TITLE: An Unsuitable Woman
AUTHORS: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring and Kathleen Speck. Brenda wrote the Chakotay entries and the coda, Kathy wrote the Janeway entries.
RATING: G
CODES: J/C AU
PART: 1/6
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the characters, but we'd bet real money they never seriously considered this particular use of same.
SUMMARY: An "Elseworlds" story set in Edwardian England. Whilst searching for a wife, Lord Chakotay is attracted to a most ineligible choice--Lady Kathryn Janeway. (For those new to the concept, an "Elseworlds" story is one which places familiar characters in unfamiliar settings or situations. I believe DC Comics coined the term.)
A/N: This story is presented with a tip o' the hat to the *real* Henry Darrow, best known to most Voyager fans for his portrayal of Chakotay's father Kolopak. He inadvertently inspired this story, less by being the charming and charismatic actor he is, than because his name sounds like it would be *perfect* for an English lord!



An Unsuitable Woman
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring and Kathleen Speck


From Lord Chakotay's Journal
27 April 18--

Another ball this evening, the girls lovely and fresh-faced and so young that I felt like some ancient lecher prowling amongst them. But again they smiled at me, and simpered, and acted as if they saw nothing untoward in a man of five-and-thirty making the rounds of the debutante balls and dancing with girls young enough to be his daughters. If Elizabeth is correct, they probably did not. Do not.

My dear sister actually snorted at me this evening, when I expressed my misgivings to her. She advised me that of course the young ladies welcomed my attentions, as I could make any one of them the next Countess Dorvan--a prize that makes my particular identity quite unimportant. And of course, any girl I chose would suit the role well enough, as every girl in attendance was a gentlewoman, well-bred and well-trained to assume the management of my house and the rearing of my children.

When I told Elizabeth that I would prefer a bride with whom I had some sympathy, she looked surprised. "I never guessed you were such a romantic, brother. Love doesn't have anything to do with choosing a wife."

And I must choose a wife, I know that. Yet, how am I to choose, if I may not use my own feelings as a guide? Though I must admit, to be sure, that my feelings have been of little help thus far. All of the girls are pretty, yes, and all of them amiable, and I know without doubt that all of them are well-bred. Yet, none of them stir anything within me other than a manly appreciation for their beauty. They seem as like to me as one doll to another. How is a man to choose amongst dolls?

Truly, of all the women in the hall tonight, only one engaged my attention in the least--and she hardly an eligible bride!

But let me describe the encounter as best I recall.

I saw her about halfway through the ball. She was standing at the buffet, choosing bits of this and that for her plate and not seeming very interested in any of it. She was a small woman, a decade and more past her own season but still handsome, with well-formed features and smooth dark hair upswept in a fashionable style. She looked familiar to me, though I had no idea why she should.

After a moment's puzzling, I applied to Elizabeth to identify the lady. She affirmed that it was Lady Kathryn Janeway, elder daughter to the late Admiral Edward Janeway. That explained where I had seen her, and also why I was so uncertain in my recognition. Lady Kathryn would, of course, have been in the receiving line at her father's funeral, but so immured in mourning garb that her features would have been quite indistinct. I had presented myself to her, along with several other of her father's former officers.

"I must pay her my respects," I told Elizabeth. It might be pleasant, to speak to the daughter of my admired commander, and in any event it would spare me, for a few minutes, the effort of seeking yet another introduction to yet another eligible debutante. I crossed to her, and spoke. "Lady Kathryn?"

She looked up, seeming a bit startled by my approach. "Lord Chakotay?"

I shall never grow used to hearing that title directed at me. For most of my life, the only Lord in my household has been Lord Henry, my father, and I (save for my time in the navy, and in the presence of my father, Elizabeth, and Lady Eleanor) merely the bastard son. But I have bemoaned that point at length, and shall not belabour it longer. In any event, it was clear that I was the one addressed. "My lady. I am honoured to have the chance to renew our acquaintance."

"My lord?" She hesitated for a moment, looking as if she were thinking. "Ah, yes. You were one of my father's officers, I recall." I noted that her voice was contralto, rich and strong.

"I had that honour, ma'am." I made a bow. "We used to say, aboard our ship, that Lord Nelson might be the *hero* of our victory, but Lord Janeway was its *architect*." She smiled a little sadly, I thought. Small wonder, of course; she was no doubt feeling her loss. "He was a fine officer."

"He was a fine man," she said quietly.

"Indeed he was." After a moment, the silence between us threatened to grow uncomfortable, so I sought to break it. "So, what brings you to the ball this even, my lady?" She was not old enough to have a daughter of marriageable age (and was in any event herself unmarried), so could not be serving as such a daughter's chaperon. And I was quite certain I had not seen her at any of the other events this season; surely I should have noted it sooner had my old commander's daughter been in attendance.

"My niece, Jenna, is just out. You see her, the young lady over there?" She pointed with her eyes, and I followed her gaze to see a slight, pretty, fair-haired girl dancing with one of the many younger swains present. "As my sister-in-law is...indisposed...my brother"--her lips pressed together, just a bit, on those last words--asked me to serve as her chaperon."

"She seems quite lovely," I said diplomatically, though in truth she seemed to me not unlike most of the other young ladies.

