I can't believe I didn't even realize the parallels to 304 until after I had written this. Lmao.
The gentleman's club was fit to burst by the time they arrived. According to Octavia, this event was an annual tradition in which the London toffs* opened the clubs prestigious doors to everyone (as long as they weren't too disreputable looking or a woman). There would be a number of fights and the champion would go home with a small fortune. It was suddenly very clear to Clarke why Lincoln was putting himself in harms way. She wondered if Octavia realized he was doing this for her as well and if that was the real reason she had been so adamant about attending.
They pushed through the crowd that was already lining the entryway, eliciting many complaints and dark looks. In her keen desire to lay eyes on her hearts desire, Octavia was oblivious to them all, and Clarke was afraid she would trouble the wrong fellow and start a fight of her own. One 'gentleman' in particular looked quite murderous when Octavia elbowed him in the stomach and showed not the slightest sign of remorse. She muttered an apology to the man on behalf of her friend, though she wasn't sure he even heard it for the venue was quite boisterous and brimming with energy.
Clarke prayed for safe passage and was granted it until her single track minded friend finally came to a halt at the front of the crowd. They were on the lowest step of a downward series and the rectangular 'ring' was just beneath them. A single waist high rope designated its boundaries. Two men were in the ring, one of which was already sprawled on the ground. Neither of them was Mr. Sterling for which Octavia seemed equal parts relieved and consternated. What if her information had been inaccurate and they had gone to all this trouble simply to leave?
The club was far smokier than that even of her father's workshop and within minutes of being here, her eyes were stinging painfully. She resisted the urge to rub at them, never understanding how men could stand fumes in such density for prolonged periods of time. The effort required to get here by foot had left them considerably winded and sweating profusely, and consequently Clarke was sure the glue holding her moustache in place would give way at any moment and she would be unceremoniously thrown out, or worse. This too she resisted the urge to pat down, afraid even the slightest touch might dislodge it even more readily than her excretions.
Another set of unfamiliar gentleman walked into the ring and began rolling up their sleeves. A mediator called for silence and then announced their names, Lord Rothenberg and Roan Hawkins. There was some muttering at the latters name and Clarke instinctively paid more attention to Mr. Hawkins. He was a fine looking specimen, not unlike Mr. Sterling, though perhaps not quite as muscular. Lord Rothenberg by comparison looked frail as could be and as if he had never done a single days labour in his life; likely he hadn't. Clarke couldn't fathom why the man was even there. Pride and arrogance she supposed.
The men bowed to each other and then put their dukes up as it were, circling for many seconds before throwing the first punches. The overly boisterous cacophony of the crowd commenced in short order when the fight came to an abrupt end. One punch to the jaw was all it took to subdue Lord Rothenberg. Clarke wasn't too concerned about what this could mean for Mr. Sterling, (should he even be here) because of Lord Rothenberg's previously mentioned frailty.
It was several more tame fights before Lincoln made an appearance. The winners of each bout of fisticuffs remained ring side, so when Octavia grasped her arm, squealing in excitement, she immediately drew the attention of Mr. Hawkins. Discreetly, Clarke pinched Octavia's side and murmured to her to contain herself. Even as she said this, she noticed yet another pair of eyes on them. She nearly fainted when she saw Mr. Kane frowning in their direction from across the ring on an upper level. As long as he didn't come any closer they would be fine.
The mediator announced the next two participants, the other man being Mr. Charles Pike. Lincoln's opponent was of a shorter stature, but he was just as well endowed in terms of the size of his chest. As all the fights began, so too did this one. The men circled one another for some time before attempting to subdue the other. A series of punches were thrown and evaded on both sides, and then Mr. Pike landed a heavy handed blow to the side of Lincoln's face. Octavia grabbed her arm again and her friend's grip was so tight, Clarke had no hope of extricating herself without causing even more of a scene. Lincoln staggered back a bit, leaning on the rope briefly, but then gathered his wits once more and returned to the fight with an even greater glimmer of determination in his eye. Or perhaps that was Clarke's unshed tears. The smoke was irritating them to such a degree that she could no longer help but to wipe at them.
