Blair picks at and separates, stabs at and partitions the small serving of food in front of her into even smaller portions with the fork in hand. Her stomach feels heavy; the weight of the world gnawing at her so viciously she can barely stand to swallow even the tiniest morsel of food.
An unbecoming, graveling sound produced by the short man seated at the head of the table distracts Blair from her task. She sweeps her gaze up the long table from her seat in the middle, examines her stepfather with curious eyes. . The signs of a restless sleep are evident despite her primping, despite the old wives' tales employed by Dorota to cover the dark circles under her eyes.
"My dear Blair, I am terribly remised, and your mother reminded me this morning of a question I have been meaning to ask you since you joined us," Cyrus says warmly yet with a hint of caution to his voice. "Are you happy here at Rosewood, Blair?"
The phrasing of the question sounds odd to her, and she is momentarily unsure of how to answer. She supposes she is happy. As happy she supposes anyone in her position can be. Her stepfather and mother welcomed her into their home, and her current status allows her a particular amount of freedom not previously afforded to her before – or even during – her marriage.
Her relocation from France was a rather difficult affair, if only because the beautiful country had been her home for the last few years of her life. Staying, however, would have been almost impossible with no family to speak of save her sister-in-law, Beatrice. Greedy, vindictive, and fueled by jealousy, Beatrice nearly evicted Blair out of her and Louis' home in order to claim her son Bastien's inheritance, offering Blair the option of staying in one of the tenant cottages as her only alternative to moving to Rosewood.
"I am," she assures Cyrus with a forced smile. Her stepfather smiles genuinely in response, and Blair knows he would probably pat her hand reassuringly if he could reach her.
"What Cyrus is trying to ask," her mother interjects from the opposite end of the table, "is if you have given any thought to the possibility of remarrying."
Cyrus' fork and knife clatters to his plate in exasperation, and he looks to his wife with a chastising glare. Her mother's features reveals that she finds nothing amidst in her line of questioning, and Blair steels herself for the inevitable onslaught of nitpicking to follow.
"The black, Blair," Eleanor replies with a gesture towards her daughter's chosen attire. "It sends the wrong message."
"I have been out of mourning for less than a week, Mother," Blair reminds her pointedly.
"You are twenty-two years old," Eleanor replies sharply. "Far too young to wear widow's weeds and mourn Louis for the rest of your life."
With harshly set eyes, Eleanor mentally picks apart her daughter's decision to don black again after looking so lovely last night. With her porcelain skin, Blair normally offsets black in a striking manner. Yet Eleanor has seen her daughter wear black for far too long to find the color anything but drab and dismal now.
"You cannot have another season," Eleanor informs her daughter. The tone of her voice, the way she moves the conversation from attire to attraction makes it obvious to her daughter that Eleanor is not musing on this topic for the first time. "But there are always widowers. Lord Beaton, you know, lost his wife two years ago."
The suggestion her mother offers causes Blair's stomach to tighten further until she physically hurts. The next two comments – however malicious their intention may not be – rob her of every breath inside her body..
"Three daughters. No sons."
"No," Blair manages to finally reply forcefully her eyes fall onto her mother's face and its expression of well-meaning innocence. "I will not."
"If Lord Beaton is not to your liking, than perhaps Mister Collingsworth. He lacks a title but is certainly much wealthier than Lord Beaton. Nearly three thousand pounds per annum, according to the Dowager Countess," Eleanor states as her eyes sparkle at the idea before a vexing frown crosses her face. "Oh, but he already has a son, does he not, my Lord?"
Cyrus hums out his confirmation of Lady Rose's fears. If memory serves correctly, Mister Collingsworth has two little boys – twins born nearly eight years ago.
"Enough," Blair snaps as she moves to her feet, moves to remove herself from the table. "I will not remarry, and I ask you not to mention it again."
With that, she flees the breakfast table and leaves her exasperated mother behind. Eleanor looks to her husband for assistance, begins to chastise him for being woefully unhelpful in the conversation.
"Not to worry, my dear," Cyrus replies as he raises his cup of tea to his lips. His eyes sparkle mischievously above the china, sparkle in a way that hints there is may be more than what he is currently willing to divulge.
"You know something," Eleanor hisses accusatorially. Cyrus smiles in reply yet refuses to reveal his secrets as he takes another sip. After all, telling his wife that he spied her well-regarded daughter embracing and kissing Mister Charles Bass on the terrace of Rosewood last night would surely send the normally poised woman into a fit.
