13. Show Thine Enemy
"You seem happy."
"I am." Blair tilted the brim of a white chip straw hat further down over her brow and turned to one side to admire the angle. "I like this, do you think the ribbon can be changed?"
"You know it can, and that's evasion if ever I heard it."
"Maybe something in violet? Mr Carroll, could you –"
"Blair!" Serena's voice rang out, shocking the small man who had leapt to Blair's side the moment his name was mentioned. "You're happy," Serena continued, planting one hand on her sky blue hip as the proprietor slid away and snapped his fingers for the shop boys to follow him. "For the first time in weeks, you're happy! You're smiling, you're laughing, you're shopping for millinery! You haven't taken to your bed because of some edict laid upon you by –"
"He and I are good," Blair answered briskly, dismissing her reflection with the wave of one kid covered hand.
"Is that even possible?"
"Is it so hard to believe?"
"Yes – particularly coming from you, his most vocal critic." Serena watched as Blair flitted to the ribbon display, assessing her carefully. There was a lightness to her skin and her eyes which hadn't been there but a few days previously, and the neat nip of her waist indicated she was eating again. Her clavicle stood out prettily, but the shadows of her ribs had retreated, and her décolleté was concealed by an old world fichu of milky blue gauze. Inexplicably and for the first time in forever, Blair was happy, and Serena had no faith in its permanence.
"Are the two of you..."
"No." In lifting her head from perusal of the glass case, Blair's expression was momentarily veiled by her hat. It was impossible to judge if her look had changed, if her lips had moved, but there was gravity in her features as she said, "There are fewer feelings between Mr Bass and I than there are thoughts in his little protégée's head. I'm just...glad to be free, I suppose."
"So you won't mind if I invite him tonight?"
Only a week or two could pass between Serena's soirees before she declared herself bored and threw another. Her next would be a masquerade, Blair was sure of it, but this evening's was a tasteful dinner and matchmaking exercise. Every unattached beau and belle in Manhattan could either attend, or die in the attempt of finding a partner without the devious Miss van der Woodsen's patronage. Serena would be wearing deep rose pink and diamonds, Blair a sea foam coloured gown with froths of pearls along the neckline. She appeared nonplussed by her friend's question.
"If you like."
"It won't bother you if he forms an attachment?"
"Anything that distracts him from me would be pleasure unbounded."
Blair cast her gaze over a display of opera gloves and swallowed her negation. Her desire to see Chuck – a desire she could not explain, especially given the shock to her flesh the last time they had seen one another – was at war with the more deeply ingrained desire not to see him, to ignore his presence entirely. If their conflict had ended, however, she was bound to carry out the law of the land and extend him every social nicety. So what if he came to the van der Woodsens'? Serena was her friend, he would be in her territory.
"S," she said casually as Serena examined a fan inlaid with real gold filigree. "Invite Mr Hornsby, will you?"
War or no war, a queen could always use more allies.
They returned to the van der Woodsens' that afternoon to find that its youngest occupant, Eric, had just arrived from Saratoga. Smaller than his Amazonian sister but taller than the petite Blair, Eric had gentle features and a gentler disposition. Despite this mildness of spirit, he was a ferocious card player, and had dealt for bridge before the girls had even put down their packages. Both lost, but prettily, and Eric had brought back some wonderful black cigars that Blair clenched between her teeth as they played. She was aware of her handsome grey dress, her expensive gloves, the soft flush of wealth that surrounded her; she was similarly aware of the idiosyncrasy of the heavily perfumed cheroot exuding smoke like a small dragon. The contrast pleased her, soothed her soul a little, and she looked forward to introducing Eric to Asher that night.
"So," Eric hedged as his thumb whirred along the edge of the deck. "How goes the husband hunting?"
"If that's your sister's way of asking where my heart lies, I advise her to try harder," Blair replied, accepting her thirteen card stack without so much as a blink.
Serena flushed. "I've been writing to him, that's all. He wasn't aware of this morning's conversation."
