Surrey, England
November 2012

Name me someone that's not a parasite

Slowly, I turn the card in my hand. The paper is thick and heavy, the writing embossed in an elegant coppery colour.

You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of
The Hon. Stephen Broderick
with
Miss Fiona Hillhouse

"This looks awfully formal," I point out, not for the first time.

Ken takes his eyes from the road long enough to give me a reassuring smile. "I checked with Steve and I promise it's only an informal gathering of old friends. They had their official engagement party last month. This is mostly just an excuse for all of us to get together again."

"They could have just sent out an email," I mutter, as I absent-mindedly trace the words on the invitation.

"Sure, they could have," replies Ken and stops the car at a red light. "But this looks nicer and from what I suspect, that invitation is probably Vera's doing anyway."

Right. Who was Vera again?

"She's… one of the sisters?" I ask, hesitating as I search my memory for what Ken has told me about the family.

"The older sister," he confirms as he indicates left. "Vera Lloyd. Married to Francis Lloyd. His family is in the shipping business."

I nod slowly. "And the younger one is Hermione?"

"Hilda," corrects Ken, but looking at him from the side, I can see him smile.

"Same thing," I point out with a shrug.

"Very nearly," he concedes. "Their father is Baron Broderick, himself heir to the Viscount Dunsford. Steve is the next in line."

Taking one last look at the invitation before slipping it back into my clutch bag, I grumble, "Seriously, these people should come with cliff notes attached."

"Oh, they already do," assures Ken. The traffic light in front of us changes colour and he gets the car moving again, turning sharply left.

I sit up straighter in my car seat and protest, "I'm being serious!"

"So I am," he's quick to placate. "You want Burke's Peerage or Debrett's Peerage & Baronetage. Those are your cliff notes, just a more exalted version."

"Dusty old books with names of long-dead people in them?" I wrinkle my nose. "No, thanks. I'll continue to bother you about information."

"You do that." Reaching out, Ken briefly squeezes my knee, before withdrawing his hand to tackle the roundabout in front of us.

(Roundabouts are the only things that still make my head hurt about this whole 'driving on the wrong side of the road'-business. Not that I'm much of a driver anyway – in five years, I've rarely had cause to put my driver's licence to good use – but even I know we don't have that many circles in Canadian roads.)

"If anyone dared to pass a law that forbade you British the building of new roundabouts, you'd all be traumatised for life," I inform Ken as we enter another roundabout directly after the first one.

"Naturally," he agrees. "Copious amounts of tea would be consumed. We might actually run out of tea."

"Maybe the Americans would send you some?" I suggest innocently. "So long as you hold back on the taxes, of course."

Ken grins. "Of course."

He turns the car to the right, entering a smaller road that leads us towards a wooded area. Ever since leaving the M25 – at least I think it was the M25 – traffic has gotten progressively lighter and our surroundings progressively more rural. We must be nearing our destination and the realisation makes my heart flutter nervously.

"So, you know the groom from school, correct?" I ask Ken. We've entered the woods now and with dusk already falling, the headlights of the PPO's car behind us automatically spring to action, casting a dim light inside our car.

"Yes, we went to Eton together," confirms Ken. "There will mostly be old friends from school or university there, plus significant others."

'Old friends', sounds good, right?

"In fact, some of them have been asking to meet you for a while," he continues, giving me a quick smile. "I'm afraid I have been keeping you to myself a little."

"I'm not complaining," I reply, returning his smile.

If I'm completely honest though, I wouldn't mind meeting a few friendly people in this country. My colleagues at work are mostly nice but also a lot older than me and the situation with my classmates hasn't exactly improved since that Daily Mail front page two weeks ago. I love Ken, but it would be nice to have some proper friends nearby. Maybe his friends won't mind becoming mine as well?

Slowing the car, Ken steers it left and brings it to a halt in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates. Lowering the window, he signals to a security guy on the other side, who, recognising him, quickly springs into action and opens the gate for us to drive through. Behind it, a long winding drive opens up, leading gently upwards to a manor house that looks very much like a box, for a lack of a better word. Sure, it's got a portico and some swirls all over as well as what looks to be a low fence on the roof, but the general shape is very much that of a box.

