Author Note: Here it is, my Resbang 2015 submission, My Fair Meister, based on My Fair Lady. Before I proceed I have to give massive thanks to Professor Maka for betaing this. The story would not exist without her extensive help, patience, and willingness to bounce ideas at 1am. Seriously I cannot say this enough, she deserves all the props. And to my wonderful artist, Laura, who is also an author I greatly admire, it was an honor (and much fun!) to work with you! I couldn't have asked for a better partner. Her art will be linked shortly! The rest of my thanks goes to redphlox, earth-shines, makapedia, and sojustifiable for the encouragement and listening to me fuss about this thing for five months.
Warnings will be posted at the top of each chapter. Thanks for reading!
Warnings for Ch. 1: vomit, mentions of (very minor) character deaths
(England, 1910)
He was sitting at the piano when he heard the news. There was nothing to punctuate the moment of the day when his life changed– the servants were murmuring in the hall, preparing to set the table for lunch, birds were fighting outside the window, their new telephone rang.
Dust drifted in motes of light as the sun emerged from its foggy shroud, and Wes was calling his name.
"Brother, Brother, come quick, something awful has happened!"
Soul dragged himself through the house, into the one room he never visited.
Wes sat on a sofa in the parlour, where the telephone was prominently displayed, a symbol of the opulence and modernity with which the Eaton name had come to be associated. Lord and Lady Evans typically received and entertained visitors in this room, as well. Soul was never there when this happened, of course.
Odd-looking. Abomination. How unfortunate. Poor Lady Evans. What a disgrace.
These phrases tended to accompany Soul's name, if it was even brought up at all. The Viscount and his wife preferred to pretend they didn't have a second son, whenever possible. If visitors asked, he was dreadfully ill and unfit for company.
Unfit. By far his favorite descriptor.
And then then there was Wes, the golden child, everything his parents had ever wanted…
Looking more frightened than Soul had ever seen him.
"Wes, what's wrong?" Soul lingered in the doorway, loath to cross the forbidden threshold into that hated room that had come to represent all he was not, could never be.
"It's mother and father... There's been an accident. Their carriage..."
"Oh..." His mind was having trouble processing this.
"Soul, I'm– I'm frightened. I can't do this. I'm so scared."
"Don't be," Soul told him earnestly. "You'll be an excellent successor. You honor the family name."
"Soul, Kid called. The will… It leaves everything to me."
Soul stared at his brother uncertainly. "And?"
"We'll fight it, of course, you'll– you'll get your share and–"
"No." Soul was firm. "I don't want their money. Do whatever you want with it. I was never their son."
Something nasty, something awful, was fighting its way out of him, like a monster in his chest, and he barely had time to rush out of the parlour, out to the majestic foyer of their country estate, in time to empty the contents of his stomach onto the terrace limestone.
After some time, he became aware of Wes, rubbing his back and murmuring unintelligible things at him. Soul spit one last time and wiped his mouth roughly on his sleeve.
"I know how Mother and Father treated you, made you out to be less– less deserving– but, Soul. I am your brother. That will never change. We are–" Wes' voice broke. "We are all we have now– all that's left of the Evans title, of the Eaton name. It's up to us to honor the legacy."
There were things Wes did, of course, that the Lord and Lady Evans either hadn't known about or simply chose to ignore, and both Soul and his brother knew that could be a problem. Even before his relationship with Kid, there had been the revolving door of men, the gambling, the trysts with aristocratic widows. Wes was deeply flawed, but he was the only one who had ever loved Soul, and Soul cared for him more than anyone. They were brothers. Nothing could change that.
"I know that, Wes. And… for as little as it's worth, I'll stand by you, whatever happens."
Wes sagged in relief. "Thank you, Soul. I can't tell you how much your discretion means to me."
"Let's go inside. I don't want to think about this anymore."
It was a less than auspicious ending to an otherwise heartfelt discussion, but it suited them both just fine, and each was relieved to have gotten it out of the way.
The funeral plans proceeded without a hitch, and several months later the new Viscount Evans and his younger brother found themselves on a train headed for London.
