It appears our favorite widow has returned five years older, five times more the coward, and five times none the wiser. It also appears she has taken to her bed with a certain gentleman caller – one who has yet to reach the age of five.
The pelting of raindrops against the windows coupled with the gloomy and overcast sky peeking out from behind the curtains offers her little incentive to leave her bed. She curls up her body under the covers and drags the heaviest blanket up over her head to create her own little cocoon where the relentless beating of her heart drowns out all the other sounds she hears.
Blair presses her hand against her chest, presses down so as to relieve the ache or, better yet, make it stop beating all together. Her body freezes when the door to her room opens with a soft click, and she prepares the iciest tone she can muster to tell Dorota to leave her alone. But the bed dips and she hesitates, wonders who might be trying to join her in bed when the covers are pulled back and small hands sweep her hair out of her eyes.
And then she sees her little brother, sees his sweet smile fall to a frown and his eyes widen in questioning sadness. Aaron pushes the covers aside and shimmies his little body until he lays next to her with his head on the pillow and his face inches from hers.
Blair reaches over him, tugs the covers back over them, and pulls Aaron into her world, into her cocoon. This isn't how she thought it would be and these are not the tiny hands she thought would be touching her face, but today they will have to be her consolation prize.
"Mama says you're sad."
She closes her eyes, licks her lips before responding in the affirmative because she doesn't know how to deny the tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. A little hand reaches out to pat her face, and she tries to smile at his attempts to make her feel better as he strokes her hair and babbles on about his day, as he makes a joke or two that only a child could find funny. And maybe he almost has her laughing when the covers are peeled back and her mother and Dorota stand over her.
"Thank you, Aaron," Eleanor says as she plucks her son off the bed and places his feet on the floor. "Mrs. Hopkins is waiting with your favorite pastries downstairs."
Aaron runs out of the bedroom excitedly over the promise of treats, and Blair groans because she knows she has been outmaneuvered by a four-year-old. Or, more accurately, she has been out schemed by Dorota and her mother.
"Blair," Eleanor states, "you have been lying in this bed for four days. Time to get up and stop being an invalid."
Blair protests, tells her mother and Dorota to leave her alone because the promise of pastries isn't going to be enough to get her to do their bidding. Eleanor's eyes close in frustration, open only to notice the sparkle of diamonds draped across the dressing table.
"Dorota, go check on Aaron."
The lady's maid seems almost startled by the instruction, startled by the deviation in the plans for how to handle Miss Blair's meltdown. But she leaves the room with a departing curtsy, and Eleanor waits to hear the click of the door shutting firmly behind her. Her skirts rustle against the ground as she moves towards the dressing table, as she moves towards the necklace she has viewed from afar, and Blair's stomach lurches in her throat when her mother lifts the necklace off the table and holds it up to appraise in the gloomy light.
"I thought there was something familiar about this piece," Eleanor informs her daughter in an almost dreamy tone as though she is piecing together her memories. And then her voice cracks with judgment, with laughter over how foolish she has been. "I should have recognized it immediately. It's such a unique piece, and I'm sure nearly everyone in attendance at the van der Bilt's ball was able to identify it as Evelyn Bass'."
Her eyes dart across the room to meet Blair's, but the judgment her daughter expects to see is not there and it throws her for just a moment.
"And I would be correct in assuming Charles Bass gave this to you, no?"
"Well, I certainly did not steal it," Blair snaps as she sits up in bed, clutching the covers to her chest in the process.
Eleanor chooses not to dignify her daughter's comment with a response and instead concentrates on each aspect of the necklace, each diamond set inside the heart as she moves across the room and comes to sit on the bed beside her daughter. She gives the necklace one last look over and then holds it out her daughter. Blair hesitates, takes the necklace after a long pause, and tries not to look at it as her fingers enclose around the heart at the center of the stand.
"I heard you speaking with Cyrus the other night," Eleanor says. Panic flares within Blair's eyes, and Eleanor tries to change her tactic before her stubborn and evasive daughter slips away. She speaks softer this time, tries to cajole her daughter into conversing with her. "I should have come and stayed with you."
"What?"
"Your letter said you were alright, Aaron was just a baby, and Cyrus was ill, but I should have come. I could have—"
"Nothing," Blair interrupts because the idea her mother clings to is simply an allusion. After all, not even God saw fit to help her. "You could have done nothing."
"And neither could you, my dear," Eleanor replies softly. She reaches out to grasp Blair's hand and squeezes gently as she speaks. "And that's what I should have been there to tell you. Because what happened wasn't your fault, and I don't want to see you give up your whole life to this guilt."
Blair turns her head, turns away from Eleanor's gaze as though her movements will end the conversation. But Eleanor's other hand reaches out to cover the necklace currently clutched in Blair's first, reaches out to unfurl her fingers and trace the outline of the heart pressed into Blair's palm.
"You are so good with Aaron – far better than me – and he adores you. Each time I see the two of you together, I am reminded that you would make an amazing mother," Eleanor tells her daughter. And then she pauses in her tracings, pauses in her words to look up and watch tears crowd the corner of Blair's eyes and her daughter's features harden as she tells herself not to cry. "That you are an amazing mother, Blair."
Her head begins to shake emphatically, violently against the pillow in a rejection of her mother's words because she loved her baby, begged and bartered for her child's soul. And she knows losing a child is common place; nearly every family of her acquaintance has lost at least one child to illness. But that tiny baby born too soon had no champions in the world save for its mother and, in the end, she failed.
