This is my first King Kong fic, so bear with me here.
Two Notes:
One: There will be many, many Original Characters in this fic, so if you're not too fond of OCs, you've been warned. There are no pairings planned, but we'll see how the fic progresses. Denham appears in this chapter and will play a large role. Englehorn, Jimmy, and possibly Preston will also be major players. Ann and Jack will probably not appear. (for disclaiming purposes, I don't own any of them!)
Two: The chapters will probably be long. I think this chapter might be a little too long, but I couldn't decide what to cut, so it all stayed.
My goal is to update every Saturday. Constructive criticism is muchly welcomed! On to the story!
Chapter One
June 2, 1934
New York City. The urban jungle. Haze lingered in the mid-morning air, and the temperature was already warmer than average for the season. The pressing humidity did nothing to allay the crowds on the streets and the sidewalks; the city was as lively as ever.
Laura Ashfield stood at the window of her parents' sitting room, gazing down at the bustling streets and smoking a cigarette. The crowds fascinated her: all these people, earning too little money and spending too much. Up here, in the three-story house her parents had lived in since 1921, she couldn't pretend to know nothing of their problems. After all, they were her problems too.
The double doors attached to the master bedroom opened, and Margaret Ashfield slipped through them, closing them quietly behind her. She smoothed her hands down her rounded hips and tried to smile at Laura, who had turned to watch her.
"He's sleeping," she said softly, crossing the room to come to the window. Her heeled shoes thumped on the thin carpet. "Do you think Dr. Bartholomew will be able to come by today?"
"We haven't paid but half of the last bill yet," Laura said, flicking the ash off her cigarette and out the window.
"I know, but I think his cough is worse, and –." She cut herself off, placing a hand on Laura's arm. "I'd just feel better if Dr. Bartholomew looked at him."
Laura rubbed her forehead; she could already feel the pressure of a headache building, and it was only a matter of time before the full brunt fell upon her. She crushed out the cigarette; the smoke always made her nauseous when she had a headache. Her mother gazed at her, expectant and hopeful, wanting only to be reassured, even if that reassurance was as insubstantial as the morning haze. She looked all of her sixty years: the weight of her age was in the curves of her hips, the wrinkles on her face, the sagging of her shoulders. She looked defeated.
"I'll call him," Laura said.
"No, no, you stay here, and I'll have Mary call him," Margaret said, and she sailed out of the room and into the hallway. Her advancing years and widening girth had done little to inhibit the grace that had been her trademark in her years as a debutante.
In the bedroom, Walter Ashfield coughed in great, gasping barks, and Laura thought he sounded worse too. He'd been doing well earlier that week, feeling strong enough to sit downstairs in the den and take his meals with his wife and daughters. The cancer in his body hadn't let him be for long, and now he'd spent the past two days in bed, barely conscious. Laura didn't need a doctor to tell her that he was dying.
A light breeze fluttered the window's curtains, and Laura held her arm against the window pane to keep it from blowing closed. The loose sleeves of her blouse ruffled against her flesh, but the air was warm and uncomfortable. The summer would not be pleasant. Margaret had spoken of going to Newport when Walter had been up and about, but now nobody mentioned such a trip. The Ashfields would be staying just where they were, which Laura didn't mind. Newport bored her, and they couldn't afford it anyway: with all those balls and dinner parties and concerts to attend, Alice would insist on updating her wardrobe. She had already pushed for a few new dresses, and Laura's refusal had made her Alice's least favorite person. Laura hoped George would propose to the girl soon. Taking care of aging parents was one thing; looking after spoiled younger sisters was certainly another.
A taxi pulled up in front of the tidy brownstone home, and Laura leaned out the window a bit to see who was arriving for an unannounced visit. She expected to see Mr. Darcy, her mother's scarecrow-thin lawyer, but the man who stepped out of the cab was more of the roly-poly variety. Laura's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"I'll be damned," she whispered. "If it isn't the honorable Mr. Denham himself."
Once upon a time, Carl Denham had been a regular visitor at the Ashfields', so much so that they had come to consider him more a friend than an employer. The relationship had denigrated since the onset of Sir Walter's illness, and of course there had been that great Kong debacle that knocked Denham off his feet and held him down for most of the winter and spring. There were rumblings in the film business that he wanted to make a comeback, but Laura couldn't think of anyone crazy enough to back him.
Which made his impromptu visit that much more interesting.
Margaret came back into the room, wringing her hands. "He'll come by tomorrow. He has too many appointments to come today."
"Hmm," Laura replied. She pulled the curtains further back to watch Denham cross the sidewalk and come up the front steps.
"What are you doing?" Margaret asked as she moved to the window.