"So there was a conversation?" His sister played the dummy hand as Eric raised bright, interested brown eyes. "What was it about? Dresses? Flowers? The dichotomy of good and evil?" Both girls giggled, and he continued, "Or could it possibly the return of Blair's old flame, Mr Charles Bartholomew Bass, now a wealthy oil baron and still as handsome as ever?"
"His appearance doesn't concern me."
"What about his assets?"
"I couldn't care less about his Bassets."
"Then tell me about Jenny Humphrey."
Blair's gaze was fixed on her cards. "That was a miscalculation on my part – and possibly on his. He thought he could use her, I thought I could teach her. It turns out neither of us have much leeway where the recalcitrant chit is concerned." She sighed. "But as Mr Bass and I are in a state of ceasefire, I'm leaving it up to him to control her. She's not my concern anymore."
~#~
Asher kept his flask inside his waistcoat this time, laying his gloves across his knee and taking up his teacup with a smooth face and smoother smile. Across from him, Jenny took a dainty sip of the genial beverage and admired her guest. He was undoubtedly good-looking, his blue eyes piercing and his brown hair thick and flopping just so over his brow. His suit was flawlessly cut and he was the Gamesome Gallant, which could be of infinite use to her.
"This is a lovely suite," Asher commented, leaning back against the cushions and waiting for Jenny to state her business.
It didn't take long.
"Blair Waldorf," she said, taking a sugared nut from the tray and nipping it delicately in two with her small sharp teeth.
"What about her?"
"You tell me."
"From what I can see, she's a paradigm of chastity and virtue. She wears all the right clothes to all the right places, knows all the right people, tragically lost her father a few years past. Mr Waldorf was a great advocate of the downtrodden, you know. He used to take his daughter to hand out turkeys to the poor every Christmas."
Jenny remembered: Blair's cheeks flushed from the cold, her fine beaverskin jacket, the red ribbon in her hair. All such charity had ceased after her father's death.
"There are some things you don't know."
"Oh?" The Gallant's eyebrows quirked. "And you wish to share them with me?"
"I wish to share them with New York," Jenny replied. "But most regrettably, Mr Hornsby, you are not my only appointment today." She had decided this sounded grown up and Blair-like, not that she was the person Jenny ought to emulate. Still, she remained a 'paradigm', whatever that meant, and therefore was not a bad role model as curtsies and dancing and lying went. Blair was not bold, but Jenny was, so next she made a shocking request. "I wonder, Mr Hornsby, if you could return this evening? Elise will be here to chaperone, of course."
The maid gave a little bob, and Asher shot her a wink which turned her pink to her ears.
"And most unfortunately on my part, I have received an invitation to Miss van der Woodsen's dinner tonight. I assume you'll be there..."
Jenny seethed. Oh, she had heard about Miss van der Woodsen's wonderful matchmaking dinner, and the gown she would be wearing, and the gown Blair would be wearing, and it made her mad all the way down to the toes of her jet beaded slippers. It was social suicide not to attend, but one could only get in with an invitation. She supposed she could comfort herself with the fact that Chuck would not be invited either, not while the little whore had control of the guest list, but it was still a matter of concern that, even after the resounding success of her debut, things had not fallen properly into place. She had been shopping twice and taken tea with Mrs and Miss Buckland, toured the park with the Misses Bouchard and called upon Mrs Verges, but still the highest echelons of the elite eluded her. She covered her ire by savaging another nut.
"I'm afraid I have not merited an invitation."
"Really?" His brows rose once again. "Well, let's see what we can do about rectifying that, shall we?"
They made polite chit-chat for perhaps half an hour before Asher took his leave, turning up his collar as he exited the New Netherland and cast acout for a cab. Out of common decency, he had not reported the scandal of Miss Humphrey's debut – the overflowing champagne, the low tastes of the guests, the even lower necklines and gaudy jewellery of said guests – and now it seemed the newest star was of a mind to knock another from her orbit. Asher disliked Jenny – he didn't know whether it was the overwhelming black, the black gloves and dress and pearl choker or just her manners in general – and had found within himself a genuine affection for Blair. He was, he reminded himself as he climbed into the leather lined comfort of a cab and gave the address of a nearby telegraph office, a sucker for star-crossed lovers.