"We're running a bit late, so dinner should be served soon," Ken remarks after a glance at his watch.

"And after dinner, it's drinks but no dancing, right?" I double check. (The "no dancing"-part is very important to me. I do perfectly well in a club, but if my life depended on me dancing a waltz, I'd be as good as dead.)

"Just drinks and mingling," assures Ken. "Then breakfast tomorrow and we'll be on our way before noon."

Less than twenty hours. That's doable, I think.

The security man at the gate must have radioed ahead, because when we pull up in front of the house, a man in a fluorescent vest directs us to a prime parking space directly opposite the entrance. It's the last free space in a line of cars and I have a feeling they kept it open for Ken. (The PPOs, naturally, just park their car by the side of the house, easily accessible and facing the gate in case a quick get-away should prove necessary. They're paranoid like that.)

Mindful of the gravel, I clamber out of the car, careful not to get my shoes all dusty. By the time I've walked gingerly around it, Ken is already holding his small suitcase and my overnight bag. When I try to reach for my bag, he swings it away slightly, declaring in a conspiratorial voice, "Can't have you carry the bags. They'd think badly of me."

"Suit yourself," I reply with a shrug and a smile, switching my clutch from one hand to the other.

To our left, the PPOs have also gotten out of their car. There's four of them today – Beckett, Saunders, Hanson and another man who's new and whose name might or might not be Beaverstock. I'm quite proud of having learned most of their names by now.

As Ken prefers it for private occasions, the officers take up position outside the building. Therefore, it's just the two of us walking up to the portico, where a man in a tuxedo and a woman in a floor-length fuchsia gown are waiting. (Her dress, I can't help noticing, is a lot nicer than mine.)

"Kenneth!" exclaims the woman loudly once we're within earshot, holding out both arms for him and kissing the air beside his face not once, not twice, but three times. Once she has released him, the man reaches out to clap Ken's back with a "Good to see you, old man!" before they both turn towards me.

I hesitate for a moment, until I feel Ken place a hand on my back and gently propel me forward. "Rilla, these are Steve Broderick and his sister, Vera Lloyd. Vera, Steve, may I introduce Rilla Blythe?"

So, this is the prospective groom and he's greeting the guests at his engagement party not with his future wife but his sister by his side? Odd.

"How do you do?" greets Steve amiably, holding out a hand for me to shake.

Vera, meanwhile, gives me a quick once-over. "So, she does exist. We were beginning to doubt it, considering how well you kept her hidden," she tells Ken with a tinkling laugh.

I'm not quite sure how much I like this remark (or maybe it's the accompanying laugh that sits uneasily with me), but Ken is already moving past it smoothly. "We're here now, so you can see there's nothing to hide." Pointing at our luggage sitting at his feet, he adds, "Where can I put these?"

"Just leave them," answers Vera airily. "Someone will take them up to your rooms."

Rooms? Plural?

Ken's picked up on it as well. "We're fine in one room, Vera." His voice is perfectly friendly, which alleviates what might otherwise be a brusque comment.

Vera pulls a face that I'm sure is meant to be apologetic, but that gives me a sudden flashback to Ginny trying to convince me she wasn't in cahoots with The Daily Mail. "Terribly sorry, but that won't be possible. My grandmother doesn't approve of illicit affairs going on beneath her roof."

Excuse me? 'Illicit affairs'?

"No unmarried couples sharing rooms on her watch," chimes in another voice and I turn my head to see a younger woman in a pink dress. Her resemblance to Steve is so strong that she's got to be the other sister. Hilda, was it?

(I wonder if they know they're so like the Bingleys?)

As Hilda leans forward to greet Ken (limiting herself to two air kisses, I notice), Steve grins and shrugs. "She's an old crow, but until grandpa kicks the bucket, she makes the rules, even when she's not actually here."

So, we won't be meeting the old crow, at least. Silver linings and all that.

Vera immediately proceeds to chide her brother on his language, while Ken inclines his head towards me and asks quietly, "Are you okay in a room by yourself?"