"When I married your father, I was so nervous. I knew something was wrong but I didn't know what. But when I married Cyrus, I was very calm. It was like everything was falling into place." Eleanor informs her daughter softly. "I knew something was wrong when you married Louis. You were so nervous but you kept saying that you wanted that marriage so I let it happen. I let you waste your chance at happiness but, Blair, I don't want you to waste your second. You should have been happy the first time around."
Eleanor nearly chokes on the words about to leave her mouth. She could never have imagined the day Charles Bass would proclaim anything but lust for a woman. The necklace speaks volumes, though. It is not the kind of family heirloom one would impart upon a conquest.
"If Mister Bass is serious in his attentions—"
Blair scoffs at her mother's suggestion because everything up until this point had been about Lord Beaton, and she impertinently asks her mother if a few diamonds were enough of an incentive to forgo pursuing a title.
"I'm not a fool, Blair, but you are one if you think I haven't noticed the way Charles Bass looks at you or the way you two seem to disappear together at every event," Eleanor snaps in reply. "I dismissed his suit because I thought he wasn't serious, and I only pushed Lord Beaton because I thought he could make you happy. I thought being a mother to his daughters would make you happy, and having a son with a title – well, your future would be secure."
"Is that all Aaron is to you?" Blair questions. She was raised knowing that her father needed a son and ended up with a daughter; that her role in life would be to provide her husband with an heir. But surely Aaron must mean more to her mother than financial security?
"I look at Aaron, and I see Cyrus," Eleanor replies. She pauses, smiles at her daughter for a moment before continuing. "And I'm not just referring to his lack of hair, but the way he makes me laugh and his smile and his excitement over even the smallest things. But, Blair, you know as well as I what can happen when—"
Blair closes her eyes at her mother's words because she knows full well what Eleanor is referring to. Louis' death had left her with nothing – no home, no money – and she was forced to return to living with her mother and stepfather because of it.
"Blair, you are my daughter no matter what you decide," Eleanor says as she moves to curl Blair's fingers back around the necklace. The heart presses back against her palm and burns her with the knowledge of all that it means, all that it offers. "I just want you to experience the same happiness I have found with Cyrus."
She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, takes a deep steadying breathe before sweeping into the room. Her mother and Cyrus seem pleased to see her, although none of them seem quite as pleased as a certain blonde who comes sweeping across the room and gathers her best friend in a tender hug.
"I read in the Spectator that you were unwell," Serena says in reference to the blurb in the gossip columns about her best friend. "I'm sorry I couldn't visit sooner. I was off in—"
"Santorini," Blair fills in rather accustomed to how the island facilitates Serena's disappearing acts. "I know."
She loops her arm with Serena's and uses the blonde as her escort during her turn about the room to appraise the guests at her mother's small gathering. All twenty or so eyes seem to follow her every movement, and she offers cool greetings to those who dare to stare at her for long.
"I see Mister Humphrey is not in attendance," Blair comments as she finishes her inventory of attendees. Serena rolls her eyes at the comment as she knows exactly what Blair is implying. Even with his sister's elevation in life, Daniel Humphrey is still not high-class enough to be invited to one of Lady Rose's soirées.
"He's working on a story," Serena replies. "He says it will be the story to finally launch his career."
"As a journalist or as a novelist?" Blair asks in derision because neither of those occupations are becoming for the man who wishes to marry Lady Serena van der Woodsen.
"As a writer," Serena says because, for her, there is no difference. Either way, she will support Dan in his endeavors. They've nearly completed their turn about the room, nearly reached the door from which Blair entered when the brunette stops, causing the blonde to lurch ungracefully in her movements.
"Wha—" Serena begins to ask when her eyes dart from Blair's panicked expression to the man currently standing in the doorway. Serena recognizes Chuck Bass almost immediately despite the fact that he looks more unkempt than usual. "Chuck, I wasn't sure if you were coming."
"Lady van der Woodsen," Chuck greets with a bow. His voice sounds constrained and distant as though he must force himself to greet the woman he has known for almost his entire life. "I had been resolved to decline, but Lord Rose endeavored me to come."
"Well, I'm happy you came," Serena replies. "Have you spoken with Eric? I know he wanted your advice on something."
Serena's voice trails off as she scans the room for her younger brother, and then she excuses herself to retrieve him from his conversation with Lord and Lady Archibald near the fireplace. Blair shifts anxiously as she waits for Chuck to greet her, as she forces herself to say something when she realizes he will not.
"I'm afraid my stepfather might have an ulterior motive, Mister Bass," Blair informs him. "He and my mother are quite the schemers."
"No doubt because of your teachings," Chuck replies with a smirk. But the smirk, the small smile melts away so quickly that she wonders if she imagined it. "But I shall be able to hold my own. I, too, have learned from the master. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Grimaldi, I believe we have said all the pleasantries required of us."
She murmurs her dismissal, and she can feel the heat of her mother and her stepfather's eyes upon her as she watches Chuck move across the room to join Cyrus's small gathering. No more words pass between them the rest of the night. Blair finds herself seated near her mother with Chuck on the far side of the table. She tells herself that his cool detachment is for the best, tells herself not to care that he seems neither interested in talking to nor standing in her presence. But nothing weighs upon her more than the realization that Chuck referred to her as Mrs. Grimaldi once more.