~#~
B STOP J digging dirt STOP Will bring to VDW to observe STOP Wear something pretty STOP A STOP
Blair got her telegrams delivered by the good offices of Dorota's husband Vanya, and this one was brought round to the van der Woodsens' while she was being pulled into her dress by one of the household's numerous maids. Serena loved every helper and could never settle on only one to be her personal maid, so she shared her sunny disposition with every member of staff who had the honour of lacing her up. Blair did her best to be as charming with the help, but this missive was nothing short of alarming. What had Chuck told her? Jenny would surely never reveal Blair's greatest secret, not while it held such power, so what had Chuck told her? She gasped as her laces were pulled tight, then held up her arms so the pale green confection could be layered over her petticoat. Its clusters of seed pearls felt cold against her throat, then unpleasantly warm as she felt the blood creep up her face and stain it a traitorous rose.
What did Jenny have?
What had Chuck told her?
"B?" Serena glided in with her hair still falling in golden sheets and turned on the spot. "What do you think?"
"Lovely," Blair told her absently, pulling down her own hair so she could scent it. She anointed the comb with attar and set to work, making three passes before it was removed from her hand.
"B," Serena repeated, and her voice was much lower and softer. "What's wrong?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe I would."
"This isn't something you could understand."
"I could try."
"You're a virgin, Serena."
Both girls flinched. They looked so different in the mirror, the fairy and the changeling, day and night, sun and moon. It seemed strange to think that Serena, who had so many beaus and gave away so many kisses was purer than her icily polite best friend.
"So is Jenny," she returned. "And I assume that either she or her puppeteer are behind this."
Blair gave a half-hearted laugh. "They're both coming tonight. Asher Hornsby sent me a message to let me know he's bringing Jenny, since she seems to have her grubby little fingers in a pie of my making. I'm afraid she wants the world to know about Chuck and I, that we...I can't trust him to stop her. Asher is a good man, but if he fails to give her what she wants, she'll take it elsewhere. I can't believe it's the very worst, Chuck will be keeping that back for something special. Perhaps my birthday party? Perhaps my wedding?"
"You and he are at peace."
"There's nothing he loves more than a good double-cross."
"Blair." Serena wrapped her arms around her friend's slender shoulders. "This is your party – or, more accurately, it's mine. I can have him thrown out. I can have her thrown out. I can have Asher thrown out, or I can have them thrown out one by one at different points during the evening so they can't so much as greet one another. You shouldn't be afraid." She squeezed. "Not when you look so beautiful."
They both stared into the glass, at the colours of the hair mingling like light and shade.
"Now, don't move, and don't let anyone put up your hair until I get back. My mother has a pearl circlet just right for that dress."
Blair leaned forward, bit her lip, watched it bloom and decided to forgo rouge. Asher was no kind of gallant not to tell her what her adversary would be wearing, or even whether Chuck was coming at all. She would tell him so later.
~#~
He was throwing wide. They hit left, they hit right, but no matter how hard he threw, the darts refused to hit the bull's-eye and, later, the board. Chuck knew something was wrong when they started gouging holes in the walls, and finally halted to pour himself a tumbler of scotch and stare at it. The flavour was the same, but he wasn't. He was already too high, too pent up, his eyes flickering to the invitation on the table and back again every minute or so as if he expected it to burst into flames. It was only a few lines of calligraphy, but Chuck couldn't comprehend its meaning; why would Blair's best friend want him at a dinner Blair herself was attending?
Unless...unless Blair herself wanted him there.
Impossible.
Improbable.
Unfathomable.
The path of callousness had led him absolutely nowhere, as had the grand total of twelve whores the previous evening. They had seemed satisfied, but he wasn't. He wasn't at full power, he couldn't engage. He couldn't disconnect from the feeling of Blair's slim fingers within his.
