-9-
Just as Darcy rounded a corner, she collided with a solid object. Stunned and out of breath, she fell back to the ground. She heard shoes skid to a halt behind her; surely it was her attacker come to "get what he wanted" from her. Victorian London was an awful, awful place.
"Miss Harris?!" a shocked voice asked. Darcy looked up to see none other than William Kensington. She felt like latching on to his legs in gratefulness.
Another out of breath voice, the one of her would-be attacker, seemed surprised as well.
"Kensington! My apologies sir, I did not realize she was one of yours," he seemed to make a small bow to her saviour.
"Honest mistake, Mr. Rothwell, I'm sure," Kensington replied.
Darcy saw Rothwell give a nod to Mr. Kensington and add, "She's a wild one Kensington, watch yourself." He spared Darcy a glare as he turned and left the side street.
"Are you well? What happened?" Kensington asked as he helped her to her feet.
Of course I'm not bloody well! I almost just got raped and/or murdered! she screamed in her head.
"Your Mr. Rothwell just tried to...to..." how was she supposed to say 'rape' in a polite way? "He mistook me for a dollymop," she finally said, past caring about whether this was a polite term or not. Kensington didn't seem the least surprised.
"I had figured as much. Mr. Rothwell is known around here for...enjoying the company of women with loose morals."
Darcy suppressed an eye roll. Trust Victorian men to put something so disagreeable in such subtle terms.
"Did you come here by carriage?" Kensington asked.
"Yes. I stopped it a few blocks back the way I came. On the corner of Lloyd's Avenue and Fenchurch Street," her now clearer brain recalled.
"Shall we search for it together?" he asked.
Darcy nodded in assent. Without asking, Mr. Kensington placed his own cloak around Darcy's shoulders. She hadn't realized she had lost hers and that she'd been shaking.
Then Darcy remembered something that Rothwell had said.
"What did Mr. Rothwell mean by saying he hadn't realized I was 'one of yours'?"
Kensington was quiet for a moment before he answered, "It is of no concern for a woman of your status."
What the hell? Darcy thought in affront. He's withholding information because I'm just a weak little woman who can't handle the truth? And why the hell is he even down here?
Darcy didn't press the matter as he had likely saved her life. Still, she was highly insulted.
Together they found her carriage, she handed his cloak back to him while thanking him profusely and he saw her safely off to her townhouse in Hanover Square.
When she arrived, she slipped back inside the house through the servant's entrance in the back courtyard. Once back inside her warm and safe room, Darcy pressed her back against the door, slid to the floor and cried a good long while until she felt marginally better. It took her the better part of an hour to get her dress unbuttoned and unlaced by herself and shoved it deep into the back of her wardrobe, never intending to wear it again.
Putting on her nightdress, she couldn't believe how stupid she had been. She had the almost irresistible urge to creep into Oliver's bedroom and confess everything to him; she wanted to be held and told she was safe. But she knew nothing of the sort would occur.
He would most likely bellow at her for her stupidity, waking the entire household and then tell her to stop crying and go to bed. The thought made a few more tears seep out from under her closed eyelids. She tossed and turned for what was left of the night until morning light leaked through her curtains.
Little did Darcy know that a body was found in Mitre Square that night. This body hardly resembled a body at all. The woman's face was heavily mutilated with a knife and her abdomen was lying open. Its contents, mainly the intestines, were flung over her right shoulder and her right ear had been sliced off. Two feet of intestine had been detached and tucked between her torso and left arm, seemingly on purpose. This one the Ripper had finished off properly. Darcy, mistaking the body for a drunkard, had jumped right over her dying remains.
The whole of the next day Darcy had spoken very little and had been entirely too pale. Oliver worried that she might have eaten something rancid. After ascertaining that she felt fine, ("For the millionth time, I'm fine, Wood!") Oliver read of the discovery of two more dead bodies in the evening edition of the paper. Two deadinone night! Oliver said they'd found the first one in Dutfield's Yard – this one hadn't been mutilated – and the second in Mitre Square. Darcy blanched even more, if it were possible.
