All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
Chapter 2
The Secret and the Invitation

Author's Note: An enjoyable chapter, I suppose. It had another part, but had I added it, this would be far too long, so that part's going into chapter 3. See, when the story's just starting out, nothing's too exciting because it's going to take a while for me to set everything up, and I think this is the most difficult stage. But you're starting to see what's being set up, and while reading the explanation chapters may be tedious, think about the products of what's been set up already. Just a tip to you if you're thinking that this isn't worthwhile to read.

I want to add a thank you to Aimee and Danny (Danielle) for checking over my Scots after it was written to make sure I got it all right. They're my Scottish connection...both live in Scotland and agreed to help me out. So, thanks, guys!

In other news, I will be posting a one-shot soon that I started today, so be on the lookout and feel free to drop by and send me a review or two. Now, enjoy chapter 2. xox Luv, MJ

BARRIEFACT: It was discovered after the incident that Charles Frohman had said, while the Lusitania was sinking: (the boat which was bombed during WWI, and he was killed on) "Why fear death? It is the greatest adventure in life."

Inside: Two stories and a flashback (in which is the first of many appearances of the Scots tongue - visit my LiveJournal community for the link to a dictionary, if needed.)

OoOoO

Wednesday

"I would like you to read it."

James smiled at Peter. "I would like to read it," he said, "I would very much like to."

Peter smiled back, his eyes smiling along with his mouth. "Thank you."

James nodded. "Good boy. Now go and get your cap and call your brothers downstairs, please." Peter obeyed immediately and raced up the stairs.

School was a very complicated affair. Firstly, James hated to let his boys leave him. In the old days, that would leave him alone with Emma du Maurier. Before that, it would leave him alone, his only company being his journal, Porthos, Emma, and Sarah. Second, James had been trying to be a good father for the last few weeks, but couldn't seem to get a hold on mastering some fatherly acts. He had tried, once, to prepare the boys' lunches, but he hadn't the faintest idea of what to make, and found out later that he couldn't cook anything for all the money in London before Sarah and Emma came back, when he cooked a turkey wrong. So when they did return, Emma asked him if he'd like her to make the lunches from then on. James said no at the time, but later gave in, and allowed her to prepare the four of them every night before school, so that all James had to do was take them from the kitchen in the morning, and distribute them to each of the children before they left the house.

So, today being no different, when all four boys returned to the foyer, and formed a line shoulder to shoulder, James stepped to each one and dropped first a sandwich, then a banana, and lastly, a container of milk, into each of their lunch sacks. After lunch was handed out, the four retrieved their schoolbags and were out of the door. George was reminded by James, as he was every day, to be careful on the way to the academy and that he was responsible for his three brothers' safety at that time. George nodded and waved as James closed the door. As he looked around then, and listened to the silence, he found that he was now unsure of what to do with himself. So after a few moments of consequence-less thinking, he sighed and went up to his study, where he closed the door and took a seat at his desk, the top of which was invisible to the eye because of the limitless ocean of papers scattered over every once visible corner of wood.

He moved a few papers and extracted his pipe from the pile, which he always kept filled in case of emergency, and a box of matches which he now lit it with. Setting it in his teeth, he turned his chair toward the window to look out. He'd decided to write to pass the time, as he so often did, but his mind was blank for ideas. So, instead, he thought back, and his inspiration - hungry mind wandered deep into his memories and halted unexpectedly, as would a carriage if the horse pulling it stopped abruptly in front of a building in the middle of the road...

"Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?"

"Quiet, James, she may be sleeping."

"Yes, I'm here," Margaret called back from her bedroom. James turned to his sisters.

"If she was sleeping, Jane Ann, she would nae ha' answered, do ye agree?" Sarah giggled, but Jane Ann, greatly unimpressed, pushed her younger brother toward the door from which the voice had emitted moments earlier.

"Oh, gang awa," she said. "And here's your journal." She shoved a tattered black leather notebook into his arms and pushed him once more. James walked into the dark room slowly and silently, and said again, "Margaret Ogilvy, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here," she answered again.

"Margaret Ogilvy," James whispered a last time, and paused, "Do you want to get out of bed?"

"I dinna."