Mr. Pike attempted to hit Lincoln again, but Lincoln anticipated the blow and dodged it, returning his own punch to Pike's side. The man grunted in pain and lashed back. Perhaps one hundred or more punches were thrown before Lincoln's youth and therefore greater physical fitness aided in the final knockout blow of the older fellow. Mr. Pike was enraged to lose so early on in the proceedings, so it was up to the mediator (a very large bearded fellow) to drag him out of the club.
The mediator came back and announced the end of round one. The remaining opponents names (which had presumably been previously written onto scraps of paper) were presently thrown into a pristine top hat, one that had likely never been worn before and was only used for this express purpose. These were picked out at random. Two men she had no interest in whatsoever took to centre stage once more and proceeded to beat each other senseless. It was somewhat difficulty not to glance away at any point and pretend to be actually enjoying herself. She didn't agree with her mother on a lot of points, but this sort of organized sport was incomprehensible to both of them. Too many blows to the head could only lead to dull senses...but perhaps that was the issue to begin with.
Lincoln had to fight again almost right away but thankfully his opponent was nothing like Mr. Pike had been, and the strapping boy easily won the match, tired as he was. Clarke hoped he would have enough time to regain his strength before his next fight commenced. Certainly if he didn't, Octavia would remove all sense of feeling from her arm altogether. Clarke was doing her best to avoid looking in Mr. Kane's direction. It was easier said than done as he was almost constantly staring at them.
Mr. Hawkins made his way back into the ring a couple of fights later. Before the match began, he stared at her, smirked slightly and then proceeded to take out his man without receiving a single blow to any part of his anatomy. Now Clarke was beginning to understand why his name had elicited so much muttering and she began to fear for Lincoln should he have to face Mr. Hawkins. He was clearly the best fighter here. He had tattoos on both forearms, something only incredibly disreputable sorts obtained, and she assumed he was some sort of pirate who wanted to make a mockery of the well-to-do land dwellers.
The participants were whittled down one by one, the fights getting more desperate, until none of the toffs were left in play. And then to her and Octavia's chagrin, Lincoln and Mr. Hawkins were paired to fight. Mr. Sterling was already the worse for wear, whereas Mr. Hawkins looked fit as a fiddle. Clarke wouldn't describe him as cleanly and becoming, because that he was not. He had longer, lankier hair than those present and dirt on his face. She doubted he had bathed in months, which simply reinforced the notion of his being a pirate come briefly ashore for mayhem and mischief.
Lincoln took his time sizing his formidable opponent up, and said opponent allowed this study, perhaps only in the hopes of eliciting a more interesting fight. Mr. Hawkins was obviously self assured of his abilities and not worried in the slightest that he would lose. Lincoln came at him fast and furious, with an exceptional burst of energy the likes of which had not been seen thus far, and Hawkins' smirk fell off his face in his surprise. Hawkins barely evaded being pummeled, and for once, a multitude of blows landed on his sides, head and arms, the latter of which he kept securely in front of his face, in an effort to alleviate the worst of the onslaught to his comely features. Hawkins was literally on the ropes, and if Lincoln had not run out of steam, Clarke was sure he would have succeeded in subduing Hawkins.
Alas, Hawkins was clever enough to ride out the storm and when the assault abruptly ended, he smirked at the wheezing, staggering man and landed a few well placed blows to various parts of Mr. Sterlings anatomy. Lincoln fell over like a sack of potatoes and didn't move for several seconds. Octavia's lament was swallowed up by the raucous shouting of the crowd. Then he struggled to his feet, garnering fanatical enthusiasm from the crowd when he succeeded, albeit with the aid of the rope. Clarke was struggling to maintain her place on the lowest step. If they were forced down they would be almost in the ring with the opponents.
Panting heavily, one eye nearly clamped shut, Lincoln held his fists up anew. Though they were standing very close, much too close for Clarke's liking, she could not make out what Hawkins was saying to Lincoln. She could only tell that he appeared to be impressed with Lincoln's dogged, and let's be quite frank, foolish persistence. As much as she wanted Lincoln to win, there was no way he was going to in his current woebegone state. Clearly Octavia agreed with her assessment for she dropped down from the step and onto the ground below. Clarke hissed at her to come back and when Octavia didn't heed her, she dropped down too and grabbed her arm.
