This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon the television series Doctor Who. All related characters, places, and events, belong to the BBC, and Russell T. Davies, used without permission. This story, with all original content, belongs to the author, © 2007. Brief quote from Pride and Prejudice, which belongs to Jane Austen.
Six Months in Croydon
by Orianna2000
Chapter One – Of Candlelight and Fleas
Rose jerked her leg. She'd felt something—she knew she'd felt something. Again, a tickle against her skin. With a high-pitched squeak of annoyance, she threw the sheet back. The moonlight streaming in through the attic window cast a web of shadows across her bed. She couldn't see anything in particular, aside from her breath in the air, but that didn't mean she'd imagined it.
A candle sat on the small wooden table beside the bed, secure in a brass holder. Beside it Rose found a number of loose matches, the sort you could strike against anything. She winced as the match ignited with an unusually loud sound. Mindful of the flammable materials around her, she held it to the top of the candle until the wick caught and began burning.
Another prick against her leg. She kicked the remaining blankets away in a panic and grabbed the candle. It didn't provide much more light than the moon, but she could move the candle to have a better view of the shadows.
A dark speck. No, several of them. She leaned forward, peering with suspicion. One hopped away and she yelped. Before she knew she'd moved, Rose found herself standing on the other side of the room, far from the vermin-infested bed.
While muttering dark things, she snagged the top blanket from the bed, shook it several times, and then wrapped it around her shoulders. The polished wood floor felt cold to her feet, but she didn't want to take the time to find her shoes. Besides, trainers would look decidedly odd with the long white nightgown their hosts had graciously provided her with.
Candle in hand, Rose opened the bedroom door. It squeaked, but not loudly enough for anyone to notice. She doubted anyone else slept up here, anyway. The way the attic ceiling slanted there couldn't have been room for another bedroom.
Though she couldn't hear any activity in the house below, she crept down the narrow stairs as quietly as possible. Each step sent shivers down her spine, and she held her breath every time her foot pressed against a board that creaked. Not that she distrusted their hosts, but she hated to explore strange houses in the middle of the night with nothing but a lone candle for illumination. What she wouldn't give for a torch!
Finally she reached a landing. The staircase turned and continued on to the lower level, its banister carved and far more ornate than the thin railing she'd held onto the whole way down. What she sought lay on this floor. Just across the hallway a bit of light escaped from beneath a closed door. Grimacing, she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and without knocking, she opened the door.
A startled Doctor looked up from the desk in one corner. A gas lamp above the desk illuminated several books and an open journal. The Doctor set his pen down and looked her up and down. His mouth opened and closed twice before he finally said, "Rose?"
"'Be friendly', you said. 'Blend in with the natives.' No bloody thank you!" She closed the door behind her and gave the Doctor her best indignant glare. "Not when the natives share their beds with... with..."
"With... what? Rose, what's the matter?"
He stood, and Rose realized that he'd taken his jacket off and had been working in his shirtsleeves. That gave her pause, but an itch on her calf reminded her of her purpose.
"Vermin!" she hissed.
"I beg your pardon?" He looked hurt.
She made a face. "The bed. My bed. In my bed!"
"This is a very nice house, Rose. It's clean and warm. Look, the maid even turned down the bed for me."
Rose stared at the large four poster bed on the other side of the room. The white counterpane had lace trim and showed no signs of any fleas or ants or bedbugs. "That bed is as big as my entire room," she protested.
The Doctor pulled on one ear. "Oh. Well, I suppose that's the morality of the time. I'm the wealthy landowner, lord and master, you see. You're just my... err. Well, never mind that. It could be that they weren't expecting company. They've probably only got the one guest room, after all."
"I'm your what, Doctor? So help me, if you told 'em I'm your servant..."
"Oh! No, no, no. Of course not. What, d'you think I have a death wish? I told them I'm your guardian, that's all.
Rose raised an eyebrow and folded her arms. The blanket slipped off her shoulder.
"Well, it was either that or your husband, and I didn't think you'd appreciate my taking the liberty."
"I'd rather be your wife than your daughter!"
"Right. Well, technically, you're more like a niece or younger sister. I didn't go into specifics, so you can polish the story to your, uh, own satisfaction. How's that?"
She shook her head. "Why couldn't I just have been your travelling companion? Surely people travelled together in the Dark Ages."
