AN: This is a Victorian Rumbelle AU Teaser. You can look forward to an R-rated chapter fic from me in the future with this as its first chapter. For the purposes of this story, though, let's call it a solid PG. Maybe PG-13? There's a bit of substance abuse and violence, so I guess it's that. (PG-13)
Chapter 1
I. Dens of Iniquity
Sir Maurice Avon knew that he'd been beat. The gambling halls and gentlemen's clubs of of London were a fool's respite, one strong drink a coach-and-four away from debtor's prison. He'd thought, perhaps, that Lady Luck might grace him for an hour or two; he wanted only enough cash to settle his most pressing accounts in town, hire a post horse, and perhaps purchase some small trinket for his ward. Instead, he found himself offering up an I.O.U. to the Viscount of Sonnachdubh, a violently tempered Scotsman who dabbled in trade and had contrived to be elevated to the rank of second son from that of plebe. He was the unacknowledged bastard or a Lord, foisted off onto some poor Weaver's daughter; the story was well known among the gossips, as was the tale of the man's unlikely ascension of rank and entrance into the peerage.
Sonnachdubh bore the gaunt look of an opium-eater, and though his well-fitted frock coat and cravat added to his air of consequence and height, he stood not more than half-a-head taller than a lady in her slippers. The Viscount was also lame in one leg, a war wound from the early rebellions in Spain, and his cane's bite was feared up and down the Thames, all the way to Edinburgh, by street urchins and businessmen alike.
Maurice thought the Viscount looked more like he belonged in the Penal Colonies than in an estate of the peerage, Scotsman or no. The man was known to be poisonous, violent, proud, and fond of cards. No one else would extend him any credit, nor the courtesy of a game, and so he'd taken a seat at the Viscount's table. Then, plied by a bit of luck and the other man's pungent drink, he'd lost everything.
Sonnachdubh poured them each another measure of absinthe, green and swirling with the scent of fennel and wormwood, as they prepared to settle their accounts. He would have to make his excuses; there was not a single pound in his pocket, nor in his accounts. The Scotsman added four steady drops of saffron-red laudanum to his own glass, from a small hip flask, leaving the tincture to hang like blood, suspended in the green liquor. As Maurice did his best to explain himself, the Viscount downed his drink in one swift gulp.
"I'm not a man who likes to trade in credit," growled Sonnachdubh, a small cluster of golden teeth along his bottom jaw showing through the hard grimace. "As it happens, I've bought up quite a few of your notes. I'd like arrangements made before you return home."
He slid a piece of paper from his palm, passing it to Maurice; the figure written on it was astronomical, more than his estate could make in half a decade if all other expenses were ignored. A cold sweat broke out on the portly man's brow — the Viscount had not simply collected his notes, he'd collected all the notes. Bankruptcy did not even begin to cover the amount, and, to his shame, it was a fair number. Perhaps a tad on the low side, meaning the vile man had probably missed a few — the butcher, the tailor, small household accounts that wouldn't have come to much more than twenty pounds.
Maurice knew he'd over-extended himself, but all his life he'd struggled to persevere without descending to the ranks of working poor thronging in the streets and clamoring for alms. He'd failed; he'd failed his ancestors, his title, his land, himself, and his ward.
"There… there must be something else?" he offered, struggling to maintain his composure. He could not pay, and Sonnachdubh was within his rights to clap him in irons or — if rumors were to be believed — to beat him with his gold-topped cane. They said he was the devil incarnate, as likely to shoot a man as look at him, and — in the Reign of Her Majesty, 1857, in a club full of disreputable men — Maurice did not want to die in a London alley, broken by a stick of gold and ebony.
"I'd like my money," glowered the man, adjusting his coat and donning his top hat. "Have your banker's cheque tomorrow, during the regular visiting hours."
"There isn't any money," moaned Maurice. "I haven't got it. If you'll take my note, I'll… I'll…"
It killed him to say it so plainly, but that was the truth of it. For the Viscount to have bought up his I.O.U.s in the first place, he must have known that. Whatever he wanted, he would have it — his estate was heavily mortgaged, but it might be sold off easily enough in small bundles. Or perhaps he was working with the railroad; Maurice had refused them access to his lands several years ago, but they'd found a way around. He and his girl wouldn't need much, just a dower cottage and a little income — at least until she and the Judge's son could be married.
Lord, the Judge. The Right Honorable George Frontland III did not like that his son, George IV, was engaged to marry the penniless ward of a penniless squire. It pained him to leave her alone in their house. Anything could happen to his Belle…. Still, he'd settled with the lawyers that the younger Frontland should inherit his title — it was all the dowry he had to give the girl, now that it looked like the mortgage on the estate was heading sour — and that had, at long last, been enough for the Judge to consent. What would the proud Judge say now?
