Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction story and not written for any financial gain of any kind. All rights to Doctor Who and any associated material belong to the BBC and any other affiliated entities. Thanks.
A/N: This is a short story, inspired by '1913; A Doctor Who AU Romance' by Bobsyeruncle, over at 'A Teaspoon and an Open Mind' archive, this is currently a short one shot. I have no idea if I will continue it, since I'm concentrating on my multi-chapter DW fanfic – 'Becoming Dr Jones'.
All feedback is welcome!
Life Behind a Mask
By Rianess
"Great spirits have always found violent opposition from mediocrities. The latter cannot understand it when a man does not thoughtlessly submit to hereditary prejudices but honestly and courageously uses his intelligence."
Albert Einstein
Farringham School for Boys, 1913
Another day, another dollar, some said, but for Martha today was just another day for her to be ordered about and belittled – mostly by teenage boys pumped full of hormones and snobbery. Also, there was the Doctor, who was currently hiding out in human form from some parasitic aliens who wanted to use his life force to augment their own.
Like Mayflies, he had said, they'll die out in three months, he said. He claimed the TARDIS would create an identity and a cover story for him, which she had done, but she had brought them to a time when people of Martha's colour were looked down on and degraded by just about everyone. She wasn't seen as a person here, merely an object.
The Headmaster did seem to notice she was a woman and not just part of the furniture, but in the worst possible way. She'd had to fend off his unwanted attentions more than once in the last ten weeks and it was getting harder to keep him at arm's length. She did her best not to be anywhere near his rooms in the evenings and her fellow maid Jenny had swapped tasks with her so that Martha was no longer cleaning his rooms.
She had thought the Headmaster would say something about their arrangement, but he hadn't. She reasoned that he didn't want to set tongues wagging among the servants when he asked for the younger woman to clean his rooms again.
Jenny, whom she shared a room with, had also agreed to wedge a chair under their door handle every night, since the door didn't lock. Neither of them wanted to run the risk that the man wouldn't just barge into their room whenever he wanted to, especially since he had become even bolder recently.
She had no idea what to do to resolve the situation – she couldn't complain about him to anyone, since he was the highest authority at the school, apart from the Board of Governors and they were not likely to take any complaint from a 'coloured' girl seriously. She would end up sacked and then away from the Doctor at a time when he needed her the most.
Not that he showed any sign of gratitude for what she was suffering through for him. In all fairness, she had to admit that he didn't know that she wasn't really a maid, didn't know that they were friends, didn't know he was the Doctor.
As far as he knew, he was John Smith – history teacher at Farringham School, and that was it.
She was currently on her way to his room, to bring him his afternoon tea and tend to his fire. As she approached she saw the door was slightly ajar, and when she got nearer, she could hear voices coming from inside. She paused to listen, and immediately knew who was in there with him – Joan Redfern, the school matron.
The Matron had been giving him interested glances for some time now, almost from the first day they arrived there in fact. Martha could hardly blame her for that, John Smith, like the Doctor was handsome and charming. In fact, John Smith had an endearing shyness she'd never seen from the Doctor. It made him seem just a little bit vulnerable – something which tugged right on a woman's heartstrings.
She inched closer to the door, anxious to hear what they were talking about, not particularly caring that they might claim it was none of her business.
"I'm sorry Mr Smith, I know she is your favourite servant – but I saw her – she was flinging herself shamelessly at the Headmaster," Matron was saying and Martha barely held back a gasp.
Shamelessly flinging herself? At the Headmaster? What the bloody hell was she talking about? When she supposed to have done that?
Then she remembered.
Earlier today, the Headmaster had cornered her in one of the back passages used by the servants. He'd pinned her against the wall and tried to pull her dress up. He had grabbed her breasts and had mashed them in his hands so hard that he had left bruises.
All the while he'd been telling her what he planned to do to her, and how she should be grateful that a man such as him had even deigned to notice she was alive. She had been so scared. She had tried her best to fight back, but he was much bigger and stronger than her, and with the way he had her pinned, she could barely move her arms or legs.
