom every day," Nathan replies twisting his scowl into a look of disgust as images of what he walked in on in the kitchen this morning play in his mind. Everything about him is Bassian except for his facial expressions, and the glimpse of his son's mother in his reaction causes Chuck to smirk."
"It's not funny, Dad. No one else at school has parents like you and Mom."
The comment causes Chuck to shake his head because one day his son will understand how fortunate he is. One day Nathan will realize love is not something to mock and scorn. One day Nathan will fall so hard that he will be covered in scrapes and bruises and yet won't even care because the danger of falling will have been worth it. And instead of going toe-to-toe with Nathan's stubborn streak – another trait he inherited from his mother – over who is right and who is wrong, Chuck reaches out to pull his son into a hug. He holds his laughter as Nathan squirms and fights against the public display of affection yet cannot help but internally marvel over how someone who craved affection as a kid could have produced a child who so actively fights it.
"I'm going over to Aiden's," Nathan – hair tussled by his efforts to avoid his father's hug – huffs as he moves to fix his appearance. "No one hugs over there, and his parents don't kiss at the dining room table."
"No spying on your brother," Chuck tells his son knowing full well the nearly twelve-year-old's protective nature towards his family as well as the geography of the Upper East Side and where exactly Nathan is headed in relation to where Henry is – or, rather whom Henry is with. The noncommittal response from Nathan, the way he employs doe-eyed innocence as he waves goodbye and heads down the stairs gives away his plans.
"At least wait until its dark outside so your mother's beret will actually work," Chuck calls after Nathan as he leans over the bannister to watch his son make his way from the second floor to the first. And when the boy is completely out of sight, Chuck continues down the hallway bypassing the door closed on his right for the one on the far left, the one with the line of dollars and other stuffed animals waiting outside in a neat row.
Banished for not acting appropriately during her week of practice like minions moved down the hierarchy of the Met steps for bad behavior, Chuck skirts around the dolls without a second glance – he knows better than to intercede between a monarch and her subjects – and steps into the only room in the house that doesn't have a single fleck of blue paint on the walls. Here, he is rewarded with the pitter patter of tiny feet against the hardwood, with tiny arms outstretched in a demand to be lifted as his little girl slides off the bed and enthusiastically calls out to him.
"Daddy!"
Chuck swings her up into his arms, plants a kiss against her cheek as she wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes tight.
"Hello, beautiful," he murmurs in her ear as he rubs his hand down her back. The feeling of the fabric causes him to pause, and he tips his eyes downward to investigate why he is not feeling the soft fabric of the dress purchases specifically for today. The one that accentuated the darkness of her hair and complimented the happy glow in her eyes as she twirled around the living room in a fashion show for her father and brothers last night has been forsaken in favor of the white slip she was supposed to wear underneath the dress.
"What happened to your dress, Gem?"
The little girl unfurls one arm from around his neck and points towards the pile by the bathroom door where blue fabric is twisted around the teapot, saucer, and cup she's been using to practice with all week. And incredulous eyes dart to meet Gemma's as her voice drops sad and low, as the little girl places her head onto his shoulder – perfectly curled, brown hair falling to fan across her face and obscure her from view – and murmurs that Grandmére didn't like the dress.
"She said it would look better on Addie," Gemma whispers. "Cause she has blonde hair and blue eyes and I ate too many scones."
Disbelief is chased away by anger and concern at his daughter's explanation, and suddenly the way he was greeted by Dorota, the announcement that his wife has taken to the bathtub at four in the afternoon, the iPad on Gemma's bed with her favorite movie paused on the screen makes sense. Chuck hugs his little girl, sweeps her hair from her face, and places a tender kiss against her forehead.
"You're beautiful, Gemma," he reminds her softly. "No matter how many scones you eat or what color your hair is. You're amazing."
The tremble of her body, the sniffle of her nose causes his embrace to tighten, and he runs the back of his hand up and down her bare arm in an attempt to reassure her as he waits for her to divulge more information about what exactly happened this afternoon. But Gemma merely gestures towards the iPad and favorite doll left abandoned on her bed asking to return to what she was doing before her father came home, and Chuck obliges placing her back on the bed and helping to tuck the red-headed, Parisian doll into her embrace.
"I love you," he tells her as he places a kiss against her forehead once more.
"Love you too, Daddy," Gemma replies softly with a smile that fails to mask the hurt in her eyes and, therefore, fails to reassure him. She turns on her side away from him, reaches to press play on the iPad, and he watches her curl into a ball, watches a similarity between the past and the present that he never wanted to see again play out before his eyes.
And when he turns away from Gemma's room, when his feet hit the stairs as he trudges towards the top floor of the townhouse, anger and a desire for answers tears through him until his vision becomes clouded by the color red. But when he reaches the open door to the bedroom he has shared for seventeen years with his wife, the red is chased away by the light of his life only to return when he spies her standing in front of the full-length mirror silently appraising her own body.
She's too busy concentrating, too busy picking at the three silvery stretch marks across her abdomen to notice his approach. Yet as soon as his hands curl around her waist, she melts into his embrace and lifts her eyes to find his reflecting back at her in the mirror.
