Disclaimer: I own everybody but Ichabod at the moment.
Once Upon A Time
Chapter Eleven
Rose arrived in the Crane's library roughly a quarter of an hour later, her cheeks red from the cold and her breath heavy with the running about she'd just done. Ichabod looked up from his book, lifting an eyebrow curiously. But when he saw who it was in the doorway, he set aside his book and smiled up at her. "Good morning, Rose," he said, rising from his sitting position.
"Good morning, Ichabod," she said breathlessly. She leaned against the wall, her breasts madly rising and falling as she huffed and puffed and tried desperately not to faint. But soon enough her knees began to buckle, and he was at her side in an instant, holding her against him so that she didn't collapse.
"Why don't we sit you down?" he suggested, already helping her over to the velvet-upholstered sofa.
"Yes, splendid idea," she agreed weakly, and the two of them plopped themselves down on the aforementioned sofa. She leaned heavily against him, clutching at his overcoat and staring into the fire. He unclasped the clasp at her neck, and it fell away, sliding silkily onto the floor. He pushed her hair behind her ear and felt her forehead, which was moist and warm with sweat.
"Rose, are you ill?" he asked, concern penetrating his outwardly calm manner.
"No," she assured him, "just a little faint. I ran all the way here from home, and I only stopped to grab this." She reached down and felt around for her cloak, then pulled two objects out of a pocket she had sewn in herself. She showed the first one to him; it was a small sprig of mistletoe. He smiled down at her and kissed her on the lips gently. "I also have this for you," she said, handing him the other object.
He took the piece of parchment from her, scanning it briefly before smiling. "I see Mister Hall's recent misfortune hasn't stopped your family from enjoying the holidays."
"I dare say that we can't afford to let it," she said. "We always have a celebration on Christmas Eve; it would cause a scandal if we didn't."
"I suppose," he agreed. "But don't you think your usual guests would forgive you if you didn't have one this year, in light of recent events?"
She sighed. "Oh, no doubt word of James' condition has gotten around by now. But my mother and father always said that it was important to make things look as normal as possible when in a crisis situation, so we're going to continue with our lives as usual until James recovers."
"Or dies," he added.
She gave another sigh, but this was more one of almost aggravated affection than despair. "Or until he dies," she agreed. "But I still think that's a highly unlikely situation."
"Whatever you say, darling," he half-laughed, smiling.
They sat in silence for a moment before a thought suddenly struck her. "Oh, will your father be in attendance, I wonder?"
"Do you mean my true father or Lord Crane?" Ichabod asked.
"Oh, yes," Rose said awkwardly. "My apologies. Lord Crane is who I mean."
"I do not know," he replied. "I shall have to ask him."
And the next day, that is just what Ichabod did. He approached his father early in the morning, when Lord Crane had barely had the chance to become intoxicated. He was in his study yet again, this time searching almost frantically through the drawers of various cabinets. There were books that had fallen open onto the floor, and the room looked in general chaos. Ichabod furrowed his brow in confusion and asked, only half in jest, "What have you done this time?"
Lord Crane looked to the boy, and for the first time in all his life, Ichabod saw fear in the man's eyes. "Oh, it's only you," he said.
It wasn't quite the warm reception Ichabod had been half-heartedly hoping for, but he shrugged it off and asked, "Is this a bad time? I can come back later."
"No, no," said Lord Crane, "stay. Was there something you wanted to ask me?"
"Not so much ask as to inform you," Ichabod said, stepping over some financial ledgers that looked decidedly grim. He took Rose's invitation from his waistcoat pocket and held it out to the man before him. "Rose Hughes has invited us both to her family's Christmas Eve celebration. She wished to ask if you would be in attendance."
"When is it?" Lord Crane asked.
Ichabod stared at him incredulously. "On Christmas Eve, naturally," he said.
"No, I mean when on Christmas Eve is it being held?" Lord Crane explained.
"From six in the evening until midnight," Ichabod told him.
"Will we be required to bring gifts?"
"No, but I plan on bringing a little something for Rose."
"Oh, no you won't," Lord Crane said suddenly. "If you intend to give her something, you are going to make it yourself."