Darcy wondered how she possibly could have missed the murder; she had been right there! Of course, she had been a little busy trying not to get raped but she thought a murder taking place might have been obvious. Then she remembered jumping over what she had assumed to be a drunken body moaning on the ground. Sweet Jesus. Had she jumped over the body of one of Jack's victims? For the sake of her own sanity, she chose to believe it was a drunkard.
Her train of disturbing thoughts was derailed when she and Oliver heard a knock at the door. A few seconds later, Berkley appeared and announced Mr. William Kensington come to call. Darcy looked surprised but not as displeased as Oliver thought she ought to. Hadn't she noticed how he had ogled her at that party, his gaze slipping to a point below her face a little too often?
He waltzed into the parlour where Darcy and Oliver were and gave a charming smile directed entirely at the lady. Darcy beamed back. Oliver barley hid a scowl.
"I've come to enquire after the lady," William stated, "You gave us all quite a fright at the Favershams, Miss Harris." He gave her a knowing look, indicating he was also checking on her because of last night's events in Mitre Square.
"Oh, I am well, thank you. I'm terribly sorry for having to leave the party so soon."
"It is nothing serious, I hope?" William asked, all the while completely ignoring Oliver.
"Not at all. I am quite recovered," Darcy blushed at the attention.
William was doing that smolder thing again. He really was a handsome and charming man by all accounts.
"If you'd like, I have a background in medicine and I would be happy to look you over if ever you feel the least bit poorly," William stepped a bit closer to Darcy as if to sit down.
Oliver was shocked. He was sitting right there for Merlin's sake! He was Harris' fiancée and William Kensington was hitting on her! Blatantly! He cleared his throat.
For the first time since his arrival William spared at glance at Oliver. It was full of irritation. What a dick, Oliver thought.
"I meant to check on you later that evening but I had... a prior engagement in the Whitechapel district," William informed Darcy. Darcy digested that information.
"Do you go to Whitechapel often?" she asked, hoping to sound offhand. She didn't want Oliver getting suspicious.
Kensington smiled at the comment but chose not to answer. "Now that I have ascertained that you are well, I ought to be going. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Harris," another dazzling smile, "Mr. Wood," a disdainful look.
Before taking his leave, William closed the distance between himself and Darcy, took her hand and placed a kiss upon her knuckles all while keeping his dark eyes on Darcy's. That kiss lingered far too long and was entirely inappropriate in Oliver's opinion. He expected Darcy to slap him any second now... Any second... But no slap came. With that, Mr. William Kensington left.
"What an ass!" Oliver muttered, loud enough for Darcy to hear.
"What, don't you like him?" Darcy asked, still looking after the place William had recently vacated.
"Merlin's beard, no! Harris, he wants to 'look you over'!" Oliver mimicked with some vaguely rude hand gestures, "Please tell me you can see he was hitting on you. Not to mention right in front of me!"
Darcy looked confused for a short moment before a slow smile spread across her face. She just stood in front of Oliver with that annoying smirk on her lips.
"What?" Oliver asked, knowing very well what she was smiling at.
"You're jealous!" Darcy kept on smiling, pleased.
"Oh please. You know I hold no feelings for you apart from your wellbeing," Oliver stated, grabbing the newspaper and pretending to scan it.
"But it still bothers you that a gorgeous man is flirting with me," Darcy took a seat which offered a good vantage point of Oliver's countenance.
"You find him gorgeous?" he scoffed, "You have horrible taste in men. Then again, you did date within your own House and there's not much there either," Oliver bit out.
Darcy didn't acknowledge the jab. "Maybe I should get him to look me over sometime..." Darcy baited, watching Oliver carefully.
She saw his fingers grasp the newspaper far tighter than necessary. She was getting to him. She couldn't imagine how angry he'd be if he knew Kensington had been her white knight just last night.
"And it doesn't bother you that we're getting married soon," Oliver retorted.
"It's called an affair, Wood. You have my permission to have one too if it makes you feel any better," Darcy stated, examining her nails.
"That's not the point, Darcy!" Oliver stopped.
The pair realized that it was the first time Oliver had addressed Darcy by her fist name.
"Forget it," Oliver muttered and stalked out the room, shaking his head.
Darcy now felt her enjoyment of the situation ebbing as she realized how truly angry Oliver was with this development. She sighed. She felt incredibly stupid. She knew she should stop interacting with everyone around her for their own safety (not to mention her own, she thought with a shudder) and for the sake of preserving the natural timeline of events. She sank to the couch and hung her head, feeling guilty.