It had been a tiny gesture, utterly insignificant in the world of men. Only a few hours earlier, Chuck had met with Mr Needhold and his associates to discuss the digging of further wells. Everyone had shook hands with everyone else, and his fingers felt no more the worse for wear. His ardour for vengeance had become entirely fixated upon Jenny, upon her ability to knock Blair down – but what would he do once she was down there? His palm tingled. Perhaps revenge ought not to be his desire, but rehabilitation: for Blair to know what she had done, to feel it, but to suffer with the chance to rebuild. He could give her the chance to begin again.
What was happening to him?
Chuck downed his scotch, wrenched a dart from the wall and threw. It whistled past Jenny's nose as she entered soundlessly, her eyes wide with fright.
"What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to know if you were going to the van der Woodsens' tonight."
Chuck curled his lip, more for her benefit than his. "They have been...kind enough to invite me."
"Shall you go?"
"If it suits me."
"I'm going."
"Are you?" His tone held no inflection. She was wearing black once again, a scandalous gown with bare shoulders and a skin tight silk bodice which she had overlaid with black lace and long sleeves. It only served to made her seem more indecent to him, a child playing at being a woman when her bones were still visible and her chin was still rounded and immature. Chuck had to remind himself that Blair had been such an age when she'd left such indelible scars in his back – white and barely visible, but he still knew they were there – but she had never been as desperate to lose herself to society. No, that had come with age, and he really should stop thinking about Blair when Jenny was present. It made him look at her too darkly.
"Mr Asher Hornsby invited me."
"Did he."
"He writes the Gamesome Gallant column in the Standard."
"Does he."
Jenny seemed undeterred by her benefactor's indifference. "He tells me we'll have dinner first, and then the games will begin."
"The games have already begun," Chuck told her, and stood. She remained in his shadow, appearing elated by the proximity. This crush of hers would have to be dealt with. "Have your Mr Hornsby escort you to the van der Woodsens'. I'll see you there."
"You will?"
She never turned her back on him when she left rooms, he'd noticed that. It gave his gut another twist, the deference as if to royalty, but then he summoned Arthur and drank more scotch and went to find a suit.
If he couldn't smoke out his butterflies, he'd drown them.
Only a short distance away across the city, Blair paused at the top of the stairs. Someone was playing the piano below, and its strains rose to meet her ears. She was unpleasantly warm, being halfway between cold with dread and red hot with anger and apprehension. The pearl circlet on her head had fitted a moment ago, but now it seemed too tight, cutting into her scalp. A few glossy strands of hair unfurled against her neck, curling around one side and clinging to the light sheen of sweat on her skin. Why was it so warm up here? Why was she taking so long to go down?
"Nervous?"
"No," Blair answered automatically, and Eric grinned.
"It's not a crime to be nervous."
"Why should I be nervous?"
"Let me see...all the eligible bachelors of New York are down there, getting ready to vie for your attention, all the ladies down there are preparing to begrudge you that attention, the man you formerly loved is down there with your lowly nemesis and a gossip reporter...no, no reason to be nervous at all."
"Asher wouldn't betray me." She turned, smiled a small secret smile at Eric. "I think you'd like him, you know."
"I can't think what you mean."
"E, what will you do?" Blair laid a hand on his black jacketed arm.
Eric looked away from her, examining a frieze on the landing with undue interest. "Marry a girl with a name that means something to my mother. Have children. Play a lot of bridge."
"That's not fair."
"You being too afraid to go downstairs, is that fair?"
"At least I get to admit I'm too afraid to go down."
"I've known what I am for quite some time," said Eric. "I've made my peace with never being able to say what I am. But you...you're Blair Waldorf. You shouldn't be so scared of the past, or an uncertain future. And before you say anything, no, we are not getting married so Asher and I can live happily ever after behind the scenes." He extended the arm she held. "Shall we go down, mademoiselle? I believe this is what they call 'facing the music'."
Miss Blair Waldorf and Mr Eric van der Woodsen descended the stairs in a froth of green and black, and Serena glowed appreciatively and went back to playing the piano with as much panache as several hours training per day could muster. Much to her surprise and unexpressed relief, neither Jenny nor Chuck had arrived. It was unspeakably rude, certainly, but if it meant that Blair could eat her blancmange and laugh with the three young Jones bachelors unhindered, then Serena wasn't going to complain.