She was lucky to make it to the station in time. Droplets of condensed steam slithered down windowpanes and the rafters shook beneath her feet as she scrambled onto the platform, one hand on her hat, clamping it firmly to her head, and the other gathering her skirts. Her small carpet bag of belongings swung angrily from the crook of her elbow as she ran.
Only once she was safely aboard the train and settled into an unoccupied compartment did Maka Albarn allow herself to relax. Her past was firmly behind her now– she hadn't bothered looking back at the station once the train began to pull away from the platform. Now the rhythm of the wheels on the track lulled her into a sense of peace and she felt that perhaps she could finally get some sleep.
But once she closed her eyes and lay her cheek against the cool windowpane, images, unbidden, began to flash through her mind, and she thought about her former employer and the unfairness of her dismissal. How would she ever sleep again?
Best not to think about it, she chided herself. If you ask yourself that, you'll think about where you're going, and then you'll wonder how you'll eat, where you'll stay, what's to become of you–
Maka forced herself to take several calming breaths.
Just look out the window, then.
The whistle was now blowing full force and the shouts of the conductor were nearly drowned by the rumbling of the powerful steam engine. The next stop was approaching. She desperately hoped no one tried to sit in her compartment– she was having enough trouble handling her emotions on her own, and doubted her abilities would extend to include prying old aunties and loud, unruly children, if it came to that. She shuddered.
Her fears were realized when she heard a knock and the compartment door slid open to reveal two men.
"Pardon me, didn't know there was anyone in here," said a tall, fair haired man. "But I think we'll have to be joining you, all the others are full."
"Oh." She tried very much not to look the way she felt. Why couldn't I just be left alone?
"If we may?"
"Yes, of course."
"Excellent. Soul, bring those in here, will you?" he called over his shoulder at a stooped, elderly man who was facing the hallway.
At her questioning gaze, the tall man cleared his throat and asked, "If we may?"
"Yes, of course." This gentleman was very rich, by the looks of him, and certainly used to getting his way. She wondered what he was doing in third class.
Maka thought it unconscionable that he was forcing his elderly relative to bear the burdens of so many packages– for there were many of them. She turned to face the old man. "Erm, would you like some help with those?"
"No, I love carting my brother's rubbish all over the country. Highlight of my vacation."
The old man turned around then and she saw that he wasn't old at all. In fact, he was about her age, perhaps a few years older. It was clear he must be the tall man's brother– for he had the same look about him, aside from a few crucial differences. He had terrible posture and shockingly white hair, but that was hardly the most unusual thing about him. His eyes, which were sliding towards her lazily, were a bright red, and when he smiled in greeting, she noticed that his teeth were sharp and serrated, like the edge of a knife.
She raised an eyebrow. What an odd pair these two made.
"If you don't mind my asking, why didn't you stow it all in the luggage compartment?"
The younger one answered. "Wes brought all this sh- sorry, all of these things from our estate in the country".
Maka raised both of her eyebrows this time. An estate in the country? What were they doing in third class?
As if he read her mind, the younger one continued, "We couldn't fit them into our luggage and they kicked us out of first class. Trust me, there's probably another five cartfuls in the luggage compartment already."
The other man rolled his eyes. "Ignore him, please. He has absolutely terrible manners. I'm Wesley Eaton, Viscount Evans, and this is my brother, Solomon."
"No one calls me that. It's Soul," corrected the red-eyed man.
"Yes, yes," said the Viscount. "We're all going to be great chums on this train ride, I can tell." His brows were wiggling like rabid caterpillars and she fervently hoped he wasn't trying to flirt. "You simply must call me Wes!"
Soul groaned loudly, though whether it was at his brother's antics or the weight of the packages he was moving, she couldn't be sure.
Maka reached a hand out to shake with Wes, but he leaned down to brush his lips across the tops of her knuckles. She snatched her hand back as quickly as she possibly could without giving offense. He chuckled at this and she felt herself go red with mortification. She was so flustered she forgot to introduce herself. Unfazed, Wes spread out luxuriously across from her and watched his brother with smug delight.