The mediator leveled a threatening stare in their direction when Octavia broke free and approached Lincoln in order to persuade him to concede the battle. Clarke willed herself not to glance up at Mr. Kane and moved after her friend who was attempting to get Lincoln's attention. Lincoln was so focused on Mr. Hawkins that he took no note of her. However, Mr. Hawkins did, and while he was distracted by their approach, Lincoln managed to land a blow to his unmarred face. Encouraged by this, he swung again. Unfortunately, Hawkins regained his wits exceptionally fast and blocked the blow. Octavia screamed when Hawkins caused Lincoln to lose his footing again, caused him to crumple on the ground, unmoving.
Her friend ducked under the rope, losing her top hat as she did so, and went to his aid, placing a trembling hand to the side of his bruised and beaten face. Clarke followed her as the mediator announced Hawkins the winner of the bout. She dropped down beside Octavia to check at least that Lincoln still had breath left to him. She breathed out a sigh of relief when she indicated the signs of life.
"He will revive in time," she comforted her friend.
There was a physician on hand who told them to be gone, and it was only at Clarke's insistence that Octavia came with her before she either gave them up completely or the large bearded fellow intervened. In her heightened awareness of her surroundings, she could feel several sets of undesirable eyes on them as they made their way through a side entrance and out into an alleyway. Octavia immediately lost all control of her wits and flung herself into Clarke's arms, lamenting with considerable vigour.
"Mr. Sterling is a healthy, vigorous man, Octavia," she said, patting her back and ignoring the strange stares they were getting from some smoking individuals. "He shall no doubt regain his former bloom with all haste."
"And if he does not?" Octavia cried in a very unmanly fashion. "What shall I do then? I cannot lose him, Clarke!"
The men were watching them with clear suspicion and distaste and Clarke deemed it wise to leave the premises now. This decision became all the more paramount when she extricated herself from her friends embrace only to find Octavia's moustache had disappeared. She found it resting on her shoulder. Pocketing it swiftly, she guided Octavia out of the alleyway and raised a hand, hoping to hail a cab. Thankfully, they were in a busy part of the city and there were a number of carriages out and about yet this evening.
It was a liberating experience to simply raise her hand and have the driver move towards them. On several occasions, while dressed as a woman, any men in the vicinity had taken precedence over her own need. She thought it a strange thing. Young women, and women in general, were usually more susceptible to unfavourable attentions, hence her strict guardianship, and yet, they were left vulnerable more often than not. Was it simply that the driver assumed they could not pay?
In any case, the cab was before them in short order and Clarke was simultaneously helping Octavia in and telling the driver where to go. Her own moustache had come off half way, making her look the fool, so she ripped it off the rest of the way, wincing ever so slightly at the unpleasantness. She held Octavia's hand the entire journey back to her apartment, and then paid the driver with money she had brought with in case an admittance fee was required. She dashed into the alleyway and retrieved the large blanket containing their clothing, handing it to her stock still friend.
"Must you go?" inquired Octavia dully, knowing full well the answer.
"Indeed I must, my dear friend," she replied, placing her hands on either side of her face. She smiled kindly at her friend, trying to invoke courage and confidence where there was none. Finally Octavia nodded her acceptance of the situation and Clarke turned to leave.
"Clarke, you're still wearing men's attire."
"If Mr. Kane returns home before me, I shall never see the light of day again."
"Go."
Clarke needed no further prompting and took off like the horses at the racetrack. It was uplifting and miraculous how fast, how easy it was to move in this way while out of her constricting clothing. There was no holding of skirts or stumbling in dainty shoes. It was not proper for women to run, nor should they ever have any need to.
What utter poppycock, she thought to herself as she weaved in and out of alleyways, and around startled passersby. By the time she returned home, she was fully in love with men's clothing and would happily wear it for the rest of her days. Hastily, she put aside her silly dream and climbed the gate surrounding The Griffin house. It would be some time before they allowed her a key. In comparison to her usual attire, the climb was exceedingly simplistic. Smugly, she smiled to herself and her accomplishment.
