On Monday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. On Tuesday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. On Wednesday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. This column must be delivered to the printer by Wednesday evening, but does anyone think this author would be lacking in journalistic integrity if the following were written on Wednesday night: On Thursday, Mrs. Grimaldi was spied paying a call upon Fitzgerald Smythe. No? I thought not.
The flames flicker as her arm passes over them, as the cool air of the drafty building is stirred by the movement. She lights a small candle in the back, whispers the name of its intended, and repeats the process as she lights the second candle. She closes her eyes and tries to take a deep breath, tries to steady herself, but the sound of footsteps behind her interrupts her revere.
She glances over her shoulder and offers the man a small, tight smile in greeting. He watches her curiously yet waits patiently for her to turn around, for her to come to him. She moves away from the candles and moves towards the back of the building, towards the small room where she can confess her sins and offer her penitence. "I fear the devil on my shoulder," she confesses softly when the screen of anonymity has fallen between them. He questions the form her temptation, her devil has taken – pride, gluttony, lust – yet her answer is not the one he's expecting.
"My mother," she informs him. "I know the commandments – honor thy father and thy mother – but to do that, I would have to break my promise to God."
She dips her head, hoovers closer to the screen as she awaits the verdict and a long moment of silence passes as the priest ponders the information she offers him. And then he presses for more, questions her over her mother's wishes, but she dodges and evades his questioning by offering him another detail.
"I saw Chuck at a party the other night."
"That must have been difficult," the priest replies softly.
"He called me by my married name, and he – he danced with Miss Coupeau," she informs him. She pauses, swallows the lump in her throat at the memory, at the thoughts that plagued her all night. "Father Smythe, he's going to marry someone else."
"Greed is a sin," the priest reminds her pointedly. "Keeping him, denying him a family for your own selfish wants would go against God. And anything other than marriage—"
"I know," Blair replies, cutting him off in his condemnation of her previous actions. She takes a shaky breath and exhales her next few works in rapid succession. "But I'm growing weak. I'm afraid I might break."
"You'll find strength in prayer. Say five Hail Mary's and one Our Father."
The jostling of the carriage sends the head of her traveling companion lolling down her forearm, and she immediately reaches out to stop him from falling forward off the seat. Blair pulls him towards her, drapes her arm around his body, and curls him closer to her. Her actions earn her a smile from the man seated across from them, and she scowls at the way his eyes seem to twinkle at the scene.
"What?"
"You are quite good with him," her stepfather replies softly to her hissed question. "I'm afraid he's grown rather attached."
"I wouldn't be the first person to fall for his charm," she reminds Cyrus with a pointed look. This trip to the country was originally planned for just the two of them, but Aaron's perfected pout and his adamant demand to be included in the overnight visit had earned him a seat beside his sister.
"I suppose your mother and I spoil him terribly," Cyrus concedes. "But when my first wife – well, I never thought I would have a son."
Her stepfather pauses for a moment as he marvels over his reversal of fortunes. His wife had died after twenty years of marriage and no children to speak of and while he probably should have married a younger woman, he had married Eleanor simply because he had fallen in love and decided he was far too old to follow the edicts of society once more. Aaron had been a surprise, a blessing not only to the Rose lineage but to him and his wife.
"Nor did I think I would be fortunate to have a daughter like you, Blair."
Her eyes meet his and she cannot help the smile that settles on her face at his words. She looks away after a moment, sweeps her eyes out of the carriage to look at the passing scenery, but the smile remains even as she questions Cyrus about the purpose and destination of their visit.
"The property abutting Rosehaven was recently purchased, and the new owner invited us for a tour. Since your mother and I primarily live in town, I asked to extend the visit overnight to make the long journey more palatable."
She jostles side to side as the carriage turns off the main road, turns down the lane leading to the fork in the road where the driver will steer the horses towards the new owner's estate rather than Rosehaven. The last time she visited Cyrus' country estate was nearly six years ago in the window between her mother's marriage and her own. Yet the passing scenery seems almost familiar to her as the carriage reaches the fork and turns to the west rather than the east.
"The estate was in shambles from years of neglect, but the new owner has done extensive renovations to the property. It really is rather remarkable," Cyrus informs her. He watches her as the carriage turns and offers her a sweeping view of the estate, of the grand house with the pond in front. She leans towards the window in awe, leans so closely that Aaron's head rolls from her side to her lap and the little boy awakens with a fright. He sits up and rubs his eyes as his father smiles at him.
"Blair, Aaron, welcome to the Empire."
"The Empire?" Blair questions. "A rather grandiose name for a country estate, don't you think?"
Cyrus hums in reply, mumbles something about the name being fitting for the owner as the carriage travels closer and closer to the house. He laughs when his son climbs into his lap, when Aaron points out the ducklings paddling happily after their mother in the pond to his sister.
"Look, Blair! Canetons!"