"Why?" Ichabod asked. "Haven't we the funds to afford nice things anymore?"
This seemed to be the thing that made Lord Crane speak candidly with Ichabod for the first time in the boy's young life. "Listen," said the man, "we've been involved in some bad business since your mother's death, and I have very little hope anymore that we're ever going to recover from this financial instability. Is that a good enough explanation for you?" This last sentence seemed to be spoken with a mite of irritation.
Ichabod was momentarily speechless. "I'm so sorry, sir," he said. "If I had known..." He finished his sentence with silence, unable to think of a proper ending.
"Yes, well, now you do," Lord Crane said. "And I suggest you start thinking of ways to lessen our expenses."
"Of course, sir," Ichabod said, understanding why Lord Crane had been in such an especially foul mood of late. "But you never answered my question."
"And what question was that?"
"If you would be attending the Hughes' Christmas Eve celebration."
Lord Crane seemed to consider it a moment, looking around the messy room and then at the boy who stood practically in the middle of it all. And finally he said, "I may stop by for an hour or two to mill and partake of food and drink, but I simply cannot spare the time. Send the Hughes' my most sincere apologies."
"I will, sir," Ichabod said, backing out of the room silently.
Lord Crane's candor with the young lad had Ichabod concerned about his financial future. He supposed that a part of him had always known that Lord Crane would ruin their wealth, but he couldn't help thinking that some higher power truly was working against him. That is why he went to Bertha.
This time, the woman at the door made no remark; she barely spared him a second glance. He walked through the large house until he came to Bertha's room, and before he even had the chance to knock, he was admitted. He gave a small roll of his eyes and turned the doorknob, stepping inside.
Bertha smiled up at him, a crooked little smile that truly made her look like an old woman. "Young Ichabod," she asked, "what is it that troubles you now?"
"I thought you would have known that the instant you heard my footsteps," he said, slightly agitated.
She nodded and said, "I see there is something grave on your mind."
"Grave indeed," he told her. "Bertha, I'm...I'm worried about my financial stability. It seems that Lord Crane has not been so smart with my mother's money as he could have been, and now I fear that I will have nothing with which to support myself when the time comes."
"Yes, Lord Crane has gotten your family into some trouble, but that began long before your mother's death," she said, "contradictory to what he told you."
"Typical," he scoffed under his breath.
"And yes, there will be financial problems in your future," she continued, "problems that will force you to leave this place within a year."
Ichabod paled, if such a thing were possible for a person of his already fair complexion. "Leave Hartford?" he said. "I couldn't do that. I've grown up here, and my mother's family has lived here for generations. It would be disrespectful to go anywhere else."
"Your daughter will know her ancestral home," Bertha said, and her unseeing eyes closed. "But she will not know it the way you would like her to."
His face brightened, and then it fell. "What do you mean?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I cannot tell you that."
"You can't? Or you won't?"
She opened her eyes and glared at him, though she could not have possibly seen him. "Don't take that tone with me, young man. You speak of respect and disrespect, but where is your respect for your elders?"
He cast his eyes to the ground. "I beg pardon," he said meekly.
"Apology accepted," she said, and closed her eyes again. "As a matter of fact, I can't tell you yet. I know that your daughter will grow up in your ancestral home, but I also know that she will not grow up with you."
This crushed him, and he looked up in disbelief. "I shall not know my daughter?"
"Not as a young girl, not as she is growing up," Bertha said. "You will know her when she is wed, when she is the wife of a man named...Charles."
"Charles?" he asked. "Charles who?"
"The father of your grandson," she said, and leaned her head back against the pillows.
His eyes went wide. "Grandson?" But she made no response, and it took him a moment to realize that she had stopped breathing. "Oh, dear," he said quietly, as he took it upon himself to fold her arms over her chest in the common burial position. He stepped back and looked at her, an old woman who had died happy, with a small smile on her face. "Good-bye, Bertha," he said. "And thank you."
He went back down the stairs and found his way into the kitchen. There he told one of the servants, "I believe your mistress is dead."
Woah, more plot twist! And I would have posted this sooner, but I was fucking around with my image editing program and kind of lost track of time. The blood is the life, Sikerra.
