Author's note: This chapter took me a lot of effort to write—so please, please review!
Another thing to note: I didn't completely make up the setting. You can find pictures of the New York Palace online; it's really cool.
Lastly, in this chapter I borrowed a paragraph from Jane Eyre—my favorite novel of all time—which I will reprint at the end.
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Chapter Thirteen: The Waste Land
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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
-
--T.S. Eliot, The Burial of the Dead
-
Blair was resplendent in a strapless, sapphire-blue Versace dress that clung to her hips and tiny waist and left bare most of her legs, which were once more shapely since she had gained some weight in France. Her loosened hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, curling up at the tips—her skin was creamy-white, her lips painted scarlet. A brilliant diamond necklace (one that Nate had given her on her fourteenth birthday) was fastened around her throat, and a matching barrette sparkled in her chestnut hair. The brightest gem that adorned her person was on her finger—the Vanderbilt ring shone like a rayed star in the gloom. She was standing in front of the mirror, applying the last touches of make-up. The room was dark except for a small lamp by her mirror—her face was gently bathed in the light, and she glowed.
Dan, Serena and Nate were all standing behind her, watching her silently; she could see them in the reflection of the mirror.
"You look beautiful," said Nate. Dan nodded fervently, and by his side, Serena stiffened.
"Are you ready?" asked Dan at length.
"I guess," Blair sighed, putting down her mascara brush. "I can't believe we're doing this."
"It'll be great," said Dan reassuringly. "Think of it as a turning point in your life. From this moment on, Chuck Bass no longer has any power over you. Any ties that might have bound you to him are officially severed."
Nate snorted.
"What?" Dan turned to look at him.
"Nothing," said Nate, hiding a grin, "it's just that you always sound like such a pretentious git when you talk." Dan shoved him.
"Oh, you are not getting away with that," Nate smirked, lifting his fists and striking a pose, as if getting ready to retaliate.
Serena rolled her eyes. "Boys," she said in disgust. "Always so physical. Anyway, Blair, after tonight you won't have any more trouble with the mean girls. Getting engaged to an Archibald—even one who's broke—gives you a lot of political capital in this town."
"That's the least of it," Blair replied, staring at the three of them in the mirror. Nate and Dan quit messing about at her expression, and looked back solemnly. She paused and cleared her throat.
"I want my revenge," she said.
The soft lamplight threw into illumination the very serious expressions of her three friends. The four of them, gazing silently into Blair's mirror, seemed to form a chain of communion. They understood one another—a strange, calm energy hummed between them.
After a moment, Dan broke the silence.
"You will have it."
"Then I'm ready." Blair got to her feet. She looked tall and regal in her impossibly high, strappy silver shoes. She patted down her sapphirine dress and picked up her purse. "Let's go," she said, and opened the door of the room firmly so that bright light flowed in from outside; the others followed behind her.
--
"Blair and Nathaniel!" called Eleanor Waldorf's voice. "Here they are!" Nate and Blair were pulled away from the others and ushered into the spotlight to the sound of applause—Blair looked out onto a sea of faces; so many. She had not expected so many. A bright light shone on her—there was a buzzing in her ears, she tried to listen to Cyrus as he lifted a glass of champagne and made a toast.
At the other end of the great hall—in the darkest corner of the room—behind throngs of people, a dark figure leaned against a Grecian column. He was out of place in all the splendor of the golden hall; the gilded walls, the sparkling, radiant chandeliers, the band which played a slow waltz as couples danced as if in a dream, the lavish dress, the laughter, the windows that let in glimpses of deep blue sky—it was twilight—which faded back into gold. Against all this opulence, the figure reclined in shadow; he wore a black suit, which was dusted carelessly with ash—he was smoking, though to do so in the hall was forbidden.
When the young girl was swept into the bright light at the front of the hall, he lifted his hand to his eyes, as if they were dazzled. Cyrus Rose gave a speech, then Eleanor—then Harold, then Nate's mother—each time the beautifully-dressed, laughing crowd lifted their glasses and cheered.
Her throat, her hair and hands sparkled cold with jewels—they glittered on her snowy skin like frost. Under the white light her skin had turned to ivory, though her lips were still scarlet. In her shining blue dress, with her dark hair and her lambent eyes beneath dark lashes, she was transformed entirely into the ice queen he knew she was.
She raised her pale hand, that the ring might be admired by the multitudes, and spoke into the microphone—"yes," she said, "Nathaniel and I have always been in love; we were childhood sweethearts." The tall fair-haired boy beside her slipped an arm about her waist. "We're postponing the wedding until after we graduate high school, of course."
"Isn't it romantic?" sighed Eleanor.
The bar was in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeated the crowds until the air was alive with chatter and laughter.
He observed the clusters of white lilies heaped on every table that emitted a sickeningly sweet perfume and wafted through the hall—Blair would not have chosen those. How could she let someone else pick out the flowers for her own engagement party?
He shook his head to clear it.
He couldn't stand the glitz, the showy splendor, the heady perfume any longer. He put out his cigarette by crushing it against the column, with a total disregard for niceties, and left through the back door.
