Spotted: A certain widow desperately in the need of a little unburdening and a church all too willing to absolve mortal sin through the act of confession. Makes this gossip girl wonder if she is in the wrong business. After all, who doesn't love free flowing secrets? Of course, that would require one to avoid the devil incarnate waiting outside, and where's the fun in that?
She pauses on the steps of the church to adjust the brim of her bonnet in order to better shield herself from the harsh glare. Her face burns with the heat of the sun, with the heat of God's judgment, and she closes her eyes at the sensation for a moment as she steadies herself, as she fortifies herself against the day.
"Well, this is the last place I'd expect to find you. And what is the going rate for absolution? Three Hail Mary's per kiss?"
Her eyes fly open to spy Chuck peering down at her from the window of his ornate carriage. She flushes with anger, flushes at the public nature of his questioning, and immediately begins to move away from his carriage down the street.
"Go away, Mister Bass. I practically have orders from God himself to stay away from you."
The carriage rambles down the road beside her; a difficult feat given their location and a testament to Arthur's driving skills. She keeps her face trained on the sidewalk in front of her, lifts her skirts in order to aid in her escape. A sense of smug satisfaction washes over when her when the distinctive sound of the carriage fades away, when it disappears from her peripheral vision because she never expected him to give up so—
She nearly yelps when a hand gently touches her elbow. She whirls on her heels, shies away from his touch, and glares up at him with eyes dancing in anger.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Her hissed question is ignored as their eyes connect, as he sees past the anger to the bloodshot eyes, red rims, and the glaze of unshed tears beneath. The teasing smirk falls from his face, and he raises his hand to touch her cheek. She turns her head in a reminder of where they are, and he drops his hand back to his side, flexes his fingers against the overwhelming need to touch her in that moment.
"You've been crying," he states.
She flinches not at the accusatory tone but at how perceptive he is, at how he sees past all her defenses. He drops his voice to a low murmur, to an octave that calls to hers. "You haven't done anything wrong, Blair. A few kisses—"
"I was here for my father," she interrupts, thinking quickly on her feet to come up with an answer that explains her visit to the church on a Thursday afternoon.
"Your father died in May."
Even before the words completely leave his mouth, he knows they are the wrong ones. She steps away from him, creates a physical space to match the emotional gulf between them.
"Some of us were actually mourn our father's death rather than celebrate our inheritances, Mister Bass."
Her words are icy and harsh, meant to be a dagger to his heart and a stake through this exchange. This time he recoils, straightens his spine, and steels himself against any sympathy he feels towards her. He extracts himself from the conversation and strides towards his carriage without a second glance in her direction.
News of her arrival at the van der Bilt's ball – only her second since abandoning her widow weeds – spreads like wildfire amongst the women she once made her debut with. They readily abandon the company of their mothers and husbands to join her company, to ask about life in Paris, about the fashions and the arts and – in a rather suggestive tone she chose to ignore – the merits of French men over the homegrown variety.
Although now changed from young girls with doe-eyed innocence into wives and mothers with all the knowledge accompanying the role, those twittering about her still hold her opinion on acceptable dress and behavior as the final verdict and move unconfidently in her presence. Blair, in return, owns the stage as she embellishes her answers with personal antidotes, as she points out the sophistication her dress in comparison to theirs, as she ignores the way Penelope's eyes narrow in suspicion with every answer.
The opening bars, the opening notes float melodically about the room in an enticement for all to join the set, ending the enchantment her words held over the small but eager band of listeners clustered around her. Husbands come to collect wives, but the looming presence behind her causes any man who dares come collect her to spinelessly give way, to slink off in search of another partner for the set forming.
She knows it is him even before he steps out of the shadow, even before he outstretches his hand and silently entrenches her to dance with him. Only one man would insist upon acting as though he has some claim to the position beside her.
She slips her hand into his, allows him to guide her out onto the dance floor after only a brief moment of hesitation. A master of the waltz, he presses his legs against hers through the fabric of his skirt, guides her about the room with an intoxicating air. Her fingers squeeze those holding hers, and she struggles to find the right words as his fingers flex against her back.
"Your father loved and adored you. Mine always made it clear that he did not so excuse me if I do not spend my time crying over him in church."
"Chuck," she murmurs. And then she pauses, gripped by hesitation as she remembers just how many eyes are watching. "Mister Bass."