What she did complain about, however, was little tarts who liked to make dramatic entrances.
"So sorry we're late, Miss van der Woodsen!" Jenny cried, breezing her way across the marble floor just as the various couples and those still uncoupled were sitting down for coffee. "Mr Hornsby and I decided to wait for Mr Bass."
Mr Bass did not look pleased to have been waited for, Serena noticed, though he was dressed elegantly enough in a formal-cum-casual tuxedo instead of tails. Mr Hornsby, on the other hand, was beaming at all and sundry and telegraphing cheer. He was acceptable. He could be introduced to Eric.
"How unfortunate for you to have missed dinner," Serena returned with a chilly smile. "We were all just getting ready for coffee and cards. I'll have a plate made up for you, Miss Humphrey. You're looking a little thin."
Jenny blanched as her hostess waltzed away. Blair, who was sitting at a small inlaid card table with two other gentlemen and an empty seat, allowed her lips to curl up like a cat's. Chuck immediately summoned a footman to fetch him a drink; Jenny and Asher took seats an unoccupied table. The scotch arrived, and Chuck leant against the piano and listened. Blair's laughter rang out once, then again as Serena rejoined the table. The other ladies seemed to be taking her lead, all disdaining their own smokes for long black cheroots. He couldn't restrain a smirk at the fury on Jenny's face when she saw that – she had only just mastered cigarettes, after all.
Then he caught the tail end of her sentence.
"...with my dear sponsor, Mr Bass."
"Really." Asher's face was impassive. "I can't quite believe that of Miss Waldorf."
"She admitted as much herself before attending a most immoral party, during which her purpose was to retrieve documents from his desk..."
"Documents pertaining to what?"
Blair was oblivious, deep in conversation with a boy with sandy hair and cheekbones like Serena's. Chuck realised suddenly why Jenny's escort seemed so familiar: he was the fox-faced, boyish man who had accompanied Blair to the opera. He had been her companion on the night of the red, and now he was selling her out. Had he wormed inside her inner circle simply to destroy her? Did he care for her? Had she refused him? Chuck was red again at the thought of this smiling boy on his knees before Blair, begging her, begging for her. Red. At least he'd never pleaded. Red. At least he would never plead. Red. Red. Red. And nor would he let this pretender expose Blair. She was his to finish if she was to be finished, and he had made that infinitely clear in the ladies' lounge. Red. He recalled digging his fingers into her thigh, forming a fist when he couldn't taunt her anymore. Red, and red again.
"Mr Hornsby."
Asher turned away from Jenny, who had enough bile in her to give him reflux. The enigmatic Mr Bass was standing over him, and yes, he was devilishly handsome. Asher had his eye on the male van der Woodsen, of course, so rare was it to find an attractive compatriot, but the allure of the man caught between the despicable Jenny and beleaguered Blair was irrefutable.
"Mr Bass."
"Would you care to step outside for a moment?"
"Mr Hornsby and I were just –" Jenny was silenced by that black gold gaze upon her, blacker now and blazing and fathoms deep. Asher swallowed, decided definitely on Eric, struck Chuck as a possibility and stood.
"If you'll excuse us, Miss Humphrey."
It was still too early in the evening for complete privacy, still light enough on the streets for carriages and people. The burning man stalked a few paces down the sidewalk and Asher followed, starting as Chuck turned abruptly and pinned him in place with a glare. In a certain slant of light, he looked young, the arch of his jaw proud but still tender; he looked too young to Asher, too young to have caught fire already. The question of whether he was completely consumed had yet to be determined.
"What," inquired Chuck quietly, almost civilly. "Do you plan to do with the information Miss Humphrey is feeding you about Miss Waldorf? Publish it in your tawdry little column?"
"There is nothing tawdry about my column, Mr Bass," Asher replied coolly. "Every fact is verified before it goes to print, and all speculation is innocent, I assure you."
"Then share your facts with me. Allow me to verify them for you."
The Gamesome Gallant didn't even flinch at the venom in the other man's voice. "That you have a secret route into Miss Waldorf's home via the greenhouse."