"Ready yet?" he called. "When you're done with the packages, we can play another game and if you beat me this time, I'll help you unload them when we arrive at the station."
In answer, Soul made a rude gesture at his brother and kept moving parcels and packages into the compartment, until they were piled high and covering almost every available surface. She very much regretted letting them into her compartment, but it was too late now. She was going to spend the next six hours wondering when the precariously piled stacks were going to collapse all around her. The train would pull in to London and the attendants would find the three of them buried beneath haphazardly wrapped packages from "Bobby's Hobbies" and "The Petulant Porcupine".
"What is all this?" she asked, barely saving a small package from sliding to the floor as the train took a turn.
"It's very important," Wes said defensively, snatching it away. "Don't touch it."
"It is not." His brother reached over and tugged the parcel open to reveal a porcelain figurine of a Dalmatian. "He's obsessed with these things."
"You're just jealous because it's so precious. And you shouldn't scold me, Soul. I seem to remember you just had to have that ghastly orange contraption."
"That's different! Automobiles are the way of the future, Wes."
"But did you have to get it painted such a garish color?"
"It's more respectable than the hundreds of porcelain figurines you hoard."
"Hoard? Hoard? How very dare you– I am a collector!"
The two brothers continued to bicker, almost as if they had completely forgotten that she was there.
They were interrupted by a second knock on the compartment door. It was the ticket inspector, come to check their tickets. The gentlemen produced theirs without incident, but Maka discovered, to her horror, that she no longer had hers.
She pawed through the carpet bag that had come to carry all she owned in this world, checked the inside of her hat, even reached discreetly into the neckline of her blouse to ensure she had not somehow stuck it into her corset that morning.
No luck.
"Erm, if you'll just– I'm certain it was just here, I–"
At that moment, the train lurched to a stop, with a terrific grinding noise and a rumbling that had Wes scrambling to retrieve falling figurines before they shattered all over the floor.
"One moment. I'll be back, so don't go anywhere," said the ticket inspector.
Maka sighed in relief. She was out of the thick of it for the moment, but for the life of her, she could not figure out where her ticket had gone!
"No ticket?" asked Soul.
"I just had it at the station! It's got to be here somewhere. Maybe under…" her eyes darted around and her heart sank. "All these packages…"
There seemed to be a commotion aboard the train, with attendants running about and making a fuss.
"I'll go check what's going on," said Soul. "You two wait here."
Maka and Wes faced each other awkwardly once he left. She was certain that her ticket was somewhere underneath the pile of rubbish he'd covered her compartment in, and he was holding the Dalmatian with a white-knuckled grip, clearly unwilling to upend the delicate balance of the packages for her search.
Well, that was just too bad for him.
She didn't have enough money for another ticket. She opened her mouth to say as much when Soul came rushing back into the compartment.
"The rail's damaged, so they've got to fix it, and they say we're trapped for the time being."
"How long will we be waiting here?" Maka asked, alarmed.
"They're laying some track down to get us moving again, but they say it will be at least another three hours."
This news was met with groans from Wes and Maka.
"Well, at least we'll have time to look for my ticket, now!" she said, trying to inject some cheerfulness into the compartment.
Wes did not look cheered. He began to protest as Maka and Soul sorted through the multitudes of parcels.
"If you could just–
"The item is still in it's original wrapping–
"I don't think that's–
"Please be careful, Soul, that item is extremely fragile–
"THAT IS A ONE-OF-A-KIND PRICELESS MIDCENTURY RECREATION OF THE SEVENTH DOG OF KING LOUIS XIV! For the love of GOD!"
"Wes, I don't know how to tell you this, but there's no way the chap who sold this to you was telling the truth," Soul finally told him.
"You don't know what you're talking about! Examine the craftsmanship–"
"Says it was made in Bethnel Green, right here at the base–"
Wes paled and reached for the figurine. "Give me that! Where does it say– where…"
His puzzled expression turned to one of ire when Soul began to laugh.