-
"Tell them," said Eleanor to Blair, "tell them about the first moment you realized you wanted to marry Nate. How old were you? Five? Six?" She laughed and turned to the nearest circle of guests. "My daughter is such a romantic."
Blair looked around dizzily at the expectant faces. "I'll let Nate take over for a minute," she said in a low voice to her mother, "I need some fresh air." She handed Nate the microphone, which he took with slight surprise, and excused herself. She rushed through the crowds of people—many of whom called out her name, or reached out to pat her back, or make some similar gesture of congratulation. She felt lightheaded, almost drunk, though she'd only had one glass of champagne.
She opened the heavy oaken doors of the hall; they swung shut behind her and she let out a sigh of relief. She tripped down the lush red carpet, down the snowy marble staircase, past the glass front doors and out into the courtyard. The cold air hit her full force and filled her lungs. The stone courtyard was lovely and still in the moonlight. She could as yet faintly hear the music from the hall. It was playing a slow, mournful waltz called "Isn't It Romantic" which she knew well; it was the theme song of Sabrina, one of her cherished childhood collection of Audrey Hepburn films. This was the engagement party she had always dreamed of—it was suited to her precisely, down to every last detail.
No sooner had she registered this thought that she felt her breath arrested in her throat—there was a dark figure standing by the fountain. A man. She drew closer, trodding lightly as she could in her silver heels, the better to see who it was.
And there was Chuck, standing with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He held it up to his lips; his back was turned to her, so she couldn't see his face, but with a quick eye—almost an intuition—she observed all the small details of his appearance, the changes since she had last seen him. His hair was disheveled and wanted cutting, his thin shoulders were hunched under his suit; he had lost weight.
She stood rooted to the spot; all her nerves were unstrung. Well, Blair, she thought to herself, he's not a ghost, after all. And you knew that he might show up tonight. She could not understand why the sight of him set her trembling, why she had completely lost her voice and the power of motion in his presence.
I know another way back to the house, she realized after a moment. I will go back as soon as I can force myself to move—I don't need to make an absolute fool of myself. It did not signify if she knew twenty ways; for he had seen her.
The courtyard was sheltered from the traffic and chaos of New York City's streets, so all Blair could hear was the waltz, the sighing breeze, the tinkling water of the fountain. He had turned to face her and stood silent. His face was cast in shadow; she recognized him, but it was possible that he had not recognized her. It was dark in the courtyard with only the light of the moon. She turned around slowly, her heart in her mouth, her heels tapping lightly against the flagged stone floor.
"Blair."
She winced.
"Blair." He stepped closer—his hand reached out to her shoulder.
"What?" She flinched away from his touch and backed up several steps, so there was space between them. "What do you want?"
The moon was illuminating his face now—she looked upon it. It was so familiar, and yet so changed—his eyes were darkly shadowed, the line of his mouth tense and unyielding.
"Is it true?" he asked in a ghostly voice that was almost a whisper.
She shuddered involuntarily. "Is what true?" she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. Her eyes fixed on the pulse in his throat; it was beating wildly.
"You are engaged." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes I am," she answered coldly. She chanced another look at his eyes—their expression was haunted. She looked away.
"Do you…" he had trailed off, as if he couldn't bear to finish the question. Cold sweat beaded his brow. "Do you love him?" he finished.
"Yes," she said baldly.
He leaned forward, suddenly, to grasp her chin and lift her face so that her eyes locked with his. She let out a gasp.
"Don't lie to me," he said harshly. His two hands were on her neck, cupping her face. His thumb brushed her lips, softly, like a moth's wing. She could hear him breathing loudly; her own heart was beating like a drum and pounding in her ears.
"Let go of me," she said.
He withdrew his hands and stepped back, held them out in front of him as if they'd been burned.
Then they fell back to his sides, and he looked at her once more. "Answer my question," he said.
She hesitated for a moment.
"I could," she finally said, lifting her chin defiantly. "I could love him. I will—he is worthy of my love, and he returns it. I will be happy with him."
Chuck said nothing for a moment; he stared down at his hands, clenched at his sides.
"You wouldn't have been happy with me," he said, and there was a tremor in his voice.
"No," she agreed. "I wouldn't. No one ever would."
He nodded, still not meeting her eyes.
"You should leave," she said at length. "No one here has any more use for you."
He stared blindly into the distance.
"Just go, Chuck."
"Fine," he said. "But tell me. Why are you doing this? If you like Nathaniel, why don't you just become his girlfriend again?"
She blinked. "I'm burning my bridges."
He nodded again, and turned to leave. She watched him walking, slowly, towards the great iron gates that led to the street. He was still holding his whiskey in his hand; he threw it to the floor, where it broke into a million pieces against the stone, spraying amber liquid and shards of glass. Then he was gone.
**
*
Extract from Jane Eyre (this passage describes the first meeting between Jane and Mr. Rochester after a long separation.)
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Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a
moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not
think I should tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice
or the power of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I
can stir: I need not make an absolute fool of myself. I know
another way to the house. It does not signify if I knew twenty
ways; for he has seen me.