"False."
"That she attended a quasi-orgy at your hotel in order to steal documents from your desk."
"Lie."
"That she visited the Five Points for...medical reasons."
"Lie."
"That you're in love with Blair Waldorf."
Chuck's face set like stone. "Did Miss Humphrey tell you that little gem?"
"No, Mr Bass. That's just common observation."
"I commonly observed the two of you at the opera. Why were you escorting Miss Waldorf?"
Asher rocked back on his heels, sweeping an errant strand of hair back into the pomaded whole with his thumb. "Miss Waldorf is a friend. We share a love for Verdi. She needed an escort." With a show of cockiness that was entirely faux – as the young journalist was more than a little anxious around the object of Blair's secret affection and apparent scorn – he grinned at Chuck. "Could it be that the celebrated Mr Charles Bass is jealous? Of me, a meagre journalist. But I forget, the two of you can't come within a few feet of one another without someone having to escape into the ladies' lounge."
He expected Chuck to strike him, and was much surprised when he did not; instead, he directed his fierce gaze over Asher's left shoulder.
"I don't love her," he stated flatly. "And nor does she care for me, in case you felt so inclined to print that under 'innocent speculation'."
"Are you sure?"
Chuck pulled back from the edge of his own contemplation to direct his frustration at his supposed rival. "Perfectly sure." His voice rasped, rough and dark and acidic. "But you will not print anything reported to you by Jenny Humphrey, and you will not delve further into Miss Waldorf's past to substantiate any interest she piqued in you tonight."
"Or?"
"You're a writer. Use your imagination."
The pearls along Blair's neckline reflected milkiness back onto her skin. She had won a few tricks, but her pile of winnings was still negligible compared to Eric's. The ruby on her finger winked as she laid down her cards, pressing the back of her cool hand against her still too warm forehead while the round continued without her, Serena's bright chatter filling Blair's head as she closed her eyes on the room, the party, the image of the door closing and Jenny's triumphant face...
"Miss Waldorf."
She glanced up at him.
"I just need a minute of your time."
A minute of her time was a minute too much.
"Mr Bass, I'm –"
"A minute of your time, Blair."
She bit her lip, held it between her teeth as one of the Jones' raised his head from his cards and then swiftly lowered it again.
"Alright."
He led her beyond the stairs, into a quiet corridor leading to the kitchen. There was no space, hardly any air; Blair was breathing shallowly when he said, "Jenny was trying to expose you to your friend Mr Hornsby. She offered him dirt for his gossip column."
"Oh."
"I told him she was lying."
"Oh. Oh."
She knew she ought to be more coherent, more scathing since she had already known, since Asher would protect her, since she could take care of herself, since she was Blair Waldorf. What did that mean, though? It didn't seem to offer security or happiness, only wealth. More importantly, what did his actions mean? It was a sense of possession, she supposed, which made Chuck decide to save her for himself. Truce or no truce, she knew she was his – in his mind, she was his to build up or break down or do whatever he liked with. But tonight...tonight he had acted like a friend, and that was confusing, and being trapped in a small corridor with him with no air whatsoever, or so it seemed, was not helping. Blair inhaled and only smelled cologne, tobacco and scotch. Her thoughts raced in time with her heartbeat.
An end to the physical conflict had only served to cause one in her mind.
"I...thank you." She couldn't tell if he was looking at or through her. "Thank you."
"Blair –"
"Goodbye."
She sped from the corridor with her pretty draped skirts swerving behind her, heels clicking first on floorboards and then marble.
It was becoming more difficult to outrun her feelings these days.
I'm getting addicted to these two. I hope you are too.
Thanks to: abelard, CBBW3words8letters, dreamgurl, Nikki999, MegamiTenchi, signaturescarf, teddy bear, thegoodgossipgirl, andi, CBfanhere, isobel, SaturnineSunshine, Maribells, TruC7, LeftWriter224, threewordseightletters, Trosev and Poinsettia. Asher loves you all. You should take tea together sometime.
Oi, you on Fan Forum and Gossip Girlsss! The Gamesome Gallant loves you too.