She froze in place when a carriage pulled up just outside the gate. Thankfully no lantern light had yet reached her. Like a deluded prisoner, she rushed back to the confines of her cell, slipping into the house through the unlocked door to the kitchens. As the front door opened, she crept up the stairs like a thief in the night, carefully avoiding the one that always creaked. Clarke plopped into bed, pulled the covers up high even though she was sweltering. She heard footsteps approaching and then she remembered the wig that was still residing on her head. She ripped it off and shoved it under her pillow a moment before the door handle turned and someone peeked their head in.
Since her back was to the doorway, she couldn't be certain it was indeed Mr. Kane, though logic dictated that it must be. Male servants were not supposed to enter her chambers, especially not at night, but he was the head servant, so he enjoyed more privilege and responsibility than the others. Even so, he always kept decorum intact and only peered into the room unless absolutely necessary to do otherwise. After a few interminable seconds in which her heart beat like a war drum, the door closed once more and the footsteps receded, heading towards the basement and the servants quarters.
Clarke let out a massive sigh and threw back the sheets. She then removed all of the wet, odorous clothing and bindings from her person and hid them underneath her bed. Next she washed herself down with a cloth and water from the basin always at hand. Feeling reasonably cleanly again, she put on her nightgown and slipped back under the covers, grinning to herself as she drifted off in exhaustion.
There was much hullabaloo with regards to Mr. Sterling the next morning, mostly from that of her mother. While Lincoln was free to do with his body as he saw fit, the severity of his injuries were considerable and would impede his ability to perform his duties. More than that inconvenience though, Mrs. Griffin did not enjoy seeing one of her own in such an undesirable state. She performed a second diagnostic of the stable boy (keeping him clothed at all times mind you for Miss Griffin and her husband were watching), and then satisfied that the blows to the head were not life threatening, she allowed him to return to his loft in the stable to rest.
Predictably, Octavia arrived at their home later that morning. It was evident to Clarke that her friend was only just managing to maintain her composure. Clarke proceeded to publicly inform her of Mr. Sterlings physical afflictions, to which Octavia expressed her astonishment, and then the two young ladies walked right by Mr. Kane and out back, towards the stables.
They climbed the ladder to the loft and within seconds of seeing Lincoln in such a pitiable state, Octavia flung herself at him, crying into his chest. The resting man was doubtless surprised out of his wits and such sudden contact, particularly contact with the object of his hearts desire, and accordingly didn't react at first, stiff as a board. It was several moments before he brought his arms up to embrace her back. He looked up at Clarke who just nodded and headed back down the ladder to give them some privacy. To go through so much trial and tribulation only to fail in the end must have been horribly disappointing. Financially speaking Lincoln was in the same dire straits he had always been. He would never be able to properly support a wife and family, not unless he suddenly inherited a fortune from a long lost relative. And that sort of thing only happened in the romance novels, which she certainly did not read.
If only he could have bested Mr. Hawkins, her friend could have been happy with the one she loved. Now their union was unlikely to ever come to pass. Mr. Sterling would never willingly make Octavia destitute. As long as she remained unmarried, her brother would continue to support her with all he could. After that, she would be at the mercy of her husbands income, and perhaps whatever else she could manage to scrounge up. It would be a hard life if they were to ever marry.
Clarke often dreamed of the mysterious woman who had rescued them, but last night she had dreamed of Mr. Hawkins. She couldn't fathom why. He was a no good pirate who had stolen away Lincoln's one chance at a new start. If Clarke were braver and knew where to find the pirate, she would no doubt attempt to steal the purse back. While she waited for Octavia and Lincoln to console one another to their hearts content, she pondered a scheme in which she snuck down to the docks at night and onto the pirate ship and took all of Mr. Hawkins - if indeed that was his real name – booty.
Clarke was startled out of her daydream by none other than Mr. Kane.
"The tea and biscuits are ready, mistress."
"Thank you, Marcus. I shall inform Miss Blake directly."
There was some movement up above and Clarke cursed internally at her friends poor timing. It was painfully obvious where Octavia was, so neither made a move and they just stared at one another until she finally broke the silence. "You may leave now."
