TITLE: An Unsuitable Woman
AUTHORS: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring and Kathleen Speck. Brenda wrote the Chakotay entries and the coda, Kathy wrote the Janeway entries.
PART: 4/6
From Lord Chakotay's Journal
26 May 18--
This afternoon's picnic was maddening. To see Lady Kathryn across the lawn, and know that I could not so much as approach her, much less speak with her--to be forced instead to endure the insipid chatter of foolish girls who have no thought beyond the next ball or the newest gown, to watch the transparent manoeuvrings of the proud mamas whose only wish is to mate their little darlings to the man of highest rank and greatest wealth--! With Kathryn at my side, I might have laughed at the frivolity and spectacle, but barred from her presence I could only chafe and glower with frustration.
I left as early as was decently permissible, and made a swift retreat to our townhouse. Not long afterward, my father also returned home, with reproaches for my early departure, as well as for my sullenness throughout the event. It was more than I could endure, and I departed the house as swiftly as I could change garments.
The club, at least, was decently quiet and free of either chatter or reprimand. I dined in that blessed quiet, and retired afterward to an armchair, to be alone with the newspapers and my thoughts. John Ethan fetched me a brandy and a cigar, retreating with his usual admirable discretion.
The stillness was broken by the arrival of an old comrade of mine. I looked up at a loud hail, to find that I was being greeted by none other than Tom Paris. Though in some ways I was genuinely glad to see him (I still remember fondly the nights we spent with our shipmates at S____'s tavern), I fear I was but ill company, as what I had really wished in coming to the club was not companionship, but solitude.
Tom, as always, was quick to realise my mood, and, also as always, to refuse to respect it. "So, my Lord Viscount," he demanded merrily (only Tom Paris could use my newly-won title to tease!), "what's made you even less charming than usual this evening?" I advised him that I did not wish to speak of it, but of course that did not daunt him. "Heard you were making the rounds of the debutantes. I'd have thought you'd enjoy that, you old rogue!"
I delivered a short, blistering commentary on the utter lack of wit, sense, and beauty amongst this year's girls, the bitterness of which actually rendered Tom briefly silent. "So no one has captured your interest, then?" he surmised after a moment.
"That's just it," I said shortly. "Someone has. But not one of this year's girls." He allowed that many girls did not find husbands in their first season. To which I snapped that it was not her first season by more than a decade, that she was on the shelf and thus quite ineligible.
"And who is this interesting and ineligible lady?"
"Lady Kathryn Janeway," I said at last, grudgingly.
"The admiral's daughter?"
"The same."
"Hmmm....you're right, she's no debutante. In fact, old friend, she's nearly as old as you, isn't she?"
I glared at him before informing him, quite stiffly, that the lady was two-and-thirty, three years my junior.
"Indeed," he mused, as if giving the matter some consideration. "So what is so interesting about this *young* lady?"
"She has wit! She has understanding! She has a knowledge of the world! She is not one of those walking dolls who know about nothing beyond the latest fashions. She has spirit and grace."
"I note you don't say she's pretty," he pressed.
"Perhaps not to those fools who think all beauty resides in youth," I snapped-and lost myself for a moment, thinking of those large eyes, those perfect cheekbones, those slim shoulders. Of the way her face lit up when she smiled. No, she was not pretty as a girl was pretty; hers was the beauty of a woman grown.
When I returned to myself, Tom was observing me closely. "Oh, old friend, she has you in quite a state," he said softly.
In that moment, I realised the truth that Tom had already inferred, the reality my own mind had hidden from me: I love Lady Kathryn Janeway.
At last I acknowledged, "I suppose so." It should have been a joyful moment, but it was not. Of what value was a love that could not be acted upon?
There was sympathy in Tom's blue eyes as he regarded me. "So let's see," he said finally, as if taking inventory. "She has wit and understanding. She has spirit and grace. She's pretty. She was born of a good family, and has, to all accounts, a good reputation. And," he added quite definitely, "you love her."
I nodded, unable to dispute a single word of his summary. Dear God, I loved her. What was I to do?
Tom shrugged. "Then I should think the solution to your difficulties would be obvious, my friend."
I had no idea what he meant, and said so.