Laura dropped the curtain and said, "Carl Denham is paying us a visit."
Her brows furrowing, Margaret peeked around her daughter's shoulder, just in time to see Denham disappear under the eaves. "Why would he be stopping by to see us?"
"Probably to ask for money," Laura said. "Half of New York is suing him; I can only imagine what the lawyer fees must be like."
"He should be well enough aware that we don't have any money," retorted Margaret. "Perhaps he's come about a new movie."
Laura scoffed. "He should be well enough aware that Dad's in no condition to go traipsing off to Natal or Ceylon or wherever else the devil it is he wants to film."
"Language," Margaret reprimanded absent-mindedly. She gave her daughter a side-long look. "He might have a job for you, Laura."
"Excuse me, ma'ams," squeaked Mary from the doorway. She was a petite blonde, currently the only servant in the Ashfield house. In years past, Laura's parents would have been shocked at the idea; they were used to having nearly a dozen servants to take care of the home and its inhabitants. Over time, that number had dwindled to seven, then to four, and now only Mary remained. They could still afford the girl's meager salary (most of which, Laura knew, she gave to her family), but even that might be more than the Ashfields could manage if the financial situation got much worse.
"Yes, Mary?" Margaret asked.
The girl's hands twisted in her white apron. "Mr. Carl Denham is waiting to see Sir Walter."
Mother and daughter exchanged a glance, and to Mary, Laura said, "Show him to the sitting room, please. I'll be down in a moment."
The girl nodded and hurried back into the hall. Laura took her cigarette case off the window sill and slipped it into the pocket of her white blouse.
"Don't brush him off too quickly, Laura," advised Margaret. "At least hear what he has to say. Things won't get better by themselves."
"If you'll remember, Denham often has crazy ideas, not all of them lucrative."
"Some of them have been," Margaret replied. She picked up a pair of gloves lying on a side-table next to the window and held them out to Laura. "You're forgetting these."
Laura stared back at the gloves, a wrist-length pair made of soft cream-colored leather, the only pair she could stand to wear for an extended amount of time. "He's seen my hands, Mother," she said.
"You should still wear them," Margaret said. She lifted her daughter's right hand and pressed the gloves into her grip.
It was an argument Laura didn't feel like repeating. She considered her hands casualties of war: scarred and gnarled, they looked like they belonged to a woman twice her age. But the price had been worth it, for all the lives they had somehow managed to save. Margaret thought it an awful waste – Laura's hands had been so elegant in her teen years – and she often carried an extra pair of gloves in case Laura left her own behind. Laura often found it simpler to just give in to her mother's sense of vanity.
"I'll go sit with your father while Mr. Denham's here," said Margaret as she moved toward the bedroom. "I'm sure they'll be sorry to miss each other."
Laura didn't doubt that; Sir Walter and Mr. Denham had meshed rather well, with Denham's natural showmanship and Ashfield's down-to-earth practicality. However opposite they were, they complimented each other, and they'd developed a relationship of mutual respect. Laura suspected that Carl had rather reminded Sir Walter of his younger days, when he'd been an officer in the British army, serving in the North-West Frontier of India. Much time had passed since then, but Sir Walter had always appreciated the vivacity of youth, wherever it could be found.
She went into the hallway, where Mary stood at the head of the stairs, which led down into the foyer. The maid's face was flushed. "I didn't know he was a friend of Sir Walter's," she said.
"We used to work for him, up until early last year," Laura explained. "Animal handling and consulting, on-location trapping, anything else he could think for us to do."
"That must have been exciting, being in the movies," Mary said wistfully.
"We were never on screen," Laura replied with an indulgent smile. "Mother wouldn't hear of it." Her mother would also disapprove of being so familiar with the staff, but Laura wanted to be kind to the poor girl. She deserved more than just respect for the hard work she did. She held out the gloves to Mary and added, "Could you put these where Mother won't see them, please?"
"Of course, ma'am," Mary replied. She put the gloves in her pocket; it was not the first time such an exchange had taken place. "Shall I prepare some tea for you and Mr. Denham?"
"Thank you, that would be fine."
They descended the staircase, winding down into the foyer, which opened into the sitting room off to the left. Denham stood near the fireplace, hands in his pockets; he hummed a little tune to himself. For a man whose name was on a list of lawsuits too numerous to count, he seemed quite happy. Mary turned to the right, toward the dining room and the kitchen, while Laura went into the sitting room.
"Hello, Carl," she said as he turned to face her.
She hadn't seen him in over a year – since just before his excursion to the ends of the world – but he appeared to be the same old Carl. His legal situation had done nothing to hinder his wardrobe, or else he had chosen his best suit in which to do his visiting. The suit, a stylish brown affair, was neatly tailored, and his hair looked like it had been prepared by a professional. He smiled when she moved into the room, but that smile didn't reach his eyes, which Laura had always thought were too black and beady for their own good.