"Yeah. Sure," I answer and muster a smile for his benefit. "I lived alone in New York, remember?" (Not that that's true. I had George with me in New York. But I'm not thinking about that.)

Of course, what I really want to say is that the 1850s called to ask for their outdated social rules back, but I refrain from doing so. Insulting your host's grandmother is hardly the way to make a good impression, even if said host insulted her first.

"I actually came to tell you that dinner is ready to be served," interjects Hilda into her sister's sermon on proper language.

Stephen immediately jumps at this opportunity to escape Vera's lecture. "Excellent! Follow me, everyone! I will lead the way."

After exchanging a long-suffering look, his sisters do that just. Ken, his hand still on my back, steers me to follow them, leaving our luggage to wait forlornly on the drive. I sure hope someone will turn up to collect it!

Under the watchful eyes of what must be long-dead ancestors, we enter a wood-panelled dining room that already holds around three dozen people at a long U-shaped table. They all look up curiously as we enter and I need just one quick glance around the room to know that all their clothes are much fancier than mine.

"You are sitting with Giles," Hilda informs me, pointing to an unoccupied seat next to an alarmingly thin man with a sizable moustache. "He's married to one of our cousins."

Good for him, I guess. (If, maybe, not for the cousin.) But why am I sitting next to him?

Puzzled, I turn to Ken, but he is looking at Vera. "Is that really necessary?" There's a sliver of annoyance in his voice now, even as his hand starts to reassuringly stroke my back.

"Couples don't sit together," Vera answers breezily. "You should know that."

"Married couples," Ken stresses.

"Same thing," decides Vera. (Though she obviously doesn't consider it the same thing when it comes to the sharing of bedrooms, does she?)

Stephen reaches out to clap Ken on the back – again. "It's more fun to mix everyone up a little."

Ken doesn't look more convinced than I feel, but then, with a sigh, shakes his head and turns to me. "Are you –?"

I don't let him finish. "Sure. Don't worry." With three dozen people watching me, there's hardly anything else I could say, after all.

Vera nods curtly. "Good. Kenneth, we put you next to Toppy."

That makes Ken stop dead in his tracks. "Is that necessary?" He's not doing much to mask his annoyance anymore.

"It'll be fun," declares Steven, sounding actually convinced of his words. "You two can catch up."

Ken draws in a long breath, but doesn't say anything else.

"Who's Toppy?" I ask instead.

"Lady Thomasina Wentworth-Watson," answers Hilda. "Daughter of the Marquess of Rockingham."

Yeah. That wasn't actually what I was asking.

But there are still a lot of people watching us, now growing slightly restless at us just standing in the doorway, so I give Ken a gentle nudge. "Go. It'll be fine."

He nods, but makes a point to accompany me to my seat next to the be-moustachioed Giles. I'm secretly quite glad about it, too, because I am perfectly aware that all eyes in this room are fixed on me and while it's not a wholly unfamiliar feeling, it's not one I enjoy much. Thus, I am almost relieved when I can finally take my seat next to Moustache Man. At least it puts me level with everyone else, which makes it harder for them to stare.

Ken's place is at the front end of the table next to a blond young woman who greets him with the familiarity of an old friend. Three seats down I spy what must be the bride, though she's so, well, wispy that she might as well not be there. I'm honestly surprised she isn't translucent, given how pale she is.

Moments later, the first course is served, which at least means people turn to their food and stop looking. As chatter starts to rise throughout the room, I also concentrate on my neighbour, looking for a topic I can use to strike up a conversation.

Turns out that I needn't have bothered.

Giles of the Prominent Moustache breeds Airedale Terriers. He obviously does this with both dedication and passion. He also talks of nothing else. Nothing! From the moment the soup is placed in front of me to the moment my dessert plate is cleared away, it's Airedales this and Airedales that. The only good thing about it is that my participation in the conversation is not required, seeing as Giles needs neither comments nor affirmatives. He even answers his own questions. It leaves me with a lot of time to just nod and stare at the food collecting in his moustache. (My other neighbour is no help, as, for the entirety of the dinner, I only ever see the back of his head.) The entire thing is, as they say, a bore.