"It isn't the Dark Ages! Not by... oh, several centuries, at least, assuming we're on Earth. In this period, women were still second-class citizens, though. No lady would dream of going anywhere without other female companionship. If she's in the company of a man, he's either a close relative or her husband. I didn't want to raise their suspicions. After all, they were good enough to believe that your dress had met with tragic circumstances in the bog and that's why you were wearing men's clothing. Couldn't expect them to deal with much more than that, could we?"
"They took my jeans. My favourite pair! And you say it's not the Dark Ages?"
"From what I've seen, it's appears to be somewhere around the beginning of Earth's nineteenth century. Which might as well have been the Dark Ages as far as you're concerned," he conceded. "Look, they've got nice fireplaces. Gas lighting, very effective. Even a loo! Bit modern that."
Rose glared at him.
"You don't find all this a little strange?" he asked.
"What's strange about it? Eighteen hundreds. Gas lights, check." She gestured to her nightgown, whose hem reached the floor "No skin allowed to show, check. Fleas in my bed, check! I've been to the Victorian era and I remember how primitive it was."
The Doctor raised a finger. "Actually, this seems a bit before Victoria's time. More like the Regency period, I'd say. No later than eighteen-twenty, probably closer to eighteen-ten. Oi! What are you doing?"
She threw the covers of his bed back and inspected the clean white sheets. "Not a bug in sight."
"Oh, right. You said something about vermin...?"
"My bed is crawling with fleas or bedbugs or something equally disgusting."
"Really?"
"D'you think I'm making this up?" Rose put one foot up on the bed and yanked the hem of her nightgown up to her knee. "Look!"
The Doctor put his glasses on and bent forward to examine Rose's leg. Clinically, his gaze swept across the soft knob of her ankle, up the curve of her calf, and lingered at her knee, where thin white muslin obscured the rest of her leg. After a moment, Rose cleared her throat.
"Hm? Oh, yes. Right." He looked closer and noticed a sprinkling of red, swollen dots that marred the creamy smoothness of her leg. Lightly, he ran a finger across her skin. "Something's bitten you."
"Really?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "I hadn't noticed."
He straightened and removed his glasses. "Your body temperature must be attractive to the local insect population. I'm sure it's nothing to do with the cleanliness of their housekeeper."
"No? Willing to put that to the test?"
Before he could answer, Rose sat down on his bed with an enthusiastic bounce.
"Rose." One hand snaked around the back of his neck, betraying his nervousness. He glanced toward the door.
"Oh, c'mon. S'not as if you'll actually be sleeping."
His mouth opened and his eyes betrayed a mixture of shock and panic.
"You never sleep," she continued, rolling her eyes at his misinterpretation, "And if you're not using this wonderful, clean bed, then you might as well let me."
"Rose, if you're caught in here... This time period isn't exactly known for its leniency and open minds."
"You can tell 'em that we switched rooms, if y'like. I don't care. But I'm not going back to that flea-ridden cupboard they put me in."
"All right, fine. But move over."
Rose lifted her head from the soft pillow and blinked at the Doctor. "'scuse me?"
"Move over." He sat beside her and nudged her with his hip.
Quick to oblige, Rose shifted over to the middle of the bed. The Doctor settled into the spot she'd vacated, leaning back against the headboard. When he began talking, she tried to be annoyed, but the combination of not having insects nibbling at her legs and actually sharing a bed with the Doctor made it impossible to stay upset.
"The thing is," he said, "For all intents and purposes, this looks like a turn of the century village."
"Innit, then?"
"It shouldn't be. Just before we landed, the coordinates were for a small planet at the edge of a dwarf galaxy. We should be a lot farther from home than two hundred years."
"Maybe we landed somewhere else," she mumbled, squirming to get comfortable. "Or maybe the coordinates were wrong. S'not like it's never happened before."
"Hmm. The TARDIS is getting old, poor girl. Could be she just got the numbers wrong. Or maybe something pulled us somewhere else just before we materialized. We were picking up a faint signal of some kind, possibly a distress beacon." He reached over and pulled the counterpane up over Rose's shoulder. "Still, something's a bit odd. I just can't place it. What was it the lady of the house said when we arrived? They weren't 'expecting extras'?"
"I thought she meant they already had guests."
"Could be. I didn't see anyone else, but a place like this, people tend to go to bed early, save on gas or candlelight. You know, the TARDIS' scans indicated a small village nearby. Let's go exploring tomorrow, shall we?"