"It's not right to lead me along like that, Soul. My only brother, willfully deceiving me. What would mother think… I need a moment, please."
He stood up and marched out of the compartment, leaving Maka and Soul all alone together.
"That was a bit mean," she told him gently.
"He's being dramatic. I bet he just needed to take a piss." Soul did look guilty, though. "Ever since our mother died, he's been guilt tripping enough for two. Think it's how he likes to honor her memory." He scowled and rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable.
"Do you really have five more cartfuls of these," she gestured to the parcels around them, "in the luggage compartment?"
He smirked. "About that many, yeah. He insists on bringing all of them whenever we come to the city. Six months without them is too much, I suppose–"
Wes poked his head into the compartment with an air of urgency. "The ticket inspector is coming!" He stage-whispered. "I'll hold him off as long as I can, but prepare yourselves!"
Maka exchanged a panicked look with Soul. They could hear Wes making small talk with the inspector, his aristocratic silhouette pressed firmly against the compartment door.
Soul was shrugging out of his coat and Maka was scrabbling around on the floor, looking for any trace of her errant ticket. The door started to slide open. "Help me!" she begged, and he responded by pushing her head under the bench and throwing his coat over her. "Stay down!" he told her, and she was inclined to obey, seeing as how she had no wish to walk the rest of the way to London.
It wasn't the most glamorous way to travel, she thought, as she tucked her knees to her chin (or as close as her corset would allow her to), and hoped for the best. Soul swung what must have been his legs out and over her, which she did not particularly appreciate, but would tolerate, under the circumstances.
Maka held her breath, hoping that the ticket inspector had forgotten about her and would leave them all alone now.
No such luck. "Hello, sir," came his gruff voice from above. "Where is your friend? I need to see her ticket, please."
"Oh, she wasn't friend of mine," Soul drawled. "Quite the opposite actually; I'm glad to be rid of her."
"Alright, where has she gone, then?"
Soul hummed thoughtfully. "She left when you asked for our tickets. Then when the train stopped, she said she'd make it on her own, and last I saw her, she was walking along the tracks back to the last station."
"Damn! I've got to catch her!"
"You better hurry– she was pretty fast for someone with such fat ankles."
Maka squawked indignantly from her position under the bench. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The ticket inspector had heard.
"I say, what have you got in there?"
"Ah, this? It's … Old Bertha, my … parrot."
"P-parrot?" Sputtered the ticket inspector.
"Oh, yes! Would you like to see her? She's sleeping now that I've got the cover on, but she's quite lovely when I let her out! Getting on in age, but still strong enough to bite a man's finger off, bless her."
"Bite?"
"She's a biter, alright. We were worried for her health for awhile but she came right round when she got a good look at a sailor with a bushy mustache. She especially loves the mustaches."
The ticket inspector's hand flew to his walrus mustache and he trembled slightly. "Yes well, I think I'll be off, then, got to catch that fare evader, very good, have a nice day, sir…" And with a tip of his hat he slammed the door to the compartment shut. It opened a moment later when Wes came sliding back in.
Wes blinked for a minute as Maka scrambled out from under Soul's legs, and then burst into laughter. "What a pleasant surprise– it's nice to see my brother isn't completely hopeless with the ladies–"
Maka screeched loudly just as Soul hissed at his brother to shut up.
Wes looked completely unapologetic, but Maka was so badly ruffled that she refused Soul's offered hand and stood on her own, brushing her skirts off and blushing furiously.
Wes sat back down, but not without a smile. "Hush now, or the ticket inspector will come to see about the fuss."
Maka let out a loud "humph!" noise and plunked herself back onto the seat beside Soul.
"Speaking of the ticket inspector, what on earth did you say to him?" Wes asked. "He looked like he'd seen a ghost!"
"Just introduced him to Old Bertha," Soul said darkly.
Wes looked confused and Maka had to share a laugh with Soul at the memory of the ticket inspector. It surprised her a bit. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. She was having fun. Fun had been a foreign concept for so long.
The station they had left behind held a bitter past and the station they would be reaching in a few hours held an uncertain and likely dark future. But as long as she was on this train, she didn't have anything to worry about– it was like being suspended in time.