It also takes almost one and a half hours, so that by the time Vera finally rises to declare dinner over, I'm bored out of my mind by Airedale facts and slightly nauseous from having to look at bits of salmon and bits of pork getting caught in the moustache, which is an unfortunate combination in any case but especially when facial hair is involved.

When Ken arrives to collect me, I practically jump to my feet. Giles, thus disturbed in his monologue, looks up and blinks confusedly.

"I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to kidnap Rilla," Ken apologises.

Giles blinks again. "Her name is Rilla?"

"It is," I confirm quickly as I take a step back, the faster to escape him.

"That is an unusual name," observes Giles.

"It is," I repeat, shuffling backwards even more.

Giles raises a hand to thoughtfully twirl his moustache, causing a piece of broccoli to fall out. "I could name a bitch in my next litter for you."

Now it is my turn to stare and blink.

Ken, thankfully, is less ruffled by the oddness of it all. "It was nice talking to you, Giles, but we've got to leave now. See you around." Placing a hand on the small of my back, he gives me a slight push, probably keen to separate me from Giles before I find my voice again.

When I do, all I can offer up is a weak, "Did you know that Airedales are the biggest terriers around?"

"Indeed I did not," answers Ken evenly as he steers me along a corridor and into a well-lit room with green upholstery on the walls. (Seriously, who thinks green walls are ever a good idea? I need to confer with Nan about this.)

Accepting two glasses from a passing waiter, Ken offers one to me. A tentative sip reveals it to be champagne and tasty one at that.

"This is good," I remark, banning any and all thoughts of Moustaches and Airedales from my mind.

"Given that Vera is the one organising this shindig, it would be. I expect the bride's family paid for it though. The Brodericks have the pedigree, but not necessarily the monetary means to back it up," he explains.

(So not completely like the Bingleys, after all.)

Letting his gaze drift through the room, Ken asks, "Are you ready to meet some people? There's quite a bit of curiosity about you."

The nervous flutter in my chest is back, but I do my best to squelch it. Meeting his friends was what I came here to do, after all. "Sure, so long as no-one wants to talk about Airedale terriers," I quip.

"I don't consider it likely, but if someone tries, I promise to steer the conversation towards Yorkshire terriers immediately," Ken replies solemnly, making me laugh.

We don't get to strike up a conversation with anyone though, be it about Airedales or Yorkies, because Hilda choses that moment to appear next to us.

"Do you mind if I steal her away for a moment?" she asks Ken with a sweet smile and a nod towards me.

He shakes his head, his eyes flickering over to meet mine. "Not at all. Anything in particular?"

"Just girly stuff," answers Hilda, still smiling up at him.

With a tiny nod to reassure Ken, I hand over my glass to him and allow Hilda to lead me away. As we walk, she leans closer to me. "I thought you might like to know that your dress is gaping open at the back. There also appears to be a stain."

Immediately, I imagine the entire dress to be ripped open, but when I reach back to check, it doesn't feel so very bad. I don't get time to find out properly though, because by then, Hilda directs me to enter what turns out to be a powder room of sorts. Inside, around half a dozen other women have convened to touch up their make-up and check their hair in the mirror.

"Now, let me see…" Walking around me, Hilda inspects the back of my dress as I crane my neck to get a look myself.

A second passes as I feel her tug at the drees, before she announces, "Looks like false alarm. A button came undone. Probably because Ken has his hand on your back the entire time."

"Perhaps," I concede. "What about the stain?"

Hilda holds up a piece of fluff for my inspection. "Just this. It looked like a stain from afar."

"I can see why it would," I acknowledge. The white fluff on the purple dress would have created quite the contrast.

"That's a sweet dress you're wearing," comments another voice and I quickly turn my head to see that two other women have ventured closer.

I am, to be honest, not quite sure what to make of this supposed compliment to my dress. It is a sweet dress, but it is a dress more suited to a relaxed dinner with friends than to this decidedly posh party. Next to the beaded floor-length gowns of the women around me, it falls short. Quite literally, even.