But Rose had already fallen asleep.
-oo-O-oo-
She woke to the smells of fresh, yeasty bread, potatoes, oatmeal, and something that smelled remarkably like bacon. She supposed that alien worlds must have alien pigs, so why not alien bacon? That is, unless the coordinates were wrong and they had landed on Earth after all. As often as the Doctor got things wrong, she wouldn't be at all surprised.
"Good morning," called a woman's voice. A knock on the door immediately followed.
Rose pulled the blanket up to her chest just as the lady of the house walked in bearing a breakfast tray.
"Pardon, m'lady. The Doctor said as you weren't an early riser," she said cheerfully. "But between him and my two lads, if I didn't bring you something now, there'd be none left when you came down. That Doctor of yours can surely tuck away his food! I'm Mrs Morris, by the way—you can call me Ella—and did you sleep comfortably?"
Before Rose could even begin to answer, Mrs Morris set the tray across her lap, handed her a napkin, and continued to talk. "As soon as he came downstairs this morning, the Doctor explained how he'd given you his room, seeing as it's more fit for a lady. Why didn't you say anything last night? I'd no idea we were housing gentry! I hope you don't mind my bringing your breakfast myself, but I didn't think it fitting to have one of the servants wait on you."
Rose looked at the plate of warm scones dripping with honey. The incredible scent made her mouth water and words hard to form. She vaguely recognized some sort of irony in what Mrs Morris had said, but beyond that her mind blanked. She watched as the woman arranged pitchers of tea and milk on the small table beside the bed then finally said, "S'cuse me, did you say 'gentry'?"
"Oh, begging your pardon. I know you don't want it widely known, but I won't tell a soul. That Doctor of yours told me the same as he said that I'd find you in his room this morning, and a good thing he did, too. Otherwise we'd have quite the scandal, here!" She paused and tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. "To tell you truly, I don't know which would be more exciting, an indiscretion, if you catch my meaning, or the fact that we've a true lady staying under our roof!"
"What d'you mean, a lady?" Rose couldn't help taking a bite of a scone. As she chewed, Mrs Morris stared at her, the pot of tea in one hand and the other on her hip. And then Rose realized: Dame Rose Tyler, so honoured by Queen Victoria herself. Of course, if this truly happened to be England of the Regency era, then Victoria would not take the throne for several decades. But that wouldn't matter to a man who lived outside of time itself. Trust the Doctor to come up with a good explanation for a simple matter such as swapping rooms.
"Never mind," she said quickly. "I'm just not awake yet."
"Of course. You must be used to lying in every morning. I am sorry to wake you so early, it's just like I said, though—if I didn't bring your breakfast now, there'd be none left! Is he family, this Doctor of yours?" Mrs Morris asked. She poured a cup of tea and then hesitated with the milk pitcher. "And how do you take your morning tea, m'lady?"
"Oh, just a bit of milk, thanks. But you really don't have to do all this for me. I'm used to fixing for myself."
"That may be when you're out and about with the Doctor, but shall I let it be said that Elizabeth Bridie Morris let such a distinguished guest serve her own breakfast? I'd be shamed out of the village, m'lady."
Right. Well then... "At the very least will you call me Rose, then? I'm not used to all this fuss, really."
"A beautiful name, indeed! We've a rose garden in the summertime, you know. Of course, they're all but died off now, but if you stay long enough, you'll see. There you are, Lady Rose." She handed over the milky tea, and then lifted the lids off plates of bacon, fried potatoes, thick slices of bread, and a bowl of cinnamon apples. Rose inhaled deeply in appreciation, and Mrs Morris continued, "I wondered if he was an older cousin, perhaps?"
"Who?" Guilty as she felt at being served like this, Rose couldn't resist any longer. She snagged a piece of bacon.
"The Doctor, of course. He said he was your guardian, but I couldn't help wondering what the relation is. He's much too young to be your father or uncle, isn't he?"
"You'd be surprised." Rose smirked and took a sip of tea. It tasted like any other breakfast tea, except that it left a bitter after-taste on her tongue—something she'd come to associate with foods grown on alien worlds. But the generous dollop of honey and milk sweetened the flavour, and it went well with the apples. When it became apparent that the strictures of a small town with little news or gossip would not allow her to keep quiet, she searched her mind for something to say. "The Doctor. He's... well, a doctor. Travels a lot, but always makes time to stop by London for a visit. My mum loved him, she did. Like part of the family. We travel together, now."