She'd been terrified she was going to lose her virginity there and then – something she'd only hoped to do in the arms of someone she loved and someone who loved her. Not with some lecherous, old bastard and not as an act of violence.
Luckily for her, one of the school's equivalents of a footman had come along the passage and interrupted the terrible scene.
He had looked on the Headmaster with fury, and pulled Martha away from him, tucking her behind his back.
"Oh, you're going to protect her are you? Got a taste for niggers too, do you?" the Headmaster had scoffed.
A flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye had alerted Martha to another witness to this nightmare, and going over it again in her mind now, she realised she'd seen part of Matron's uniform and her blond hair glinting in the light from the door she was hastily exiting by. She had been in shock at the time, and hadn't really registered who it was she saw and what it meant.
Standing there, in the hallway, hearing Matron say that Martha had been playing the Headmaster off against one of the male servants – the man who had, for all intents and purposes, rescued her – made Martha feel the kind of rage she never thought she was capable of.
There was no way Joan could have misconstrued the situation, surely? Martha had been crying out for him to stop, telling him he was hurting her – why was Nurse Redfern telling these lies to John Smith? Why the hell hadn't she tried to help? Did she think Martha was playing some game, with the Headmaster?
Why was she doing this? Was she that racist that she couldn't stand the sight of Martha, and wanted her gone? Or, did she see her as some kind of impediment in her plans for Mr Smith? Surely not – the man barely even looked at her.
"I think you should let her go," Joan said to John and Martha felt her heart in her throat. It was all well and good for the Doctor to tell her not to let his human self abandon her – how was she supposed to accomplish that? There was such a difference in their stations, he was her employer, she was his servant, and he was under no obligation to listen to anything she had to say. Her lot was to take orders, that was it.
"I made a promise to my father, Matron, to always look out for Martha, and I intend to keep it," he paused and Martha could imagine the stare which Nurse Redfern was currently on the receiving end of. Then he went on, "Perhaps you merely misunderstood the situation. Perhaps the two men were merely getting carried away. Martha is very beautiful – she is like an exotic flower to the men here, doubtless they have not seen her like before. Hot headedness is to be expected," She heard Mr Smith say in a dismissive tone, but when she cried out her thanks in her head, it was not to Mr Smith she sent it to, but the Doctor.
She waited a few more moments so it would not seem as if she had been listening in the corridor, before she knocked on his door and waited for him to give her permission to enter.
"Ah Martha, there you are with the tea – splendid. Everything alright?" he asked looking carefully at her. Did he suspect she had been listening? She placed the tray down on his table and turned to the fire, ignoring the presence of Nurse Redfern.
"Yes, thank you sir, and how are you? And you, Matron?" She said, finishing her work with the fire and rising to her feet. She turned then and faced them, her eyes downcast like a good maid. She could sort of see them, if she glanced up through her lashes, and she saw him tilt his head as if studying something.
She could feel heat burning in her face, and wondered if he noticed the faint bruise she'd got from the slap the Headmaster gave her that morning. It had stung, but she didn't think it would still be noticeable now. Sometimes though, he did stuff like this – stuff the Doctor would do. Just like the dreams he sometimes told her about, where he dreamt of a blue box and a hero called The Doctor. It was as if there was still a trace of the man she knew hidden in Mr Smith's psyche.
"Very good, very good. On your way then, Martha," she looked up and saw Mr Smith was frowning at her, his eyes looking directly at her cheek where there had been a handprint a few hours ago. She saw him glance at Nurse Redfern, his frown deepening, but since he had dismissed her, she left the room quickly on light feet.
That night in bed, she took the chance to go over what she'd heard outside Mr Smith's room. "Martha is very beautiful," he had said, "She is like an exotic flower."
Did he really think those things? And if he did, was that his own opinion or a carryover from the Doctor's personality? For the umpteenth time during their protracted stay in 1913, Martha wondered what the hell she was doing with the Doctor.