His face took on an impatient aspect. "For God's sake, Chakotay--marry the lady!"
I fear I looked at him quite stupidly. "Excuse me?"
"Marry her. For the love of God, man, why not?"
"But--" I sputtered finally. "But she is two-and-thirty!"
"And why should that be an obstacle? *You* are *five*-and-thirty."
"But I need--I need a woman who can give me children. Sons." I have great esteem for my father, but I could never do what he had done, in turning from the wife who trusted him to father his heir elsewhere. Even though dear Lady Eleanor had accepted him again as husband, had even come to accept me as son, I cannot but think that his infidelity must have hurt her deeply. And I had determined long ago that I would never be the cause of such injury to a good woman.
Tom rolled his eyes. "And what makes you think she cannot give you sons? Is not her sister-in-law in circumstances even as we speak? And she is some years *older* than Lady Kathryn. My sisters have borne children whilst they were past thirty years, and so have your own. How old was Elizabeth when she bore her youngest? Or Margaret?"
"Elizabeth was seven-and-thirty," I said, realising it. "Josephine six-and-thirty. And Margaret--Margaret was a full forty years." A wild hope rose within me, mingled with a sudden, startling joy. "Dear God. Is it possible? Could I truly--?"
"Why not?" He grinned at me, with every jot of his old insolence very much in evidence. "If your father tries to stop it, Chakotay, just say the word and Belle and I will ride with you to Gretna Green tomorrow. After all," and here he winked, "I do know the way!" (Gretna Green, of course, being where he and Belle had wed, after their speedy elopement!)
And so the matter was settled. Tomorrow morning, I shall ride to the Janeways' townhouse, and ask for a word with Lady Kathryn, then--if my proposal be pleasing to her--a word with her brother.
God, please let it be pleasing to her. If our marriage is her wish, too, then I will *buy* that fool brother of hers if I must, to win his permission. After all, what good is being the heir to Dorvan, if I cannot buy the occasional lord at need?
But I begin to ramble. It is grown quite late, and I should try to sleep now--though at the rate my heart is thundering, God alone knows how I shall manage!
AUTHORS: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring and Kathleen Speck. Brenda wrote the Chakotay entries and the coda, Kathy wrote the Janeway entries.
PART: 4/6
From Lord Chakotay's Journal
26 May 18--
This afternoon's picnic was maddening. To see Lady Kathryn across the lawn, and know that I could not so much as approach her, much less speak with her--to be forced instead to endure the insipid chatter of foolish girls who have no thought beyond the next ball or the newest gown, to watch the transparent manoeuvrings of the proud mamas whose only wish is to mate their little darlings to the man of highest rank and greatest wealth--! With Kathryn at my side, I might have laughed at the frivolity and spectacle, but barred from her presence I could only chafe and glower with frustration.
I left as early as was decently permissible, and made a swift retreat to our townhouse. Not long afterward, my father also returned home, with reproaches for my early departure, as well as for my sullenness throughout the event. It was more than I could endure, and I departed the house as swiftly as I could change garments.
The club, at least, was decently quiet and free of either chatter or reprimand. I dined in that blessed quiet, and retired afterward to an armchair, to be alone with the newspapers and my thoughts. John Ethan fetched me a brandy and a cigar, retreating with his usual admirable discretion.
The stillness was broken by the arrival of an old comrade of mine. I looked up at a loud hail, to find that I was being greeted by none other than Tom Paris. Though in some ways I was genuinely glad to see him (I still remember fondly the nights we spent with our shipmates at S____'s tavern), I fear I was but ill company, as what I had really wished in coming to the club was not companionship, but solitude.
Tom, as always, was quick to realise my mood, and, also as always, to refuse to respect it. "So, my Lord Viscount," he demanded merrily (only Tom Paris could use my newly-won title to tease!), "what's made you even less charming than usual this evening?" I advised him that I did not wish to speak of it, but of course that did not daunt him. "Heard you were making the rounds of the debutantes. I'd have thought you'd enjoy that, you old rogue!"
I delivered a short, blistering commentary on the utter lack of wit, sense, and beauty amongst this year's girls, the bitterness of which actually rendered Tom briefly silent. "So no one has captured your interest, then?" he surmised after a moment.
