Pimpernel Princess chapter 2 . Feb 7, 2009
I LOVE IT!
You write both characters so well. Sarah reminds me a bit of Jane from "Austenland" (one of my favorites). Brilliant! I can't wait to see what happens to Sir Percy. ;) I am humbled by your brilliance. Sink me!
Your servant,
PP
SherlockianGirl chapter 2 . Feb 6, 2009
*trying to breath* Oh, haha! Poor Percy! *pat pat*
"The men wear clothes so ill fitting they are nearly falling off, 'tis rare I see a cravat, all the ladies wear breeches..."
"My pants offend you?"
OMG, *laughs hysterically* XD
Very good start, it has tremendous potential! Continue quickly, m'dear! :)
In Which Sir Percy Blakeney is Not Amused
For all that, the whole thing started quite simply.
I was sitting in the 12th street BART station, waiting for a Richmond train, when I heard something of a ruckus coming from the station attendant's kiosk.
"No, I bally well DON'T want to go to Pittsburgh, young man, and what is more, if you cannot accept good British gold as currency then may this whole setup of yours be demmed for all eternity!"
The voice was male, very British, and distinctly displeased. I heard the mechanical, almost indistinguishable voice of the attendant splutter in response, and I almost laughed at the Englishman's extremely aggrieved reply.
"Demmed useless system you have over here, if good subjects to the Crown are treated in this manner - Good Lord man! - how do you expect anyone to get from one place to another?"
I came down the corridor, amused and interested at just who would be willing to take a BART station attendant on in this way, and I was quite surprised at what I saw. The man with the British accent was dressed in the most extraordinary period costume, all satin, lace, and what look suspiciously like diamonds, and he was trying to pay for a ticket in what appeared to be gold coins.
I myself had seen many rather odd personages in various BART stations, and they were usually harmless nutters who simply needed another bottle of whatever their drink of choice was, and then they would be out of the way for several hours. I had never seen one actually dressed like he was going to a New Year's costume party, nor one with a bold enough tongue to make the station attendant seriously think about calling security.
Now, I do not usually meddle in such public matters, but I know old Brinks rather well - he is one of the most helpful attendants on the whole BART system - and he did not deserve the dressing down that the dressed up man was now bestowing on him. I decided I had to intervene.
"Excuse me!" I called, "You there! Hey Brinks!" They turned to look at me, and I now had to commit myself. "Brinks, just let him in on my ticket, and I'm sure the gentleman and I can reach an agreement." I had approached the kiosk, and passed my ticket through to Brinks, who took it with a sour face, and handed it most reluctantly to the very tall and very blond man on the other side of the bank of gates. "And if we cannot agree, then what is one trip to me? Thank you Brinks, there will be no more trouble, I think." I added that last because I had glimpsed an intense look of thankfulness on the face of the stranger, and he fumbled to use the ticket like it was his first time to do so (as indeed it was), and I was suddenly struck with compassion for this obvious foreigner who found our public transportation system so bewildering. I almost laughed then, for I do not know one single person who has lived in California and has ridden BART who did not at least once feel exactly the same way as he had just done, but it was a lucky rider indeed who had been able to actually voice his opinions in the manner that this stranger had.
He came to the gate hesitantly, like he was entirely unsure of what the orange plastic doors would do to him, but his one long step took him through - just like that. He handed me back my ticket with a very courtly gesture, and a quiet, "Thank you, Madame, I do apologize for the noise, it was most inconsiderate of me," and he tried to hand me one of his coins.
I smiled, unashamedly waving it away, but suddenly I found myself remembering all those etiquette lessons my mother had made me take in high school, "I suppose," I said glibly, "That you were not aware of the presence of a lady? Thus your use of forceful language?"
He looked unaccountably relieved at this response, and answered softly, "Yes, quite," and clasped his hands at the small of his back.
I began to walk back down the corridor to wait on the worn wooden benches for my train, and he walked in the same direction, but apparently only out of a wish to stay near me, for he looked quite bewildered at the maps and schedules that graced the concrete walls, and did not seem to know in least where he was going. I sat down, but he remained standing, trying to make head or tail of the departure/arrival lists.
I looked at his back, rather intrigued by this seeming crazy person who had such good manners and such odd clothes. It was funny, but I had seen clothes like that only in period drama movies like "Pride and Prejudice", and here I was, in real life, helping someone who looked like an extremely fancy and stylized version of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Whether he noticed my look or not, he was still rather out of his league, and he came over to my bench and bowed most elegantly at me. "Madame, I wonder if I might impose upon you again? I find myself quite at odds with this geography of yours - I do not quite know where I am, for you see I have never been on American soil before."
"I rather thought it. . . sir. . ." somehow this man warranted a respectful address, though I did not know his name, "And America is VERY large, and our public transportation is really sh. . . shoddy. . . at times. May I ask where you are going, sir?"
"Richmond," he said confidently, but I could see that he still had not the slightest idea of what that truly meant.
"Well, you are in luck then," I said, "That is where I am going. It is a good long ride, and I will have time to show you a little of this system, so I do not think you will have trouble with it again." I have had several friends who have come over on green cards, and I found myself wanting to be nice to this odd stranger. No doubt I would regret it later (I usually nap on my train ride home) but I had had a long day, and it was time to build up good karma.