"So offer me something else," glowered the Viscount, his smile as deadly as the cane. They kept their voices low so as not to make a scene..
"I have some books left in the library, that might be sold. Latin and Greek masters, all very neatly bound. I've a small trust, not much, but a little that I could take out in capital and invest. Or there's the interest, if you'd take the sum paid out over time. Belle and I don't need—"
"Belle?" asked the man, pulling his kid-gloves slowly onto his long, lean hands.
The look on Sonnachdubh's face made Maurice ill. He knew. The bastard knew all about her, and before the words even formed, Sir Maurice could see how their negotiations would end. The Viscount would demand his ward in exchange for the lien on his properties, and that darling girl — the one he'd saved as a babe from the Jacobins, who he loved as dearly as if she were his own flesh and blood — would be taken from him.
"She is engaged…" he stammered, trying to un-say his mistake.
"I'm not looking to marry the girl," snapped Sonnachdubh. "I'll take her to serve me in my country house."
"Never," Maurice swore, his blood raging. The penalty for murder couldn't be much worse than a lifetime in the poor house; surely he could throttle the slender cripple with his own cane before the constable came? It would keep Belle safe from the lecherous beast, at least for a few more weeks.
"Then what? Is she to play at Dickens and support the pair of you on her sewing? I will claim your lands, your estate, your property — everything you hold dear, I will take by right of law, and I will sell it to the first climber who makes me a lucrative offer. What of your girl then? Will the genteel folk hire the bastard daughter of a soldier and a poor squire's ward for a governess, hn?"
"How do you know—"
"Never mind how I know. Do we have a deal, or shall I have them take you away in chains?" The Viscount's coarse brogue thickened with every syllable. He was no gentleman, of that Maurice was now certain.
"Chains," vowed Maurice. "You won't have her, not so long as I can prevent you."
Less than an hour later, after the Viscount had drunk another heady glass of absinthe and laudanum, the bailiff came to take Maurice away. Sonnachdubh looked to be in his own world, barely pausing to acknowledge Maurice in parting.
He had failed; all was lost.
II. The Midnight Ride
Belle French, so-named for her French mother and lack of any other proper parentage, was shocked when she found the Viscount of Sonnachdubh waiting for her in Judge Frontland's drawing room. She had been at rest in the Judge's library, her one pleasure in staying with her fiance's household. When the footman summoned her, she'd expected to see her father — not this impish man, clothed only in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.
Sir Maurice had raised her, almost from infancy, and she'd expected him home from London two days prior. The lack of news made her restless, and when she was restless she liked to read. The library was her only comfort for the two nights of waiting, and it contained more volumes than she'd ever imagined. George disliked sitting with her when she struggled through her Latin and Greek; it was hard enough upon him that he'd never mastered the languages, barely scraping through the dons of Oxford, but to see her work through it for pleasure sent him into doldrums that lasted well past supper.
Maurice had taught Belle at his knee, yet he refused to let her advertise for a post as a tutor or governess. They needed the money, and she'd enough accomplishments to shock most polite company, just not the right ones. In these matters, as in all others, she also lacked pedigree. Instead of music, they learned arithmetic; instead of drawing, her father taught her the constellations; in place of dance, the new discoveries of the natural sciences took shape. He did not know what knowledge best befitted a Lady (or the bastard ward of a Squire), so he simply taught her the same impractical wonders that had rendered him incapable of finding an occupation. Neither of them knew he'd been doing her a greater disservice than help in the end, but it was too late for a finishing school now — and they had no money to pay for one, at any rate.
She knew things, things that progressives and liberals bandied about, and it was all together better if she didn't speak much in the Judge's house. The Judge had a peculiar way of looking at her when she and George sat side by side, usually with her reading aloud to him in English while he tolerated it all good-heartedly; his eyes would darken, and his scowl deepen. Ever since a strange encounter when she was barely turned fourteen, she'd endeavored to stay away from him, and was careful to visit only with George in accompaniment The invitation to join the Judge in his study set Belle immediately on edge. Even if her father was returned from his business, the Judge could not have any honorable reason to ask for her company so late in the evening.
"Miss French," the Judge said, ushering her in. His eyes lingered overly-long on her uncovered arms. "Welcome, please allow me to present Lord Rumford Gold, Viscount of Sonnachdubh."
"My Lord," Belle replied, doing her best to dip into a curtsy. The Judge often mocked her clumsy attempts, so she focused on performing properly; George didn't seem to mind that she couldn't demure on demand, but — then again — for all that he was sweet, loyal, and kind, George didn't mind much of anything, except Greek and Latin texts.