"Oh, yes," she said blandly. "Lovely, amiable, clever, accomplished--everything required of this season's girls. Suited in every way to be a perfect bride." There was a distinct note of irony in that low voice. "Does that suffice, my lord, or should I continue to enumerate her virtues?"

"That will suffice," I said, smiling, entertained by the way her wry tone made a joke out of what would have been, in any other chaperon's mouth, a perfectly serious offer. "Perhaps I should ask you to introduce me to her, if she is such a paragon."

"Of course, my lord," still with that note of humour. "My brother would never forgive me if I failed to ensure Jenna her chance to win this season's most eligible bachelor."

"Hardly that," I demurred; almost every courting man in the room was younger than I, and a few were even wealthier.

"Indeed you are, my lord. There's no girl in this room who would not consider it an honour to marry the future Earl of Dorvan."

No doubt she was right, yet the thought gave little pleasure. Looking out over the bevy of girls, I knew full well how few of them would have welcomed my suit were my lady grandmother still alive, and still trying to keep me from my father's title. Indeed, I would not have been allowed to make suit, just as I had been barred from courting gentlewomen these many years. Thus the pitiful spectacle of a man of my years attempting to pluck the fruits intended for his juniors. "Ah, yes," I said, and could not quite hide the irony in my own tone. "I've no doubt they would marry *Dorvan*."

She was looking at me with some interest. "That is the way of things. What would you have, my lord?"

The question was so forthright, and so perceptive, that I could not but be forthright in return. "I would find a woman who would marry, not only Dorvan, but also Chakotay."

"Then I wish you good fortune," she said, the merriment gone from her eyes. "You are a romantic, Lord Chakotay."

"So my sister tells me."

"You are new to the ways of high society, or you would know that no one marries for love in this day and age--at least, no one of our class." There was a low note of bitterness in that, not quite masked, and I found myself wondering whether Lady Kathryn hid some secret sorrow behind that fine face. Surely there must be some reason why a woman so fair and so well-spoken had not been married long ere this.

"So I begin to gather," I answered. "Instead, we marry for bloodlines, like cattle bred to cattle." Too late, I remembered that was an indelicate analogy to employ before a lady. Also too late, I heard my own anger, at the certain knowledge none of these girls wanted me, Chakotay. They wanted only the heir to Dorvan, whether he were me, or some fine young gentleman, or the ugliest and most elderly lecher in all England.

She did not seem shocked at my words, or at my tone. "Well said, Lord," she said quietly.

And speaking of cattle, one of the veriest calves of all was at that moment in full stampede toward me, herded by a proud and determined-looking dowager whom I recognised all too well. "Lady Kathryn," I said, low, urgent, "please tell me that you like to dance."

"Why, yes, Lord Chakotay," she answered, clearly confused by the change in subject.

"Then, if you would do me the honour--" Hardly pausing for answer, I swept her out onto the floor, leaving the hapless Lady Dianna and her lady mother blinking after us, bewildered.

Lady Kathryn still looked confused, but her gentlewoman's training asserted itself and let her move easily through the dance. When a turn brought us past Dianna and her mother, Lady Kathryn's face showed her understanding. "Ah, the dreadful Dianna. How did you know she's a detestable child?" she murmured.

"I knew her mother as a girl," I murmured back, sparking a smile from her.

"A matter of apple and tree, eh?"

"So I strongly suspect," I said, delighted with the aptness of her phrase. As we danced on, I saw that Lady Kathryn's movements were fluid, as lithe as those of any belle around us, and the exertion was quickly lending a becoming flush to her fair cheeks. As wisps of hair escaped their confinement to trail around her face, she seemed quite pretty, especially when she looked up to me with that shy smile. And yet, there was nothing girlish in her aspect or her attitude; she was still in every way a woman grown. Was that a part of her charm? I had thought, before this, that beauty was the provenance of youth, but perhaps I had been mistaken.

All too quickly, the dance ended. Doubtless I should have made my excuses, then, and gone on to pursue my duty as my father's heir: finding a bride. I sought to form the words....and stopped as I saw her eyes begin to lose their brightness, her slim shoulders to droop. "My lady," I said, and made my best courtly bow. "Would you join me again?"

She was clearly flustered. "Lord," she said, low, "you know I should not."

"Nonetheless, I hope that you will."

After a moment's hesitation, she placed one small hand on my arm, and we were off again. With her, the simple movements were pleasant, even joyful, where before they had been as much duty as anything. I said light things to her, foolish things, and enjoyed her renewed smiles.

Even if it would not have been quite improper to do so, though, I could ask her for no third dance. The minute we stepped from the floor, my father engaged my attention, and the Lady Kathryn's brother hers. We had time for one quick, apologetic glance before we parted, and I hoped my impulsive acts had not caused her trouble with her brother. A man, being a free agent, can weather his lord's disapproval, but a woman, being subject, is far more vulnerable.

My father escorted me from the ballroom, then, and into the outside air, where I received a blistering lecture. It was embarrassing, even humiliating, and I have no wish to recount it here. Suffice it to say that he reminded me that my duty to Dorvan demanded I devote my time to seeking a wife, and not to dallying with an elderly spinster, no matter how pretty.

After a time, I returned to the ballroom, and made the rounds of the same dreary, eligible girls who had failed to engage my attention before. Dear God, but I am weary of this search, and the season is not yet a month old.