"Well, we've got about nine more hours before we reach London…" Soul produced a pack of cards from one of the packages around them and asked Maka if she knew how to play.
She did not, but said she was eager to learn, so Wes dealt while Soul explained to her how to play three-person poker.
"But I– I'm afraid I have nothing to bet with…" She stumbled over the words. She thought she could pass for a comfortably middle class girl for the time being. She had a nice overcoat which she'd spent several months' savings on, but she'd have to sell it once she reached London if she wanted to eat. Funny how fortunes could change.
"That's alright," Soul said smoothly. "We'll think of something."
Maka was glad for this, being competitive by nature and as eager for something to pass the time with as the brothers were.
"Alright. We don't need to play with money. We can use secrets instead…" Wes gave her a roguish smirk and she frowned. She didn't like his smile as much as his brother's. There was something a good deal less innocent about it, and it unnerved her. Soul's teeth may have been intimidating, but she sensed that underneath his unusual exterior, he possessed a soft heart. He may have teased her about her ankles, but he had helped her, a near stranger, without hesitation, when she had been in need.
"What kind of secrets?" she asked suspiciously, and the brothers exchanged a loaded glance.
"You know, things about ourselves, whatever anyone wants to know. One question, instead of a poker chip. So we'll get to know each other as we play."
"Knowledge does make one richer in the most important of ways," Maka agreed solemnly. If they asked anything too personal, she could always lie. Besides, she wanted to know more about these brothers.
Soul groaned. "How can you be so sensible about gambling?"
Wes laughed and produced a notebook, from which he tore a few pages into little scraps. "These will be our chips," he announced.
An attendant came by with tea and Wes ordered enough for them all to share. Maka was grateful, as her stomach had been growling all morning.
They munched on tea sandwiches and Wes won the first round. He collected the pool of "chips" and promptly began dealing for the next round.
Maka had certainly seen card games; she'd practically grown up in the brothel her father frequented, after all. But she'd never played herself. She could see how people got hooked– there was something thrilling about guessing whether your opponents were bluffing or truly had a good hand, and trying to keep your own features from giving anything away.
"How do I keep losing?" she wailed. "What's wrong with my poker face?"
Soul gave her a crooked grin that did something stupid to her insides– stupid, but not altogether unpleasant. "Easy," he drawled, leaning forward to tap her on the side of the head. "You think too hard. I can see you overthinking things. Just… relax and let the chips fall where they may. You'll never get anywhere if you can't keep your thoughts hidden."
"How can I not think? How can I relax? This is a game of strategy!"
"Part of the strategy is pretending you don't care. Even when you do."
She snorted and stole one of his roasted chicken tea sandwiches. "Perhaps I'll just act smug and self-satisfied like some people…"
"Won't be hard, you do it well already."
Wes choked on his tea and Maka glared at them both.
"Just deal the cards."
Over the next few hours, Soul won most of the rounds, but Wes was close behind him. They claimed that Maka didn't do badly "for her first time," but she felt the sting of defeat. All her wins had been over Wes. She couldn't crack Soul's poker face for the life of her.
She was trying not to be a sore loser over it, but it wasn't easy when she was confronted with Soul's ever-present and incredibly smug grin.
"Gonna cash in your chips? Ladies first."
"Err…" Maka hesitated, wondering what she could ask that would be worth her hard-won poker chips. The brothers looked at her expectantly, so she busied herself with sliding off her gloves and stealing another of the newly arrived sandwiches.
Best to start small, since she didn't know them well at all, and then she could work up to better questions. Yes. That was a good strategy. She swallowed.
"So what brings you to London?" As soon as the question was out of her mouth she cringed, knowing that they would likely ask her the same. She wasn't ready to talk about Mr. Smith yet.
Wes and Soul were unaware of her mortification, of course, so they had begun answering her question. She tuned back in.
" - and since the accident, it's just the two of us and we've just finished settling everything with the estate. My dear friend, a barrister, has been assisting us in this matter, but his latest letter indicates we'll need to be in London for a while while we sort things out."
