This is just a little something that I thought up. Please enjoy the very first A Great and Terrible Beauty fanfiction written from Emily's view! If you don't know who she is, either check the books or ask me.
I fight a yawn as it strains upwards through my throat, making my eyes water slightly. Blinking away the wetness, I hug myself tightly and wish that I could return to my bed, however pitiful it is.
But Miss Gemma's needs come before mine, so I am bound to the duty of waking her each and every morning, not to mention dressing her as well. I begin to climb the stairs, biting my lip nervously. Miss Gemma stormed back into the house last night, leaving a wake of destruction in her path. The girl had been furious, and yet no one could discern why.
Her grandmother, who basically raised both children, had asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but Miss Gemma was tight-lipped.
I'm wary of my unpredictable charge as I open her door slowly, slipping into the room with a practiced silence. I don't bother to wake her up directly, just move about the room, throwing curtains open and letting light spill onto her sleeping form, which is layered in blankets.
I watch as her emerald eyes drift open, looking at her beauty unsurely as I do every morning.
"Wake up, Miss Gemma. It's late in the morning."
She moans and I see her limbs stretching beneath the covers, ridding her body of stiffness and aches. She rolls over in an attempt to escape the light and meets another beam shining in from the opposite window. She groans louder and mutters, "Bloody hell."
I ignore her cursing as usual and speak up again.
"Miss Gemma, please."
She glares at me sleepily and I look away immediately, finding that I am not bold enough to hold her gaze. My meek nature befits me perfectly as a maid, and yet I find myself trying not to seem so compliable all the time. I see Miss Worthington, who is too daring by half, as she acts totally outrageous, and I wish feverently that I may have a spark of her individuality.
Yet I remain unmemorable, obedient, and worst of all, absolutely unnoticable. No one thinks of me at all, not even Kartik, the kind and dashing coachmen I have developed a fancy for. He has been the only one to speak openly to me, and has even taught me to read, which was my greatest dream as a child. And yet, though he is so wonderful to me, Kartik thinks of me as nothing but a child. He could never look my way romantically, and I wonder what sort of girl could ever capture him as he has done to me.
I shamefully catch myself dreaming of his dark eyes and witty humour, something that has woken me many times in the night. His face begins to enchant me once again and I pull myself away from my own thoughts as Miss Gemma swings her legs out of bed and stands up uncertainly, wavering on the spot. I am poised to rush to her side as she swoons and then straightens.
Her tall figure rises to it's full height, and her waterfall of fire flows down her back freely. I look on as she runs a hand through her mane, a gesture that reminds me of Kartik.
I shake my head and become purposefully buried in the task of dressing and readying Miss Gemma, who stands through the whole process like a stage prop. Finally, I tighten the last string on her dress and she sweeps out of the doorway, rushing down the stairs at an alarming pace. I follow her more carefully, watching as one of her titian curls bounces free from her bun and lands prettily in front of her eyes. She brushes it away and begins her day, leaving me behind as the girl who will undress her once she has returned from living as a lady of London.
Kartik is reading from a familiar old book when I approach him in the stables. He looks up at me and grins charmingly from under dark curls. Blush rushes to my cheeks and I fight it valiantly.
"Hello, Emily."
I swallow and reply in what I hope is a casual tone.
"Hello, Mr. Kartik."
He closes his book and sets it beside him on a pile of straw, stretching his arms over his head. I see the toned muscles rippling throughout his body and focus on his face so that I do not flush again. Kartik looks at me mysteriously and says, "Well, what is our Gemma up to this fine morning?"
I giggle at the use of her informal name, one that I will never call her to her face. It simply makes me feel brave when I say that in front of Kartik.
"She is doing well, as usual."
Kartik smiles and then asks a strange question.
"Has she calmed down from her fit?" I nod and look towards the ceiling exasperatedly.
"Yes, it would seem so."
Kartik looks pleased for some odd reason, and glances towards the house.
"I suppose I shall have to take her into town this afternoon." I don't know what to say to that, and curse my wits as I let the silence reign over us. I should have said something smart and alluring, but instead I sat there like a dumb rabbit and let the find oppurtunity float away like so many others. It seems that he is about to say something when we hear footsteps approaching.