He came forward, stretching his arms out as though to hug her, but she preempted him by offering her hand. Without even blinking, he lowered his arms and pumped her hand while the smile grew into a fat grin.
"Laura!" he cried, and it amused her to see that his recent experiences had done little to dampen his natural enthusiasm. "It's so good to see you after all this time. I hope the year's been good to you so far."
"We're managing," she said as he dropped her hand.
"I'm sorry I missed your birthday last week," Denham said, "but I have been in and out of meetings for most of the month. I'm putting big things into motion; time waits for no man, especially in the movie business."
"Say no more," Laura said, waving a dismissive hand. "It's quite alright. We didn't do anything special anyway."
"That's too bad," he replied. "You only turn thirty once."
Laura sighed and said, "I'm thirty-four. You know that."
"It's flattery, Laura," said Denham. "It can't be that much of a foreign concept to you."
"You'd be surprised," she answered. She gestured at the chairs situated in front of the fireplace. "Please, sit down."
He did so, choosing the large padded chair by the fireplace; Sir Walter's favorite, in the days when he'd been well enough to sit in it. Denham fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a pipe and a book of matches.
"Do you mind?" he asked, holding up the pipe.
"Not at all," she replied. She sat down on the sofa across from the chair, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees. He didn't so much as glance at her hands, as she had expected. He'd watched those hands work for almost three years; nothing about them could surprise him.
"I haven't seen Will around the city lately," he said as he worked on his pipe. "How is he?"
Laura shrugged and took her cigarette case out of her skirt pocket. Damn the headache; now she just needed a cigarette. "I wouldn't know. Our divorce was finalized six months ago. I heard he went to London."
Denham cleared his throat and tried to look disappointed. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"It was for the best," she said, lighting the cigarette. "Our marriage ended a long time ago; there was no reason to keep pretending it was working."
He didn't seem to know what to say to that; fortunately, Mary came into the room carrying a tea service, and the issue of the divorce could be dropped any further fumbling. The tea was poured, the sugar dispensed (a spoonful for each of them), and then Mary was gone, her little feet carrying her swiftly out of the room. Laura tended to her tea with much relish; Mary had chosen to make the more expensive tea they kept for special occasions, and though Laura wouldn't have considered a visit from Denham particularly special, she was thrilled nonetheless.
She inhaled the aroma of the tea before actually drinking it, glancing at Denham as she lowered the cup. Denham took a sip of his own tea and smiled. Laura knew he was indulging her; he'd never been fond of tea, but the ritual was necessary for the guests of the Ashfield family. Sir Walter had grown up believing that tea equaled hospitality, and the tradition had never faltered, even after the family relocated to New York.
"You know," Denham said suddenly, pointing a finger at her, "I think you're starting to lose that accent of yours."
"I must be spending too much time in the land of the Yanks," she replied without humor.
"Have you considered going back to India?"
Her tea cup had been halfway up to her mouth, and she paused, scrutinizing him. Laura had never really been able to tell when Denham was being serious with her, and she wondered if this was supposed to be a joke of some sort.
"I understand your family has money troubles," he said, and she decided it couldn't be a joke because nowadays nobody thought it in good taste to discuss money matters lightly. He read his audience well: he got straight to the point. "I have been given the opportunity to work on a serial set in Bombay, and I need an animal handler. I know your father can't possibly make the trip. I came here to offer the job to you."
Laura set her cup down before she dropped it. He had to know how ridiculous he sounded: she knew of no female wranglers in the business. Carl's own production company had fired her after Sir Walter's doctor ordered him to bed rest. She had served well as her father's assistant, actually doing most of the work because of his disability, the loss of his left arm during the War. But the company had not wanted the liability of promoting her. As one of the producers had put it, "it simply isn't done."
But Denham gazed at her with as serious an expression she had ever seen on him, and she believed the nature of her gender posed no obstacle to him at all. He needed a wrangler, and he had come to the family who had worked so well for him in the past to find one.
Unfortunately, she didn't trust him, and her gender was not the only problem with his proposition.
She lifted her cigarette from the ashtray and asked, "How can you afford it?"
"You're thinking about the Kong incident, right?" he said. Before she could answer, he waved his hands, pushing away all the nonsense of the past six months. "I won't deny that any money I may have is no longer actually my money. I'm broke, Laura, and that's the truth."
She tilted her head. "Do I need to repeat my question?"
He held up a finger, a conciliatory gesture. "There is a certain group here in New York interested in pursuing the greatest game on Earth. And certain persons in this group want to bring their love of their sport to the screen."