He wasn't good for her, she'd admitted that to herself in the first couple of weeks. Here she was, being belittled and insulted practically every day, and rather than being able to fight back – to stick up for herself like she would do were she in her own time, she had to grin and bear it. Not only that, some lecherous old man had decided she was to be his lightskirt and cared little for her own opinion on the matter.
The strain, of living behind this mask of meekness was beginning to take its toll. Her analytical side, the part of her which would always be a doctor, diagnosed herself as suffering from the beginning stages of depression.
She wanted to get away from here, she wanted to be back with her family where she felt accepted and loved. But they still had nearly a month to go before they could be sure the Family was dead. She wasn't sure how she was going to get through another month. And when the three months were up, what then? Would they just carry on travelling? Act as if these three months hadn't happened?
Martha wasn't sure how she was going to do that, either. If things carried on the way they were… the sensible thing to do would be to ask the Doctor to take her home. To stop travelling with him and get herself booked in with a therapist. She needed to nip things in the bud before they threatened her career. She'd worked hard to become a doctor, she didn't want to let all those years of studying and preparation go to waste.
Could she really do it, though? Walk away from him? True, she had begun to have some feelings for him, she thought she might even love him, but it was an unhealthy love, like a cancer which was growing every day and beginning to consume everything she was.
That thought decided it for her, once he was back to normal, she'd ask the Doctor to take her home.
He wasn't good for her, and she needed to get out.
Martha had managed to survive the last month of Farringham virgo intacta, and was completely down to the efforts of Jenny and the male servant who had helped her out with the Headmaster before. His name was Peter, and he'd set himself up as something of a bodyguard for her.
When she was in the presence of Jenny or the other servants, or with Mr Smith, Peter would leave her alone and be about his own business. But whenever she was wandering the school at night, or had to traverse the servants' passages on her own, he was there with her, watching over her.
He never made a move on her, never tried anything, he just made sure she was safe and for that she would be eternally grateful. She'd even got Jenny to teach her to knit so she could make him a scarf and hat for the approaching winter. She gave them to him as a thank you present.
As for Mr Smith, she found herself growing more and more distant from him every day. Ever since the night she decided that she would be going home after Farringham, she did her duty by Mr Smith, but no more.
She still went to the TARDIS on her day out. Peter had insisted on accompanying her when she left the school, but she'd got him to wait outside the copse by telling him there was a nest of fox cubs she was checking on, and since they didn't know his scent he would frighten them if he came near them. He'd smiled indulgently, but agreed to stay put while she went into the copse of trees.
The TARDIS always gave her a gentle hum when she walked in and called out hello. The Doctor had said she was on emergency power, but to Martha it felt like the TARDIS was sleeping. On her first visit after she'd declared her resolution to go home, she'd felt a touch of sadness in the welcoming hum, and somehow she knew then that the TARDIS could sense her decision to leave, and was unhappy about it.
"I'll miss you most of all," she'd said to the old girl, stroking a hand over the console and letting the tears flow freely.
Mr Smith had not said anything since that day she'd heard Matron telling him to dismiss her, but he had kept a close eye on her. Every time she brought his breakfast or his tea, he would search her face carefully, almost as if he was looking for further evidence of violence.
Today though, Martha got up with a spring in her step – today was the day they had been in 1913 for three months and twenty four hours exactly. The Family had made no appearance and so apparently had not been able to find them. That meant they were dead, and had died naturally. She wasn't altogether sure why the Doctor had preferred that they die out, rather than fighting them, and frankly, neither did she care any more.
When she'd stopped caring so much about what he was thinking, about his past, what he was feeling, she'd felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She felt free. She had not realised that this apathy which had replaced her previous feelings, was unhealthy in its own way.
Still, she was pleased to be free of her obsession with him. There would be no more analysing of every nuance of his speech, no craving a hug or a touch and then wanting more whenever that craving was satisfied, no more not-so-subtle looks, no more nights lying awake, wondering, and longing.
She made her way to the kitchens to get his breakfast, a great smile plastered on her face which startled cook and the others, but made Peter frown at her in concern.
"Martha, you alright?" He asked quietly and she hesitated. He had been her stalwart defender, but now she would be leaving him behind. Life of a time traveller, she mused. Yet another reason to get out of this life as fast as possible.