Miss Gemma herself enters the stables, commanding the attention of every being there, including the horses, who stare at her comically, straw hanging out of their loose lips. She doesn't notice me and begins to speak, her attention directed to Kartik.
"Kartik, I've something to-"
Suddenly she sees me, and breaks off, her mouth slightly open.
"I mean, er-" she struggles to rephrase and finally settles for, "What I meant to say was, Mr. Kartik, I do believe that Ginger has gained uneccessary mass of late and should be exercised more frequently."
Kartik looks at her seriously and replies, "Of course, Miss Doyle."
I see something in his eyes that I cannot name, but it seems totally out of place here, being directed at her. I cough a little and edge out of the stables, scurrying back to the house like an insect. What had just happened?
I still cannot make sense of Miss Gemma's strange beginning, which probably would not have involved Ginger's weight in the slightest, had she continued and remained ignorant to my presence. I curse myself yet again and set to work washing dishes, pondering my mistress's strange behaviour over the day.
Hours later, I am pouring the family their tea as they sit down for supper. Sadly, Mr. Doyle is holed up in his study, wasting away with his bottle. I am careful not to mention his addiction to anyone I meet, because though I don't love the family I work for, I could never cause someone as much grief as it would put them through to be exposed to society. Now they sit as an uncomplete family of three, total opposites from each other.
The old, refined woman is prim and sharp, sitting like a solemn flower at the head of the table. Her granddaughter is frazzed and wild, raditating untamed beauty like a powerhouse. Thomas looks annoyed and bored of his family, and I know that he hopes to escape the household as soon as possible in order to find a suitable woman to court.
He has given the idea that all he desires is a simple, rich wife, but I know of at least one occasion on which he has turned down suitable women. Perhaps they were not quite stupid enough to meet his needs.
I struggle to keep my eyes on the floor as my employers dine sophisticatedly. Miss Gemma manages not to pick at her food at usual and actually eats like a proper lady, leaving just enough on her plate to seem lady-like. Her grandmother eats even less and Tom robotically uses his fork like a shovel, his back straining not to slump.
Eventually they finish and I clear their dishes off of the table, carrying my great stack of china into the kitchen. Opening the door with difficulty, I totter slightly as the load becomes unbalanced, and then right myself with a sigh of relief. If I had let all those beautiful plates and glasses fall to the floor, everey one would have smashed thunderously into a thousand pieces.
Mrs. Jones shakes her head at me as I rush into the warm room and slide everything I can into the sink.
"Be careful, my girl," she warns and I nod distractedly, already thinking of when I will go to the stables as I do every night. Kartik and I talk about anything and everything. We used to read, when he was still teaching me how. Now I have scoured through The Odyssey too many times to count, and we scarcely bring it out from under the pile of straw Kartik keeps it hidden under for the day.
I absentmindedly slip a dirty dish out of the sink without cleaning it properly and Mrs. Jones silently replaces it in the warm soapy water. I think that she will not mention it, but after a long stretch she says quietly, "Emily, you need to stop daydreaming. One day it will cost you your job."
I shrug and glance at her briefly. She is standing with her hands on her hips, looking at me with a touch of pity, but mostly she is just shrugging it off and moving to dry the dishes I am restacking on top of the counter.
"My job does me no good, anyway. I would be better off working downtown, or travelling with the Gypsies." My last few words are wistful, and I almost close my eyes and begin imagining what it would be like. Mrs. Jones's skeptical snort draws me back to reality.
"You need to stop listening to that Kartik. His tales won't help you none, and if you want my opinion, they're all lies."
I hear how she says his name, like it is a curse.
"I think that they are charming," I answer dutifully.
Her eyes turn to the ceiling and a little smile begins to form on that seasoned, kind face.
"You think that he is charming."
I blush madly and try to hide the crimson that is covering my face quickly.
"No," I say weakly. "That's not it."
She grins wider now.
"Yes, it is." I do not object and she goes on.
"Foolish girl. He will never look at you."