"That's just it," I said shortly. "Someone has. But not one of this year's girls." He allowed that many girls did not find husbands in their first season. To which I snapped that it was not her first season by more than a decade, that she was on the shelf and thus quite ineligible.
"And who is this interesting and ineligible lady?"
"Lady Kathryn Janeway," I said at last, grudgingly.
"The admiral's daughter?"
"The same."
"Hmmm....you're right, she's no debutante. In fact, old friend, she's nearly as old as you, isn't she?"
I glared at him before informing him, quite stiffly, that the lady was two-and-thirty, three years my junior.
"Indeed," he mused, as if giving the matter some consideration. "So what is so interesting about this *young* lady?"
"She has wit! She has understanding! She has a knowledge of the world! She is not one of those walking dolls who know about nothing beyond the latest fashions. She has spirit and grace."
"I note you don't say she's pretty," he pressed.
"Perhaps not to those fools who think all beauty resides in youth," I snapped-and lost myself for a moment, thinking of those large eyes, those perfect cheekbones, those slim shoulders. Of the way her face lit up when she smiled. No, she was not pretty as a girl was pretty; hers was the beauty of a woman grown.
When I returned to myself, Tom was observing me closely. "Oh, old friend, she has you in quite a state," he said softly.
In that moment, I realised the truth that Tom had already inferred, the reality my own mind had hidden from me: I love Lady Kathryn Janeway.
At last I acknowledged, "I suppose so." It should have been a joyful moment, but it was not. Of what value was a love that could not be acted upon?
There was sympathy in Tom's blue eyes as he regarded me. "So let's see," he said finally, as if taking inventory. "She has wit and understanding. She has spirit and grace. She's pretty. She was born of a good family, and has, to all accounts, a good reputation. And," he added quite definitely, "you love her."
I nodded, unable to dispute a single word of his summary. Dear God, I loved her. What was I to do?
Tom shrugged. "Then I should think the solution to your difficulties would be obvious, my friend."
I had no idea what he meant, and said so.
His face took on an impatient aspect. "For God's sake, Chakotay--marry the lady!"
I fear I looked at him quite stupidly. "Excuse me?"
"Marry her. For the love of God, man, why not?"
"But--" I sputtered finally. "But she is two-and-thirty!"
"And why should that be an obstacle? *You* are *five*-and-thirty."
"But I need--I need a woman who can give me children. Sons." I have great esteem for my father, but I could never do what he had done, in turning from the wife who trusted him to father his heir elsewhere. Even though dear Lady Eleanor had accepted him again as husband, had even come to accept me as son, I cannot but think that his infidelity must have hurt her deeply. And I had determined long ago that I would never be the cause of such injury to a good woman.
Tom rolled his eyes. "And what makes you think she cannot give you sons? Is not her sister-in-law in circumstances even as we speak? And she is some years *older* than Lady Kathryn. My sisters have borne children whilst they were past thirty years, and so have your own. How old was Elizabeth when she bore her youngest? Or Margaret?"
"Elizabeth was seven-and-thirty," I said, realising it. "Josephine six-and-thirty. And Margaret--Margaret was a full forty years." A wild hope rose within me, mingled with a sudden, startling joy. "Dear God. Is it possible? Could I truly--?"
"Why not?" He grinned at me, with every jot of his old insolence very much in evidence. "If your father tries to stop it, Chakotay, just say the word and Belle and I will ride with you to Gretna Green tomorrow. After all," and here he winked, "I do know the way!" (Gretna Green, of course, being where he and Belle had wed, after their speedy elopement!)
And so the matter was settled. Tomorrow morning, I shall ride to the Janeways' townhouse, and ask for a word with Lady Kathryn, then--if my proposal be pleasing to her--a word with her brother.
God, please let it be pleasing to her. If our marriage is her wish, too, then I will *buy* that fool brother of hers if I must, to win his permission. After all, what good is being the heir to Dorvan, if I cannot buy the occasional lord at need?
But I begin to ramble. It is grown quite late, and I should try to sleep now--though at the rate my heart is thundering, God alone knows how I shall manage!