She smiles at the little boy's excitement and praises him for his pronunciation as the carriage rambles closer towards their destination. The house is quite a magnificent sight, and the small army of maids, footmen, and servants stand at the ready to greet the visitors to the Empire. One of the footmen springs forward to wrench open the carriage door when it stops in front of the home, and Aaron scampers out of the carriage before his father or sister can stop him.
Cyrus climbs out after him, calls for the little boy to hold still as he runs towards the dog being restrained by the gameskeeper. The dog, the mutt holds still as Aaron tugs on his ears and pats his head, and Blair is momentarily distracted by the sight as her stepfather offers her his hand and helps her from the carriage.
"Aaron appears to have made a new friend," she murmurs to Cyrus as he tucks her arm under his and helps to steady her after the long journey.
"We shall have to check the carriage in the morning and make sure there aren't any canine stowaways," Cyrus replies with a soft laugh before turning his attention towards the front door and the man currently striding out to greet them. "Ah. Here is our host."
Blair tears her gaze away from her brother and allows her eyes to linger over the stately home for just a moment before her eyes settle on the man her stepfather is currently striding towards in greeting. She freezes and roots herself to the ground as her dueling emotions fight for dominance, as anger with Cyrus begins to overwhelm her.
Her only consolation is that their hostess seems just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. He bows to Lord Rose yet his eyes remain fixated on her and she finds she cannot break away to look elsewhere. Her stepfather calls her name, and she forces herself to walk towards them as the maids look on with curious expressions.
"You remember my son," Cyrus says with a gesture towards Aaron, who is still playing with the dog, followed by one towards Blair. "And my stepdaughter."
"Of course," their host replies with a short bow in greeting. "Mrs. Grimaldi."
"Mister Bass," she forces herself to say, forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat as she offers her own bobbing curtsey in greeting. His eyes continue to hold hers as unspoken questions and a torrent of emotions pass between them.
"The estate looks amazing," Cyrus says. The younger man nods his head stiffly as he murmurs his thanks. The footmen stepping forward to retrieve their bags seem to snap him out his revere, though, and he motions for the butler and the housekeeper to step forward for introductions before leading them into the home.
"Aaron," Cyrus calls after his son. "Leave the dog alone and come with us."
The little boy's shoulders sag dejectedly as he gives the dog one last pat on the head. He walks slowly towards the small party waiting for him, dragging his feet to prolong his separation from the animal. He takes his father's outstretched hand and grips it tightly as he begins to ask if the dog might come inside.
"Carver, let Monkey loose."
The gamekeeper follows the edicts of his employer and releases the leash holding to dog to his side. The dog trots towards his playmate and his owner, bypasses them both to reach the only woman in the small party. Aaron seems momentarily stunned at the rejection of his new friend, but his father holds him back from reaching out and tugging the dog towards him.
"Mrs. Grimaldi, meet my dog, Monkey," Chuck introduces formally. Blair reaches down to offer the dog her hand to sniff, feels his hot breath against her palm as she contemplates how well-behaved the dog is and how surprising it is to see Chuck derive companionship from an animal such as this.
"Blair," Cyrus interrupts. "I imagine you will want to freshen up before our tour of Mister Bass' estate, yes?"
Blair grasps onto the suggestion, seizes her means of escape for just a quiet moment to get over the shock of seeing him here. Chuck gestures for the housekeeper to show her to one of the available rooms, and Blair murmurs her thanks before slipping away from the party. The housekeeper leads Blair up the grand staircase towards the second floor, narrating a bit of their journey as she apologizes profusely for not being more prepared to welcome a lady to the Empire.
"I can send one of the maids up to assist you or assist you myself, if you prefer. I must have misunderstood Mister Bass when he said Lord Rose was coming to visit."
Blair cannot help but scoff at this comment because the so-called misunderstanding was an orchestration on the part of her stepfather and, undoubtedly, her mother. But she will not expose her family's secrets to a housekeeper she has only just met and so she dismisses the woman and waits for the click of the door shutting firmly behind her before allowing herself to break.
She sinks down onto the bed, presses her hand over her garments to her heart to still the frantic beating from within, and gives herself a moment to fall to and wallow in her emotions. Her surprise over seeing him, her anger with Cyrus over subjecting her to this, and her anguish over how she must continue to deny herself, deny him in order to save them both. She squeezes her eyes shut to lock away the tears and tells herself to move on, to grow stronger and stop being a greedy coward because this life is her cross to bear, her punishment to swallow.
Blair rises from the bed, pulls on the cord to call the maid, and heads to the dressing table to complete the necessary actions to wash away the grim and the dirt from her travels. The maid enters with the footman trailing behind with her trunk, and Blair allows herself to be striped and changed once he has left the room. Her coffered hair is reset; her fortitude against her emotions regained.
"Will there be anything else, ma'am?"
"Could you – which way to rejoin the party?"