I furrow my brows and tell myself that she is lying just to make me feel bad, but Mrs. Jones loves me like a daughter. She simply doesn't wish for me to be hurt.
"You're wrong." She decides not to answer and finishes her job while I am drying my pruned hands. Then she goes to work on some other chore and I am left to my own devices. What I am to do in my free time is obvious, and I leave the kitchen with thoughts of Kartik. It is shameful that I think of him so, and I force my excitement down so I do not arrive in front of him frazzled and blushing.
Stopping before I leave the house, I take a deep breath and adjust my dress, which is pointless anyway. Then I push out the door and head towards the stables at a brisk walk, pursing my lips and working my jaw into relaxation. As I near the door I give my shoulders one final shake and grasp the old metal handle. Just as I'm about to open the door, I hear an out-of-place sound coming from where I usually find Kartik.
Someone is laughing. Not laughing, but giggling breathlessly. I listen apprehensively as it continues, finally stopping as I hear someone shushing quietly at whoever was giggling. Thinking that someone simply had an embarrassing fall and an impolite stable hand could not help from laughing at them, I am about to go inside when another sound reaches my ears. One that definitely should not be here.
A soft moaning is seeping through the door, mingling with deeper, more guttural noises. They are certainly male and female voices, and I begin to frown as I wonder who could be in there and exactly what they were doing.
Grasping the handle firmly, I pull the door wide open and walk inside, letting it swing shut behind me. I expect to see something, but as I look around it is only the horses that stare blankly back at me, chewing their evening meal lazily. I stand there for a moment, and begin to think that I have imagined the noises or that they were not coming from inside the stables at all. But then a sigh, fat with emotion, reaches my ears.
It is coming from Kartik's quarters- well, rather it is coming from the space that he shares with two other stable hands and three small beds.
I round the wall that leads to this place and finally come to the source of what I had been hearing.
A flash of crimson is the first thing that my eyes register, contrasting with pale freckled skin and a dress as white as a water lily. Miss Gemma is pressed against a man dressed in stable hand clothing; a thin cotton shirt and work trousers. I can't see her face because of her hair, which is completely down as it is at night, and because her face is tilted away from me- not to mention pressed with another.
The man's skin is a familiarly rich tone, and as I watch as his hand moves up to her waist. Her small hand moves from it's position around his neck and slips up his shirt where I cannot see it any longer. Their lips merge together in a lover's battle that I have never experienced, and a rich groan is elicted from the man. I recognize the voice that is coated heavily with lust.
My mouth opens in shock and I am about to make some frightened noise when they break apart slightly for a breath and I see his face. That proud jaw and large, chocolate eyes. His sweet dark curls fall in front of his face and my brain finally puts the pieces fully together.
Kartik.
Finally a loud gasp finds it's way out of my throat, as I stand fully erect in absolute shock. The two shoot apart, too late.
They look around frantically and spot me, standing frozen in the darkening stable. Their eyes are nearly as wide as mine and I look between them, trying to tell myself that what I had just seen wasn't true. I see them exchange a glance, looking uneasy, and then Kartik begins to speak.
"Emily..."
I know that he is trying to calm me, but all I can do is stare at his bruised lips as they form words that my ears reject.
"No, no, no!" I whisper urgently, finding that I can't stop myself. "No."
They look at me, unsure.
"Emily," Kartik starts, "It's not what you think."
I feel anger building up and direct it stubbornly at Miss Gemma, since I am refusing to admit even to myself that Kartik has nothing in his heart for me.
"How can it not be?" I snap bitterly. "That was completely indecent!"
Miss Gemma is blushing almost as dark as I am now, and I glare at her. She doesn't have anything to say for herself at first, but then, "Er- Emily, I don't suppose you could, ah, keep this to yourself? Just for a little while?"
I am about to refuse and run to ruin her reputation when I glance fleetingly at Kartik and see his pleading expression. He is deeply sorry, and I see that maybe he could have a spot of affection for me after all, just not romantic affection. He reminds me that if I tell Miss Gemma's grandmother, I will have to tell which stable hand was dirtying her granddaughter.
He could be killed. I shake my head and look at him.
I cannot kill the man I love, even if he is not mine.
