Thank you dearly to TheGuestAlikai and It's-a-secret8 for being my first reviewers on this fic! Comments truly feed my soul, and feedback of all kinds is always welcome. Prepare yourselves for a long chapter, and let me know what you think, if you so feel inclined!
And without further ado…
Orla woke early Sunday morning. It'd been a combination of the sun, streaming in golden ribbons through the attic windows, and the newly acquainted Martha Jones, snoring peacefully from where she lay curled up into Orla's side, that had roused her.
Last night, a drunken Martha had confessed she'd been a bit disappointed that she wouldn't be able to push the two cots in the room together to form a larger bed. An equally drunken Orla was upset at having never thought to do so herself in all her roommateless existence in the small garrett room. So, in an effort to rectify the situation, the two decided between giggles to shove both beds to the center of the room, socked feet slipping and sliding under the strain, where they'd managed to sleep comfortably through the chilly spring night.
Significantly less drunk, and certainly more awake than her roommate, Orla had been more charmed than surprised to find Martha snuggled up into her blankets. The girl was all bedhead and drool in a way that reminded her of her brother, Ian, when he was a kid and the fairytales that had lulled him to sleep in the light had him searching for solace in his sister's bed as they turned to nightmares in the dark.
There was not a lot to dislike about this Martha Jones. Orla found that she was already fond of the girl, despite not having been pleased to hear she'd be receiving a roommate after two years of dedicated service to the boys of Farringham. But of the company she could've received, Martha seemed like the best sort.
She was a spitfire, that was to be sure. Opinionated, and generous with those opinions. Clever, too. And a fellow devotee of Dionysus, if the way she'd chugged the whiskey to its dredges said anything about the matter. Yes, she'd make great company.
Orla could tell by the strength of the morning rays that she ought not to let Martha sleep for much longer. And with that thought, she reached down to give her new friend a shake.
The girl moaned, taking a moment to clutch at her head, or maybe her eyes, to spare herself from the effects of last night's revelry. Orla shot a glance at the empty bottle of whiskey where it lay turned over on the floor, and she suspected Martha's efforts were more than likely futile.
"About time!" Orla laughed as Martha eased into a seated position. Her mumbled response sounded a little something like fuck off, but it only delighted Orla more.
When Martha looked about ready to collapse back onto the cot, Orla decided it'd be best to rip the bandage, or less metaphorically, the blanket off of her friend in one fell, and well meaning, swoop.
"Now, I really must insist. I ken the bed calls to ye after a bottle, but if ye want to wake in time for mornin' duties tomorrow, ye ought to be up an' movin' soon."
Martha moaned her displeasure once more, rolling over in bed. Too far! Orla wanted to call, but before the words could leave her mouth, Martha was in a heap on the floor, having rolled right off the cot despite it being double its usual size.
"I know you're right," Martha groaned from the floor. "But it doesn't make me want to kill you any less."
Orla bent to pat the girl's sleep-mussed hair with a grin. "An' I'd let ye if I dinna have my own duties to tend to." She reached for the girl's arms, "Now up wi' ye!" And tugged Martha onto both feet and towards the wardrobe.
The girls dressed leisurely, chatting as they pulled on their chemises, stays, and petticoats. Martha kept stealing glances at Orla as she dressed, as if reminding herself of the order. And as Orla took notice of this fact, she made sure to slow her movements, making them deliberate and easy to follow. She didn't question why Martha didn't know how to dress, knowing better than most that an alcohol-addled mind, in the morning no less, was a funny one.
Because of this, Martha couldn't possibly have missed that before Orla put on her stockings, she turned them inside out.
"Why are you doing that, then?" Martha asked. "Is it to save time on laundry day?"
"Nae, nae, it's to ward off the fair folk," she giggled, pulling on the stockings, wrong-side-out. Hesitantly, Martha copied.
"The fair folk?"
Orla glanced at her, curious. "Aye, the fair folk." And then, sensing Martha's continued confusion, "The wee ones?"
There seemed to be no recognition in Martha's eyes. Orla continued, more urgently.
"The wee gentry? Host of the air? People of the hills? The good neighbors? Blessed company?"
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Then, resigned, and slightly worried, Orla whispered, "The faeries?"
"Oh!" Martha nodded. "Right, the faeries…How do the stockings help exactly?"
"Martha!" Orla laughed out of astonishment. "Are ye pullin' my leg? The other lassies think it's all hogwash, but at least they ken the legends!"