Oliver had stormed off to his room after his unwanted outburst. He didn't really have anywhere he could go where Darcy couldn't find him unless he went outside but it was getting dark and London was, he admitted to himself, a scary place. Sure, part of the magical world was situated in London and he was familiar with those places.
Where he was now felt new and foreign and Oliver disliked it. He hated the clothing, the stuffy social conventions, the smells, the sounds... he hated everything. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He realized that Darcy Harris was his anchor. Without her here, he would be adrift in a world where he didn't belong.
Oliver was then struck by a frightening thought. Darcy Harris didn't need him. What more was he then dead weight? Darcy was having fun. What did she care about his troubles? She had the dashing Mr. Kensington to look after her. He made a face thinking about that man.
Maybe he could break off the engagement and just run away. Maybe even fake his death and run back to the magical London. While it was tempting to just disappear, he knew he wouldn't leave. He would stay with Darcy and protect her from herself if he had to.
Immersed in his misery, he only just made out a tentative knock on his door. With a weary sigh, he went to open the door. There stood Darcy with a concerned look on her face. Oliver went back to the chair he had recently occupied but left the door open.
Darcy entered the room, shut the door quietly and sat gingerly on the side of his bed. She was biting her lip and casting brief but worried glances at the Scot. She was worried for two reasons: first and foremost being that she knew he was angry and he had a formidable temper, and second being that she knew she had to apologize.
She apologized so seldom that she knew it would come out all garbled and might possibly unintentionally insult him in some way. But one thing was for sure, she wouldn't ever tell him about what she had done so foolishly last night. She took a breath and stared at the empty grate of the fireplace. She waited until she felt Oliver's eyes on her.
Fixing her gaze on the floor – she knew she couldn't manage meeting his eyes – she gave it a go: "I didn't mean to upset you and I'm sorry. I just – I wasn't thinking and I shouldn't have encouraged Kensington's attentions. It was selfish of me to do it."
"I don't think the carpet is the one your apology is directed at," Oliver said.
It wasn't that he was being cruel on purpose. He knew how rare it was for Darcy to apologize to anyone but he wanted her to look him in the eye and say it so that he knew she was capable of sincerity. She did tend to lie to him a lot.
"Look me in the eye and tell me the truth. Please," he asked gently.
He waited, his brown eyes locked on her green.
Darcy repeated the apology again in more or less the same words. Even looking into his eyes, she found it easier to say it the second time around. She was also surprised by how much she meant it.
She waited a beat as Oliver seemed to be judging whether her apology was real or not, gave a brief nod signaling he thought it was, and stated "Apology accepted."
Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. A thought occurred and she looked at him warily. "You're really forgiving me that easily?"
Oliver rolled his eyes. "Yes. Is that so hard to believe? Friends forgive and trust each other. No strings attached," he smiled.
Darcy's heart skipped a beat.
"And I would really appreciate it if you didn't start an affair with Kensington. We're trying to limit our connections with people, aren't we? I was only angry –" he cut himself off before he said 'because I care about you' and finished with a, "– because we need to be careful."
Darcy nodded and headed towards the adjoining door between their rooms. "Well, when you put it that way, I'll be faithful to you."
"Sleep well, Harris," Wood called gently.
Darcy turned slightly and offered a "You too," with a soft smile.
As Darcy got ready for bed, the normally tight leash she kept on her feelings for Oliver Wood snapped and unwanted thoughts concerning the Quidditch captain flooded her brain: his amazing work ethic, his impeccable manners, his hands, his eyes, his lips, his athleticism, his sense of humour, his tanned skin, his mischievous smirk, his friendship, his loyalty. He had faults enough but somehow they didn't come to mind as Darcy slipped into bed, wriggling her feet to chase away the creeping chill of early-October. Darcy looked up at the ceiling and wondered when the huge smile she was wearing had found its way onto her lips. She didn't really care that it had. Her last thought before drifting off to sleep was that the Wood family had raised one bloody marvellous son.
A/N: A small note to mention that I spell my words with "ou" as it's done in Britain and the Commonwealth. In case you were wondering.
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