Eventually, Blair acquiesces to her mother's demand she adjourn to the drawing room from her bedroom to receive callers. She brings her embroidery with her to serve as her entertainment, sits across her from her mother and awaits the onslaught of callers her mother is confident are to come. She barely manages to finish the smallest purple flower on her design when Bertram enters the room and announces their first caller of the morning. An exhale of relief escapes from Blair's lips when she hears the name, when she sees the bob of golden hair behind the butler.
"Lady Rose," Serena bobs in greeting. The beautifully radiant blonde smiles when she turns to the younger brunette in the room. "Blair."
For anyone else, Eleanor would cluck in displeasure at the way they greeted her daughter. For Serena, however, Eleanor lets the breech in decorum slide. She has always had a soft spot for her daughter's fair best friend, holds Lady Serena van der Woodsen in the highest regard.
"Ah, Lady van der Woodsen," Eleanor greets brightly. "How lovely of you to call. I do hope you enjoyed our small dinner party last night, even as my daughter insisted on retiring early."
"Of course, Lady Rose," Serena replies happily as she sinks into the chair closest to Blair. "I was actually calling to inquire after Blair's health and ask whether she might want to join my small party at the opera tonight."
Blair bristles at the way her mother and friend speak about her as though she is not present. She opens her mouth, begins to reply that she is not fully recovered and thus shall have to decline the offer. Eleanor barrels forward, however; immediately informing Serena that Blair will be delighted to join her and queries as to whom else will be in attendance.
"The Duke and Duchess of Constance, Mister—"
'Serena's litany is curt off by the appearance of the housekeeper in the doorway of the drawing room. Mrs. Howell begs the ladies' pardon, informs Lady Rose that her ladyship is needed at once elsewhere in the house. Eleanor offers her apologies, ducks out of the room with an exasperated question to Mrs. Howell as to what might be the matter now.
"Serena," Blair says when her mother is out of earshot. "I think it is best I miss the—"
"B, please," Serena begs. "I have missed you. I want to spend time with my best friend."
"Your best friend?" Blair says whilst rolling her eyes at the label affixed to her. "No best friend of mine would invite me to spend the ending with Nate and the slut."
"Blair!" Serena chastises. She shakes her head, dismisses the label Blair has affixed to the Duchess. "I told you last night things have changed since you left. Jenny is— Nate's mother adores her."
The comment makes Blair's eyes widen in surprise. The Dowager is a notoriously picky woman, and Blair worked hard to receive even a modicum of respect from the woman she thought would one day be her mother-in-law. For Jenny to be adored by the Dowager, especially given the circumstances surrounding Jenny and Nate's marriage, shocks Blair into silence.
"Besides, you married Ambassador Grimaldi," Serena reminds her gently. Blair forces as smile at the mention of her late husband. "You lived in Paris! Everything worked out for you in the end."
The forced smiles falters and is immediately replaced by a deep frown. Serena's eyes widen at her mistake before softening as she reaches out to touch Blair's hand in a comforting gesture.
"My husband is dead," Blair snaps in reply, yanking her hand away from Serena's. "I would hardly consider that as everything working out for me in the end."
"B," Serena replies softly. At that moment, Eleanor returns to the drawing room, eyes her daughter suspiciously when she feels the tension radiating in the room. Blair stands, gathers her embroidery, and prepares to flee the room.
"Blair," Eleanor sharply calls after her. Blair pauses in the doorway, throws her mother a look of false innocence before spitting out her malicious words.
"Why not pester Serena about her lack of marriage prospects, Mother? After all, she and I are of the same age, and Serena never wears black if she can help it."
Blair sweeps out of the room, pads down the long hallway in search of solitude. She passes her stepfather's study, shoves aside thoughts of interrupting his business to complain about her mother. Daddy would have listened to her without making her feel as though she was intruding, and a pang of longing courses through her at the memories of a little girl with bouncing, brown curls hiding out in her father's study.
Across the hallway from Cyrus' office is the library with its intricately carved wood and expansive collection of books, perfectly situated near her personal sanctuary for her perusal and use.. A sitting room only three paces from the library is on the smaller side and lacks an advantageous setting to catch the morning or afternoon sun yet she fell in love with the space after Cyrus offered the space to her as a private space upon her relocation to Rosewood.
She opens the door, sighs in relief when she finds the room empty before firmly shutting the door behind her. Her mother will reprimand her for her decision to abandon her caller, but for now she will hide out here and enjoy a quiet moment to collect her thoughts. Blair sets her embroidery aside on the small tea table, picks up the book she left on the chaise lounge the other day. She sinks down onto the chaise, moves to delicately cross her ankles under her dress as she opens her book to the last page she read.