"Well, that is most kind of you, Madame, but I am afraid I cannot allow you to do this unless we have been properly introduced." He glanced at me halfway through an odd thing that looked like half a pair of glasses, and then he stood and bowed in that same elaborate, courtly manner, and lifting his hat, he said grandly, "Sir Percy Blakney, Madame, at your service." And he extended his hand, as though it was my turn. I assumed it was, for he stopped speaking, and looked at me expectantly, but for quite five seconds I was entirely unable to speak, for a very old memory had come back to me and I could not credit my eyes and ears. Sir Percy Blakeney? Sir Percy Blakeney? The man before me must be mad! Sir Percy Blakeney was a fictional character who saved people in France. The. . . the Scarlet something. I had read a book, ten, fifteen years ago, in elementary school. . . What was this utter farce that stood in front of me?
It was definitely time for me to speak, and he was very definitely waiting for my answer. When I found my voice it was rather squeaky, but not too bad, "Ah, Sarah Whithouse at yours and your family's, Sir. . .Percy. . ." I was quite proud of myself for remembering that line from The Hobbit, its formality sounded quite in order in this situation. "Do. . . do please call me Sarah. . . I prefer it. . ." I got out, and for some very odd reason, I blushed.
For reasons I did not then understand, my reaction calmed him greatly, and he sat down next to me on the bench. "Very well, Sarah, and please call me Blakeney - it seems more in keeping with this excessively casual society you have over here."
This seemed a most unusual way to begin a conversation. "Excessively. . . casual?" I said, suddenly slightly unsure of this man's motives, "What do you mean?"
"Demme ain't it obvious? I see so very little propriety in anyone that I am very nearly insulted by everyone. 'Tis dashed uncomfortable, but still, there it is. The men were clothes so ill fitting they are nearly falling off, 'tis rare I see a cravat, all the ladies wear breeches, and I have seen but few who look like ladies, and as for what I CAN see! Well. . ." and here he gave a flowery sort of waving gesture as though to dismiss all thought of modern appearances from his mind.
"My pants offend you?" I looked down at the nicely tailored black slacks I always wore to work, "You must be very. . . traditional. . . where you come from."
"Indeed, we are, and it is dem difficult to understand who or what or why in this country of yours. . . everything is at topsy turvy, and nothing is as it should be, and no one seems to care."
I almost resented his vehemence, and said with more vigor than I intended, "Then why the. . . er. . . why did you come in the first place?"
"That is just it. I did not "come" to this place at all. I arrived." He was very airy and flip about it, and I had to try not to be offended.
"Oh, "arrived"? I see," I said, slightly sarcastic, "On Royal attachment or something?"
"No. I mean what I say, young lady." All at once he was almost serious, "I arrived. Just like that. I was relaxing quite peacefully on the terrace outside Blakeney Manor, and all of a sudden there was a most strange sort of wind - stinging and cold, but also fresh and clear - and when I opened my eyes I was in that attractive little copse of trees across the street from here, and all these demmed odd carriages going very fast alongside it - how, I am not quite certain, perhaps you can explain - and some very strange buildings all around me, and equally strange people walking about. In fact the whole to-do is demmed strange - I only know I am in America because I happened to stop one of the young men - he had most strangely coloured hair and it was shamefully untidy and he was standing on a funny little board with wheels, so his opinion may not be trustworthy - but I asked him what country this was, and he said The United States of America. I was not inclined to believe him, because I thought the Colonies were quite like Europe in many ways, but the lad gave me the same answer three times, so he must have been convinced of his information, even though he had on a very odd shirt - it seemed brocaded somehow with the face of someone and there was writing on it that said "Obama" - who the devil is that, may I ask, and why does he have his face on shirts? - at any rate, this is America, and I have had two hours of wandering about and I simply want to go home, and that is Richmond, so here I am."
His voice was quite calm throughout this very long one-sided conversation, and I just let him talk. The story was coming back to me. The Scarlet. . . what was that word?. . . something, was an Englishman who had married a Frenchwoman and had an argument with her and then decided that he had to rescue French aristocrats during the French Revolution to occupy himself. If this man was at all insane, then he knew his classic literature quite well, if he was trying to impersonate Sir Percy Blakeney. For a second I was a little afraid of him - it is not often that a girl of twenty-five gets to sit next to someone who thinks he is a fictional character. Not me, anyway.
Well. . . at least he wasn't trying to impersonate Marguerite. Or Chauveron. . . or whatever the villain's name was. . .
That would have been interesting. . .
Trust me. I work in San Francisco. Such people exist.
But he had leaned back against the concrete, suddenly seeming very tired and almost. . . well, almost vulnerable. . . and VERY foreign, and very much in need of someone to help.
Odd that it was then that I felt safe around him. And even odder that I was beginning to believe his story.
"So you have no idea how you got here?" I asked softly.
He had closed his eyes and crossed his arms, "Not the slightest clue," he said simply.
"And you don't know, really, where you are?"
"No."
"Or when you are?"
"What?" He opened his eyes and looked keenly at me, that quizzing glass of his - quizzing glass! - imposing itself between my face and his.
I was beginning to remember specifics. A surging, seething mass of people who are only human in name. . . Paris. . . 1792. . .
"No, not what," I said calmly, "When. What year is it, Sir Percy?
He dropped his quizzing glass, "It is the autumn of the Year of Our Lord, 1794."
"Is it? And when were you born?"
"March 12th 1760. . ." he said almost reluctantly, "Why?"
"Because, Sir, this is the spring of the year of No Lord in Particular, 2009, and you are either utterly insane, or I am completely delusional."