"Gemma's watching Madeline."
The three words are all that are needed to open up the conversation, to probe for answers from the woman whose expression fills with sadness. Blair divers her gaze for just a moment, and he can feel her straighten her shoulders against his chest as the protective streak found in their son now courses through her.
"Serena and Addison crashed it. I don't know if my mother or Lily invited them, but my mother couldn't wait to fawn all over Addie. And Gemma's face?" Blair says with a voice that cracks and breaks as tears well in her eyes. "If that's what I looked like when my mother replaced me with Serena for her print ad—"
Blair cuts herself off closing her eyes in an attempt to keep the tears at bay, and Chuck watches in the mirror as Blair continues to pick the lines in her skin. But before he can intercede, before he can wrap his hand around hers and make her stop, Blair compels herself to cease with a sad shake of her head.
"I don't want Gemma to have these scars."
"They're not—" Chuck interrupts assuming she is referring to the lines left on her body from three, full-term pregnancies. But Blair keeps him on his toes – literally and figuratively – as she turns to face him placing her hands on his shoulders for support as she looks him in the eyes.
"I'm nearly forty-years-old and I still have days where I have to fight against this idea of perfection, of never being the Grace Kelly my mother wants me to be. And I know she eventually accepted my dark side – I accepted my dark side – but I don't want my daughter to go through this."
"Did you tell her that?" Chuck asks with a gentle squeeze to her hip. He shakes his head when Blair begins to explain that she spoke to Gemma, how she nearly fell to her knees in the middle of Park Avenue as she pleaded with Gem to ignore what her grandmother said or inferred. "No, I meant did you tell your mother this?"
"Miss Blair," Dorota interrupts before Blair can answer, and the woman in his arms cranes her neck around his shoulder in order to look at the maid standing in the doorway with her eyes averted least husband and wife forgot to shut the door. Again. "Miss Eleanor and Mister Cyrus here."
"Of course, she brought my step-father," Blair replies tersely with a roll of her eyes. "She knows I can't resist his hugs. I'm surprised she didn't fly Daddy in from Paris with one of his pies."
"That's probably Plan B," Chuck replies with a smirk recalling how often he and their friends and family have used gifts of Blair's favorite things to buttress their apologies. "But you have to admit it's a good sign she came within a two hour window."
"Cyrus probably made her," Blair replies as she slips out of his grasps and begins to pull on the dress laid out on their bed. "Dorota, please inform my mother than I'll be down in a moment."
"Yes, Miss Blair," Dorota replies before stepping out of the room leaving husband and wife alone once more. Without prompting, Chuck reaches out to zip up Blair's dress, and he uses the opportunity to place a gentle kiss against the nape of her neck.
Her hand instinctively flies up to press against his cheek, to hold him therefore just a moment longer as she takes a deep breath and tries to think of what she will say to her mother that will actually help rather than hurt the situation. And Chuck slips his hand into hers, squeezes tight as he twists his head slightly to whisper in her ear.
"I love you, and we are not our parents."
"I love you, too," Blair replies before she lets him go and heads towards the door. He moves to follow her, stops when he remembers how there are some battles that can only be fought alone and that the powerful woman he married certainly can – or, rather needs to – handle this one on her own.
The pitter patter of tiny feet against the hardwood floors, the exuberant welcoming cries have been replaced by the sound of firm, high-heeled footsteps on the staircase and a terse hello from the woman who owns and rules this house as she descends the stairs into the living room. The man standing in the middle of the living room hurries over to greet her, to fold her into her embrace before she has time to react, and Cyrus inquires after her husband and her children because he never sees them enough since he and Eleanor retired to Paris.
"Maybe that's a good thing," Blair replies saucily as she lifts her gaze over Cyrus' shoulder to stare at her mother. Almost immediately, though, she wishes she could take them back as Cyrus' arms slacken and the hug ends because her step-father doesn't deserve to be estranged from the children that so clearly adore him, but before she can say any more Cyrus excuses himself and heads towards the kitchen to discuss plans for the upcoming Passover Seder with Dorota leaving the two most powerful women Cyrus knows alone in the living room.
"Your exit today was quite dramatic," Eleanor states when the silence between them becomes unbearable, and Blair scoffs incredulously in reply.
"You really don't get it do you?" Blair questions shaking her head back and forth and rolling her eyes. "I wasn't going to sit there and allow you to pick Serena's daughter over mine just like you picked Serena over me."
"Pick Serena's daughter?" Eleanor questions with eyebrows pitched in surprise. "How was I picking Addison?"
The litany of grievances pours forth and Eleanor's frown deepens with every single event that Blair highlights, but she refrains from interrupting, struggles to find the words to explain herself when Blair stands before her waiting for her reply. Half-formed thoughts, half-started sentences hang in the air as Eleanor swallows the lump in her throat and starts again.
"You're right. I should have complimented Gemma as soon as I saw her; I should have told Lily no when she mentioned that she invited Serena and Addison while we were waiting for you to arrive."