"I'm fine, thanks Peter. I've got to go – I have to bring Mr Smith his breakfast," she said, taking the tray and almost skipping out into the hall. On her way to Mr Smith's rooms, she saw the Headmaster, he gave her a leer, but didn't approach – she wasn't sure then if she was happy with that or not. Part of her wanted to give him a right good smacking, since this would be their last day there and all. But she decided to just let it go, he wasn't worth the bother, quite frankly.
When she got to John Smith's rooms, she knocked and as always, waited for him to give her permission to enter. When he did so, she carefully balanced the tray and opened the door.
"Breakfast and your paper, Mr Smith," she said cheerfully, putting them down on his table and swishing away to the fire to get it started.
"Good morning Martha. Something has put a spring in your step, is it young Peter, I wonder? I noticed the two of you have been, well, courting," he said the last word like it left a sour taste in his mouth. She looked at him over her shoulder and noticed his face was twisted with disgust.
"Would it be a problem if we were, sir?" she asked and his scowl only deepened. He was looking down at the paper, and not at her, so she wasn't sure if he knew she could see his expression.
"No, no, of course not. Your private life is your business, Martha. I was only making conversation," he replied and she frowned with confusion. Turning back to her task she shrugged mentally and put it down to one of those mixed race couples prejudice. While he never treated her badly because of her dark skin, he was a product of his time and so likely didn't approve of mixed race unions.
It was to his credit that he had no indicated he intended to put a stop to it. She decided on a whim to tell him the truth, well, sort of.
"Peter and I are not courting, sir. He was protecting me. From the Headmaster," she aadmitted, standing and looking into his shocked eyes.
"Protecting you? But – I thought he'd stopped all that – I – we had words," he spluttered and it was Martha's turn to be shocked.
"You – you had words with him? You knew?" She almost hissed, amazed and angry.
"Well – not until Nurse Redfern mentioned something. And then I saw a bruise on your face and surmised the rest. I threatened to go the Governors if he didn't stop. So, Peter was your bodyguard then?" he asked, smiling at the last part.
Martha smiled back, in spite of herself. "Yes, he went with me whenever I was going somewhere that I might be, well, vulnerable," reminding herself she had a job to do, she picked up his fob watch and brought it over to him. He seemed to be in a friendly mood, so she decided this was a good time to broach the subject.
"Sir, forgive me, but this watch, it's very fine. I would love to see inside it, would you open it for me?" she asked, offering it to him.
He frowned as he looked at it in her hands, and then sighed. "I don't see why not," he said, taking from her and running a hand over the designs etched onto the front. A moment later he had opened it, and his face was consumed with golden light.
It took a second or too, but he suddenly dropped the watch to the table with a clatter and grabbed his head with both hands. He groaned loudly and fell back in his chair.
"Aaah, my head!" he wailed and she winced with sympathy, but didn't say anything. She didn't need to, this was the Doctor, he could gab for Britain when he wanted to.
"It's the TARDIS, we've been separated for so long, now she's come rushing back to my mind – Oh God!" he moaned.
It took a while, but she'd soon managed to get their stuff together, tell her friends they were leaving, and bring the Doctor his pinstripe suit and coat. She would be stuck wearing her uniform until they got back to the TARDIS, but since she was yet another step closer to getting home, she didn't much care.
What she hadn't bargained for, what she'd not realised, was that because the TARDIS knew of her plans and was telepathically linked to the Doctor, he now knew of her plans too.
And really, he couldn't blame her for wanting to leave. These last three months must have been like a waking nightmare for her. He'd had no idea, no idea at all what the consequences would be for her when he'd thought of this plan. And it was his entire fault – all because he wanted to wait the Family of Blood out, so their deaths would not be on his hands.
Because of him, Martha had been humiliated, made to work as hard as a slave, and abused by a lecherous old man who thought he had every right to sample Martha's charms whenever he wanted.
Gods, he'd really gone and done it this time.
How the hell was he supposed to make things right again?