"Is it from Topshop?" ask the other woman.

But before I can get a word in (it is, in fact, not from Topshop), the first one declares, "It's so nice that ordinary people can buy affordable clothes in shops these days. I hear they used to make them at home!"

Well, shock, horror.

Hilda steps next to me, thus saving me from having to come up with a response. "These are Dizzy and Egg," she introduces, indicating the two women standing in front of us.

I open my mouth to ask and then think better of it. Maybe I don't even want to know.

"We and Ken go way back," explains one of them. (Dizzy? Egg?)

"The Queen used to invite us to playdates at the palace," adds the other one.

"How is the Queen these days?" interjects Hilda and it takes me a moment to realise that she's asking me.

"I… don't know. Sorry," I answer hesitatingly. Something about this situation is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

Hilda considers me with renewed interest. "Do you mean you haven't met her yet?" The tone of her voice leaves little doubt that she considers this a particular juicy piece of gossip.

"Not yet," I reply, my eyes flickering over to the door.

"But surely you are invited to his birthday dinner later this month?" asks Hilda. "It's a small affair. Just him and his closest family."

"Toppy used to get invited," chimes in Dizzy-or-Egg.

"And Tatty went as well in the past," reports Egg-or-Dizzy.

I take a deep breath. "We haven't discussed it yet." It's the best I can do, but even as I say it I know no-one is buying it for even a second. They all three look far too delighted with this bit of news for me to doubt that in twenty minutes, every person at this party will know that I did not get an invite to that birthday dinner.

I need air.

Mumbling some sort of apology, I flee from the powder room, leaving the other three behind to spread their gossip. Not that I make it far, however. Instead, mere meters after leaving the room, I am stopped by the sight of Ken talking to blond Toppy Whatshername.

I'm not the only one to have discovered them either. As I slowly retreat to stand behind a pillar (this house has pillars!) I spy Vera standing with a woman in a slightly-too-tight dress and a man who I think is her husband, the shipping guy. They haven't noticed me, given that they're too enthralled by the sight of Ken and what I now suspect to be his ex-girlfriend. I hurry to put the pillar between us, but unfortunately, I can still hear them.

"Look at Kenneth and Toppy! They are such a beautiful couple!" A female voice. Could that be Vera?

"Alas, not anymore." The other woman speaking.

"He'll come to his senses."

"Would she take him back?"

"Sure." The first voice again. "She's still got her eyes on the tiara. Hung around long enough the first time around."

"Before he dumped her for the Canadian, you mean."

"Precisely."

"Any thoughts on her?" It's the second woman and I don't care for the tone of her voice.

"I'd tap that for sure!" The man chiming in for the first time.

"She has barely said a word all evening. Either she's boring or a bit slow."

"Who cares what's in her head when she's got pins like that?" A barking laugh. It makes my skin crawl.

"Not Ken. It's not hard to figure out why he's with her."

"She's no princess material and he knows that." Disdainful. Could that be Vera again?

"Aren't they living together?"

"And why wouldn't they? He isn't ready for marriage and there's no harm in having someone keep his bed warm until he is." The woman audibly taps her champagne flute for emphasis.

"Especially someone with legs like those!"

I have heard enough.

Carefully walking backwards, hoping to get noticed neither by Vera and her companions nor by Ken and what I now know to be his ex-girlfriend, I make my way to a door that appears to be leading out onto a veranda. Thankfully, I find it open and quickly duck outside. Only then do I notice that I have held my breath the entire time.

Withdrawing into the shadows by the side of the veranda, I lean back against the rough façade of the house and close my eyes, willing them to stay dry.

"Miss?" asks a low voice next to me. "Are you alright?" I don't even have to check to known that it's Hanson.

"I just… need a moment," I answer, opening my eyes to look at him. "All of this…" But I have no words, so just vaguely wave my hand in direction of the party.

"It's a unique kind of world," he replies knowingly and not for the first time, I wonder what secrets these officers keep.

"It is," I agree wearily.

Hanson pauses, as if trying to decide what to say. When he does, he intones his words carefully. "I don't know if it helps at all and I hope that the reminder of my very happy marriage will keep this from sounding creepy, but you're much prettier than them."