"Oh, and a good man he is! I could see it in his eyes. He'll move heaven and earth to keep you safe, that one. Can I get you anything else, Lady Rose?"
Rose shook her head, then remembered some needs that would soon become urgent. "Wait, the Doctor said you had all the necessary facilities...?"
"Of course. The loo's in the closet there, and I'll have the maid bring up hot water for you to have a wash. You'll be needing some clothes, of course, and things for your hair. What a shame you lost your carriage in the moor. That land's devilled, I tell you. Gets larger every year! Some day the entire village will be swallowed up whole." She tutted and began clearing away the empty plates.
-oo-O-oo-
Rose washed and dressed as quickly as she could. There were several layers, as she'd expected, but they weren't as constrictive as she remembered Victorian clothes being. In fact, they were comfortable and even somewhat flattering. Instead of her bra, which she'd wrapped in a pillowcase and hidden in one of the desk drawers, she buttoned on a snug tunic that provided the necessary support. It looked very much like a soft corset with rows of vertical cording to shape it, rather than stiff boning.
Over that went a petticoat, something like a sun dress with a very high waist and a full skirt. The white fabric had a slight musty smell, as though it had been folded in a trunk for many years, but it fit well and Rose adored the pretty rows of pin-tucks and embroidery on the lower half of the skirt. All hand sewn, it must have taken someone hours. Years ago, her grandmother had tried to teach her the art of needlepoint, but she'd always lacked the patience. Even the actual dress had delicate embroidery along the neckline and the edges of the long sleeves.
"Oh, doesn't that fit you well," said Mrs Morris from the doorway. She smiled, forming tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. "That shade of pink suits you, Lady Rose, it does."
"You don't have to call me that, you know. I'm not used to it. Just 'Rose' is fine, really."
"And how else is anyone to know your status? A lady you are, and a lady I'll be calling you," she said. "Here, now. I've brought some things for you."
She pushed aside a stack of books and set a stand-up mirror on the desk, along with a silver backed hairbrush and comb set, and a small jar. "There. Now, let me see you."
Rose turned from the small mirror, feeling naked without her usual cosmetics. She tugged at the dress, unused to the high waistline. It came just below her bust, and the neckline scooped down to expose quite a lot of her bosom. "Are you sure this is right? Maybe I've put it on wrong."
"It looks fine. You just need a kerchief for modesty's sake. Here, let me." She shook out a gauzy piece of fabric, then folded it into a large triangle and settled it across Rose's shoulders. Rose's cheeks turned the same shade as her dress as Mrs Morris adjusted the scarf, blithely tucking the edges under the neckline. "There you are. If you're going to stay, we'll have the village dressmaker sew a set of dresses for you. Meanwhile, there's the ball tomorrow night. I think my daughter had a silk gown that would fit you. I'll go through her wardrobe and see, shall I? It's only a rehearsal, of course, but you never know when an overseer might attend. His word can demote our village to a hamlet or promote us to a small town, so the entire village will turn up in their best. "
Rose frowned as Mrs Morris gestured for her to sit. "What, d'you mean someone can come in and make people leave their homes?"
"Of course not! If the village is reduced, who would want to stay?" She picked the hairbrush from the desk and began running it though Rose's hair, gently removing the night's tangles. "We're doing well, since the Harris family moved in. Their daughter Betty has a fine voice, and the eldest son dances elegant enough for London. A credit to us, they are."
She pulled a wide ribbon from her pocket and tied it around Rose's head to hold her hair back. "That'll do, I think. Does it please you, m'lady?"
Rose sighed and gave up the idea of not being a member of the gentry. She would get even with the Doctor, though.
Lady Rose, indeed!
(To Be Continued...)
Author's Notes: This story was written as a gift for Nohwrah, as part of the Summer Lovin' Ficathon. It contains nine chapters total, which will be posted regularly.
As Doctor Who is a British phenomenon, this story uses British spelling and grammar—at least, as far as is possible for an American writer.
Special thanks go to my patient and inspiring beta-reader, Little Zink, whose support made this story possible.
Edited to Add: You have my apologies—I accidentally posted the un-betaed versions of the first two chapters. This has now been corrected!