Fingers curl about her ankles, and she yelps in surprise. Blair bends at the waist, lifts the hem of her skirt, and peers under the chaise to spy the sneaky attacker. Two bright, shining eyes stare back at her. She asks the intruder for the reason behind their decision to hide, and her question is answered with a series of soft giggles rather than a verbal, understandable answer. Before she can reach for the intruder's hands, before she drag the visitor out of their hiding place, the door to her sanctuary flies open with yet another trespasser
"Lord Aaron," the nursemaid calls out in a desperate cry. She freezes when she finds the room occupied, sinks into a bobbing curtsy as Blair drops her gathered skirts and glares at the woman for the intrusion."Beggin' your pardon, ma'am. I was tryin' to locate Lord Aaron."
"Do you mean to tell me that you have lost your charge?"
"No, ma'am," the young nursemaid quickly replies. Her smile drops under Blair's harsh glare, and she amends her earlier statement solemnly. "Yes, ma'am."
"Well, I suggest you find him before my mother discovers you misplaced him!"
"Yes, ma'am," the nursemaid says with a trembling curtsy before she flees the room.
Once the door is shut behind her, Blair scoops up her skirts and bids the hideaway to come out from under the chaise. Aaron crawls out and moves to stand in front of her, offers her mischievous giggles as she questions why he is hiding from his nanny.
"French lessons," four-year-old Aaron whines as he kicks an imaginary clump of dirt in the carpet with his fingers still jammed in his mouth.
Blair reaches forward, tugs the slobbery hand out of her brother's mouth. Her efforts to turn her brother into a gentleman, though, can only go so far until the poor boy grows some hair. Aaron takes after their mother in the coloring of his eyes, in the structure of his cheekbones, but the poor child takes after his father in the hair department.
"You should learn French," Blair informs him.
"Why?" Aaron questions as he climbs into his sister's lap. Blair kisses his poor, naked head as she contemplates Aaron's question.
"Well, accomplished lords and ladies know more than just English," Blair replies, falling back on the response that her mother always provided when she protested over learning the Romance language as a child. It is immediately clear that Aaron is not buying the answer, and so Blair offers up the reason her father used to cajole her into compliance. "I speak French."
"You do?" Aaron asks with eyes wide in surprise.
"Oui," Blair answers, smoothing the wrinkle in Aaron's coat as she speaks. "You know, Mother does not. It can be our secret language."
"Really?" Aaron asks excitedly.
Blair nods her head in confirmation, smiles at the way Aaron yells in enthusiasm. The little boy immediately slides off her lap so he may toddle back to the nursery for French lesson. The pang of longing flares when she sees him leave, flares so strongly that she has to look away and command herself to focus on the book lying across her lap.
The deep plum-colored dress is a compromise between her and Dorota, between her and her mother, and she runs a hand over her stomach in an attempt to smooth away any flaw as Cyrus' carriage pulls up in front of the Opera House. Blair takes a steadying breath as the door is opened, as the footman helps her out of the carriage. She picks up her dress so the hem does not drag on the ground and climbs the stairs with a confident air.
Serena spies her first, sweeps across the decadent and grand entrance of the building to greet her best friend warmly. She loops her arm with Blair's and steers the young woman towards the box her family owns. Blair freezes at the entrance, though, when she sees most of the chairs are occupied. The three men in attendance stand as soon as they spy her and Serena hovering in the entrance to the box.
"Mrs. Grimaldi," the Duke intones in greeting with a formal bow. Mister Daniel Humphrey and Mister Bass follow his lead, and Blair finds herself returning her own formal curtsy in reply. Serena pulls her towards the back of the box, gestures to the two empty seats before seating herself in the one nearest Mister Humphrey. With eyes narrowing in frustration, Blair takes the empty seat on the side of the box furthest from the stage between Serena and Chuck Bass.
What has changed between Serena and the former Miss Humphrey becomes abundantly clear when as the music begins, as the lights dim, Serena's hand slides into Daniel Humphrey's. Fuming, Blair stiffens in her chair and tries to focus on the opera beginning on stage as she contemplates the words she will have with Serena over this catastrophe turn of events during intermission.
Her thoughts are derailed immediately, however, by the feeling of fingers trailing down her neck. She stiffens further, shivers when the fingers stroke upward this time. She glances around discreetly, tries to ascertain who can see her in the darkness. The fingers press against the nape of her neck one last time before disappearing from her skin.