"That all sounds very complicated." Maka said truthfully.
"Wes, you gave too much away," Soul chastised him.
"Soul, it's hardly fair, we have all the chips. How are we supposed to carry on a conversation?"
"We could always do it the normal way… Without chips." Maka observed wryly.
"Oh, but it's so much more fun this way, isn't it?" asked Wes.
"Alright, our turn. Wes, do you want to ask a question or should I?"
Wes thought for a moment. "I'm eldest, so I'll go first, Brother." He flashed a cheeky grin at his brother who rolled his eyes.
"Fine by me. Get all the boring questions over with so I can spend my chips on good ones."
Maka gulped. What were the good questions?
Wes leaned forward eagerly. "Alright. I'll ask you the same as you asked us. What brings you to London?"
"I'm seeking employment in the city."
"Ah, are you perhaps a dressmaker? A governess? A–"
"No." She tilted her chin defiantly. "I've been working as a ladies' maid, but I am a writer. I am interested in working with the Suffragist publications to gain women the right to vote and hold office."
"Is that so? How fascinating, to have another suffragist in our midst! The barrister friend I mentioned is also interested in the cause of women's suffrage. Perhaps you can call on him sometime."
"Yes, perhaps," she said earnestly. "I don't really know many people in London."
"If you do see him, be sure to mention my name," Wes said, with a wink. Soul sighed, almost imperceptibly.
By the time they pulled into Paddington station, they'd abandoned the game rules almost completely and were enjoying normal conversation. It was too difficult keeping up with the chips, so by the end of it, Soul and Maka dumped the pile into a bag of welsh corgi figurines when Wes wasn't looking.
The three stood up to say their goodbyes.
"Good luck with the suffrage cause, and please don't get arrested. I can't imagine you'd take well to the torture your compatriots are made to endure in jail these days," Wes said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ask your compatriots to give us the vote and I won't have to," she told him firmly, shaking his hand.
"Thank you for teaching me to play poker," she told Soul. "Goodbye."
"Wait!" he said, and thrust a note into her hand. Written on it, in an untidy scrawl, was an address and the name Kid Mortis. "In case you need… um, anything, just give Kid the word."
"Okay," she whispered, feeling her cheeks get hot despite the chill in the air. "Thank you."
"Well, goodbye then," he said stiffly.
The brothers watched from the window as her small form was drawn into the crowds of Paddington Station, a flickering spot of light swallowed by a sea of darkness.
"I say, what an unusual girl," remarked Wes. "Do you suppose she really had never played poker before?"
Soul turned to his brother. "You're surprised she was able to beat you," he remarked flatly.
"Well, yes, I am. Even if it was only the few times."
"She seems to be able to see things in people. The way she reacted when you kissed her hand– I wouldn't be surprised if she were a good judge of character."
"Ah, you saw that, did you?" cried Wes. "You wound me, Soul. Have you no respect for your older brother?"
"Quite the opposite, Wes. And you know that. But then I am your brother, not a young woman you've met on the train."
"Thank goodness, I suppose, that most people are not as perceptive as Miss– oh, dear, what did she say her name was, again?"
"She never did…"
"Oh, what a pity," Wes remarked, but it was in an offhand sort of way, for now he was busy rewrapping the Dalmatian figurine and preparing the packages for the next stop, which would be theirs.
"Yes…" Soul said rather more fervently. He slouched against the seat, slid his fingers into his pockets, and paused.
There was one last piece of paper in his pocket. He brought it out, sliding it between his thumb and forefinger, and thought of throwing it in the welsh corgi package where they'd put the rest of the unused chips.
But something made him hesitate.
"Come on, Soul, the train's stopping now."
He slid the paper back into his pocket as he followed his brother off the train. No one said you could wish on makeshift poker chips, but no one said you couldn't, either, and so he paused and sent a little wish into the universe that the girl connected to the chip would meet with fortune. He couldn't make it more specific than that, not even knowing her name, but a small, foolish part of him still hoped it would find her, wherever she was.