"You didn't invite her?" Blair interrupts, and the look of surprise on her face is echoed in Eleanor's face. Heightened as the older woman questions why her daughter would ever think that she'd invite someone to crash her granddaughter's first tea at the Carlyle, especially when the memory of taking Blair there for the first time is something Eleanor holds dear.
"Do you remember how you spilt the whole teapot because you insisted on pouring it yourself? I thought my mother was going to die of a heart attack right then at the table," Eleanor muses softly. "And those white gloves? You hated them. I fought you so hard to keep them on that I was surprised Gemma wore a pair today."
"She insisted," Blair replies with an automatic smile before the terse edge of her voice returns. "She's been practicing all week trying to make everything perfect. For you."
"For me? Being with my granddaughter, doing anything with Gemma is perfect," Eleanor informs her daughter sharply because she doesn't want any misunderstandings to linger. "And I know Lily feels the same way about Gemma. And about Addie, which is why she invited Serena and Addie to crash. It was a spur of the moment olive branch meant to end their most recent argument."
"So you were okay with sacrificing our tea in order to help Lily end her argument with Serena?"
"Well, I considered trying to convince Lily to take another table and have her own tea with Serena," Eleanor replies with a smile, "but it seemed rude to deny Gemma both her grandmothers at her first tea."
"But it wasn't rude for you to focus on Addie over Gemma?" Blair questions with raised eyebrows and a look of complete disbelief on her face. She crosses her arms across her chest and drops her gaze to the floor, unfurls them with a heavy sigh as she lifts her eyes and holds Eleanor gaze. And her voice drops low, shaky and unsteady with the emotions she nearly showed in the midst of that crowded room this afternoon.
"Today, when I watched you compliment Addie and saw Gemma's face, I—it was like I was sixteen again watching my mother pick my best friend over me. I knew exactly what was going through her head. And I won't sit back and allow my daughter to carry the scars I carry, to think she is anything less than beautiful and powerful. To become so fixated on perfection that she hurts herself and continuously denies who she really is."
"Good."
The single response, the lack of a rebuttal causes Blair to falter in her tirade as a look of surprise flitters across her face, and Eleanor uses the opportunity to elaborate on her support her daughter refusing to allow Gemma to follow in her footsteps. Her own voice becomes low, shaky, and unsteady as tears appear in the corner of her eyes, as she remembers the fear and anguish over finding out what Blair had been secretly doing to herself for months.
"I know I wasn't a perfect mother. I know I made mistakes. But the beauty of grandchildren is that you can try to correct your mistakes. You can be warm and affectionate; you can fly across the Atlantic to have high tea with them instead of flying to Paris to finagle another business deal."
"You're going back to Paris?"
The anguished voice cuts through the room and both women turn on their heels to look at the little girl dressed only in her white slip standing on the stairs watching them. Her big, brown eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she darts down the stairs, as she wraps her arms around her grandmére's legs and begs her not to go. And Eleanor reaches down to run her fingers through Gemma's hair, to wipe away her tears as she promises that she's not leaving just yet.
The formidable matriarch of the Waldorf family suddenly looks frailer than her daughter remembers her being as she slowly sinks down to take a seat on the blue couch, as she sweeps her gray hair aside so she can look her granddaughter directly in the eyes, as she holds her granddaughter's hands with ones that are wrinkled and spotted with age.
"I'm very sorry about how today's tea went, Gemma, darling," Eleanor says softly. "You looked beautiful, and I'm so proud of you."
"Even though I spilled the tea and ate all the scones?"
"Especially because of that," Eleanor informs her. "And I'm proud of your mother for standing up to me and telling me that I was wrong."
Gemma twists her body to look back at her mother, twists excitedly back around before exclaiming that Eleanor should be proud because Gemma's mommy is the best mommy in the whole world. And Eleanor lifts her eyes to look over her granddaughter's to look at her daughter as Blair moves to stand behind her daughter, as Eleanor concurs with her granddaughter's pronouncement.
"You're very lucky, Gem, to have a mother like yours. She loves you and your brothers very much."
"And you," Gemma replies with a smile, and Eleanor gives her one in response. The little girl's expression falters, though, as she bites on her bottom lip in hesitation, and it takes the gentle encouragement of her mother running her fingers through her hair for Gemma to finally rush out her question in a single breath. "Can we try tea again?"
"Not enough tea for you, Gem?" A familiar, warm voice booms from the doorway between the living room and the dining room. The merry twinkle in Cyrus' eyes are echoed in his granddaughter's as he shows her how he and Dorota have been busy laying out the dining table for high tea, and her smile widens when he agrees that inviting her daddy to join them sounds like a perfect idea.
Gemma hurries up the stairs, barely makes it halfway up before she runs into her father because Chuck couldn't stay out of earshot for long, and begins dragging him towards the dining room by his hand. Blair moves to follow them until she feels her mother's hand against the porcelain skin at the crook of her elbow, until she hears her mother's words in her ear as Eleanor leans in to whisper to her.
"I am proud of you, Blair. Tremendously proud. Despite mistakes I made and continue to make, you managed to become an amazing person. Your love and protection of those who deserve it – and those who don't – is testament to that."