Mr. Kane raised an eyebrow at the curt dismissal but did as he was told. A moment later, Octavia appeared on the ladder, looking quite the mess. Clarke wiped away the remainder of the tear tracks with a monogrammed handkerchief, as well as pulled out a few bits of hay from her hair. Satisfied with her friends appearance, they walked arm in arm back into the house to partake of the longest held British tradition.
A few days later as Clarke was sketching yet another portrait of the mystery woman's face, they received an unexpected visitor. She nearly dropped the sketchbook when she saw who it was.
"By all means, miss, don't stop on my account," he smirked.
Clarke stared wide eyed at the gentleman for a moment longer before regaining her composure and standing up to greet him with her mother. She could see him trying to catch a glimpse of her artwork, so she flipped the book closed. Clarke rarely shared her pictures or paintings with anyone outside of the household, save for Octavia, who predictably thought she was brilliant.
"Mrs. Griffin...daughter, allow me to introduce Mr. Hawkins," said her father, who was standing beside the gentleman in question. And he was a gentleman. At least in appearance. His suit was pristine, as was his face, all trace of stubble and dirt removed. His long, lanky hair had been cut down considerably and was now clean and coiffed in a fashionable manner. His shoes were polished and he was even wearing a pair of white gloves. Though she suspected this had more to do with the fact that his hands might have been damaged a bit in the fighting pit rather than as act of the utmost decorum.
He kissed her mothers proffered hand. Reluctantly, she held out her own as well, which he promptly took and kissed. "Pleasure to meet you, sir."
He smiled at her, and she saw he had very nice white teeth, and not at all what one would expect with that of a pirate, or a typical Englander. "The pleasure is all mine," he returned in his deep husky American voice which inexplicably elicited a shiver.
"Mr. Hawkins has recently finished a three year long campaign around the world," informed her father, beaming at the man. He usually only reserved that look for the completion of working inventions, or scones. "A most admirable accomplishment."
"That must have been quite the adventure," said her mother.
"Yes, it was," he replied with another charming smile. He glanced at Clarke as he said, "I learned a great deal of secrets."
She swallowed nervously, wondering if he was about to give her up, wondering why on earth he was even here.
"Oh do tell!" said her father excitedly. He rarely left the city and missed the wandering days of his youth.
Hawkins smirked at her again before returning his gaze to her father. "Maybe another time, sir. I'm afraid I have a previous engagement and can't stay for long." He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small purple purse. This he handed to her father. "See that Mr. Sterling receives that."
Clarke could hardly believe that he was here, let alone handing over the proceeds of his victory.
"Do you not wish to give it to him yourself, sir?" said her father puzzedly. "He is just out back."
"You seem like an honourable, trustworthy man. I know you will do the right thing as doubtless you have done countless times before."
Her father practically blushed at the compliment and Clarke had to stifle a groan at his conduct.
Hawkins tipped an imaginary hat to all three of them, giving Clarke a slightly lingering, knowing gaze before turning on his heel and disappearing just as suddenly as he had arrived. It was sometime after that that her heart returned to a regular rhythm.
Nearly a fortnight after that visit, Octavia called upon her and threw herself into Clarke's arms at the earliest convenience, for her that is. Clarke nearly lost the painting she had been working on when she staggered back under her friends onslaught. Octavia was considerably unintelligible and by all accounts hysterical, and doubtless garnering many disapproving glares from the household and the ruckus she was making. When she finally released Clarke she held up her hand, or rather placed it so close to her eyes so as to make it impossible to view. Clarke took her friends trembling hand and held it back a bit to finally focus on the plain silver ring that resided there.
"He proposed!" shrieked Octavia needlessly. "And I accepted!"
Clarke just stood there stupidly, at a loss for words.
"Well, say something!"
She blinked a few times, her senses rushing back all at once, and smiled, genuinely. "Why, that's marvelous news, Octavia! I am so very delighted for you both! Congratulations!"
Octavia squealed in happiness and pulled her in for a too tight hug once more. When she had calmed down she whispered in her ear, "Lincoln is most skilled at intimate favours."