An excellent dancer and able to match him for every step, she falters through the first turn under the crushing weight of the far greater matters on her mind. He uses her stumble to his advantage and draws her as close as he wishes so their thighs brush and their hips meet, knowing every touch affects her as much as it affects him.
"If a few kisses send you to the nearest church in search of absolution, then I wonder what you would do I told you of the fantasies I have of you. Would you marry Beaton is I told you that I fantasize about your hair? How it looks hanging loose and flowing about you? Of course, in my dreams, you wear nothing else but my necklace."
Blair's eyes widen as a blush rises to her cheeks, as anger mounts over the public nature of his comments. His arm about her waist keeps her upright, and the press of his thighs against hers emphasizes every word as he effortless whirls her through each turn. The heart-shaped charm against her neck burns her, makes her regret ever choosing to wear it. She had known he would be here and had chosen to wear the necklace despite Dorota's protests as an apology of sorts for what she had said to him outside the church.
"How many prayers do you think you would have to make then? I image the church was quite displeased over the kisses you lavished upon—"
She cuts him off, silences him with the harshness of her tone as she rejects his current and previous suggestion. And yet she continues to be a master of subterfuge, manages to harness the anger she feels in a way that gives nothing away to those dancing about them.
"It wasn't the ki—what occurred between us over the necklace that sent me to church. I go once a week in addition to attending services on Sundays with my mother and Cyrus."
"To pray for your father," he fills in immediately. The haughty way he speaks, the way he acts as though he knows everything angers her.
"No. I pray for another."
Her chest tightens unbearably at even the smallest confession of information, and a peculiar sensitivity affects her skin over the way he is looking at her. She holds his gaze for a moment more before glancing over his shoulder to watch the other couples twirling about the room. They complete one revolution of the large ballroom before he speaks, before her attention is drawn back to the man in whose arms she is.
"You pray for Grimaldi's soul?"
She could seize the moment and speaks the words that will immediately cause him to release her, but the lie becomes lodged in her throat as the words she spoke earlier become a roar in her ears.
For I have lied. For I have killed. For I have sinned.
"No," she replies calmly. "I pray for mine."
The musicians come to her aid, ending the waltz with a dramatic flourish. With a smile, with expert showmanship, she steps out of his arms and sweeps into an elaborate curtsy to forces him to follow her example and sweep into a low bow before helping to raise her up.
Blair turns from him, expecting to slip her fingers from his and part ways to rejoin the many guests eager to have a word. But Chuck's fingers lock about her hand and he steps close, comes to stand beside and behind her. His murmured words brush against her ear in such a close proximity that Blair can see her mother's eyes raise in alarm as a shiver streaks down her spine.
"Oh, no, Miss Waldorf – our dance has just begun."
And then he releases her fingers, lets her go so she stands on shaky knees. Pride keeps her upright, though, and she manages to walk across the room without giving herself away. Lord Beaton steps towards her, but she ignores him as he begins to form an invitation to dance and instead focuses on finding a place within the van der Bilt's estate where she can again fall on her knees and ask for forgiveness.
The French door separating her from the party opens with a loud creak, and she turns her head to see who might be intruding upon her moment of solitude. The trespasser surprises her, and she hastily turns her head forward so he cannot see the tears in her eyes.
"Blair," he begins before correcting himself and employing her married name. The cold air nips at his face as he moves through the closed portion of the van der Bilt estate, and he pulls off his coat to drape about her shoulders because he was raised to be a gentleman. "What are you doing out here?"
"I don't know," she replies. He places the coat about her shoulders in an attempt to offer her a modicum of comfort given the immense darkness of the deserted room before coming to stand beside her. "Do you remember the first time you brought me here? We were like—"
He smiles at the memory, fills in the age for her as the moment comes rushing back to him. Twelve and thirteen, they had snuck downstairs to watch those gathered below. Serena and Chuck soon disappeared in search of alcohol and amusement, but they hid behind the French doors and observed the debutantes on display, the men asking them to dance, and the mothers making and unmaking a flurry of matches behind the scenes.
Blair watched in awe that night, talked about how she was going to crème de la crème of the debutantes that season. And he had swept into a bow, asked her to dance with him in the part of the house closed for the season, and agreed at every turn over how perfect their future would be together because that was the plan, that was the expectation.
"What happened? When did everything get so screwed up? This isn't how it's supposed to be. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel so…"
Although he nods his head at her question, he has the swallow back the thickness in his throat over the way her voice breaks. She sounds so utterly heartbroken, so unlike the Blair he had known as a child. She wavers as she speaks; almost as though she is too afraid to cry and too afraid not to.