"You don't?"

"I dinna want to, Jimmy," she said insistently. James asked this every time he went to visit his mother at her bed, and every time, Margaret had replied in the same way: "I dinna, I winna, Jimmy."

"There can on'y be twa things tha get me oot o' bed," she said. James nodded, but didn't respond. He knew both reasons. One was David. As long as David was gone, Margaret wouldn't let herself rise from her bed. The other was that the doctor would "gae awa frae here furever": another phrase she repeated daily.

The boy, James sat on his mother's bed and took out his journal. Margaret saw the book, but didn't smile, as she used to when James read to her, so he imagined the smile, that, now, he was sure, would make her look old, even though she really wasn't. The loss of her son had hastened her aging, and now the young, beautiful, fresh face of James's mother, was now wrinkled, tired, and worn.

"There i'nt much mair in this warld, Jimmy, like writing sic as yers, you ken," she said quietly. James smiled to himself, but wished she'd said this before to him, while he was ignored, and David got most of her attention.

"You been studying your English, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"And wha hae you wri'en in English?"

"It i'nt finished yet."

"I see. Weel, I didna prepare onything fur you, but once your story's finished, syne you can read to me." Margaret closed her eyes and folded her hands, resting them atop her bosom. James took this chance to look toward the door to see Sara and Jane Ann listening to and watching the happenings inside of the bedroom, intently. He looked back at his mother.

"I'll read to you, Mither."

"Tha wid be nice," she answered, with a sigh. James bit his lip, thinking, and then smiled suddenly.

"Watch, Mither!" he cried. Margaret opened her eyes and watched her boy as he set down his journal and crawled to the end of the bed where the wall stood. He went down on his back and kicked his legs in the air.

"What are you doing, James?" James didn't answer, but instead maneuvered himself so that his back was flat against the wall, his feet free in the air, and his head creating a crater in the bed. Margaret smiled, and put her hand to her mouth. James looked at her upside down, and the mistress laughed at him.

"You're laughing now, Mither?" And Margaret did laugh. She laughed and cried, and laughed still some more, lying her head back on her pillow and closing her eyes.

"James, get down frae there!" she managed to cry. So James rolled down and picked up his journal, opening it to a blank page.

"Wha is tha, James?" she asked, her face becoming frightened again. "Something fur the doctor, I hope no. Is it?"

"Na, Mither, it's nothing. It's no fur the doctor," he answered, and walked to the door, making a mark on the page as he left and smiling to himself.

There was a knock at the door, and James remembered he was still in his study, rather than in the old house in Kirriemuir. He continued to stare out the window, unaware that what had awoken him from his daydream was the sound of his door. The sound came again, and he responded to it then.

"Er - come in," he said finally. The door opened slowly and Sarah's nose poked in. She stepped into the room, her arms clasped to her chest protectively.

"You wished to see me?" James questioned kindly.

"Yes," Sarah said. James smiled, and she seemed to loosen her arms, and gave a small smile in return. The idea of James Barrie would be one to make a person nervous or anxious, because of his great presence (despite his small stature) and importance, but that idea was deceiving. Once you were near him and saw the gentle smile that made its appearance so frequently on his face, you knew that the conversation you would have with him would not be tense, but calm and light, like talking to a close friend. But Sarah still wasn't completely at ease. She stepped closer to James's desk and finally ceased choking her treasure, setting it on his desk. She didn't completely let go of it, though, until her eyes met his and she realized that she could trust him. He looked down at what her hand had just abandoned, and smiled.

"What is this, Sarah?" he asked, and pulled it closer to him, for he knew she would attempt to take it back again; and from reading the look on her face, he found that his assumption had been correct. She sported a pair of deep scarlet cheeks at the sight of his smile, and squirmed in her place.

"I wrote this, Mr. Barrie," she said. James looked up at her, that lovely smile still on his face, and then opened up the notebook, which he found contained several pages of cleanly written prose, all in cursive. He was immediately reminded of Peter's story, and that he now had this to read as well as that.

James looked back up to his housekeeper. "Why did you not tell me you enjoyed writing, Sarah?"

She hesitated. He had used her name. "I didn't want you to think me a fool," she replied quietly after her moment of silence.