"The Orion Society, yes?" Laura asked. She leaned back on the couch, a little more at ease now that she understood what she was actually dealing with.
Denham hesitated. "I – You're not a member, are you?"
"Women are not permitted to join," Laura answered as she tapped the ash off her cigarette. "My father was a member for a short time. He and Mr. Beaufort had something of a disagreement."
"About your potential membership?"
"No." And she left it at that.
He didn't pursue the subject. "Beaufort's backing the project. Really, it's his project; I'm just the man he chose to direct it."
"Beaufort's branching into the movies?" Laura asked, raising an eyebrow. The tycoon had a reputation for banking on risky endeavors, but nothing as fickle as the box office. He rubbed elbows with movie stars, but he didn't do business with them.
"He just bought a partnership with Halcyon Studios," Denham explained, "and he wants to use it to bring the thrill of the hunt to the general audience. Everything's ready to go. It's a small group: a few select members of the Society to play the characters and a limited production crew to do the shooting. The script's written, the arrangements are all made. The only thing we need is a wrangler."
She spread her hands out and said, "And here you are."
"I can't think of anyone who knows Bombay and the surrounding area better than the Ashfields."
"So why not John or Robert?"
Denham gave a guttural chuckle. "We both know John would never agree to do cinema work. And Robert – do you even know where Robert is?"
"No," she admitted.
His arguments about her brothers were valid. John had a family of his own to support in Bombay, but finding steady work had never posed a problem for him. And Denham was right; John hated the film industry, for reasons that he kept to himself. Robert, on the other hand, loved the movies, but he could hardly be considered a reliable employee. The Ashfields hadn't heard from him in months, and even then, all he did was ask for money to cover his gambling debts in Europe.
If Denham wanted an Ashfield, it would have to be Laura.
She took a deep breath and folded her hands into her lap. She said, "No."
His mouth dropped open, and the pipe fell from his lips, tumbling down the front of his suit and onto the floor. He leaned over to pick it up, the astonished look never leaving his face. "But, Laura –"
Laura stood and walked into the foyer, and he jumped up to follow her. Taking his hat from the coat rack, she offered it to him and said, "I'm sorry you had to waste your time coming down here. I can't accept your offer."
"How much longer are you going to be able to support your parents?" he asked.
"That's not your concern." She pushed his hat against his chest, and he reached up to take it.
"It is when you're an old friend of mine," Denham answered. "I can give you money now, a retainer if you want. Beaufort's authorized that."
She went to the front door, opening it for him as he adjusted his hat. "Carl, I'm trying to tell you politely to stay out of our business. You're making it rather difficult."
"We're not leaving for another three weeks," he said as he came to the door. "If you change your mind, call the Orion Society. Please. I know you need the money."
"Goodbye, Carl," she said, offering her hand.
He stared at her a moment, but he saw nothing give in her expression. She was a proud woman; he knew that, but he hadn't expected her to make the decision so quickly. Maybe she wanted to stay in what she thought was her place; maybe she just didn't trust him. Either way, she'd given her answer. But he knew the Ashfields well enough to know that the first answer wasn't always the final one.
"Goodbye, Laura," he said. He gave her hand a good shake and stepped out into the warm afternoon.
She closed the door behind him, hoping she had made the right decision. Bombay had been her home for a total of more than twenty years, and she couldn't deny it she thought about it more and more these days. But she would not go on the payroll of the Society just to return to India.
The whole idea sounded strange: a serial starring a group of men with no acting experience whatsoever, shot by a production team of only a few people? Why would Beaufort put his money into it? Laura suspected the serial wasn't his main reason for employing Denham and heading off to Bombay. Whatever the real reason was, she wanted no part of it.
"He's right," said Margaret, and Laura turned to watch her mother come down the stairway.
"About the money, perhaps," Laura replied. She went back into the sitting room and began putting the tea service back on the platter. "But not the job. I can find work here in the city."
Margaret moved around Laura to help her with the service. "You shouldn't let your pride get in the way of a paying job. You want to go back to Bombay, don't you?"
"What I want doesn't matter," said Laura. "You need me here."
"Let me decide what we need. Think about yourself for once."
"I've made my decision." She reached over to her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Denham will have to find someone else, and I'll have to be more serious about getting a job. Father still has some connections; I'll see what they can do for me."
Nodding, Margaret said, "If you think that's best, dear."
Laura kissed the top of her mother's graying head. "We'll be fine. You'll see."
She picked up the platter and carried it into the kitchen, knowing that her words sounded empty. They'd been repeated so often in the past eighteen months that they no longer seemed to mean anything.