Miss Blake let her go and winked at Clarke who was again at a loss for words. Octavia took her arm, melting into her side. Undoubtedly they would have ventured outdoors now if it were not pouring rain. "It was wonderful," her friend elaborated dreamily. "I shall be very much surprised if I ever tire of the experience." She squeezed Clarke's arm affectionately. "Oh, I very much desire for you to share in my good fortunes."
"When is the happy day to occur?" Clarke asked, ignoring the flutter of despair in her stomach. If Mr. Collins had not turned out to be a cad, doubtless she would have already been married and had experiences far beyond that of kissing.
Octavia stilled beside her and laughed heartily. "Oh, heavens me! We haven't discussed that far ahead yet! I'm afraid we were quite caught up in one another for such discourse!" She winked at Clarke again and Clarke was beginning to get irritated and jealous to a slight degree. A very slight degree.
The two girls animatedly talked for some time, discussing everything from which church to get married in, to which dress to wear. Swept up in the conversation, she offered her services in that regard. "I could design your dress, Octavia. Granted I have little experience in such fields of study but I do believe with Monroe's assistance, I could produce a fitting wedding dress for you to wear."
Miss Blake burst into tears at the offering, smothering Clarke with affectionate kisses on her cheeks. And as luck would have it, that was the precise moment Mr. Hawkins made his next appearance. Clarke caught sight of him (and Mr. Kane) and then the painting nearby which of course drew his attention straight away and he observed it with growing amusement. Clarke observed his observations with growing mortification.
"Octavia, we have a guest!" exclaimed Clarke, and her friend abruptly stopped her outpouring of affection.
Octavia wiped the tears from her cheeks and turned to greet said guest. "Good day, sir, I apolo-" She frowned at Mr. Hawkins as recognition ignited. She marched up to the gentleman and looked just about ready to lay violent hands on him. Clarke wasn't convinced she would not, so she quickly intervened, taking her friends hand in hers.
"Clarke, what is this...man doing here?" asked Octavia in a dangerously quiet voice.
"I haven't the foggiest notion, I assure you," she replied, mostly telling the truth.
Hawkins glanced between them, his eyes landing on Octavia's engagement ring. "I've come to ask for your hand, Miss Griffin," he said, catching her eye. He smirked at their stunned expressions. "For the upcoming masquerade ball. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me? Your friend of course is welcome to join us."
Neither girl spoke for a time and then Octavia turned on Clarke. "If you accept this preposterous invitation, I will never speak to you again! He hurt-"
"Octavia, hold your tongue!" Clarke hissed, pulling her further away from Hawkins and Kane, the latter of which was eyeing them suspiciously, that is to say, more suspiciously than usual.
"Clarke, he-"
"Gave Lincoln the purse from the fight," she interjected in hushed tones.
"He what?" Octavia said, dumbfounded, staring over at Hawkins. "He couldn't have."
"I assure you he did, my dear friend. Did you not think it strange that Mr. Sterling asked for your hand so soon after the fight that he lost?"
Octavia seemed at war with herself for several more interminable seconds and then collapsed onto the nearest chair.
Clarke turned back to Hawkins to find he was now very closely studying the painting of the pirate that bared an uncanny resemblance to himself. "Excellent craftsmanship," he noted, apparently oblivious to all of their carryings on. "Clean, definite strokes, yet full of passion and life. Reminds me of some of the greats in the Louvre. The detail in this pirates face is exquisite." He looked at her as he said, "One would almost think you knew him."
Even more mortified than before, she flushed in embarrassment and pleasure (no man besides her father had ever praised her work before). "You've been to the Louvre?"
Turning to face her, he stood tall from his stooped posture, hands still behind his back. He nodded. "Far more artwork than I was imagining. I spent close to a week there and still didn't manage to enjoy every piece to my hearts content."
Clarke had always wanted to visit the famous museum, but had never had the capacity to travel to the City of Light.
"Where else have you been?"
He smirked and said, "I'll tell you all about my travels, Miss Griffin...at the ball."
*rich man, but used in a not so nice way
One guess who's gonna make an appearance at the ball...hint: it starts with L and ends in exa. ;D
And yeah, they did actually have these fisticuff things.