"Why would I think you a fool?" he wondered, raising his eyebrows. But Sarah didn't answer. Of course she couldn't tell him the truth: that she was sure that a great writer of his sort would see himself as superior to an almost non-existent (and certainly less dominant) one.

Obviously, knowing James, this was most certainly in no way true; though Sarah wasn't completely sure of this. She only knew him as the world-renowned, and admired playwright who had the magical, sparkling smile that made you feel the need of smiling back, no matter what the circumstances, and that no one was meant for any reason, to frown even once in their entire span on Earth. She knew him as the man who had the mastery over words as did (and may have rivaled) the Ancient Egyptians over the stone blocks used to construct the pyramids.

But, again, that is not all he was.

She decided, finally, to tell the truth. "Most writers, Mr. Barrie, wouldn't accept any writing from someone of a lower denomination than he - especially from a woman - especially from a servant."

"I am not most writers. And as far as I'm concerned, you are not a servant - rather a housekeeper. It's a much less evil sounding word."

"I only thought you wouldn't recognize me for my work because of who I am." James was inwardly disappointed in this assumption once he realized her predicament. It must have showed on his face as well, for she looked away. The two had been living together for a very long time, since a year after James had settled in London, when he realized that he desperately needed a housekeeper. In his letters to his mother, he'd describe his problems, and she'd write back every time advising him to hire a housekeeper. "You an' I lived thegither wae Jean fur aboot three years, an ya ken we got along weel - better wae her, than wi ou." and James would always reply, "I haven't the money, mother. I know that you know that." She'd respond, "I send you funds once a month. I thocht you were buying useful things wi them. Whaur hae they gone?" And he'd again reply, "Your funds are enough to buy me food and keep the rent, and that's all. I will repeat that I am very much grateful for the money you sent me for the house." "A guid author needs a guid hoose," she'd say. He'd thank her once more and agree, and then her next letter would abandon the subject altogether: "'Ow 'as yer writin been? I see yer English 'as improved. Why hae ya no come tae visit yer hame? I shid like tae hear ma bairn's words oo of his own mooth, ya ken. Yer mither c'n barely read her bairn's English on her own, anyway."

"Don't look at me in that way, Mr. Barrie," Sarah said, taking a step back, "You make me feel so very nervous." She had no right to order her master to do anything, but James didn't care what the proper etiquette was in the relationship between a man and his servant, because he thought whatever it was, was foolish. A housekeeper was as human as any other woman, and deserved not to be treated unfairly, or different from any other human being. So, he set his face in a more serious manner obediently, closed the book, and set his palm on the cover of it, lest she try again to swipe it from him.

"I will read it, and I will take very good care of it," he promised, the book acting as a bible for which to swear on. It was good enough for Sarah, who honestly trusted her master now. She managed a smile, and then took on a look like she was immensely proud of herself.

"May I leave now, Mr. Barrie?" she requested confidently.

"Yes, you may," James answered, and smiled after her until she closed the door, at which time he opened his journal, took pen in hand, and began to write.

The phone began to ring about a half an hour after Sarah left James's study, (which was, indeed, still separate from his bedroom. He had taken an empty room for himself that had large windows lining a circular wall. The sun shone in the daytime, and James wrote by candlelight at night) and he looked up from his writing, listening. It was usually Charles, and this is why James listened so hard. He was never prepared for anything his partner threw at him, which he tended to heave at the last minute. But at least if he listened, as he did, he could brace himself for something he might have to tap on his brain's door for, to awaken it from its idleness, or to bring it back from the fictional world, to the seriousness of reality.

Two rings, and he heard Emma answer, set the phone on the table, and scamper up the stairs to appear in James's doorway, all in less than a minute's time. And when she spoke, he found that it wasn't Charles, but that little fist rapped on his brain anyway.

"Mistress Barrie is on the line for you, Mr. Barrie," she said. James knit his eyebrows and stood, thanking Emma as he left the room. She smiled at Sarah's book next to her master's journal on his desk, and followed him to the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, James. How are you?"