Martha shrugged, somewhat sheepish. "Well, you know, I'm from…London. Faeries don't…like? The city?" She sounded uncertain, and Orla quirked a brow. "Ignore me! Just–just tell me about the stockings. I'm curious."
Orla sighed, moving to the mirror to work on her hair. "The fair folk have a way of disorienting ye, makin' ye lose yer way even when ye ken the surroundings well. If ye have the displeasure of being enchanted by a wee one, wearin' summat inside-out breaks the spell and helps ye to find yer way again. I jus' like to take ma precautions, what wi' the countryside holdin' all kinds of creatures. Ye weren't wrong when ye said they dinna like the cities. I suppose ye wouldn't ken, would ye?"
Martha nodded solemnly, brushing her own hair back into a secure bun. The girls finished readying themselves in silence, before Martha perked up with a question on her tongue.
"You wouldn't happen to know where I might borrow a bike, would you?" She asked.
Orla thought for a moment. "Aye, Jenny—her room's in the basement—should have one. She usually walks to town wi' Maggie on Sundays to visit family," Orla frowned, thinking. "She'll be leaving soon, I think. I'd hurry if ye want to catch her."
Martha's eyes grew wide. She stole a glance at herself in the mirror, seemingly satisfied, before flying out of the room with the ghost of a goodbye on her lips.
Orla could only laugh.
She was never this well-humored on Sundays, so she only had Martha to thank for her improved mood. It wasn't long, though, before Orla had to steel herself for the task ahead. She finished readying quickly once Martha had left, leaving for the kitchens.
It was deserted this time of day, just after the morning rush as the boys breakfasted at their leisure in the dinner hall, and the cooks indulged in their break until lunchtime rolled around. It was just after 9 in the morning, so Orla thought she'd be safe to gather her own things in peace.
She was not so lucky.
Dressed and well-groomed stood Mr. John Smith in the kitchen. He was examining the cabinets with some concern, as if he were unsure if he were welcome to open them or not. Orla supposed he wouldn't know, only having arrived the day before, so she decided it was probably best to make her presence known.
"Good mornin', sir," she said, skirting past him to open the cabinet at which he had been staring and took down a plate for herself.
He startled, though, once seeing to whom the greeting belonged, settled into a kind smile. "Oh, hello! Good morning, I hadn't been expecting company. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…"
"Orla, sir." She offered no last name, as the maids tended to go by their first. Not that the boys nor the teachers could be bothered to remember even that most days.
"Right, very nice to meet you, Orla," he said in earnest. "I was wondering if you might point me in the direction of the fruit. It seems I missed the morning bell."
Orla frowned. He must be a heavy sleeper, considering the bell was meant to be heard a mile out. She supposed travel did that to a person. And considering the state of Martha this morning, she reasoned Mr. Smith was doing comparatively well.
"The cooks will be in soon, sir. If ye don't mind the wait," she offered, "they'll be able to fix up a proper meal for ye."
"No, no, I don't mean to be a bother. Something light would do me well, anyhow. Breakfast doesn't tend to agree with me," he admitted sheepishly.
Orla shrugged. Ian didn't like big breakfasts either, she thought while leading the new teacher to a pantry that contained the school's selection of fruit. There were mostly apples and pears. Orla was a fan of bananas herself, but the season didn't particularly allow for them at the moment.
Mr. Smith palmed a pear from the stack happily. "I appreciate your assistance, Orla."
She smiled kindly. "Twas nae trouble, sir," she said, moving back to her empty plate. Orla proceeded to shuffle about the kitchen, ignorant to Mr. Smith's continued presence, taking time to retrieve the odds and ends that make up a breakfast. A truckle of cheese, a warm roll, three slices of apple, and a steaming cup of tea. She moved the plate and teacup onto a silver tray for easy delivery, before moving to leave.
It was only when she chanced a glance over her shoulder that Orla caught sight of Mr. Smith sat at one of the servant's tables, just finished with skinning and cutting his pear.
She paused her ministrations to bid him a polite farewell just as he popped a slice into his mouth. Waiting for him to swallow, so as to say his own goodbyes in return, Orla startled as he let out a raucous cough instead. She watched in disgust as the chewed wad of pear rolled off of Mr. Smith's tongue and onto his plate with a queasy plop.
She stared at him in silent horror. "Sir, is evry'hing alright?"
It'd been ages since she'd witnessed such bold impertinence from the boys, let alone the staff, but even more strange was the fact that Mr. Smith, too, seemed perplexed.
