Hello everyone, this is my first fanfic and I am not really sure how
it will turn out, comments and constructive criticism are wanted and I am
sure needed. Thank you for at least considering reading my fanfic! Also
many thanks to my twin sister and beta reader!
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Disclaimer: I do not own anything, Holmes, Watson and anything that looks
like it belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle probably does, I own Rachel Raines
but I also must admit that I got the idea for her character from Mary
Russell (If you have not read The Beekeeper's Apprentice do so
immediately!)
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And now on with:
No Mere Victorian Woman
I slipped on my emerald dress. It brought out the hints of green in my otherwise brown eyes, or so my tailor said. I sat before the mirror and began to pile and pin my golden hair to the top of my head as I heard the distant clop of hooves on the cobble stone street outside my hotel. I despised parties, in my opinion they consisted of men and women feeding on gossip and sipping on champagne while I found them overwhelmingly dull. And yet the producer expected all of the lead actresses and actors to be there. In his words, "There's got to be some way to convince people to buy box seats." This was his solution, a large party so that the box seat holders could intermingle with the cast. I let out a long sigh in exasperation.
I was not, nor ever was what you may call the average Victorian woman. I ran my own life, and had made a vow to myself that no man would ever ruin that for me. You only had one chance to live life and I was not going to be a passenger when the driver's seat was empty. My mother had always frowned upon my ways, while two of my sisters were inside learning useless arts, such as sewing, cooking and chit-chat, I was with my twin sister, outside devising or cracking puzzles and codes. My world was the realm of the mind, and I took to logic and challenges as a starving child to bread. Perhaps that is why I was destined to be an actress, on the stage the outcome of the show depended entirely on me, as it did for all the other actors and actresses.
I finished adding rouge to my cheeks and looked in the mirror with an approving nod towards my appearance before I hurried down the steps of the hotel to hail a cab.
"Lemme get 'at for you, mum" slurred an old cabbie as he started to clamber down from the hansom seat.
"Don't bother I've got it myself" I assured him, I noticed subconsciously that my Northern Californian accent appeared at the oddest of times, you would think that after spending four years in London it would have ceased. I grabbed the door and with a glance at the watch in-took a small breath and tossed two sovereigns to the cabbie. "Drive me to princess theatre as quickly as possible!" His eyes widened at the coins, with a "yes, mum!' we were off. Gas lamps and office buildings almost became a continuous blur; I do not believe I had ever been carried so quickly in my entire life!
With a nod of approval toward the cabbie I climbed out of the worn hansom and straightened my hair and skirt before opening the two large wood doors to the Princess Theatre. For the next hour I was supposed to be polite and act as a proper Victorian woman in every aspect, I viewed this as a role, and a challenging one at that.
"Why Miss Rachel Raines, how are you tonight?" asked a young gentleman in his early thirties, he was tall with brunette hair plastered down to his overly large head, he looked up to me (for I was the taller) over a slightly crooked nose. I studied him. I had never seen this man before in my life, which quickly led me to the conclusion that he was a fan. He was obviously right handed as he kept his wallet in the back right pocket of his pants that were worn and showed signs of once being hemmed, he was in the lower-middle class and out of the pocket in his suit there was a telegram addresses to Mr. Taylor. This led me to believe that the tickets were given to him as a gift, perhaps from a close friend? No that didn't make sense tickets to the box seats were quite expensive and a friend, no mater how close, would not spend that type of money. That left one answer they were given to him by a wealthier family member. I noticed another brunette with the same nose and head wearing expensive designer clothing, he was perhaps 5 years older than the man standing in front of me and obviously his brother. These deductions only took me a matter of seconds before I answered him.
"I am quite well thank you, how are you Mr. Taylor? I am so glad that you brother allowed you to join us this evening."
As I had expected he looked at me with shock and confusion. It was always at this point that I became annoyed; to me it could not have been simpler or exceedingly obvious.
"How did you-"
"If you will excuse me Mr. Taylor, I must speak with the director."
At that I abruptly left, I knew that I was being rude, and I was prepared for the director to erupt at me, not to mention my producer but I knew they would not fire me, I was irreplaceable, he had said so himself not a week before. I was so concentrated on my thoughts that I did not notice the tall aging man in front of me until I had literally run into him.
"Excuse me" I said and then took a closer look at him, I recognized him, and he was no aging man. I had a friend, Jennifer with whom I was almost as close as my twin sister. To say that Jennifer loved Dr. Watson's novels would be an understatement. She had even gone to the extent of forcing A Study in Scarlet down my throat. To her great dismay I was not as taken to them as she was, I had found it although a bit interesting unbelievingly predictable and in my mind Watson could not have been any slower. Perhaps it was because I was simply strange, but I believe that I was not impressed simply because whatever Sherlock Holmes did never impressed me, I could picture myself if faced with the same problem reacting the same way. This man in front of me, if fake beard were removed and die washed out was the exact man from the cover of The Strand magazine. Rapidly facts flew together in my mind and I understood why this man was here, and what he was doing.
"Excuse me sir I was wondering-"
"Madame, I am terribly sorry but I have no time for useless, meaningless chit-chat and gossip." With a wave of his hand turned around and began to walk away. Obviously this man had no idea of the type of woman I was, but he would learn very quickly. I walked up behind him and cleared my throat and said with confidence,
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes-"
That had done it, his back stiffened and he turned to face me, his icy eyes filled with anger, confusion and possible a tinge of sadness pierced into me but they didn't even faze me as I straightened my shoulders and matched his glare.