"Fine," he answered suspiciously. "Did you need something? Perhaps a question on the script? If you need assistance with the Scotch - "

"I know how to read and pronounce Scotch, but thank you," Mary said patiently. James's heart dropped. He had hoped very much that it was a question on the Scotch. The answers wouldn't require as much thought.

"Yes, of course. Then, you won't have any trouble."

"No, I won't. I've been in plays set in Scotland," she reminded kindly.

"Ah, yes. Of course you have. Now, you had a question...?"

"Yes, yes. I wanted to invite you somewhere."

"Go on," he urged cautiously.

"Well, Gilbert," James shivered and felt a fist clench slightly at the sound of the name; he did not notice Emma still standing near him, "wanted to invite you boating with us during the summer sometime. As sort of a...celebration for your play, and...my being in your play."

"Boating," James repeated slowly, after a slight hesitation. He tried to sound intrigued.

"We'll find a date good for you. God knows the number of affairs you're committed to attend to."

"Yes, er - the boys - "

"You may bring the boys. Yes, bring the boys. They've probably not been boating before." James stammered, but Mary continued to speak. "I know, James, you may be uncomfortable with this, but i assure you - don't be. After all, we will be spending more time together with your play and all."

"Right. Yes. Yes, that's true. Eh - yes. My answer is 'yes.' I'll call you back tomorrow to - confirm. And then we can set up a date."

"Wonderful, that sounds wonderful. Thank you, James," Mary said, sounding honestly glad. James wanted to reply, but when he moved his mouth, nothing passed his lips, to go into the microphone and be sent into his ex-spouse's finely primped ear.

"I'll be talking to you later, then," she said.

"Alright, goodbye."

"Goodbye." Mary hung up first, but James merely stood dumbly in his place, and looked at Emma, who smiled and went into the kitchen. But James remained at the telephone. He disconnected the line quickly and dialed again. Someone answered after the third ring.

"Duke of York's."

"Charles, I need to speak with you."

OoOoO

Peter had his stack of books in front of his journal, and was scribbling away on it feverishly. His teacher, Mrs. Harper, was at the chalkboard, giving the class math problems to do, but he had her blocked out and was off in another world. The problems were for homework, so he planned to copy them down at the end of class and do them later.

Jack wasn't giving Mrs. Harper his attention, either, but rather to a blonde haired girl in pigtails who was sitting two rows to his left. He took the note from the floor, opened it, smiled, and picked up his pencil to write back, but a ruler came down on his knuckles, which had been red for weeks now, and presently deepened their shade.

"Jack Davies, do pay attention please. My ruler is sure to break in half before the end of the year, I believe I am safe to swear it!" Mrs. Harper said, obviously frustrated. Several giggled, and when Jack looked at his friend, she gave him an adoring smile. Peter, however, when he caught Jack's eye, had paused from his writing, and was frowning at his brother. The moment he looked back down, Jack's hand flew up.

"Mrs. Harper, I believe Peter is not paying attention either," he squealed. Mrs. Harper only frowned and sat at her desk.

"That's two warnings for today, Mr. Davies," she said. Jack's shoulders dropped, and he took out a sheet of paper, but began to write back to the blonde haired girl instead, as soon as the teacher turned her head.

Meet me at the flagpole
after school. I'll get there
early to send my brothers
home.

He folded the note and tossed it across the ground to the pigtailed girl, and when she read it, she giggled and began to write back. Peter got up then to ask to go to the bathroom, and when he passed Jack's desk, rapped his older brother hard on the back of the head. Mrs. Harper had her eyes fixed in the opposite direction at the time.

Peter barely ever got caught.

"Psst...Jack." Jack turned his head, and saw that the girl had returned the nore. He smiled at the reply, and blushed. Apparently she had seen this, for she covered her mouth to quiet her giggling. Jack sat back in his chair and stared at the chalkboard with a smile for the remainder of class, when Mrs. Harper spotted him before the bell rang. Jack earned a detention, forcing him to change his flagpole meeting with Carolyn Mundette with a clenched fist.

OoOoO

Author's Note: No, the romance is not between James and Sarah - Sarah only likes James, he doesn't like her that way. That's all I have to say for now. Stay with me, some more things will be introduced, and chapter 4, the story will start - first rehearsal. Keep reading! And review, please, I love you guys.