He stared down the rejected bit of fruit with a frown. "Yes, yes, quite alright. It's just—I imagined pears would taste better."
Orla couldn't be sure she understood his meaning. And with genuine curiosity, asked, "Have you no' eaten pears afore, sir?" It seemed a ridiculous question, but after what she'd just witnessed, one that obviously needed asking.
He removed himself from the chair, standing to clear his plate into one of the rubbish bins as he spoke. "I suppose it's been a century or two since my body could stand them, but yes, I've had pears before," he watched wistfully as the remains of his short-lived meal plopped into the bin.
Orla could find no sense in any of what had just transpired. She'd have to have a word with Martha later about whether the reason she'd denied any relations with the man was because he was a complete and utter lunatic.
"Centuries, sir?"
He glanced up at her with a look of surprise. For a moment, his features darkened into confusion, transforming back into a good-natured amusement just as quickly. "No, no, I dare say I tired myself more than I could've imagined yesterday. My apologies, I only meant years. One or two years. Enough time, it seems, for me to have forgotten my distaste for the things," he shook his head with a laugh.
"Right, o' course, sir," she smiled through her confusion. Orla returned to the silver tray that carried the meal. "If you will excuse me, sir," she headed towards the teacher's wings.
"Yes, of course. Good day, Orla," he spoke faintly, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Then, meeting her eyes, "And thank you, again, for helping me with breakfast. I'm sure I'll have more success in the future."
Orla bobbed into a curtsey, displacing the interaction from her mind entirely so as to gather herself for what came next. She retreated further into the wing with haste.
While the other girls were spending time with their families or off at church, Orla spent her Sunday mornings forging, rather than confessing, her sins. She wasn't required to fetch Headmaster Rocastle's breakfast on her day off, but she found that food often mollified him. Made him more agreeable, and certainly more tolerable, when it came to holding up her end of their agreement.
Orla liked to get it over with early in the day, so as to enjoy the rest as best she could. And if she was early enough, him sleepy enough, it sped things up considerably. No time wasted with conversation as he ate through his waking haze, and no time wasted on disrobing him if he hadn't yet dressed. Yes, Orla had these encounters down to a science. That knowledge soothed her frayed nerves as she released a hand from the tray to knock at the headmaster's door.
"Come in!" His voice boomed from the other side.
She fixed a smile on her face before slipping inside.
Martha trudged up to the gates of Farringham sometime late in the evening. She propped up Jenny's bike between two bars as she had been asked to do upon her return. And if it weren't for the late spring drizzle trailing down Martha's face and wetting her clothes, she would've called the day a relative success.
Upon learning that the maids had Sundays off, Martha had immediately determined to visit the TARDIS. It was parked a short carriage ride, and a slightly longer, though not unreasonable, bike ride away. Martha had almost burst into tears of relief upon seeing the anachronistic Police Box standing proud upon the hill, hidden from sight with a perception filter unless one knew where to look.
She'd spent most of the day bathing and eating and reviewing her textbooks in the available rooms, not wanting to get behind on her studies in her months away from home. It was a luxurious reprieve from yesterday's labors, and the Med Bay had even kindly produced a hangover tincture that'd worked wonders on Martha's whiskey-induced headache.
When Martha had finally bothered to peek outside to find the sky darkening, she decided it was, regretfully, time to leave.
She shook off the drizzle best she could before beginning her trek up the stairs to hers and Orla's room. Martha didn't make it more than a step, however, hearing the faint echo of shouts reverberate up the stairwell from the basement. Immediately transforming into the doctor she hoped to someday become, Martha sprinted down the steps and towards the source of the scream.
Martha found Orla in the hallway.
"Oh, Martha!" She said, ecstatic for some help.
"What, what is it? What happened?"
"It's Jenny!" Orla gestured to the room they stood outside, screams quieting into whimpers. "She came back from toon all drookid, hobblin' and skirlin' about twistin' her ankle in the muck. Would ye mind grabbin' the bandages from our room? From the dresser, ye ken?"
Martha nodded, and without another word, sprinted towards the steps.
"Oh, an' don't let the Matron see!" Orla called after her in a half-whispered shout.
Martha should think they'd want her to grab the Matron, but she followed Orla's instruction, nonetheless. With all the running Martha did with the Doctor, she was up and down the steps in no time, bandages in tow. Though, without examining the wound herself, she couldn't be sure they would be of much help.