The first act of the opera is excruciatingly long and, when the curtain falls for intermission, Blair releases a shaky breath she did not realize she was holding. She turns in her seat, tries to tell Serena that she needs to speak to her with her nonverbal command and narrowed eyes, but the blonde merely shrugs away Blair's glare and asks Mister Humphrey to escort her downstairs.
The fact that Serena calls Mister Humphrey by the ever familiar nickname "Dan" causes her stomach to clench in revulsion, and the tightness in her chest increases when the Duke and Duchess of Constance decided to follow Serena and "Dan" downstairs. Five years ago, the idea of leaving Blair without a proper chaperone would be unimaginable and yet no one bats an eye at leaving Mrs. Grimaldi alone with a notorious rake.
"Miss Waldorf," Chuck utters from his seat behind her.
Blair lets out an exasperated sigh, prepares to correct Chuck yet again but chokes on the words when he rounds about the box and takes up Serena's abandoned seat beside her. She jumps to her feet, tries to move away from him when his hand curls about her wrist.
Blair immediately tugs herself out of his grip, feels it loosen until his fingers are nothing but ghosts against her skin. He stalks her to the corner of the box, follows her into the shadows because he is incorrigible, because he is clearly determined to torment her.
"Miss Waldorf," he intones in greeting once more. Every syllable of her former name is breathed against the prickling skin of her neck, and she shivers even as she tries to reprimand him for using it.
"Mrs. Grim—"
"No," he firmly replies as he steps closer to her, traps her between the wall and the hardness of his body. "I told you before – I will not call you by his name."
"Why?"
The question is squeaked out as her hand slides across the rich velvet draping the wall, claws at the smoothed fabric for support. The situation itself causes her heart to beat rapidly, to roar in her ears until she can hear nothing but her heart. The public nature of the exchange causes her heart to seize, to quiet until she can hear only him.
"Because," Chuck replies. "Because then I have to admit that I am not the only one who has had you."
"What?"
Her eyes flash to his and narrow in confusion over his choice of words. He reaches out, strokes her chin in tender affection. She closes her eyes at the sensation, opens them when she is suddenly spun around and dragged back against him.
His hands encircle her tiny waist, press against the hipbones clothed in purple. Despite the layers of fabric constituting her dress, she can still feel him against the curve of her backside and she presses against it despite herself. Chuck grins wickedly against the mass of curls atop her head, drops his head to bury his face in her exposed neck.
"Admit it. Your marriage was just what I knew it to be," Chuck suggests. "A shame, a farce, a—"
"You know nothing about my marriage," Blair snaps as she strains against his hands.
"No?" Chuck questions hotly. He turns his head, whispers the next words in her ear. "What names did he call you when you made love?"
Blair immediately turns her head away from him, tries to move his lips away from her ear. He breathes across her neck as he moves his head, holds her chin in place delicately with his finders, and whispers in her other ear.
"Where did he put his hands?"
The question is asked as Chuck trails his fingers across her exposed collarbone from left to right. She shudders against the sensation, sinks further against him in anticipation and longing just as he opens his mouth to ask her just one more question.
"Where are your children?"
Quickly and with a great amount of force, Blair extracts herself from Chuck's embrace. Her eyes flare in anger as her open palm cracks across the face. The sound reverberates in the box, reverberates in both their ears as she looks at him in disgust and loathing. Chuck's hand reddens immediately, and he looks at her with a mixture of shock – and dare she say it – desire.
"You know nothing of my marriage," she hisses. "You know nothing of me. You never had me. You never will have me."
She hastily moves away from him, although he makes no move to stop her from fleeing. Her efforts to leave are stymied by the return of the other four members of the party, each of whom looks at her with questioning and entreating eyes. She shields away her surfacing emotions, squashes them under the mask of societal perfection as she explains to her hostess that her headache from last night has returned.
Serena offers to travel home with her, but Blair waves her suggestion away and promises that the two will speak soon. The way she says it leaves no doubt in Serena's mind even as the blonde waffles between staying with Dan or following Blair and making sure her best friend is well. Ultimately, the hand against her elbow guiding her back into the box as the music plays again wins, offering Blair the opportunity to slip away without another questioning glance from the blonde.
Her body has stopped shaking in anger by the time Cyrus' carriage is pulled around front, by the time she is safely ensconced from the prying eye of those around her. The carriage pulls away from the Opera House just as the single tear in the corner of her right eye is wicked away with gloved fingers, leaving a small wet spot on her otherwise meticulous attire.