Despite the Viscount's state of undress, Belle felt herself equally ill-met. She wore one of her mother's old dresses, fitted up under the long shadow of the Reign of Terror and Napoleon's armies in cold indifference to the Jacobin agenda. It was, as all of her wardrobe, refitted to suit as best it could; the neck line was immodest, the ruffles out of style, and the lace beginning to yellow, but it was the best dress she owned. Her others were all similar, equally out of style, and none of her simpler frocks would do to sit at the Judge's table.
"Miss French," the Viscount intoned, his voice cold and severe, "I am afraid I have some unpleasant news. Your patron, Sir Maurice, has been taken to prison until he can repay his debts. I am now the sole holder of his notes."
Belle knew the shock and pain of it all must have been written on her face, and she did her best to school her features. If he spoke truthfully, then her father needed her. He was a good gentleman from an old family, the new ways of industry did not suit him — but failure to adapt was not a crime. Prison would kill her father, he barely knew the world, aside from Paris, London and the fire-side of his own study.
"Naturally," added the Judge, adjusting his white wig, "this will change the nature of the understanding between yourself and my son."
He was looking at her so meaningfully, and — for a moment — Belle thought he meant to reach for her hand with his own, but Sonnachdubh interrupted.
"No, there will be no more weddings," he said ominously.
Belle agreed. She didn't have it in her to fight for a marriage of warming friendship, when her father needed her in a freezing London jail. "I must go to him, and see what can be done — if anything. Judge Frontland, I know I've no right to ask anything further of you, but if you… if you would… oh, please, won't you help me on my way to London? You must see that he needs me."
"Yes, yes," the Judge whispered, looking pale, "You shall have use of the carriage to take you on the morrow. And tonight…."
"Sir?"
"You will marry me," said the Judge. "It will be only a matter of weeks before the paperwork can be obtained. You could consider it my wedding gift to you."
Belle looked aghast. He'd always been horrible to her, and the plan would crush poor George. How could she marry where neither warmth nor friendship lingered to a man who haunted and terrified her?
"You would save my father?"
"I would have you," he replied, and the words sent a surge of bile to her throat.
"There is another way," Sonnachdubh cut in, pulling himself to his feet.
"Wh… what is it?" Belle asked, terrified by her choices as much as the strange Viscount's eerie air.
"I have an indenturement contract in my hand, Miss French. If you agree to come and work for me, I will see to it that Sir Maurice is released, and restore his lands to him post haste."
"Now see here!" objected the Judge, slamming his port glass down on the mantle.
"You will find it's all done-up very neat," Sonnachdubh spat at him, voice dripping with contempt. "All legal and notarized; the woman need only sign her name. You can write your name, can't you?"
"Well of course I—"
"Then please do," he continued, handing the contract to her.
"And I needn't marry?"
"In truth, I vow that you never will."
Belle wasn't sure whether to take that as a kind comfort or a veiled threat, and she nearly collapsed into the nearest chair to read his terms of indent. The Judge was at her arm, instantly, snatching at the contract.
"Belle, do not be absurd. Surely I am a better alternative than this… this slavery."
"Let her decide for herself, Frontland," spat the Viscount, taking a long pull from the flask he kept tucked into the breast of his waistcoat. He brandished his cane at the Judge and the man stepped back quickly, giving her the space she needed to think clearly.
Belle looked at the Judge, and her skin crawled over her bones at the thought him touching her. All was lost — her home, her father, her humble hopes. She had to be strong. In trembling hands, she picked up Sonnachdubh's contract and began to sift through. He would, indeed, restore Sir Maurice's property, but in exchange….
"What are you doing?" demanded the Viscount, leering down at her as the Judge glared daggers into the pair of them from across the room.
"Reading your offer?" Belle responded, unsure of whether or not he would like that answer. If he was to be her new master, she would have to learn quickly what he expected of her.
He seemed startled by that, so she returned to the document. He would restore Sir Maurice's lands, but he wanted her in service to him for the rest of her life. Basic provisions were made: she was to be clothed and fed, but all she had would come from his generosity alone. Once installed, she was never to stray from his estate, or Sir Maurice would be asked once more to repay his debts — of which, it seemed, there were plenty.
"May I have a day? I'd like a lawyer to advise —"
"No," the Scotsman half-shouted, his accent thick. "You're out of time, dearie."
"I… Alright. May I have a pen, please?" Belle's hand shook as she signed, but she swallowed down her fear like a bitter medicine and rooted it to her gut. She would be brave, purely and simply brave, until her inner feelings mirrored her outer demeanor. Lord Sonnachdubh may be a bully and a scoundrel, but she knew all that she needed to: the choices were a life time of indenturement to this stranger would be preferable to marrying Frontland. At least he wanted her for the work she could do, not to warm his bed and boss around in the bedroom.
Upon seeing the cold, calculating look in his eye turn to one of cruel delight, Belle began to doubt her resolve. Still, it was decided, and her papa, his lands, their household… all that would be spared. She screwed down her fear again, and vowed not to faint, not to shed a tear.