Martha bustled into the room to find Orla and one other maid, most likely Jenny's roommate, encircling the poor girl from where she sat, pink-faced and teary-eyed, on the bed. Orla cradled the girl's foot in her lap, murmuring reassurances to the inconsolable Jenny.
The unnamed maid spotted Martha first. "Come, come, we don't have forever," she waved Martha in from the door.
Martha knelt to get a good look at the mucky foot. They hadn't taken off her shoe yet, for fear of injuring Jenny further, but Martha needed to know exactly what they were dealing with. "So," she hedged, untying the boots as the others watched on anxiously. "Why shouldn't we contact the Matron, exactly?"
Jenny spoke up, wincing as Martha worked. "Matron has to report all injured servants. Injured servants can't work. And if a servant can't work, she's sacked and replaced with one of the tens of other girls lined up and eager to make a living," she screwed up her face as Martha peeled away a rain-wet stocking from the bloated leg.
"That's horrible," Martha said, at a loss for anything more reassuring. "Do they have no loyalty to you guys?"
"Loyalty?" Jenny's roommate shrieked. Martha looked up from the foot momentarily to shoot her a glance. The girl was pinch faced with a nose that stuck up in a way that was probably true to form, if the few moments Martha had interacted with her reflected anything of the girl's temperament. "We don't have the luxury to bond with the staff. If we're not working, we're replaced. Simple as that."
"Enough, Maggie," Orla said, cutting the lecture short. "Martha, what are ye doin?"
She'd been slowly rotating the ankle to test Jenny's pain threshold. There wasn't a lot Martha could do for her without a proper boot to isolate the foot's movement, but there were other ways to keep it still while she healed.
"I have some experience with this kind of thing. I think I can help. At least, I can probably do as much as the nurses might, and that's to say not a lot, but something."
"Okay," Orla breathed, happy that at least someone had a plan. "What do ye need?"
"A bucket of ice water, some compresses, sticks—maybe some boning from someone's stays would work—and we've already got the bandages."
The girls scattered to fulfill Martha's demands.
Maggie, disagreeable as she was, did as she was told and deconstructed one of Jenny's more ill-fitting stays to remove the stiff boning from its channels. Orla hurried to the kitchens to retrieve a bucket of ice water with as much discretion possible, and Martha set to work.
First, she had Jenny dunk her ankle in the bucket for a good ten minutes before toweling it dry. "Helps with the swelling," Martha said to dispel some of the skeptical looks she was receiving.
Next, she used the boning as a sort of brace for the ankle, winding bandages around the supports to keep the structure in place. Fiddling with the makeshift boot until it sat comfortably along the lower half of Jenny's shins, Martha rolled on a warm, dry stocking to conceal her handiwork and brushed off her knees as she stood.
"Matron'll be none the wiser," she said with a pleased smile. "Now, I want you to keep that ankle elevated throughout the night and any time you're off your feet. Hot compresses if it's starting to ache, and try to keep your weight off it as much as possible. You should be feeling better within the week," Martha finished.
The girls all drew in relieved breaths, though none more grateful than Jenny. The girl pulled Martha into a tight hug before releasing her with a grin.
"You're a star, you are," Jenny said in earnest.
Martha had to refrain from replying, It's just my job, before settling on, "Anytime, Jenny. And if any of the other girls get hurt either, feel free to send them my way."
Orla and Martha excused themselves, the harrowing adventure having run its course, and the latter having earned some newfound respect from her fellow servants.
Martha flopped into the double-bed the second they'd finished scaling the stairs. Orla watched as she kicked her shoes off the side with a fond smile.
"Ye really are, ye ken," Orla said.
"What was that?" Martha asked, words muffled in a pillow.
"A star!" Orla used Jenny's words. "Where'd ye learn a thing like that?"
Martha rolled over, giving Orla space to join her on the bed as she relived her brief moment of heroism. It felt good to be useful, and though Martha knew that what she was doing, working at Farringham, watching over the Doctor, were all useful things, they paled in comparison to the simple pleasure of doctoring.
As such, Martha chose to answer Orla truthfully, explaining why she'd devoted her life to healing, leaving out the modern details like medical school and degrees, and sticking to the simpler truth. The one that started with her little brother Leo, his fourth birthday, and the broken arm he'd obtained after jumping off a swing while the adults were busy readying the cake.
Orla listened intently, allowing Martha's story to wash away the strangeness of the day, and replacing it with the simple pleasure of friendship.