"I believe we need to talk." He mumbled and with one swift movement encircled my arm within his and steered me toward the exit. This night had become more interesting than I had first expected.
And now on with:
No Mere Victorian Woman
I slipped on my emerald dress. It brought out the hints of green in my otherwise brown eyes, or so my tailor said. I sat before the mirror and began to pile and pin my golden hair to the top of my head as I heard the distant clop of hooves on the cobble stone street outside my hotel. I despised parties, in my opinion they consisted of men and women feeding on gossip and sipping on champagne while I found them overwhelmingly dull. And yet the producer expected all of the lead actresses and actors to be there. In his words, "There's got to be some way to convince people to buy box seats." This was his solution, a large party so that the box seat holders could intermingle with the cast. I let out a long sigh in exasperation.
I was not, nor ever was what you may call the average Victorian woman. I ran my own life, and had made a vow to myself that no man would ever ruin that for me. You only had one chance to live life and I was not going to be a passenger when the driver's seat was empty. My mother had always frowned upon my ways, while two of my sisters were inside learning useless arts, such as sewing, cooking and chit-chat, I was with my twin sister, outside devising or cracking puzzles and codes. My world was the realm of the mind, and I took to logic and challenges as a starving child to bread. Perhaps that is why I was destined to be an actress, on the stage the outcome of the show depended entirely on me, as it did for all the other actors and actresses.
I finished adding rouge to my cheeks and looked in the mirror with an approving nod towards my appearance before I hurried down the steps of the hotel to hail a cab.
"Lemme get 'at for you, mum" slurred an old cabbie as he started to clamber down from the hansom seat.
"Don't bother I've got it myself" I assured him, I noticed subconsciously that my Northern Californian accent appeared at the oddest of times, you would think that after spending four years in London it would have ceased. I grabbed the door and with a glance at the watch in-took a small breath and tossed two sovereigns to the cabbie. "Drive me to princess theatre as quickly as possible!" His eyes widened at the coins, with a "yes, mum!' we were off. Gas lamps and office buildings almost became a continuous blur; I do not believe I had ever been carried so quickly in my entire life!
With a nod of approval toward the cabbie I climbed out of the worn hansom and straightened my hair and skirt before opening the two large wood doors to the Princess Theatre. For the next hour I was supposed to be polite and act as a proper Victorian woman in every aspect, I viewed this as a role, and a challenging one at that.
"Why Miss Rachel Raines, how are you tonight?" asked a young gentleman in his early thirties, he was tall with brunette hair plastered down to his overly large head, he looked up to me (for I was the taller) over a slightly crooked nose. I studied him. I had never seen this man before in my life, which quickly led me to the conclusion that he was a fan. He was obviously right handed as he kept his wallet in the back right pocket of his pants that were worn and showed signs of once being hemmed, he was in the lower-middle class and out of the pocket in his suit there was a telegram addresses to Mr. Taylor. This led me to believe that the tickets were given to him as a gift, perhaps from a close friend? No that didn't make sense tickets to the box seats were quite expensive and a friend, no mater how close, would not spend that type of money. That left one answer they were given to him by a wealthier family member. I noticed another brunette with the same nose and head wearing expensive designer clothing, he was perhaps 5 years older than the man standing in front of me and obviously his brother. These deductions only took me a matter of seconds before I answered him.
"I am quite well thank you, how are you Mr. Taylor? I am so glad that you brother allowed you to join us this evening."
As I had expected he looked at me with shock and confusion. It was always at this point that I became annoyed; to me it could not have been simpler or exceedingly obvious.
"How did you-"
"If you will excuse me Mr. Taylor, I must speak with the director."
At that I abruptly left, I knew that I was being rude, and I was prepared for the director to erupt at me, not to mention my producer but I knew they would not fire me, I was irreplaceable, he had said so himself not a week before. I was so concentrated on my thoughts that I did not notice the tall aging man in front of me until I had literally run into him.
"Excuse me" I said and then took a closer look at him, I recognized him, and he was no aging man. I had a friend, Jennifer with whom I was almost as close as my twin sister. To say that Jennifer loved Dr. Watson's novels would be an understatement. She had even gone to the extent of forcing A Study in Scarlet down my throat. To her great dismay I was not as taken to them as she was, I had found it although a bit interesting unbelievingly predictable and in my mind Watson could not have been any slower. Perhaps it was because I was simply strange, but I believe that I was not impressed simply because whatever Sherlock Holmes did never impressed me, I could picture myself if faced with the same problem reacting the same way. This man in front of me, if fake beard were removed and die washed out was the exact man from the cover of The Strand magazine. Rapidly facts flew together in my mind and I understood why this man was here, and what he was doing.
"Excuse me sir I was wondering-"
"Madame, I am terribly sorry but I have no time for useless, meaningless chit-chat and gossip." With a wave of his hand turned around and began to walk away. Obviously this man had no idea of the type of woman I was, but he would learn very quickly. I walked up behind him and cleared my throat and said with confidence,
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes-"
That had done it, his back stiffened and he turned to face me, his icy eyes filled with anger, confusion and possible a tinge of sadness pierced into me but they didn't even faze me as I straightened my shoulders and matched his glare.
"I believe we need to talk." He mumbled and with one swift movement encircled my arm within his and steered me toward the exit. This night had become more interesting than I had first expected.