After that, Belle felt as though she were moving numb through a dream, as though her life was playing out before her on some London stage, and she was only one member of an audience filled with spies. The servants fetched her trunk, but the Viscount insisted that she leave it behind. Wearing only her nearly threadbare evening gown and hearing the town clock tower striking midnight somewhere in the distance, Belle lifted herself into the Viscount's landau. She'd never entered a carriage unassisted before, and was sure she'd made a debacle of herself, but the Viscount joined her a moment later without commentary.
The driver whipped their set of four back to life, and they took off down the Judge's graveled drive at a quick pace. The Viscount did not speak, and — frightfully aware of her rapidly changing circumstances — Belle dared not break the silence with her own shaking voice. He drank from a small flask, told the footman to shoot her if she caused a fuss or tried to escape, and somehow managed to sleep.
Potholes and the damp, cold night kept Belle awake. She feared this man, though he looked common enough with his eyes shut. They were the Devil's own eyes, when he opened them: steely, intense, and full of hate. Finally, after hours on the road, her body and mind ached equally; Belle forced herself to stay upright, and bit back the urge to weep.
III. A Dram of Laudanum
Gold could see the girl shaking like a leaf in the seat across from him. He had nothing to say to her, and no one of her lineage had anything to say to him. Not ever. The selfish, privileged child dressed up like a Parisian harlot — like mother like daughter — would learn soon enough what it meant to lose the trappings of an over-spending, spoiling father and serve like a common field-hand. She should have stayed with the monster she knew rather than run off with the one she did not. Her body in the lecherous old villain's embrace would have been a small burden compared to his own unflinching hatred.
The girl continued to shiver, and Gold couldn't stand the sight of her. His leg ached from days on the road, and his head throbbed — the sway of the landau made him feel almost ill. He fingered the small vial of medicinal opium in his pocket, but satisfied himself with another drag of the alcoholic, spiced laudanum. Poets sweated and wept up and down China Towne for a snifter of his personal supplies, but he had to remain alert lest the little bitch decide she liked to bite.
Slowly the poppy began to work its magic and he felt himself begin to float above the padded seats and his head began to swim. Gold knocked three times against the coachman's seat and gave the order to shoot her if she tried to leave. Then he tipped his top hat over his eyes and drifted off into a laudanum-fueled state of semi-lucid sleep.
Spain, 1838, and of places he wished never to see danced in front of his eyes, maddening his brain. As a thin veil of sweat formed against his skin, he saw the thin, pale French girl brandishing a rifle in her Carlist blues. She was bashing an Englishman's skull in with a heavy shillelagh, the blood and skull blooming like opium fields on the green grass beneath her victims. She was moving down the row to the next man, each one erupting in a splash of petals and blood-smear. They were all prisoners, all as good as dead; Spaniards took no captives, they were savages, like the French girl.
A world away, men were dying in Crimea; in Gold's mind, the same old atrocities looped through in a spiraling tempest that refused to let go of him. He was next. She was going to bash his head in next.
Gold knew he had to save himself, even if he couldn't save his men, and he slashed violently at the girl with a make-shift blade fashioned from a broken bayonet. The happy songs of Italian Carnivale drifted in, and he stood with blood-stained hands in front of an army of jaunty Harlequins. No matter how he slashed, he could not discover the true culprit. It was always her doubles, uncanny doppelgangers, mocking and circling him.
Finally the masques dissolved, revealing the shockingly blue eyes of his newest acquisition. Then another followed suit, and it was the same — he stood alone against an army of her, grinning cold and cruel as his panic settled in. Gold attacked them, shocked to see his bayonet shard had been reduced to a white feather. The white feather of the coward.
He was not a coward. He was not a coward. He was not a coward.
Gold tore the limbs from the Harlequins, one by one, bashing in the girls' face with heavy rocks. She would stop smiling so smugly; she would repay her debt. As her blood dripped and pooled, it began flaking away like pieces of ash or butterfly wings into wafting, red poppy petals on the warm summer winds.
A canon fired, felling the last jester, and Gold woke with a start. Brow slick with sweat, he heard the tell-tale trotting of a team of horses on cobbled streets. They must have crossed into London in the night, and from there back to the Sonnachdubh estate.
He opened his eyes. The girl was leaning over him, a look he did not recognize plastered to her face. Gold pushed her away, shaking her, and shouting.
"Never touch me, do you hear me? Dinnae, ever, ever touch me!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she begged, looking terrified. Good. She should be afraid. "I thought you were having a fit, I just wanted to help—"
"No one can help me," Gold snarled, throwing her back into her own seat, "least of all you." And, with that, he took another long pull from his flask and dropped off into the realm of memory and regret.
To Be Continued in the Coming Weeks…