For a moment, the unexpectedness of his statement startles me, but then I can't help but smile. "It helps. Thank you."

"Anytime." A second passes, before he nods in direction of the house. "He's looking for you."

And indeed, when I turn to look through the window, I see that Ken, while still talking to that Toppy, is quite obviously searching the room with his eyes.

I push away from the wall. "I'd better go inside."

Hanson nods. "Chin up, Miss. The best way to annoy them is not to let them see that they're getting to you." Tapping two fingers against his temple, he melts away into the darkness, leaving me with nothing to do but to re-join the party.

When I step back inside, Ken's eyes find me almost immediately and he stretches out a hand for me. Squaring my shoulders and raising my chin, I go to join him and that Toppy creature. (She does not deserve to share half a last name with Frederick Wentworth, I've decided.) If this is about keeping up appearances, I think I can do that.

Ken wraps an arm around my waist the moment I reach him. "Rilla, this is Toppy Wentworth-Watson. Toppy, may I introduce you to my girlfriend, Rilla Blythe?"

Well, at least we're batting for the same team here.

Toppy considers me. Her lips are smiling, but her eyes remain cool. "Nice to meet you. I was just talking to Ken about that one time we went sailing in the Solent. Right, Ken?"

Pausing, Ken lets a loaded moment pass before finally replying, "No, I don't remember. Sorry, Toppy."

It's a lie and not a good one. I'm grateful for it anyway.

Toppy, on the other hand, obviously takes offence – or else it's my presence that doesn't sit well with her – because she doesn't stay long after that, finding some excuse that allows her to march away without losing face. I'm not sorry to see her go.

She is, very quickly, replaced by other people who are all very happy to see Ken again and very happy to finally meet me, but after the third or fourth, they all sort of start blending together. I try to pay attention, I do, but by the time I'm shaking the hand of the sixth man in a tuxedo, I have no idea who he is. Luckily, no-one seems to expect me to contribute much to the conversation anyway, so I mostly get by with smiling and nodding and intermittently assuring Ken that I'm alright.

When, sometime around midnight, I notice the first people starting to take their leave, it's a welcome opportunity. 'Chin up,' Hanson said and I do keep it up, but it's an exhausting thing to do, especially around a bunch of people that are apparently only too willing to stab me in the back when Ken isn't looking.

It takes some coaxing until he finally believes that I'm okay, just tired, and that I'd really like to go to bed now, but he does eventually let me go. If, however, I had hoped I'd escaped the barbed slights for the evening, I am out of luck. It becomes apparent when the liveried man leads me to a room not on the first but up on the second floor.

I've watched enough of Downton Abbey to know that these were – and might still be – the staff quarters. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this is the final put down planned for me.

And yes, looking around the tiny room with its single bed and its chipped sink and low ceiling, one thing is certain; I wasn't given this room to appease Grandmother Broderick. It was given this room to show me my place. This entire evening has been orchestrated to show me my place. A place that, if these people are concerned, is miles and miles below them.

So much for making friends, I guess.


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966).


A/N:
I'm back! A little bit earlier than usual, even, because I'm dead on my feet and my bed's calling my name. (I'll get to all pending answers and replies in the next couple of days as well. Promise!) And yes, I know it's as dire as ever. I'd love to say that things are looking up in the next chapter but that would be lying, so... I won't be saying that. I can promise though that eventually, things will improve. In the meantime, please do keep the comments coming, even if they're chiding me for what I'm putting Rilla through. I still cherish them all!


To Mammu:
You're right, the bad things are certainly accumulating for Rilla right now and we're not even at the lowest point of the curve yet. Alas, the nice thing about curves is that they have to point upward again eventually, so I can definitely promise sunrises after the storm for the future. Just not quite yet ;).
Holiday was great, thanks for asking. Lots of sightseeing and a fair bit of travel involved, so I'm not utterly sure how relaxing it was physically, but mentally, it's always good to get away from the daily drudgery. And I love seeing new countries, so that's definitely two birds with a stone!