"Lost," he fills in because he knows, because he understands. She nods her head at the adjective and watches curiously as he takes a seat beside her. "Do you remember how you used to make us read your favorite stories over and over again? It used to drive me crazy."
"Is this supposed to comfort me?"
"Well, I finally asked you why you like reading books you've already read, and remember what you said?"
"I like knowing how things are going to turnout."
"Exactly," he says before looking down at the floor and taking a moment to find the right words to comfort her. She cuts off his thoughts, though, as her bitterness grows exponentially in the quiet moment.
"I knew how things were going to turnout for us until you—"
"Until I married Jenny," he fills in immediately. Blair sighs at the reminders of lost dreams, moves to shrug off Nate's coat and shove it into his hands with a dramatic flourish. "Growing up, I never knew who I was supposed to be so I spent all my time trying to be the person my father and grandfather wanted me to be, my mother and your mother wanted us to be."
The solemnness of his voice gives her pause, and she finds herself sinking back down to sit beside him. His next words cause her heart to contract and her eyes to flutter shut to keep the tears from falling as she takes steadying breaths.
"When your father died, I finally realized you cannot fight against who you are," he says. "Your father had for so long, and I saw what the truth did to him, to you. I couldn't continue to lie to everyone and pretend I would be a good husband to you."
The mention of her father as the source of his decision to end everything between them confounds her, and she shifts away from him, looks at him with a bewildered look on her face
"So you allowed Jenny to willingly compromise you?"
"No," he quickly corrects. "She and I – I don't know how to describe it, but the only time I ever feel alive is when—"
"You didn't – it wasn't her idea? She didn't force you to?"
"I asked Chuck to—"
He cuts himself off before she has the opportunity and watches as she shakes her head against his words. She had cast him as the victim – a stupid, gullible victim but a victim none the less. She hadn't wanted to see him after the news broke, and her mother had supported her by sending him away when he came to call, to explain. From that day on she had cast Jenny Humphrey as the villain when, in fact, they were both equally guilty.
"You asked Chuck to find you? You wanted to be caught?"
"You didn't know," he replies in a statement rather than a question. Her stomach flips at the tone. She shakes her head, tries to shake off the suggestion that he planned to be caught, that he wanted to be caught with Jenny. She shrugs off his coat, moves to thrust it towards him as she stands when the light hits the necklace about her throat, causing the diamonds the sparkle brilliantly despite the low-light conditions.
Nate's eyes widen in surprise at the recognition of the necklace, and his brain races to construct the events from five years ago in a new light. He pieces together the events of that night, at the way he had been instructed to find Chuck in his study by a cluster of debutantes. He was unsurprised to find Chuck alone with a woman, but had been surprised by the tone of Chuck's voice as he told his best friend to leave. Chuck was always boisterous about his conquests, but he had been so quick to pull the masked woman to him and protect her identity.
And now his mother's necklace hangs about Blair's neck. The same necklace he had once shown Nate when they were but boys in the nursery and explained that his mother said he was only to give this to the woman he loved.
"It was you," Nate says in disbelief as he jumps to his feet, as he calls after Blair before she can leave the room. The tone of his voice causes the anger to melt off of Blair's face, causes the fear that had been fueling her to subside for just a brief moment. "That night as the masquerade ball when I barged in on Chuck with – it was you."
"You didn't know?" Blair questions in amazement. She had been so sure that Nate had seen her and been the one to protect her against those who would brag of their conquest, against those who would spread the gossip so far that her reputation would never recover. "But how could you not? You saw me at the party beforehand. You knew what I was wearing."
"No," Nate quickly replies. "I mean, I did see you, but you know I have never been much for fashion."
If he thinks his lighthearted humor will make her feel better, it fails to do so. All she can do is swallow the information, swallow the rebuttal. Her head spins. She swallows the information, swallows the rebuttal. Her head spins. She still has not gotten her mind around the idea that Nate wanted Jenny rather than her, that Nate had orchestrated her downfall.
"Did he ask you to find us? In exchange for finding you, he'd get me in the same position and you'd—"
"No. He never asked. He never even hinted at the idea," Nate adamantly replies. And then he laughs, offers Blair a twisted smile over how wrong she is.
"No wonder he ran away and became angry when I suggested he find another conquest and stop moping over the one from the masquerade. He gave you that necklace – his mother's heart, his heart – and you married another man."