The maid directs her towards the room where Cyrus, Chuck, and Aaron are waiting in a convoluted series of directions, and Blair curses the ill-informed maid when she finds herself in the music room rather than the parlor. She tries to remember if she was supposed to take a right or a left as she flounces on her heels, as she prepares to sweep out of the room but her eyes fall on the portrait hung above the pianoforte and all thoughts escape her.
The woman in the painting would be considered a standard beauty where it not for the way she appears to glow with happiness. Her eyes are not cast forward but rather on the young boy – tall, proud, and yet possessing a mischievous glint in his eyes – standing next to her. The same young boy who used to torment Blair relentlessly, who used to tell her jokes when everyone else in her life disappointed her.
And she could dwell on the memories of her childhood, on the memories of how he used to make her laugh through her tears where it not for necklace around the woman's neck in the portrait. And even though she's not wearing it, even though it's locked away in her bedroom at Rosewood, her skin still flushes and burns at the sight of the necklace with the heart-shaped trinket. She doesn't need an introduction or a tour to know who the woman in the painting is. Her brain can easily conjure up the name, and it is just about to slip past her lips when that unnecessary introduction is given.
"I see you found the portrait of my mother."
Her heart seizes and her stomach rolls at the fluttering she feels inside her growing stronger, at the sound of his voice. She does not turn, cannot bear to face him, but the proximity of their bodies decreases as he steps towards her. She waits expectantly for his touch yet she must smother her surprise when nothing comes.
"Your estate—" she begins, but her curiosity seizes her as she stares up at the portrait. "What happened to the Palace? To Evelyn's Palace?"
"I still own it," he replies solemnly in an attempt to mollify her concern. And yet he seems almost bemused by the question, bemused by the idea that she remembers the original name for his father's home. "But it is not the place it used to be. It hasn't been for a long time, and I cannot imagine living there with a fam—"
He cuts himself off and turns his head away to look out the window towards the intricately designed gardens sprawling out behind the home as he attempts to swallow the idea he must now give up on. She quips an eyebrow at his incomplete word, tries to piece together the rest of his answer, and her chest tightens painfully when she realizes what he was attempting to tell her.
"I suppose this is a much better home for you and Miss Cou—"
"No," he snaps, cutting her foolish words off because he danced with Miss Coupeau nearly three days ago and his feet still hurt from the ungraceful way she stomped her way across the dance floor. Because he purchased this estate long before he ever made Miss Coupeau's acquaintance.
If she is flustered by his interruption, however, she does not show it as the two stand together in silence, as they both ponder what to do or say next. She tries to recite a Hail Mary in her head, tries to draw strength from prayer as Father Smythe suggested, but she can feel her resolve to keep quiet and never speak of his proposal again slipping away as the eyes of his mother and her necklace burn her.
"It appears I failed to head your advice and fell victim to your stepfather's scheming," Chuck murmurs. "Unless…"
"Your mother died in childbirth, did she not?"
He jerks back at the question because he does not talk about his mother, because he does not follow her diverting tactic from his suggestion – his hope – that she orchestrated this surprise visit. And yet he finds himself confirming the answer she already knows. His mother had died in childbirth when he was six, and nothing in his life had been the same since.
"And the baby?"
"Yes," he answers in a tone flushed with anger because the answer is obvious, because he has no brothers or sisters or family to call his own.
"And you would want to do that to yourself?"
"What?"
"Marriage means children, and children mean—" She chokes on the sob and inadvertently cuts herself off. But the sob serves to break the dam, to loosen her tongue until the words slip out before she can catch them. "I had a baby."
His hand curls around her elbow, keeping her rooted in position and preventing her from crumpling or fleeing. She continues to refuse to look at him, but his fingers press against her chin and drag her gaze away from the painting to look at him. His eyes search out hers and his face falls immediately at the overwhelming amount of pain held within them.
"Losing my mother and their baby destroyed my father," he softly replies. "I would never want that for you. I only want you to be happy and – I'm sorry."
"It was Louis'," she reminds him because his hatred for all things Grimaldi burns strongly. But his concern and sorrow does not melt, does not change with the information.
"Of course it was," he replies because there is no other option, because Blair entered her marriage bed a virgin as far as the Church would be concerned. His hand trails down her arm until his fingers can lace with hers and squeeze them tightly. "I'm still sorry."
"Do you see now? Do you understand why I can't allow myself to marry you?"
"No," he confesses. The idea of losing Blair the way he lost his mother terrifies him, but he is more afraid of the idea of continuing to live without her. Her eyes flash dangerously at his confession and she moves to retract her fingers from his, but he holds her steady and refuses to let her flee once more. "You and I are inevitable, Miss Waldorf."
And maybe a week ago she would have paused at his use of her maiden name, would have focused on the meaning of such a greeting, but the devils on her shoulder are whispering their agreement to his words in her ears.
"Why?"
"Because we are the same. You have your religion and your prayers and I have my drinks and my whores and we both run as fast and as far as we possibly can. But I don't want to keep going like this. I don't want to be a pawn in your game. It's getting repetitious and old, and I don't want to play it anymore."